We buried our dead, again, in the soft earth of the forest floor. This time, I wept for those warriors of Rohan and Gondor and Mirkwood and Lórien, all our allies who could not be carried to their homes. We held a mourning ritual for them, all of them, our children and those of the West. We had never buried so many at once, at least not within my memory. The Walkers gathered on the third night after the battle to process to our Grove together.
I was hard pressed to convince my compatriots to allow me to attend. Legolas raged at me, accusing me of trying to cripple myself. In the end, they almost won; I could not rise from my bed under my own power. Less than an hour before the mourning began, several black-clad Shadow Warriors appeared in the doorway, bearing a sedan chair left over from our previous Protector. I was carefully dressed and gently carried across the causeway to the Shadow Grove. We were joined, also for the first time, by all the peoples who had fought in this battle. I saw Aragorn and Gimli, silent as stone, and Legolas, clad in sober grey clothing.
The ceremony itself was simple; Varyar poured a pitcher of cold, fresh water onto the ground and prayed for the safe passage of the souls of the dead to the next realm. As the water soaked into the ground, one of the remaining Mages wailed aloud and broke into a haunting funeral lament. One by one, the other Mages joined the song, eerie notes rising into the silent trees. Our normally stoic Warriors joined the circle, supporting and comforting the Mages, weeping out their own grief to the watching stars.
I managed to rise from my chair. I swayed, overcome by the heart-rending sound, tears pouring down my face. The notes pressed against my ear until I too joined the song, falling to my knees, keening in despair. No Shadow Warrior stepped forward to join me in my sorrow; I was keenly aware of how many we had lost. I wept for Niquë, my closest friend, and her mate, both lost to the freezing waters of the sea. All of those who rode with me to Gondor, all but Sára, were dead, and now I would be always alone. I buried my face in my hands, covering my eyes with my sleeves, rocking on my knees. The loss was too great to comprehend; I had grown up with them, played with them, studied with them. We stood together and fought together, but they each died alone.
Cool hands touched my shoulders just above the line of my robes. Legolas knelt behind me, imitating the Warriors around him, wrapping his arms around me, burying his face in my hair. I clung to him, tangled in grief and loss too profound to speak. Slowly, one by one, the other fighters joined our song; Aragorn and Gimli knelt beside me and I clutched their hands tightly.
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