Aventia was brutal in its own way, but Freydis doubted the tone and atmosphere was altogether unfamiliar for Rykard. It was eerily and unfortunately familiar to her, and she wished it wasn’t. Grief hung heavy in the air as it had in Nornwatch Tower and a sense of powerlessness over an encroaching fate was worn on everyone’s face. The veil maiden had to imagine it had been worse for the Isakarans after she and the five other women were taken in the tunnel collapse but given no one had suggested they’d thought of her beyond the vengeance a few witchers had expressed desire to exact and Etienne’s gentle welcome back, she hadn’t really taken the time to ask others about their experience. It seemed the other part of Taravell was getting their first introduction of just what the refugees had been running from. It was disheartening and brutalizing.
Silently, she watched the moon through the haze of clouds and smoke, the edges of its illumination fuzzy and foreboding. Her eyes shifted to Rykard when she spoke, and she gently shook her head no. “Aurea asked me to lead for her, and that includes the ugly parts,” she responded solemnly. “Besides, even if she hadn’t, I wouldn’t ask someone to take on a task like this alone.” When he had finished placing the elements and victims of the pyre, she placed a gentle hand on his shoulder. The boy before her reminded her too much of her own child she’d left behind, and she had to look away. Her heart ached with the knowledge that someone assuredly waited at home for news of him, and what they would learn would create a rift in the rest of their life. Instead of answering him directly, Freydis simply nodded and lifted a hand to brush her knuckles at the threat of her tears before they had a chance to fall. She had been told several times over that war meant death, and these matters would be unavoidable, but those words and living that reality night after night didn’t soften any of the edges of experience.
Freydis’ head bowed as Rykard delivered some last rites for the deceased, only lifting it to track his movement to the cart. She lifted her hand to accept the torch, her eyes shifting from a muddied brown to mossy green as she watched its twisting and flickering light. She knew that his judgment that she ought to be the one to ensure their true rest was meant to be an honor, but they had been under her command, and so the role ached in her chest like the twisting of a knife. But he was correct, it was right that she should do it, if only to face the consequences of the faults in her judgment and failures in her strategizing. The corner of her mouth twitched slightly and she took in a deep breath to steel her resolve before lighting the kindling between the bodies and stepping back.
“You are very brave for not abandoning the cause,” she said quietly, after she was sure the pyre would light properly and purify these martyrs to the cause effectively. It wouldn’t surprise her if doubts in their chances or her leadership dwindled, and abandoners ran for safer ground. “It’s more noble still that you see that they were laid to rest–not disposed of.” The difference was significant, and she suspected Rykard knew. “I collected a small sum of gold from their personal effects and added a small amount more of my own to send to the families in hopes they can either put them toward replacing wages lost to make ends meet or finding a way to memorialize their kin. A few had sentimental items. I made sure to organize them accordingly… Could I rely on you to help ensure they make it to their next of kin?”
The werewolf was a weapon forged in the hell of battle, the carnage and destruction was all he really knew, all he was good at. He could carry on and pretend like these atrocities did not sink their teeth into his psyche, but the years wore on him all the same. Every notch in his blade signified his own defiance against death, but also left behind minute fractures invisible to the naked eye. But how much longer could he keep going?
The flickering embers leapt from the torch in Freydis’s hand to the kindling, acrid newborn smoke billowing out from the base of the pyre. The hungry flames began to consume the dry leaves and pine straw, the sea of embers lapping up over the edges of the wooden raft the bodies rested upon. Soon the flames began to engulf the remains, rising higher and higher. The luminosity of the pyre so intense it seemed to send the stars above them hurdling back into the endless vacuum of space. He had led many men to their death during his time commanding the Crimson Reavers, but those lost souls had never made it to the pyre. The blood soaked earth became their coffin, buried in the mud of the battlefield, decaying flesh picked apart by scavengers before the dried bones were turned to dust underneath the hooves of war horses.
"Why would I leave now? This shit's just getting started," The night was halfway over, but this war was still in its infancy. Tomorrow they would wake up, kill as many of the seemingly infinite hoard as they could. The Blight would claim more lives, more scouts would leave to investigate the Spine and less would return each time. But he had no intention of abandoning the cause, especially when he was needed now more than ever. "I've seen what happens to things like me when we aren't incinerated after death," Rykard shook his head in disdain. "I don't think anyone has ever described my actions as noble, but this felt like the right thing to do."
He had been so consumed with ensuring that the fallen werewolves were properly laid to rest that he had not even considered returning their belongings to their loved ones that survived them, yet Freydis was already many steps ahead of him. Her addition of her own funds read as heartfelt and genuine, if not from a place of guilt. Regardless, the kind sentiment would not go unnoticed by the citizens of Haven. "That's very kind of you, Freydis," Rykard seemed a bit taken aback by such a gesture. This kind of compassion was rare, but then again the Jarl was anything but ordinary. Still, if Aventia fell to the Darkspawn, Haven would be attacked next. The reality that there might not be a Haven to return the belongings to loomed above the two of them like a cloud of smoke, but Rykard did not acknowledge it. "Yeah, I can do that," He promised, although it felt somewhat hollow. "Assuming I make it out of this alive," He added, the grim nature of their current situation always sitting at the forefront of his mind.
That eerie, yet familiar feeling first appeared in the base of his spine, before traveling to his gut. He was the subject of the gaze of something unknown, he could feel it. He whipped his head around to cast a glance over his shoulder, scanning the darkened treeline that encircled their backs. “Something’s watching us,” He said quietly, listening closely to try to count the fall of footsteps crunching over the underbrush.
