After checking to make sure that everyone was, indeed, all right, Nostariel confirmed that there were no more Darkspawn lingering about in this part of the tunnel, then started the unenviable work of piling the bodies together. She chose a spot illuminated by sunlight, because there was a hole in the cave roof there, and that would help things considerably for what she was about to do. The Warden enlisted the help of the others for this, and with all four of them working at it, it didnât take too long before the corpses were stacked. As soon as that was done, Nostariel collected together the various objects she and Ashton had managed to find in the passage and arrayed them around the pile of putrid bodies.
âThe Darkspawn are sometimes cannibalistic,â she explained, âAnd there have been occasional incidents of particularly strong emissaries being able to puppet the corpses. This is not a luxury Wardens always get, but when we can⊠itâs better to burn them.â Stepping back several feet from the pile, she lit the magic in each hand, yellow-orange flames licking harmlessly at her fingers. Bringing them together, she lit the pile, keeping up a constant stream of flames until it caught properly on the bodies. It was a most unpleasant smell, and the smoke was thick and greasy, but most of it filtered upwards to the crack in the ceiling, leaving their airways mercifully clear.
There were no standard funeral rites for Grey Wardens. Most of them didnât really get proper funerals. Either they fell in battle, or they fell to the Calling, which was the same thing. Nostariel was never sure which she would prefer, and honestly, she tried not to think about it. All life ended, but you couldnât really live if you were obsessed with the way you drew closer to death. But these people at least, her squad⊠they would have a funeral. If only because she was here to remember them, now. To assume this last piece of the burden she bore for their deaths. For a long moment, she stared at the flames, and surprised herself by being tearless, and oddly reflective rather than overcome with grief. Perhaps sheâd just drowned in it for too long already.
âThe thing about being a Warden is,â she started suddenly, if quietly. âYou donât have the privilege of holding on to whatever you used to be. So a mage with no memory of her family can stand next to a prince or a refugee or someone who used to be a criminal, and it canât matter. Because you have to rely on each other to survive, and because everyone looks the same to a Darkspawn. I think⊠we all tried to keep pieces of what we were before, and those didnât really leave us, but they kind of⊠faded. We stopped thinking in terms of the dwarven smith and the woman who used to be a bandit and just saw our brothers and sisters.â
She paused for a moment, her lips thinning as the remaining shining parts of Rudnaâs shield blackened with the flames. Take nothing with you, leave nothing behind. It went for leaving the world, as well as any given campsite. âAnd you have to see them, because the rest of the world rarely does.â It was no secret that the Wardens, respected as they were in some places, were by and large ignored whenever there wasnât an active Blight. All things considered, sheâd happily be ignored forever if that was the correspondence, but she felt that it made what little she was doing here all the more important.
That was something Ithilian had always found to be remarkably admirable about the Wardens, and it was the reason the Dalish as a whole typically respected them and gave them their hospitality while others were turned away. Individuals were judged on their merits in the Wardens, on their ability to serve a greater good for the entire world, not on their race or their allegiance to any one faction or nation. So few seemed to care for anything other than themselves. These Wardens were some of those few. Perhaps they hadn't had a choice before their Joining, but they had given their lives for that higher cause all the same. Ithilian had nothing but respect for them.
It was traditional for the Dalish to plant a tree over the burial mounds of the honored dead, but the Deep Roads were no place to plant trees. He felt he should do something to commemorate the fallen friends of Nostariel, though, so Ithilian slowly sank down to his knees, folding his hands neatly in his lap and bowing his head. Then, quietly at first, he began to sing. He had no bard's voice, but he was surprisingly low in tone, a rather soothing sound. The words were in elvish, and he doubted how much the others would understand, but perhaps they would not need to.
"Hahren na melana sahlin,
emma ir abelas,
souver'inan isala hamin,
vhenan him dor'felas,
in uthenera na revas.
Vir sulahn'nehn,
vir dirthera,
vir samahl la numin,
vir lath sa'vunin."
He stood slowly, pausing to clear his throat. Ithilian had not sung a song of any kind in quite some time. Too long, really. It was a shame that the first words sung again were that of a funeral dirge. He supposed he would have to change that. He could already imagine Lia's reddening face while he sang to her. The thought nearly brought a smile to his face, but he did not wish to disrespect the dead he had just commemorated, so with a straight face he nodded his condolences to Nostariel instead.
Lucien watched the roiling smoke coil upwards towards the gap in the cave ceiling, breathing a soft sight through his nose. It reminded him, a little, of the too many funerals heâd attended. The Wardens were much more pragmatic about such things than the Orlesians, of course, and there was something more raw and honest about this one than those heâd been to. There was always an element of pageantry there, as there was in everything the nobility did, which was perhaps why his father had insisted on a smaller, more genuine gathering for the passing of his mother. His comrades had received the traditional soldiersâ rites: the nobility paid their lip service, but then the ones whoâd known the dead gathered in the tavern and spoke in low voices of the ones whoâd passed, until the wine loosened their tongues and the stories grew louder and more ribald, the laughter raucous.
He almost felt that it would have been appropriate to give something from the Chant of Light here, as something of an offering of his own, to mingle with the soft tones of Ithilianâs song as the Wardens had blended together despite their own backgrounds, but he did not feel that the Chant was something he could offer from his heart. So he chose something else. His mother had been fond of poetry, and part of his education had involved learning no small amount of it himself. So, when the silence had stretched a respectful amount of time, he murmured his own contribution, this in the tongue of his homeland. He would have translated, but he honestly thought it lost something if he did.
âC'est la Mort qui console, hĂ©las! et qui fait vivre;
C'est le but de la vie, et c'est le seul espoir
Qui, comme un Ă©lixir, nous monte et nous enivre,
Et nous donne le coeur de marcher jusqu'au soir;
Ă travers la tempĂȘte, et la neige, et le givre,
C'est la clarté vibrante à notre horizon noir
C'est l'auberge fameuse inscrite sur le livre,
OĂč l'on pourra manger, et dormir, et s'asseoir;
C'est un Ange qui tient dans ses doigts magnétiques
Le sommeil et le don des rĂȘves extatiques,
Et qui refait le lit des gens pauvres et nus;
C'est la gloire des Dieux, c'est le grenier mystique,
C'est la bourse du pauvre et sa patrie antique,
C'est le portique ouvert sur les Cieux inconnus!â*
In that moment, Ashton felt very small. Silent in awe of the company of a Dalish elf singing his songs of old, an Orlesian Chevalier reciting poems in his native tongue, and tied together by the Grey Warden reflecting on her status and what it meant, the simple hunter from Ferelden felt distantly out of place, like a child watching adults. He became aware of the loss these people have suffered. Though never spoken with words, he could read it on each their faces and in the inflection in their voices. None of them were strangers to Nostariel's loss.
The heat of the flames cupped his face, and the smoke stung his eyes, but he dared not turn away from the pyre. He was afraid to speak, to put his words beside those of Ithilian and Lucien. He felt that if he opened his mouth, the words that followed would dimish their effect, and take away their majesty. He had not experienced their loss, so he could not speak as they did. He had no lamentations, no dirges to sing, no elegies to recite, he simply had himself. The least he could do for the Wardens were to bear witness to their funeral. It was all he could do.
She was honestly deeply moved by them, all of them. She knew that there was no grand ceremony that could mean as much to her, and for her friends, as this Deep Roads cremation did. Ithilianâs song was beautiful, and though she recognized the cadence of the elvish language, it was not a tongue that she knew. The translation was not necessary, thoughâand the sentiment beneath the melody was touching. She could understand why it was that the Dalish used it for funerals, if that was indeed the usual purpose of it. Lucienâs words were spoken, but in the lilting, exotic speech of Orlais, another language she did not know. It was interestingâhis common had never seemed at all inelegant or unwieldy, but his mother tongue was simply beautiful in his register. These were her friends, the people she had willingly tied herself to in this new place, and they were here, helping her put to rest her old friends, the ones who had gotten her so far as Kirkwall, who had saved her, laying down their lives for her, their sister and their captain. It was a meeting of past and present, and she was unprepared for the impact it had on her.
Nostariel reached to the side, tangling her fingers with Ashtonâs. He hadnât said anything, but that was all right. Sometimes, there was just nothing to be said. The others had captured most eloquently the feelings which she had come to understand in herself, even if she did not know the exact semantics they had used to do it.
When the time came and the fire was dying down, she released his hand and took a few steps towards the pyre. ââYou will guard them and they will hate you for it,ââ she said, apparently speaking to the dead, ââWhenever there is not a Blight actively crawling over the surface, humanity will do its best to forget how much they need you. And that's good. We need to stand apart from them, even if they have to push us away to make us do it.â That was what they told us, when we Joined. That there was no longer anything else for us but each other, and the steel or wood in our hands. We made the best of it, you and I, and I am ashamed to say that in the end, my best was not enough to save you. But your best⊠your best was enough to save me, and for the longest time, I was guilty about this, about being the one of us who lived. So guilty that I forgot to do the living.â She paused, taking a breath, and then she smiled.
âSorry about that. It was stupid of me, that I forgot to ask what you would have done if it were you that survived. You would have lived as well as you could, every one of you, and I canât do any less. I always knew that, but somehow, I forgot what it meant. It took some very wonderful people to remind me of that, but I promise I wonât forget again. Thank you, my friends. For saving me. For giving me this chance.â Taking another half-step forward, Nostariel straightened her posture to something a bit like Lucienâs military one, crossing both arms over her chest in the Wardensâ salute. âIn War, Victory. In Peace, Vigilance. In Death, Sacrifice. Yours will never be forgotten.â With that, she relaxed, turning back to the three men who had given her this opportunity.
âAnd thank you, as well.â
âThe Darkspawn are sometimes cannibalistic,â she explained, âAnd there have been occasional incidents of particularly strong emissaries being able to puppet the corpses. This is not a luxury Wardens always get, but when we can⊠itâs better to burn them.â Stepping back several feet from the pile, she lit the magic in each hand, yellow-orange flames licking harmlessly at her fingers. Bringing them together, she lit the pile, keeping up a constant stream of flames until it caught properly on the bodies. It was a most unpleasant smell, and the smoke was thick and greasy, but most of it filtered upwards to the crack in the ceiling, leaving their airways mercifully clear.
There were no standard funeral rites for Grey Wardens. Most of them didnât really get proper funerals. Either they fell in battle, or they fell to the Calling, which was the same thing. Nostariel was never sure which she would prefer, and honestly, she tried not to think about it. All life ended, but you couldnât really live if you were obsessed with the way you drew closer to death. But these people at least, her squad⊠they would have a funeral. If only because she was here to remember them, now. To assume this last piece of the burden she bore for their deaths. For a long moment, she stared at the flames, and surprised herself by being tearless, and oddly reflective rather than overcome with grief. Perhaps sheâd just drowned in it for too long already.
âThe thing about being a Warden is,â she started suddenly, if quietly. âYou donât have the privilege of holding on to whatever you used to be. So a mage with no memory of her family can stand next to a prince or a refugee or someone who used to be a criminal, and it canât matter. Because you have to rely on each other to survive, and because everyone looks the same to a Darkspawn. I think⊠we all tried to keep pieces of what we were before, and those didnât really leave us, but they kind of⊠faded. We stopped thinking in terms of the dwarven smith and the woman who used to be a bandit and just saw our brothers and sisters.â
She paused for a moment, her lips thinning as the remaining shining parts of Rudnaâs shield blackened with the flames. Take nothing with you, leave nothing behind. It went for leaving the world, as well as any given campsite. âAnd you have to see them, because the rest of the world rarely does.â It was no secret that the Wardens, respected as they were in some places, were by and large ignored whenever there wasnât an active Blight. All things considered, sheâd happily be ignored forever if that was the correspondence, but she felt that it made what little she was doing here all the more important.
That was something Ithilian had always found to be remarkably admirable about the Wardens, and it was the reason the Dalish as a whole typically respected them and gave them their hospitality while others were turned away. Individuals were judged on their merits in the Wardens, on their ability to serve a greater good for the entire world, not on their race or their allegiance to any one faction or nation. So few seemed to care for anything other than themselves. These Wardens were some of those few. Perhaps they hadn't had a choice before their Joining, but they had given their lives for that higher cause all the same. Ithilian had nothing but respect for them.
It was traditional for the Dalish to plant a tree over the burial mounds of the honored dead, but the Deep Roads were no place to plant trees. He felt he should do something to commemorate the fallen friends of Nostariel, though, so Ithilian slowly sank down to his knees, folding his hands neatly in his lap and bowing his head. Then, quietly at first, he began to sing. He had no bard's voice, but he was surprisingly low in tone, a rather soothing sound. The words were in elvish, and he doubted how much the others would understand, but perhaps they would not need to.
"Hahren na melana sahlin,
emma ir abelas,
souver'inan isala hamin,
vhenan him dor'felas,
in uthenera na revas.
Vir sulahn'nehn,
vir dirthera,
vir samahl la numin,
vir lath sa'vunin."
He stood slowly, pausing to clear his throat. Ithilian had not sung a song of any kind in quite some time. Too long, really. It was a shame that the first words sung again were that of a funeral dirge. He supposed he would have to change that. He could already imagine Lia's reddening face while he sang to her. The thought nearly brought a smile to his face, but he did not wish to disrespect the dead he had just commemorated, so with a straight face he nodded his condolences to Nostariel instead.
Lucien watched the roiling smoke coil upwards towards the gap in the cave ceiling, breathing a soft sight through his nose. It reminded him, a little, of the too many funerals heâd attended. The Wardens were much more pragmatic about such things than the Orlesians, of course, and there was something more raw and honest about this one than those heâd been to. There was always an element of pageantry there, as there was in everything the nobility did, which was perhaps why his father had insisted on a smaller, more genuine gathering for the passing of his mother. His comrades had received the traditional soldiersâ rites: the nobility paid their lip service, but then the ones whoâd known the dead gathered in the tavern and spoke in low voices of the ones whoâd passed, until the wine loosened their tongues and the stories grew louder and more ribald, the laughter raucous.
He almost felt that it would have been appropriate to give something from the Chant of Light here, as something of an offering of his own, to mingle with the soft tones of Ithilianâs song as the Wardens had blended together despite their own backgrounds, but he did not feel that the Chant was something he could offer from his heart. So he chose something else. His mother had been fond of poetry, and part of his education had involved learning no small amount of it himself. So, when the silence had stretched a respectful amount of time, he murmured his own contribution, this in the tongue of his homeland. He would have translated, but he honestly thought it lost something if he did.
âC'est la Mort qui console, hĂ©las! et qui fait vivre;
C'est le but de la vie, et c'est le seul espoir
Qui, comme un Ă©lixir, nous monte et nous enivre,
Et nous donne le coeur de marcher jusqu'au soir;
Ă travers la tempĂȘte, et la neige, et le givre,
C'est la clarté vibrante à notre horizon noir
C'est l'auberge fameuse inscrite sur le livre,
OĂč l'on pourra manger, et dormir, et s'asseoir;
C'est un Ange qui tient dans ses doigts magnétiques
Le sommeil et le don des rĂȘves extatiques,
Et qui refait le lit des gens pauvres et nus;
C'est la gloire des Dieux, c'est le grenier mystique,
C'est la bourse du pauvre et sa patrie antique,
C'est le portique ouvert sur les Cieux inconnus!â*
In that moment, Ashton felt very small. Silent in awe of the company of a Dalish elf singing his songs of old, an Orlesian Chevalier reciting poems in his native tongue, and tied together by the Grey Warden reflecting on her status and what it meant, the simple hunter from Ferelden felt distantly out of place, like a child watching adults. He became aware of the loss these people have suffered. Though never spoken with words, he could read it on each their faces and in the inflection in their voices. None of them were strangers to Nostariel's loss.
The heat of the flames cupped his face, and the smoke stung his eyes, but he dared not turn away from the pyre. He was afraid to speak, to put his words beside those of Ithilian and Lucien. He felt that if he opened his mouth, the words that followed would dimish their effect, and take away their majesty. He had not experienced their loss, so he could not speak as they did. He had no lamentations, no dirges to sing, no elegies to recite, he simply had himself. The least he could do for the Wardens were to bear witness to their funeral. It was all he could do.
She was honestly deeply moved by them, all of them. She knew that there was no grand ceremony that could mean as much to her, and for her friends, as this Deep Roads cremation did. Ithilianâs song was beautiful, and though she recognized the cadence of the elvish language, it was not a tongue that she knew. The translation was not necessary, thoughâand the sentiment beneath the melody was touching. She could understand why it was that the Dalish used it for funerals, if that was indeed the usual purpose of it. Lucienâs words were spoken, but in the lilting, exotic speech of Orlais, another language she did not know. It was interestingâhis common had never seemed at all inelegant or unwieldy, but his mother tongue was simply beautiful in his register. These were her friends, the people she had willingly tied herself to in this new place, and they were here, helping her put to rest her old friends, the ones who had gotten her so far as Kirkwall, who had saved her, laying down their lives for her, their sister and their captain. It was a meeting of past and present, and she was unprepared for the impact it had on her.
Nostariel reached to the side, tangling her fingers with Ashtonâs. He hadnât said anything, but that was all right. Sometimes, there was just nothing to be said. The others had captured most eloquently the feelings which she had come to understand in herself, even if she did not know the exact semantics they had used to do it.
When the time came and the fire was dying down, she released his hand and took a few steps towards the pyre. ââYou will guard them and they will hate you for it,ââ she said, apparently speaking to the dead, ââWhenever there is not a Blight actively crawling over the surface, humanity will do its best to forget how much they need you. And that's good. We need to stand apart from them, even if they have to push us away to make us do it.â That was what they told us, when we Joined. That there was no longer anything else for us but each other, and the steel or wood in our hands. We made the best of it, you and I, and I am ashamed to say that in the end, my best was not enough to save you. But your best⊠your best was enough to save me, and for the longest time, I was guilty about this, about being the one of us who lived. So guilty that I forgot to do the living.â She paused, taking a breath, and then she smiled.
âSorry about that. It was stupid of me, that I forgot to ask what you would have done if it were you that survived. You would have lived as well as you could, every one of you, and I canât do any less. I always knew that, but somehow, I forgot what it meant. It took some very wonderful people to remind me of that, but I promise I wonât forget again. Thank you, my friends. For saving me. For giving me this chance.â Taking another half-step forward, Nostariel straightened her posture to something a bit like Lucienâs military one, crossing both arms over her chest in the Wardensâ salute. âIn War, Victory. In Peace, Vigilance. In Death, Sacrifice. Yours will never be forgotten.â With that, she relaxed, turning back to the three men who had given her this opportunity.
âAnd thank you, as well.â
The Chanter's Board has been updated. Dust to Dust has been completed.