The Funeral

Author: Mahdaan

It is a custom among dwarves to spend at least three days in silence, preferably alone, right before the funeral. On the last day, with the last rays of the sun, the ceremony is held. In this case, one member of his family and one of hers accompany the grieving partner to the burial site, as it was on the day of their marriage.

Yet Torgrimm walked alone. He made his way up the slope in his worn leather vest, clutching tightly to a wooden box of mementos that were to go into the grave as well. His thick fingers went white at the knuckles, showing the strength of his grip. As if holding on to it as fiercely as he did would somehow make her death less final. There were no tears yet. Torgrimm felt hollow, and no amount of tears would be able to fill the emptiness he had inside anyway. He wished he could cry his heart out, but without her there was no point.

When he arrived at the top of the hill, the sun just started sinking over the horizon, right above the small glimmering speck in the distance that was the Loch. The sky was painted purple and orange and pink, and for all the sadness that permeated the air, the birds around the burial site would not share his silent grief. The world around him was full of life, enjoying the last light of a warm summer’s day.

A young spirit guide awaited him at the site, sat on a simple stool and dressed in a large bright green robe with golden accents. They didn’t even have the courtesy of sending an elder, Torgrimm thought bitterly. Instead this young lad would have to do for him, a mere boy whose thin beard couldn’t even reach his lap, in ill-fitting robes he had to borrow because he didn’t earn his own yet.

All of that didn’t matter though. Nor did the fact that only a handful of others showed up. There was the brewer’s daughter, the neighbours from down the hill and Hamar the gryphon trainer from the village. Hamar stood next to the other life partner that came to say goodbye, the gryphon Wonda. She was a large, majestic beast in the whitest feathers one could imagine and the most loyal gryphon anyone could have wished for. Torgrimm bowed to each according to Dwarven custom, starting with the gryphon so as not to hurt her pride. Then he turned and faced the grave.

She was already in there, deep below. The spirit guide had sowed flowers all over the small mound of dirt while Torgrimm was mourning. With this ritual, it was all over. Still, he couldn’t believe she was really gone. The spirit guide stood up and started his speech. He hesitated a bit and spoke too loud, but he meant well and honoured her life with simple, touching words. Meanwhile, the sun vanished beyond the hills, seemingly hurrying to get it over with.

“Tonight we gather to say goodbye to one of our own, to return a child of the earth back to the peace of the land. To acknowledge a positive change in our lives, the inevitability of time, and to honour the love we received. I light a torch as we speak our final words to Mia-“

As her name was mentioned, Torgrimm finally felt a tear run over his big nose. The words that came next flowed right through him. He heard them, but they didn’t stay. Quietly, he dropped to his knees to set the box of mementos at the foot of the grave. Then the memories came back, of how they met in these hills, each representing another side. Their marriage at the shore of the lake, how happy he had felt stealing away the kindest, most beautiful Wildhammer in all the Highlands. How resolute she had been.

By the time he was done, he noticed both the birds and the spirit guide had gone awfully quiet. Torgrimm pushed himself back onto his feet and looked over the grave, now lit by a single torch. He stuffed his hands into the pockets of his vest and cleared his throat, but he didn’t make a speech. A sad smile would have to do to thank the spirit guide. He did his best, after all.

The silence wasn’t broken until Wonda stepped forward and dropped a few feathers from her beak onto the grave. “Wonda, lass. I…” Torgrimm began, but by the time he found what he wanted to tell the gryphon, she had pushed off against the ground and opened her wings to take to the sky. She screeched and circled once over the gathered dwarves and then flew off without looking back, never to be seen again. Torgrimm looked up at the gryphon for as long as he could see her, and then bowed his head.

When the sun rose the next day, it promised an even brighter day than the one before. The birds sang louder, the grass looked greener and the hills of Khaz Modan looked more inviting than ever. All the rituals were complete, but the curious spirit guide made the trip over to Torgrimm’s hovel anyway. He still had a few questions about why Torgrimm lived so far from the village, or why no one had come to the funeral. Why had there not been any family? He announced himself with a polite knock on the door and waited patiently. He knocked again after a while, but there came no answer.