Difference between revisions of "A Wind Ceremony"

Revision as of 12:09, 15 March 2013

A pyre burned upon a distant cliff in the deserts of Fluorgis. The wood had been flown there one trip at a time, and painstakingly arranged by a fretting mourner. It had to be perfect. There was no body for cremation, but the symbolism was important to him.

Only one other lamenter was present, but she left the task to him to set the flame. It was a ceremony that he felt he couldn’t perform alone. Indeed, he’d barely had the courage for it even with her here. As the pyre raged, he’d begin to speak.

The words felt stilted as they left his tongue.

“All right Gwyndolyn? We haven’t spoken since just before you passed. So very sorry about that, you have every right to be brassed off at me. Eight years is far too long a time, and holding another ceremony now doesn’t seem like enough to make up for me missing the first.”

“You’ll think I’m a right duffer, but I’m going to have to waffle on about you for a bit. Right, so first, I loved you. Wouldn’t blame you if you were pissed off enough to have the almighty to rain down bolts of lightning on my head for only telling you now. I don’t even need to know if you loved me back, it just needed to be said. You were a wonderful Lady, special in every way. You were my partner in crime, my friend, my rookery sister and one fearsome sparring partner. You knocked on my arse more times than I can count, and I deserved it every single time.”

“I used to think that I failed you. But I know now that I didn’t. I did something terrible when I thought I had. Can’t rightly forgive myself for that yet. And I couldn’t forgive myself for not telling you until now...”

A smile, salty tears stung his eyes as they began to run freely.

“But I think I can start to try.”

In the background, firelight plays off of a white form with her head bowed. It is not her place to speak for someone she doesn’t know, but she stands here in honor of the person that still lives and the loss he still carries with him. With her eyes closed, her mind goes back to those cold nights long ago, when she had been the one to light the flame. The bottle that normally hangs at her neck is tipped in her hands, letting a few bits of ash fall from the charred bones. She had already said goodbye to her parents, but at least now she doesn’t have to bear that loss alone.

A russet form would reach for a cross around his neck, and unfasten the silver chain. On the side of the cross that hung upon it was a latch. He’d open the reliquary, and inside was just a pinch of ashes. He bade the other mourner to follow him to the edge of the cliff. Batlike wings opened, and the pair would allow the winds to take them. Once they were aloft, those pinches of ash would be released. While a very small amount, the symbolism was all that was important.

“Ashes to ashes or dust to dust. All is one in the wind.”