â—† BURNING OF THE DEAD â—†
[ Flashback ]
[ Flashback ]
â”â”â”â”â”â”â”â”â”â”â”â”â”â”â… â€¹ ⧫ › â†â”â”â”â”â”â”â”â”â”â”â”â”â”â”
Author Note: I love writing feels. Especially negative, dramatic feels. Pair this with an awesome song that I stumbled across, and you've the recipe for a flashback of Jaliqai putting her dead to rest all those years ago.
That said, consider this a TRIGGER WARNING for death, funerals, and just generally sad feelsy stuff. If you're cool with that, the story is under the spoiler!
â”â”â”â”â”â”â”â”â”â”â”â”â”â”â… â€¹ ⧫ › â†â”â”â”â”â”â”â”â”â”â”â”â”â”â”
[ Warnings: Death, funerals, and general sad themes. ]
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Spoiler
Jaliqai could remember the first time that she had ever witnessed a funeral. At least, she remembered the more poignant bits and pieces of it, parts of the recollection lost to time as the memories of childhood are wont to be. She couldn't have seen much more than her fifth nameday, if that. Twenty cycles had passed since that day and she had seen many funerals since, yet it was the first that she remembered so vividly.
The memory began with the comforting feeling of her mother's fingers running through her hair. Her wolf's eyes struggled to remain open as Sechen deftly worked the long, dark strands of hair into braids. The sun was beginning to sag lower and lower in the sky, and the entire camp was quiet. Far quieter than it usually was, than she could ever recall it being before.
Her mother was a woman whose tongue was as sharp as her arrows, and struck every bit as true. She never faltered in speaking aloud whatever came to her mind. Yet somehow, despite all her talking, it was moments of silence like these where she seemed to speak the loudest and the clearest. Not a single word had passed between them since they had entered their tent, but the grim look on her mother's face spoke volumes.
"What's going on?" Jaliqai asked as she squirmed to look back at her. The woman made an annoyed noise, giving her shoulder a firm pinch. With a soft yelp, she settled again, frowning. "Why is everyone so quiet?" she pressed.
"Torgan." At first, the name was the only answer that the older Xaela woman could muster, though the tremble in her voice, faint as it was, suggested that there was yet more she wanted to say. She resisted the urge to try to look back at her again, the back of her shoulder still smarting. At length, Sechen added, "His hunting is ended."
The recollection faded away there and returned with a memory of the pyre erected in the middle of the camp. Tribe mates had spent the better part of the day gathering wood, taking care as they neatly stacked it high. Higher than Jaliqai was tall. Even with everyone spread out around it in a large half-circle, giving her a clear view of the pyre, she was far too short to see what was happening.
Her smaller hand reached up, tugging at her father's insistently, until the tall man effortlessly scooped her up and held her against his broad, heavily scarred chest. Pleased with the boost in elevation that allowed her to easily see atop the tall pyre, her curiosity was further piqued by what she saw there.
Torgan's favorite spear. She remembered watching him train with it once, sparring with a younger hunter. Jaliqai had bounced up and down excitedly and cheered as he knocked the other man into the dirt, sweeping his legs out from under him. Just as children do, she had told him that when she was older, she would learn how to fight with a spear and best him. He'd messed her hair and given one of her horns an affectionate tug, tauntingly challenging her to prove it to him one day.
Next to the spear laid a large ivory drinking cup that he had carved himself. After he'd had it filled a few times with wine and aireg during Qulasar, the children would gather around him and he would tell the story of the boar whose tusk it had came from. His face flushed red, his laughter loud as he swaggered about, re-enacting the hunt for the young ones. Each time he'd told it was different, embellished some way or another. No matter how he told it, it had always ended in tears of laughter beading at the corners of Jaliqai's eyes and her sides aching.
A handful of other things were there as well, though none that Jaliqai knew the story of. Weapons, armors, furs, odds and ends. All of them were gathered neatly together atop the kindling.
"Why are all of Torgan's things here?" She quietly asked her father.
"He is offering them to the Huntress," Yesugei explained calmly. He had always been much more gentle natured than her mother. The calm to her storm. "He seeks her blessing."
Before she could question him further, heads began to turn, and her eyes followed them. Everyone's attention was suddenly held fast by a small procession of Auri bearing a woven pallet. Her mother was there, her face as hard and blank as Jaliqai could ever remember seeing it as she helped carry it through the gathered crowd.
As they passed, Jaliqai could finally see what it was they were carrying. Torgan lie there underneath a deep red and gold tapestry, only his face visible. He seemed more pale that she remembered, his cheekbones a bit more pronounced, dark circles around his eyes.
She had thought he was sleeping. She had wondered how he couldn't have possibly woken up at the light jostling of the pallet as he was lifted up and laid down atop the pyre, right next to his cherished collection. Yet he was completely still, not so much as twitching.
Her attention snapped up again at the flicker of a flame from the corner of her eye. Her mother brought the torch to the side of the pyre, holding it out for another woman -- Ibahka, Torgan's hunting companion -- to take. Her hand carefully closed around it, hesitating before she began to lower it to the wood. Quickly, flames began to consume the dry kindling.
Jaliqai's eyes widened, her heart beginning to pound. What were they doing? She didn't understand what was going on. Her grip tightened on her father, her panic-stricken face turning on him.
"What are they doing?!" she gasped, loudly enough to earn a few rueful gazes from those nearby. "Why are they hurting him?!"
Yesugei's arms tightened around her slightly, a large hand rising to gently stroke her hair. He made soft quieting noises to her as he pressed a kiss to her temple. His eyes never left the pyre as the flames began to rise higher and higher.
"Shhh, sweet girl," he sighed as she calmed. "You'll understand one day."
As the flames consumed him and his things and the Qulaani began to howl their grief-filled songs, the only thing that Jaliqai could remember feeling was sadness that she would never get to make good on Torgan's challenge or laugh until she cried at his hunting stories again.
Many cycles had since passed, and many loved ones had been lost. Yet her father had been right: eventually she had come to understand their funerary rites and the important part each piece played. One's weapons, armor, and trophies, all offered up to Balanai in exchange for her favor. The burning of the body, releasing the spirit from the flesh. The songs that they sung from dusk until dawn. All of this to ascertain reincarnation, brought back to continue the eternal Hunt as a wolf, beloved of the Huntress herself.
She understood what it all meant now. Yet standing before the makeshift funeral pyres that the Doman villagers had hobbled together at her request, littered with the bodies of Qulaani that they had recovered from the roadside, there was no comfort to be found in understanding. Just sadness and loneliness. Worry.
Each meager pyre consisted only of as much firewood as the Domans could afford to spare, the fallen all squeezed in atop the low piles. Only scant few personal effects were recovered to be offered up. That was what she felt the worst about. Would the Huntress accept these meager offerings? The thought turned her stomach with unease, the emotion thick in the back of her throat. What if this wasn't enough? What if Balanai scorned them, and refused them reincarnation?
Jaliqai felt such shame, finding herself unable to bear looking upon their faces. No doubt that the dead would stare back at her with disappointment at this sad excuse of a Qulaani funeral. No doubt that she would be able to see the fear of their uncertain fates in their glassy, clouded eyes.
Slowly, she stumbled forth with torch in hand, her gait jerky and uneven. She was still recovering from her injuries sustained in the fighting with the Garleans, body riddled with broken bones, cuts, and bruises. Even after almost a week of unconsciousness and careful care from the villagers, she was still quite broken. However, nothing hurt quite as sharply as the pain in her heart.
Shakily, she lowered the torch to the pyre and the flames began to catch and spread, bright against the darkness of falling night. Smoke began to rise in long, thin tendrils, curling upwards into the star-dotted sky. Stepping backwards, Jaliqai watched for a long moment before sucking in a deep, quivering breath. When had she started to cry?
Her tears turned to ragged sobs. As she threw her head back, her sobs turning to howls of grief, formed into song. She struggled with the words, the whole thing sounding queer to her without the whole tribe's voices to join hers. Yet she would not allow herself to stop, even after hours had passed and her legs grew weak. She was the only one left. And so she kept singing. Praying. Begging the Huntress for her mercy for the dead until the sun began to peek over the horizon in a new day.
â”â”â”â”â”â”â”â”â”â”â”â”â”â”â… â€¹ ⧫ › â†â”â”â”â”â”â”â”â”â”â”â”â”â”â”
Jaliqai could remember the first time that she had ever witnessed a funeral. At least, she remembered the more poignant bits and pieces of it, parts of the recollection lost to time as the memories of childhood are wont to be. She couldn't have seen much more than her fifth nameday, if that. Twenty cycles had passed since that day and she had seen many funerals since, yet it was the first that she remembered so vividly.
The memory began with the comforting feeling of her mother's fingers running through her hair. Her wolf's eyes struggled to remain open as Sechen deftly worked the long, dark strands of hair into braids. The sun was beginning to sag lower and lower in the sky, and the entire camp was quiet. Far quieter than it usually was, than she could ever recall it being before.
Her mother was a woman whose tongue was as sharp as her arrows, and struck every bit as true. She never faltered in speaking aloud whatever came to her mind. Yet somehow, despite all her talking, it was moments of silence like these where she seemed to speak the loudest and the clearest. Not a single word had passed between them since they had entered their tent, but the grim look on her mother's face spoke volumes.
"What's going on?" Jaliqai asked as she squirmed to look back at her. The woman made an annoyed noise, giving her shoulder a firm pinch. With a soft yelp, she settled again, frowning. "Why is everyone so quiet?" she pressed.
"Torgan." At first, the name was the only answer that the older Xaela woman could muster, though the tremble in her voice, faint as it was, suggested that there was yet more she wanted to say. She resisted the urge to try to look back at her again, the back of her shoulder still smarting. At length, Sechen added, "His hunting is ended."
The recollection faded away there and returned with a memory of the pyre erected in the middle of the camp. Tribe mates had spent the better part of the day gathering wood, taking care as they neatly stacked it high. Higher than Jaliqai was tall. Even with everyone spread out around it in a large half-circle, giving her a clear view of the pyre, she was far too short to see what was happening.
Her smaller hand reached up, tugging at her father's insistently, until the tall man effortlessly scooped her up and held her against his broad, heavily scarred chest. Pleased with the boost in elevation that allowed her to easily see atop the tall pyre, her curiosity was further piqued by what she saw there.
Torgan's favorite spear. She remembered watching him train with it once, sparring with a younger hunter. Jaliqai had bounced up and down excitedly and cheered as he knocked the other man into the dirt, sweeping his legs out from under him. Just as children do, she had told him that when she was older, she would learn how to fight with a spear and best him. He'd messed her hair and given one of her horns an affectionate tug, tauntingly challenging her to prove it to him one day.
Next to the spear laid a large ivory drinking cup that he had carved himself. After he'd had it filled a few times with wine and aireg during Qulasar, the children would gather around him and he would tell the story of the boar whose tusk it had came from. His face flushed red, his laughter loud as he swaggered about, re-enacting the hunt for the young ones. Each time he'd told it was different, embellished some way or another. No matter how he told it, it had always ended in tears of laughter beading at the corners of Jaliqai's eyes and her sides aching.
A handful of other things were there as well, though none that Jaliqai knew the story of. Weapons, armors, furs, odds and ends. All of them were gathered neatly together atop the kindling.
"Why are all of Torgan's things here?" She quietly asked her father.
"He is offering them to the Huntress," Yesugei explained calmly. He had always been much more gentle natured than her mother. The calm to her storm. "He seeks her blessing."
Before she could question him further, heads began to turn, and her eyes followed them. Everyone's attention was suddenly held fast by a small procession of Auri bearing a woven pallet. Her mother was there, her face as hard and blank as Jaliqai could ever remember seeing it as she helped carry it through the gathered crowd.
As they passed, Jaliqai could finally see what it was they were carrying. Torgan lie there underneath a deep red and gold tapestry, only his face visible. He seemed more pale that she remembered, his cheekbones a bit more pronounced, dark circles around his eyes.
She had thought he was sleeping. She had wondered how he couldn't have possibly woken up at the light jostling of the pallet as he was lifted up and laid down atop the pyre, right next to his cherished collection. Yet he was completely still, not so much as twitching.
Her attention snapped up again at the flicker of a flame from the corner of her eye. Her mother brought the torch to the side of the pyre, holding it out for another woman -- Ibahka, Torgan's hunting companion -- to take. Her hand carefully closed around it, hesitating before she began to lower it to the wood. Quickly, flames began to consume the dry kindling.
Jaliqai's eyes widened, her heart beginning to pound. What were they doing? She didn't understand what was going on. Her grip tightened on her father, her panic-stricken face turning on him.
"What are they doing?!" she gasped, loudly enough to earn a few rueful gazes from those nearby. "Why are they hurting him?!"
Yesugei's arms tightened around her slightly, a large hand rising to gently stroke her hair. He made soft quieting noises to her as he pressed a kiss to her temple. His eyes never left the pyre as the flames began to rise higher and higher.
"Shhh, sweet girl," he sighed as she calmed. "You'll understand one day."
As the flames consumed him and his things and the Qulaani began to howl their grief-filled songs, the only thing that Jaliqai could remember feeling was sadness that she would never get to make good on Torgan's challenge or laugh until she cried at his hunting stories again.
Many cycles had since passed, and many loved ones had been lost. Yet her father had been right: eventually she had come to understand their funerary rites and the important part each piece played. One's weapons, armor, and trophies, all offered up to Balanai in exchange for her favor. The burning of the body, releasing the spirit from the flesh. The songs that they sung from dusk until dawn. All of this to ascertain reincarnation, brought back to continue the eternal Hunt as a wolf, beloved of the Huntress herself.
She understood what it all meant now. Yet standing before the makeshift funeral pyres that the Doman villagers had hobbled together at her request, littered with the bodies of Qulaani that they had recovered from the roadside, there was no comfort to be found in understanding. Just sadness and loneliness. Worry.
Each meager pyre consisted only of as much firewood as the Domans could afford to spare, the fallen all squeezed in atop the low piles. Only scant few personal effects were recovered to be offered up. That was what she felt the worst about. Would the Huntress accept these meager offerings? The thought turned her stomach with unease, the emotion thick in the back of her throat. What if this wasn't enough? What if Balanai scorned them, and refused them reincarnation?
Jaliqai felt such shame, finding herself unable to bear looking upon their faces. No doubt that the dead would stare back at her with disappointment at this sad excuse of a Qulaani funeral. No doubt that she would be able to see the fear of their uncertain fates in their glassy, clouded eyes.
Slowly, she stumbled forth with torch in hand, her gait jerky and uneven. She was still recovering from her injuries sustained in the fighting with the Garleans, body riddled with broken bones, cuts, and bruises. Even after almost a week of unconsciousness and careful care from the villagers, she was still quite broken. However, nothing hurt quite as sharply as the pain in her heart.
Shakily, she lowered the torch to the pyre and the flames began to catch and spread, bright against the darkness of falling night. Smoke began to rise in long, thin tendrils, curling upwards into the star-dotted sky. Stepping backwards, Jaliqai watched for a long moment before sucking in a deep, quivering breath. When had she started to cry?
Her tears turned to ragged sobs. As she threw her head back, her sobs turning to howls of grief, formed into song. She struggled with the words, the whole thing sounding queer to her without the whole tribe's voices to join hers. Yet she would not allow herself to stop, even after hours had passed and her legs grew weak. She was the only one left. And so she kept singing. Praying. Begging the Huntress for her mercy for the dead until the sun began to peek over the horizon in a new day.