[ Four Clans ORP ] Closure

[Zoobey]

The Lost Clans reserve was actually quite formidable in size: other than the five tents gathered loosely in the center of the reserve, the rest of the land, bits and pieces of it showing bare hints of construction and destruction, easily held all occupants who had been invited to the ceremony.

Not a ceremony but a simple moment to remember. Remember all that they had lost, comrades, friends, family, hundreds and hundreds wiped out in that single moment. Remember because they simply could not sleep, they could not rest, they could not forget.

True to their word, Amityville had been invited to the closing ceremony, and so had a few unknown faces: perhaps those from the Town Hall here to watch and give their condolences.

It was silent, over a hundred heads circling one figure in the center. As the half-cloaked figure reached into the makeshift pyre, constructed entirely of simple firewood, the flames emitted a thick colossal smoke that seemed to stretch and touch the sky. The pillar of smoke began to branch outwards, a tree made entirely out of burning browns, soft coal blues, and the thickest grey. Noone spoke, but simply watched, watched as the pillar continued to branch outwards, each tip breaking into two more pieces, every facet web-like, ornate, a splash of light, a sparkle of colour wherever the very tips touched before they branched again. Slowly, from the base, colour began to seep into the smoke-formed tree, spreading upwards, outwards, giving the branches life, leaves in the forms of small images, fragments of colour, memory, longing.

The entire tree shifted, unifying together into one image, no longer a tree but the entire sky itself. It was the sky and earth around each figure, it pervaded their senses, they breathed it, peered into it-

- And saw once again a vision of their home land. The sparkling sapphire seas. The five islands vibrant with life. Red and gold flickers from the Isle of Conquest, a splatter of green from War, the soft subtle tans of the Famine sands, and lastly the warm black and red from the Isle of Death. All of them, Lost Clans and student and invited Halloween citizen, saw the Islands in their perfectly replicated form, saw and smelled and felt the shifting winds, the hum of life underneath them-

- Before everything began to crumble, in a blink of an eye, to a solid grey. Everything collapsed, the sea itself fell into the void, and then, just before the last of the islands was sucked into nothingness as the illusion shattered.

They were standing back on the grasses of the Lost Clan reserve, the pyre flames now silent. Noone spoke, there was nothing to say, there were no words: for many Clan members who had been stationed at their Lairs at that time before being called back by Medea, this was the first time they saw the end of their old clans. Most however, saw this a second time, most now past the shock felt a multitude of emotions. Bitterness. Hatred. Humility.

And a need to remember once and for all. They were the Lost Clan-

- Those entrusted to carry their legacy of The Four Clans.

"Our world is shattered, and yet we are here." Medea spoke for the Clans, the priestess who spoke closure. The farewell to those gone. She took a single candle for a priestess, dipping it into the pyre before setting the lit candle on the ground around it. "Our resolve is shaken, and yet we remain standing." One by one, at first the priestesses began to do the same, dipping one candle into the burning pyre before setting it down. "One day perhaps it will be our turn, but for now we live to remember and we live to one more time walk the same path those that came before us have. May those that walk after us also continue to do the same."

OOC

- This is a reaction ORP, anyone, including students who were NOT in the meta are free to read and react to this post. They can also converse silently amongst each other/ update each other with IC information
- ALL STUDENTS AND LOST CLANS members are invited (for Lost Clan members it is assumed that they were all there to pay their respects). They may pick up a candle now to dip into the pyre and set next to it as condolences a silent farewell to the lost Clans members, as respect.

 

[Blade Kuroda]

Tseng watch solemnly as the ceremony went on. There, in the illusion, he saw a perfect image of what was once his home one last time before it crumbled away into nothingness. Memories of friends and family that had been lost in the destruction filled his mind and he was having a hard time not showing the pain upon his features. Due to being out in the lairs when it happened, it had been some time since he had last seen any of them. And now, they were never coming back, forever lost thanks to the hunters.

They would rebuild. They would honor the lost. They would seek justice.

But he was still going to miss them dearly.

The imperial soldier gathered himself back up, before stepping up to the pyre to dip a candle into it. With the lit candle in hand, he bowed three times with it. It was not a set of incense, but it would do. When that was done, he set it down next to the others before stepping away to let someone else go, looking to stand by Yuzhi once more.

----

Shun felt after what had happened that he should show up to the ceremony to pay his respects to the lost horsemen. As it went on, he remained silent, finding no reason to murmur to anyone around him. He couldn't imagine what it was like, to lose just about everything you had. Friends. Family. A home. It must have been something to say in the least. A glance around at the horsemen surrounding showed that much. Some managed to keep a stoic outlook. Others weren't keeping it in as well. Even so, he found it hard to empathize right now.

Closing his eye for a moment, he shook his head slowly. All he really knew was that there was a lot of pain all around right now. But the horsemen were not weak as far as he knew.

Slowly, and silently, he stepped up to pay his respects. He carefully took the candle and lit it up before setting it to the ground.  

[Sosiqui]

Malodore hovered at the edges, hands folded beneath its cupped sleeves, head bowed. It didn't feel like it belonged here, not really. They had only been present by sheer happenstance, after all. The Horsemen had lost far more than it had; its own loss paled in comparison, a mere drop in the bucket. It was not here to march its petty grief around those who had had everything torn away from them.

It was simply present, marking the occasion. It had adored Famine; she had loved War and Conquest. All gone, now, with only a few remaining. It still had the seeds that Bulbous Rex had given to it, tucked away in one sleeve. So much it had learned, so much it had wanted to continue learning. So much had been lost.

Being Undead, it was disinclined towards the pyre and the candles. Instead, the plague doctor simply stood and watched, the firelight flickering in its lenses, keeping lonely and silent vigil.  

[ramenli]

Sören stood tall, feet set firmly apart at shoulder width, watching in silence. His armor gleamed, its normal cleanliness replaced by outright spotlessness. He had carefully groomed the stripe-less tiger pelt that he wore on his back, and his clothing was immaculate. There was not much that he could do, not much that he could offer right now with the state of the clans, but he did what he could. Cleanliness would show his respect in at least a small form or another.

He watched in silence as the smoke began to take form, the islands taking shape in front of him. His eyes merely skimmed past the other four, locking on Death, as if somehow, if he looked hard enough, he might see a tiny figure on the isle. The smell of forges and incense wafting past him, tugging at his memories like playful fingers carding through his hair when he was on edge after a long day. He could do this though, he could go to this memorial and be strong, stand strong. He had put those things aside and he would show the other clansmen and students what a pillar of strength a Death horseman could be.

Then it crumbled apart. He watched for the second time as the islands were flooded, as he lost everything again but this time he actually knew what it meant.

Ástríđr.

Gone. Forever. His cheeks burned and itched as tears began to make wet, almost sticky tracks down his face, but no once did he waiver, standing resolute, forcing himself to watch until the illusion was completely gone. Watching as Medea spoke, but not really hearing her. Watching as she moved to light a candle. Watching as the other priestesses began to light their candles. Watching, rage beginning to well up as those that were not priestesses began to make moves to do so, as if they could do what the priestesses could.

But that anger drained out of him as quickly as it welled up and his shoulders slumped slightly. This was not the time for wrath, not at his fellow horsemen or the ignorant students. He moved forward slowly, one carefully placed foot at a time, shoulder's straightening, head held high despite the telltale red eyes and streaks down his face. Silently he took a candle, passing it through the pyre before simply holding it for a moment, watching the small flame flicker.

It's fine to be upset Sören, but you can't just throw a fit because you didn't get your way.

He could see her clearly, the memory of them playing a simple game with some of the other children in the neighborhood. Her arms had been crossed and she had rolled her eyes at him and stuck at her tongue. He had retaliated by throwing the ball at her, hard, though even as it left his fingers he had felt bad about it, and even worse when it smacked her in the arm as her hands flew up to protect her. She had never been terribly athletic, and he had known that.

He was lighting this candle for her, placing it next to the pyre in honor of her. A closed fist went over his heart in a salute. To Ástríđr, yes, but also to all of his fallen comrades. His fellow guardians, the priestesses that Ástríđr was most often with, the soldiers he had grown up with, the jewelcrafters, a craft his mother had hoped he would show a talent for. To the Isle itself, and all of the immeasurable amount of history that had been destroyed. And lastly to the other Isles, and for the loss they suffered as well. His salute turned into a gesture to reach up and find and hold onto the ring around the chain about his neck before he finally turned away from the pyre.  

[demon_pachabel]

Invictus had been obedient to assemble as it seemed their final farewell was to pass. Life now would not be the same as it had been before. Their normalcy would not be as it had been before. Everything was changing. They had brought Halloween to them and then in turn they had returned unto it. A cycle of homes that would never really be home and then they would become home.

A home of an island where he'd sit with his mother. A home of an island where humans ran freely about in the fog with their little play toys. A home of students where he and his girls had gained reign over a strange domain of a bathroom. A home of mother and father and the buildings he'd grown up with.

A home of destruction.

A home of a reserve of four clans whom had never had to coexist together before. A home where he and his girls would never have to be parted from one another. The scent of the pyre fed these memories through his senses, memories of ages he had lived through, ages he remembered, if even just vaguely after so long. Ages that seemed to stretch on forever.

He tried not to think of what those final moments would have been like - the face of his mother. The fact of Honored Father. Had he ever called him anything but just that? It seemed like the weight to be nothing but perfect had been lifted off his shoulder and an entirely new responsibility had been weighed down upon it, a responsibility that dipped heavier and heavier upon him.

Yet his drive to be just that his father would have approved of still forced him to stand straight, to keep his shoulders high, to continue being as he had been even as the Protector stepped forward to take his own candle, dipping it into the flames as the others had as well.

His resolve had been set even before that moment. He had to continue to stand tall and hold his shoulders and head up. He could not slouch. If the perfection thrust upon him by a father had not been enough of a standard, he now had to keep up the diligence for those he now had to stand as a figurehead for. He was now one of the faces of an entire clan. And it was strange how it had taken up until that moment, with a candle in hand, for Invictus to understand his father. A thought that flickered in his mind along with the candle he set down amongst the others, stepping back so others could follow.

Then, he took a deep breath and closed his eyes to reflect on it more for a moment. Truly, he would have felt overwhelmed if he hadn't been struggling to get there his entire life. A struggle that now he knew how to fight with. In that way, both of his parents had done right by raising him - and he would not let the fact that they'd be unable to see his progress impede him from continuing to make it.  

[kuropeco]

He stood at the edge of the crowd, his arms tucked into his sleeves, the fan hidden beneath the thick blues and golds of the cloth. Lips pressed together, his face a smooth mask of serenity, Mengyao was not about to show any of his real emotions to those that stood around him - especially since the crowd not only held members of the former Four Clans, but also those of Amityville High.

It was not easy, not with the voices plaguing his every thought, invading into the deepest depths of his mind. Mengyao's fingers twitched beneath the heavy sleeves, and though he could not see the grey, he could almost feel it, feel it sliding it up his arm and slipping through his veins.

The cloaked figure, the one who Mengyao was quite certain was the Priestess herself, stepped towards the pyre, and his gaze followed her, followed the line of the smoke as it rose higher and higher in the air, thick tendrils of blues and grey and brown twisting and curling out to the side -

- and then he felt it, sinking into his mind, and he could see -

Don't do this to me.

Red and gold flashed through Mengyao's mind, and he could smell the scent of tea and fresh air, felt the breeze sifting through his hair, heard the rush of the ocean that surrounded them -

Don't.

- and then it was gone once more, disappearing, evaporating into nothingness.

Mengyao opened his eyes, finding himself to be more shaky than he had thought he would be. He sucked in a sharp breath, then exhaled slowly, and his feet moved forward, stepping towards the pyre after Tseng. His fingers found the candle, feeling the smooth, warm wax beneath his greying fingers, and he dipped it into the pyre. It flickered to life, the scent of smoke thick in his senses. The voices in Mengyao's head rose and fell like the sway of the sea he had once walked beside, and silently he set the candle down in front of the pyre.

He would not let them see him break down, but internally he could feel his heart clenching, feel the memories, still fresh, still beautiful, still haunting, pressing at the forefront of his mind.

Too many faces. He did not want to remember, but he did.

Mengyao took several steps back, his gaze falling on Invictus very briefly. But keeping himself silent, he said nothing to him, and melted back into the crowd.


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Sparrow did not know if he wanted to be here. He felt oddly out of place, uncertain about where his future lay - but he could not claim to feel the same sort of loss that the horsemen would be feeling. Sparrow, after all, had not lost what they had. He had been on the Isles, he had spent time with them, but he had been a part of their culture for such a short amount of time, and he could not be so presumptuous to assume that he knew what they were going through.

Or what Malodore was going through, Sparrow thought, as his gaze landed on the plague doctor, standing back. He had heard of Riley's fate, but he had not seen what had happened, so he could not offer any sort of condolences.

He could not even imagine what it was like for them - for any of them - but Sparrow quietly made his way towards the pyre anyway. If he could not do anything else, he could at least pay his respects in this way. A part of him wished there was more that could be done, but there was nothing. His heart heavy, Sparrow lifted one of the candles and let it sit beside the pyre, waiting for it to catch fire, and when it did, he drew it back, closing his eyes briefly.

Farewell, he thought, and a pang shot through him as he set the candle down, and then stepped back.  

[LP]

Mjoll stood there watching the ceremony, quietly as her arms eventually moved to cross under her bosom. Almost as if to try and protect herself from the pain. She'd been busy working hard not to think about it, the incident, what had happened. However, the more she tried to look forward and make the most of what was left, the more despaired she felt when she saw the past so vividly.

If only there'd been a way to stop it.... the horsewoman mentally sighed as she watched wondering who, if any of her friends had lived. How many jewelcrafters that she knew managed to survive? Aside from Medea, who she knew as one of the priestesses; Mjoll realized she knew very little of the horsemen that now stood around her. There was a twinge of sadness shown on her face. Everything she knew was lost, she had nothing to craft with, no jewels, no friends. Nothing.

They had to start over. Mjoll didn't know if she wanted revenge for what had happened or something else? She bit back tears as her home crumbled again. Eventually, they started placing candles; Mjoll found herself joining in, dipping a candle to light it and place it beside the rest of the burning candles.

-----

Willow's tail flickered, she was wearing a white outfit that looked almost like a shrine maiden's outfit with the lack of red. She was standing near the back of the crowd, rather intimidated by the sheer amount of Halloween citizens had come to pay their respects. Her eyes traveling over to Medea, the only true horsemen she could make out in the crowd that wasn't the heirs.

The tigress sighed sadly as she watched the smoke billow upwards, forming visions of the horsemen's former home. This should've never happened, if only they could've stopped the hunters. Willow felt guilty for not having been able to at least help protect the horsemen's lands. Watching as the land shattered again the tigress hung her head slightly, and waited her turn to take a candle and dip it in the prye before sitting it with the rest of the candles.  

[demon_pachabel]

Fire.

It flickered and crackled as she approached. It reminded her of a fire that had once flickered inside of her belly, inside of her mouth, devouring, reducing her to ash and pieces. Pieces that went away into darkness and uncertainty. She didn't even know what had come to pass even after that moment. It had eaten into her flesh, burned her blood, and taken everything from her.

Fire.

But it was not his fire. His fire too could eat through everything. It could have reduced her to ash within moments - but it didn't. But it was not only his fire, but his fire. Grey, it swept through the flesh and the FEAR, instilling defeat. It was giving up.

As his flame began to fade into grey, so did he follow its lead.

How did she rekindle that fire?

Fire.

Water poured down into the remains of lands that had once burned with life, civilization. Homelands. Many had fallen. These were flames meant to represent life. The lives of many. The life of one. Was the sorrow different even if it multiplied upon itself? She wasn't sure. She'd once felt that it was impossible to feel even heavier with loss.

This was not true.

Fire.

The blue heat seared across the blood on her back, heat. Pain. Scorching. Yet it hadn't devoured her flesh. Her skin. Her FEAR. Flames. They had freed her from the hold of uncertainty by those who would have sought to turn her into something she was not.

A weapon.

A victim.

She had been beautiful. She had been everything Shehk wanted to be. She was still the standard of what Shehk wanted to be. Everything. Everything and then something more.

Fire.

Now that's all there was to remember her by. A candle she held in hand as she approached the pyre. Her hand reached out towards the flames. Uncertain of the burn it would leave her with, and yet at that point not caring. She deserved the risk.

She had taken the risk for them.

She would take the risk for her.

Shehk's hand recoiled instinctually from the flames even as they began to heat her skin, but she forced herself to continue. To light the candle. However, she did not set it amongst the others. She held it close, she looked over it fondly. And for a moment it was like she cradled it away from the world. She held her other hand firmly, a few stray tears making their way down her cheeks even then as she uncurled her fingers, brushing them against the heat that sought to burn them to set the small pin against the flame, watching the fire burn away at it.

"I hope it makes it to you." she whispered, before the flame joined the others.

Though she had kindled inside of Shehk one like no other had.....

Fire  

[santime]

Eisheth stood there torn into pieces. She was almost ready to scream with angst, and it took her all she had too manage standing there calmly. The alchemist decided, that is the last moment to recollect the memory, to mourn, - and get over.

Desert... Harsh, primordial desert with hot and arid winds and sand particles swinging in the wind. The Oasis with the dark, oily water, always still and refreshing. The crops, she spent so many hours studying. There were so many wonderful crops! Some could directly affect one's fear, some could change the mood, the colour, the size... They would never be able to collect them again! The beautiful colossal cavern down under the ground: caves and tunnels, passages and alcoves: their very fabric, the scent, the vision will be stuck in her mind forever. The insects, clouds of moths, scorpions, tiny hard workers willing to help their masters. Home. The Queen... so powerful, magnificent, glorious, the Queen was the very centre of their existence, of their world. That is probably the worst that could happen... how can they be able to breath, to function, to exist, when their Queen is no more?... Humans. They took it all. Oh Queen, why didn't she died there, with others?.. Why she is left here, forsaken, to live her puny pathetic life with the rest of them, as crumbled, mentally collapsed, as she?..

Her thoughts went eclectic.

Eisheth gulped and took a deep breath. Get over. Get over it. She was never a big fan of Death religious beliefs, to tell the truth, she always considered them useless anachronism, but Medea's words were calming. Medea is nothing like a Queen, but at least she was giving them something very important: a purpose. Live and remember. She was also warmed by her own purpose: she lives for a revenge now. Hew Queen is dead, but she will gladly die herself trying to fulfill their masters plan. They will grow stronger, and they will bring the humans world to the end. But.. not now. It will be later.

Eisheth took a glance on the Head Priestess. It's better for her, Eisheth thought. Death is alive.. Her master, the source of her existence, in only case it's similar for Medea, hadn't died. Why?... Why Death, why not the others?.. Her Queen had no less rights to live... why didn't she survived instead of Death?...

The alchemist shook her head: no, those are the wrong thoughts. Thee are no more clans now, just one clan. And they are thrown into a new society, where they have to live and survive, and preserve what could be preserved. There's no time to be selfish. She looked around noticing a lot of Amityville students came. Why, she wondered for a moment. Are they just curious? But well, some of them were there, on the islands, and have seen the Clans in their full glory. Perhaps, they have their own memories.. may be, they're not that bad. She was wondering, who of them had been to Famine, - strangely enough, she fell like she would be glad to talk to someone.  

[medigel]

Shikoba was aware there would be a collective funeral to attend but he was not one who wished to attend, not because he did not want closure but because he had gone about it his own way prior; to do so a second time would just reopen old wounds he would rather let heal. Yet here he was regardless, one of several tall trees in the growing forest of bodies that pressed in.

He disliked it. He disliked the vision, he disliked the heady scent of candles, he disliked letting scareling students into such a private matter, but most of all he disliked, loathed that this had happened at all. And oh, how he found it distasteful to feel the old roiling of emotions in his gut spit in the face of his efforts to move past the destruction. He was supposed to be a master of weapon styles as well as himself, but he had been proved wrong on both accounts.

Shikoba was tall and grown, but inside he railed and squalled liked a scareling. The only thing he could be grateful for was his natural penchant to neutral expression, giving nothing away as he stepped forward and took a candle, dipped it into the pyre and set it down in the sea of little lights. When he returned to his place he remained statuesque and standing, sending his prayers in quiet thoughts.  

[Syusaki]

Normally, Jay had little problem adjusting to new scenery and situations, but she found staying at the reserve was still a twinge uncomfortable for her. There were no trees for her to fly into and lounge in. Her home was no longer house in the treetops, where she could gently swing back and forth in a hammock while she belted out random tunes and animal calls, much to the chagrin of anyone nearby. She folded her arms over her chest to prevent herself from bringing them to her lips so she could mimic the lamenting cry of a bird or the howl of a lonely wolf. Jay stood tall—or as tall as she could be despite her short stature. The war horsewoman held her chin high as she stood with a solemn expression.

Half-lidded eyes focused on the single figure in the center, then to the roughly-constructed pyre that created dark billows of smoke. She watched the stream of grey rise up, up, up into the dull sky. Jay pursed her lips. The sky was not the same. It was not the bright blue she was accustomed to, but she would grow to accept it. There was little say in the matter. The smoke continued to rise and spread into branches, forming a web that gradually filled with color and shapes and sounds and smells that Jay knew too well.

Her heart swelled with longing at the sight of the five collective islands. She briefly perused the blue waters before her attention gravitated toward the lush green of the War isle. Her fingers curled into a tight fist and her arms tense to prevent herself from reaching out toward the vision. Jay wanted to grasp home, but that home didn’t exist anymore. She looked away, but only for a second before she turned toward the rest of the islands. Her eyes could pick up the specks of red from one, the splashes of tan from another, and the dark yet warm tones of the last. Jay breathed in through her nose, taking in the last remaining sensation of the familiar winds before they disappeared completely.

Then the destruction began. She felt her jaw clench as she watched her home islands disappear for the first and last time. The colors drained away from the islands, leaving behind an ugly shade of grey. Jay crinkled her nose. The warrior held back a gasp when everything collapsed into a void. A hole. There was a giant hole where her home had once been. Her eyes widened and she leaned forward slightly, trying to get a closer look at the vision. It was like a train wreck she couldn’t tear her gaze away from. The water began to rush into the gigantic hole and she watched with horror as the ruins were slowly sucked in. They were disappearing right before her eyes and Jay absolutely loathed it.

She blinked and now she was back in the sanctuary. Jay shifted in place as she tried to reorient herself back in reality. There was a slightly far off gleam to her eyes, the horsewoman clearly shaken by the illusion, but there was a clear sense of hatred ringing in her mind. The hunters had done this and there was nothing they could do that could ever bring redemption. She had once thought they were fun to toy with, but playtime was over now.

Medea’s words were only somewhat comforting. The path to moving on would take a while still. First the other priestesses moved to place a flickering candle on the ground, then slowly others from the crowd began to do the same. After a moment of contemplation, Jay chose to step forward to take a candle as well. Once the candle was aflame she held it closer, one hand covering the flame as she placed it beside the fire. She let the candle flame light up her face for a while before she stood back up. Jay parted her lips to let out a soft, low whistle. Farewell.  

[keiifuu]

Senga hovered in the shadows at the edge of the clearing, hidden, sheltered, safe.

The crowd moved in front of him like a wave, faceless and distraught, filled with strangers and sounds and scents that were both familiar and foreign all at once. His wings rustled, and his golden eyes half-lidded, something bone-deep and like a poison in his bloodstream beginning to ache. The voices in the back of his head whispered and crooned, static and broken. He couldn't understand them, didn't want to. He lifted his head and smelled the air as the pillars of smoke grew higher, branching into a tree that splintered through the darkness of the sky, silhouetted by embers and flames.

No.

He closed his eyes and did not watch as the branches of the tree grew and grew.

No, he was not safe here.

Senga's wings ruffled, and he felt the shifting air and scented the thick remembrance of home in the air before he opened his eyes and saw. Saw his homeland, his everything, whole and beautiful and there again. It's just a lie, A somber voice whispered in the shell of his ear, spider-like fingers cradling his spine and sending shiver convulsing up and down his body in waves. It doesn't exist anymore. But Senga didn't listen. The young executioner relished in the sight of the deep azure blue of the sea and the four Isles spiraling out, just like he remembered. Just like he saw when he stretched his wings and flew above the canopy of the jungle with Jaida or Iyari or by himself.

Senga bit his lip and tasted blood as everything splintered and cracked, breaking away and revealing behind it the reserve, the foreign land. He felt in that moment something shift, something splinter, something crack inside of himself as well. Maybe hope, maybe happiness, maybe a faint comfort in the dark. He felt it break and slide away, leaving him hollow, leaving him hurting, scarred. He stood tense and quiet as the sound of movement reached his ear, watching from afar as the priestesses one by one began to dip candles into the pyre, placing them down and forming a line of embers -- a silent farewell.

He waited in the shadows as others began to move forward, those of other clans and those from Amityville as well. His eyes were dry, half-lidded and reflecting the brightness of the pyre from afar. There was so much to grieve for, but Senga couldn't. He couldn't, because there was no time anymore. He didn't search for Iyari, didn't want to. She would tell him to be strong, proud. Everything she was. Everything he could not be, not now, not here.

Everything you never were, one of the voices whistled like a haunt, dissolving back into the distant static in the back of his skull.

Finally, the young executioner slid forward, small enough to maneuver the crowd with ease, nimble enough to find his way to the pyre at last. He didn't glance at the priestesses, only found a candle and dipped it into the flames, watching the embers lick and kiss at it, the scent of smoke pulling at his senses and rousing memories and moments in the back of his mind. All of them fresh, all of them beautiful, all of them things that hurt and refused to fade. He remembered hunting in the jungle, and the sparring sessions with clansmen that should have been here, should have survived. He remembered storytelling sessions in his family's own hut, the rattling of skulls and the scent of the forest pervading their senses and whispering fondly of home.

Senga lifted the candle away and settled it down in front of the pyre, watching the small flame flutter in the night. And closing his eyes, Senga remembered his father for the first time since the destruction. Since his loss.

"Don't forget, Senga. It is important."

Words like knives, but they were memories now, and nothing more.

"Never forget."

Senga smiled softly, and his fingers brushed the base of the candle before he moved away, sliding back into the crowd, disappearing again. Briefly he wondered what other members from his clan were there, but the young executioner did not seek them out. Quietly, the wolf melted back into the shadows, to watch, to mourn, and to hide where once he felt safe. He wondered briefly if Iyari was there, or any of his clan that he knew past names and polite greetings. But still he refused to seek them out. There was nothing more he could do here, and Senga waited at the edge of the crowd, eyes closed and wings wrapped tightly around himself, unable to leave, unable to forget. He watched the smoke curled upwards from the pyre, splintering into the dark air as silhouettes moved, as faceless horsemen continued to pay their respects.

"Farewell," He murmured quietly, to the embers of the pyre and the memory of his homeland one last time.

 

[Ice Queen]

Silence. Only the rushing of blood in his ears that drowned out the noise around him. Fai knew that the death clan priestess was talking, that there was a mournful speech of some sorts, but he couldn’t hear it. His black eyes were glued to the image of their isles--beautiful one moment, so real that he could reach out and touch them if he tried, he was certain, and then--

He wouldn’t break down. He stood stiffly, his head up high, cloaked in his robes but not hiding his head. This was a moment where he could not break down. Even as the vision raced through his mind, over and over again, his beloved isle, his Famine isle, destroyed in a blink of an eye. The phoenix flying high--he could almost make out faces in his mind, his mother, his father, his Cairo. Even now he could hear their voices, remember that happy moment when he told his parents about Cairo--

They had seemed so surprised. At the time he’d been offended by the fact, as if they didn’t believe he was telling the truth. But then his mother had started to cry with joy. They had pulled both Fai and Cairo into a hug, congratulating them both for finding something that was so beautiful--so powerful--

And that beauty was gone, just as their beautiful isle was. Unknowing that a single tear escaped him, trickling silently down his cheek, Fai stared into nothing, imprinting Cairo’s face on his mind, her beautiful smile, that look of surprise that she often got when he caught her off guard, the little pout on her face that came when he did something to irritate her.

Then mentally he stepped back, his mind going to the people around them, the workers in the field, those he had spent months, years, even, side by side, speaking about their work, celebrating their breakthroughs, mourning their defeats. Fai hadn’t by any means been the most outgoing of the group, but he had belonged. The only consolation he had was that Sal was still with him, he thought, clinging to that one fact. He only wished--

No. He was Famine. He was Lost Clan. Neither should take anything for granted, neither Famine nor Lost Clan, and he was both. If anything he was grateful for this moment, for the chance to look back once again and remember the most beautiful time of his life. He would not forget. And he would not forgive, either, he thought as he stepped forward, lighting one single candle for all those that he had loved, all of those that he had lost. Fai lifted it, looking straight into the flame for a long moment, even if it hurt his sensitive eyes. He wanted this moment burned into his memory as well. And when he had privacy--or at least a moment alone, then he would mourn openly.

For now they were surrounded by outsiders. Even his new clan felt like outsiders to him, he would not lie. Only a handful of his clansmen were left. Only a few Famine out of an entire clan. They that had prided themselves so much on surviving--

He put the candle down, turning and walking away to stand in the shadows. That was enough, for now.