“The duty of the living is to carry on the memories of those they have lost.”
The Voice of the Tempest looked out over the burnt and broken city that stretched out before him. Small homes and farms, as well as a few community buildings, were still smoldering from the wake of the Inquisition’s fiery trek through the town. His eyes are pulled down to take in a smattering of soot-covered copper coins spilled in some desperate attempt to flee the flames, pulling his mind back through his past.
Svanhildr, the child of his Lord Saenger, sat behind a table before him, dutifully and precisely measuring coin. They calculate all that is available, making the hard choices for how best to tend the people of Runeheim. They never complained about it, though he could still see the wear and tear of Nobility bearing down on them. Duty above all, it had seemed. They were tended by a sweet woman, making certain they had nourishment for the task. Ana was always kind like that, and Tempest thought back to the warmth of her smile. The large Skald knelt down over the coins, carefully swiping dirt and ash atop them, the image of his Lord Svanhildr and her maid similarly pushed back under the surface of his mind.
A broken drinking horn catches his eye, and he takes a moment to lift and circle it in hand. Images of the Lord Harihildr, drinking with the Avalanche and himself. Memories of how the Lord sought to bring levity and joy to all his actions, uplifting his followers while maintaining his responsibilities. Tempest tossed it into the dying embers of a small remnant flame, feeling the heat of it wash away the pain that came from realization. A realization that those joys with his Lord were no more.
A mangle of twisted and heat-warped metal helped him recall the Knight of Saenger, Sir Teitr. A sweet and persuasive man, who always put the house and his drive above all. A man who knew the value of word and camaraderie, and who always kept those around him locked in on their mission. A man who never missed a chance to lift up those at his side, regardless of station. Surely he was still this way, wherever time had taken him. A man who could no longer lift the Tempest, as he pushed himself up and on.
A group of chairs circling what was likely a teacher’s board next pulled his focus. He sat in the burnt foliage that surrounded them, his mind going back across the Pack. Fritjolf, ever-smiling, wily, and cunning. Powerful in a way the Tempest was not. Inge, fast and aware. A pack member who never let anything go unseen, said, or forgotten. Rollo, sweet and insecure. He was always the first to complain, but the last to give up on what was right. A sudden breeze took the field, scattering ash and bits of parchment that had somehow survived the blaze skyward. Tempest watched the bits until he could no longer see them, much like the backs of his former Pack as they’d departed. His eyes pulled to the bracelet he wore on his right wrist, the etched wolves in leather staring back. His last reminder of their brotherhood. Soot covered fingers worked the strap, and he laid it in one of the chairs before walking on.
A skulking field mouse flit through bits of rubble and debris, and for some reason the memory of Eiðr came to mind. A low-born man who started out as just a darting figure in the dark, ever listening to and spreading whispers, almost unseen until the responsibility of Master of Coin was dumped into his lap. A task he did to his fullest until he too was lost.
A stone beside the road caught his eye. A line bisected it, in the kind of way that made it look cracked in half, leading him back to the memory of his Branded brother, Mountain-Cleaver. The Tempest crouched beside it, running his dirtied thumb up along the split, a sad smile finding his lips. There never was a vein of valued resource too deep for the Mountain-Cleaver. He hoped that the man was still pulling bounty from the earth, wherever his path had taken him. The only thing Tempest knew for certain, was that it was far, far away from Runeheim.
Memories of his brotherhood came flooding back, and he turned his left hand over to read a brand he carried. A brand not his own. His heart somehow find a new level to sink to, even though he hated that it was true. The Avalanche. A man so powerful he brought foes to their knees on a magnitude typically reserved for armies themselves. A man who held a zest and fervor for life that was as big as his legend. A man who outgrew the title of just man and became legend. One so powerful, none could kill the Avalanche save the Avalanche. A task he chose instead of becoming Anathema. When Tempest told the tale, it included joining Jordermund in defeating Svaes, and joining in the fight for warriors who sought not to traverse her gate. He paused to trace the runes on his wrist, bound in leather. He knew the Avalanche would punch him in the mouth and drag him onward if he were here. Someone to push the Skald along when his feet felt too heavy to move. He let his fist fly, slamming it into his own jaw for good measure, causing the taste of copper to fill his mouth. He spat blood to the ground and forced another smile, ignoring the heat rolling down his chin as he moved on.
The community was coming together in the heart of the town now. People offering aid and succor to those who lost all in the fire. A fancier dress on one of those offering assistance brought Lady Esparei fleeting back to mind. She’d come to Runeheim with high hopes and higher aspirations. A promise of those in Noble station being servants to those beneath them. A promise of using their station to enrich the lives of the peasantry, and see them through to a brighter life. A life Tempest had dreamed would befall his people. A dream that felt as ashy on the tongue now as the air of the Inquisition’s actions. A promise that now felt as dead as the kind woman who had made it. Tempest couldn’t help but wonder if she were still here, if things might have been different.
More of Runeheim’s protectors came flooding back. Elf’s Blood, a proud yet calculating Knight and Branded alike. He fought through every manner of horrible monster and man alike. His forces rivaled any Tempest had ever laid eyes upon, and yet he found himself reminiscing about the times they shared philosophy. The memory of being trained that a Warlord fought for themselves, but a Knight fought for their people being one of the most poignant in his mind. A lesson taken so heavily that the Tempest had become inspired to use his Branded name as a shield for those that may one day follow him. To make his boasts and promises be heard throughout the lands to account for them – to protect them. He had planned to become a Warlord who embodied the strengths of a Knight, yet his voice had not inspired armies. He wasn’t even sure it inspired anyone.
He couldn’t think of Runeheim’s protectors without thinking of the 3Ms. A title that always churned his stomach and made him feel both endlessly proud, and endlessly alone. An awkwardness in wanting to fit in had left them feeling unsure of his intent, even after their hundred year visit to the Fae lands together. The quiet voice that whispered “4Ms” in the back of his mind felt quieted even more, now all but fully muted by the crushing weight of their loss. Mechanic Tora was all that remained, still doing far more for Runeheim than most. Medic Heimir, a man Tempest had known love for all too late was now branded a heretic – anathema. A man who had given his all to heal and help everyone in the city. A man who had personally tended Tempest’s wounds so many times that he was certain he’d go long before the doctor himself… Yet here he stood. In the wake of the verdict and decision, the Medic had left with the Mage. The Mage who had found ways to bend the very laws of creation beneath her will and yet still used it to purge sickness and evil from the world. A woman who, even in the throes of despair, couldn’t say no to helping those in need. The Three had anchored him in the loss of the Avalanche, and become his driving force to fight forward – a purpose when he’d felt himself lost. The silent fourth M felt his shoulders sag, feeling too weak to try and hold the forgotten title of Muscle any longer.
Was this how she felt? He found himself wondering as he turned away and began his exit from the desolation. Was her faith so strong she’d have joined the Inquisition, or would she have fought them off to protect people at their side. A guiding hand who gave all to the city, yet was blind to just how much the community relied on her, Tempest’s thoughts lingered on the Mother Superior Solace as he walked. Her words rang clearer now than ever before. “We always think there will be more time.” Truer now than ever, he wondered if he should have told her his heart before she left. If only he’d listened then, would it have changed anything?
At the far edge of the city, he stopped to look back. His eyes caught the fluttering purple banners of the Valerians, the risen white and black of Dragomir, the Knights and forces the ones who had been the most recent protectors of this land. He couldn’t help but think of the chaos of battle that was the Inquisition’s arsonist intent – seeking purification through the heat of their flames. A battle he’d fought in and done his part, yet not once could he find the pride to boast his name. Not once could he feel the strength to remind people of his title nor brand. The whispers of shame from his father’s cursed hammer reminding him that was the fight to die in. The quietest part of his mind even agreeing and recognizing that he’d tried to. He’d not been asked to be saved, and yet here he stood. The whispers felt louder than ever. No longer could he remind himself that his father would never say such things, instead only finding that the little voice was right. What more did he have to lose? Could he even bear the weight of so many people much longer? Their stories felt heavy on his heart as he walked away from Runeheim, quietly reminding himself that the duty of the living is to carry on the memories of those they have lost.
