There was an ominous aura of melancholy on the streets of Bancross in the days after the battle. The worried faces and itching sword-arms had been quietly replaced by tear-filled eyes, hunched backs and feet dragging on the ground behind them. While our dead could be counted in a handful, the pained and wounded were more plentiful; some with missing limbs, while others got away with only deep cuts and bruises. The east-borne enemy had not fared as well. The stench of their decaying, rotting corpses still lingered over the fields outside of town, and a large grave had been dug for all of those who had come to conquer, but would only meet the end of a spear. We all knew it was coming, and we all knew it was only the beginning of something greater, that would forever change the world as we know it.
In the evening while enjoying the sweet smoke of a pipe, I met with two guards patrolling the road along our house. They were both stern and sultry men in their prime, much like any other that I had often spent my younger days with, in the barracks, on the training grounds, and side by side in battle. One of them wore a blood-stained bandage around his head, most likely a memory from an eastern blade. The other had a light limp in his step, and I nodded at him with some sympathy as my own bad foot had grown cold and stiff, and still plagued me. They carried with them a message to all the townspeople, delivered by raspy voices, yet with determination and some pride. For tonight the Captain would hold a memorial for the men and women who fought and died for Bancross, and all were invited to partake and show their respects.
I thanked the men for their service, as they went on their way to spread the word further. I passed on the news to the women of my house, and as the three of us made our way up the hill towards the meadhall, I noticed my dear Ethel being quieter than usual. I knew she had not slept well, even with her friend Bronaa keeping her company. Her face was pale, her hair messy, and her eyes blank. I bid them stop for a moment, to ask her if she was all right. “I’m good”, she said. And as her father I knew otherwise, yet did not push her. I had seen that look on her face before, so many, many times. I knew she wanted to stay strong, and I let her do so, for now. Yet I would always be ready to catch her, should she break. Yllfa looked with concern to both of us, for she also knew, as any mother would, when her child was hurting. I gave her an encouraging nod, and she understood my intentions. We kept walking, until we reached the top of the hill.
There stood three large pyres facing the east, and on each of them lay dead men and women, still clad in their uniforms and clutching their weapons close to their chests. I knew none of them, yet I had witnessed events like this so many times, that I still felt a connection to those who were to be given their final rest. Like my parents and so many others before me, and even my Eda, I may also lie there one day, quietly waiting for the flames to bring me home. We stayed at the far back, some feet away from the main crowd, and I saw a few familiar faces mingling amongst the more unknown. There were many guards, and some were wounded. The two men I had met earlier kept a vigilant watch by the road. Brynleigh was there, and Gamferth, and others like old lady Agnes. I heard quiet whispers among them, yet could not discern a word of what was said. At the front of the pyres stood Denholm, the captain of the town, the brother of my long deceased wife, and Ethel’s uncle. By his side was the strong and sturdy Thilwend, looking stoic as ever. The crowd settled as the night fell upon them, and I heard Denholm clear his throat and began his speech. I knew him to be a man of words when he wanted to, and as much as we disagreed and disliked each other, he knew what he was doing, and his words would encourage and strengthen when they were most needed.
As he raised his voice, my faith in him was not put down. He spoke of courage, of bravery, and heroes. He wanted the fallen to be honoured, and not only remembered - he asked that their names be put into song and poetry, and that we speak of them as brothers and sisters. And then he asked if there were any among the crowd, who would have the honour of sending the dead on their way. Thilwend spoke up, grabbed a torch from one of the guards, and set the first pyre alight. Smoke and fire rose quickly from the prepared wood, and she cried out loudly; “For Danwyn, my friend!”, and everyone knew the deep sorrow in her voice. Denholm asked again if there was anyone who would see the dead away, or if he should do it himself. Noone else answered. Perhaps their sorrow was also too deep, or they did not know the dead closely. Then I heard a kind and somewhat familiar voice from the crowd, speaking out: “I can think of no better man than you, captain, to do the honours.” I believe it may have been Gamferth who spoke.
Denholm bowed his head, and took a torch in his hand. He called out the names of the fallen as he set the two remaining pyres ablaze, and the bright flames rose towards the night sky shrouded by black smoke, and the smell of burning flesh was prominent, and nearly overwhelming. Many names he mentioned, and none I did recognise, yet Ethel seemed to shrink by my side, and she took my hand in a tight grip, so tight and strong that it nearly hurt, for her hands had been hardened and strengthened by her apprenticeship in the smithy, and she was stronger than she realised. She moved closer to me, and I laid my arm around her shoulders, and her eyes teared up. With a muffled voice she whispered; “That man… Eorhard, I knew him. I tried to help him after the battle. I didn’t… I didn’t know he… he died. He was only a few years older than… than me… and the smell… I can’t… mama…”
Her voice now broken, her posture was hunched as she clinged to my arm, and then her knees suddenly buckled beneath her, and she fell to the ground. She tried to cover her face as she cried out the tears she so long had held inside, ever since her mother died, and since we all almost burned together. I sat down with her, cradling my daughter in my arms again and comforting her as best I could, saying not a word, for that was not what she needed. Yllfa joined me, as some folks in the back of the crowd turned to give the young, crying girl a sympathetic and comforting look and a sad, encouraging smile, for that was all they could give in that moment, and even that was a precious gift. We sat there for a few moments; a father, a mother, and their little daughter. For Ethel was still just a child, even as she was growing, and even grown men and women will always keep that child that once was inside of them, and never forget from where they came. Memories will linger, as well as sorrow and joy, and tears and laughter.
With our respects duly paid, there was nothing left for us here at this night of remembrance and farewells, and we all then walked home together as music played over the crackling fires and billowing smoke. Ethel would sniff and wipe her tears away as we walked, and with each step, slowly but surely, she returned to the young woman she was bound to be, with a very proud father and mother by her side.
