TSA: Chapter Thirty-One: Funeral

Chapter Thirty-One: Funeral

"Men march to war at the whims of lords, but it is not lords who fill the graves. The farmer with his plough, the mason with his chisel—these are the ones who die, their dreams trampled beneath the boots of ambition."

…

—Unknown

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Faywyn, 4th Moon, 15th Day, 1624 Symfora Telos

It had been many days since Levi rode through the streets of Faywyn in triumph, his banners snapping in the wind, his men marching behind him, bloodied but victorious. Long enough for the cheers to fade, for the songs to grow quiet, and for the alehouses to empty of their revellers. Long enough for the weight of what had been won—and what had been lost—to finally settle like ash on the hearts of the common folk.

Victory had its own sharp edge, no less cutting than a blade. The farmers who lined the muddy roads had seen their sons march off to war, but fewer had returned. Wives who had wept with joy at the sight of their lords’ banners now wept again, but this time in silence, clutching at empty beds and memories that could not be undone. The war had been won, aye, but the price of it lingered, bitter as bile.

Today was grey and windless, the sky a dull sheet of slate that hung low over Faywyn. The air carried the weight of rain not yet fallen, as though even the heavens themselves grieved but could not yet weep. Beneath that heavy sky, the men gathered—soldiers and farmers both, grim-faced and silent—as the pyres were prepared.

A field east of the town had been cleared for the ceremony, the original thicket of shrubs replaced with a sea of solemn faces. Row after row of pyres, stacked with timber and wrapped bodies, stretched across the muddy ground. The smell of pitch and damp earth mingled, sharp in the throat, though the fires had not yet been lit.

They were the fallen. Men who had died for Faywyn—killed in the rout against the Lion’s forces. For days the bodies had been gathered, carried back across miles of field and forest at Levi’s command. Some were brought whole; others, in pieces. They had faces once, but many were now shapeless forms, wrapped in linen, stained red and brown. The von Grifenburg banner had flown high when they marched to meet the enemy; now that same banner stood limp, spears planted in the ground.

At the head of the gathering, above the dead and those who mourned them, stood Levi. He wore no armour today—only a black cloak trimmed with red and a surcoat of heavy wool, the gryphon of his house emblazoned on his chest. His face was stern, unreadable, though the wind teased strands of dark hair loose about his brow. Beside him, Ser Carter stood like a statue of stone, hand on the pommel of his sword.

The men gathered closer as the horn sounded once—low and mournful, the note lingering in the still air. Levi stepped forward to address them. For a moment, he said nothing. He only looked out over the crowd, his blue-green eyes searching, sharp as a knife drawn clean from its sheath. They waited. He let them.

Then he began.

“These men,” he said, his voice steady, cutting through the stillness, “gave their lives for Faywyn.”

He paused, and when he spoke again, his tone was sharper. “For their brothers, their sons, and the land that bore them. Do you know what it means to die on a field of battle? I do not speak of glory—there is no glory in a man’s blood watering the ground, no honour in the wails of widows or the cries of fatherless babes. No, I speak of sacrifice. These men gave all they had—everything—so that we might stand here today.”

Levi’s words carried across the field, reaching every ear. Faces young and old turned up toward him, eyes grieving and weary.

“The Lion came south with fire and steel, seeking to break us. He failed. But the cost of victory lies here, before us all. I would have you remember them, not as names on a stone or as corpses upon a pyre, but as men. Men who stood when others might have run. Men who held the line when others might have faltered.”

He gestured to the rows of pyres, his voice rising like the gathering of a storm. “See them. See them, and know their sacrifice. For each man who lies here could have been you. A brother, a friend, a father. Tomorrow, it may be you.”

A murmur swept the crowd—uneasy, like dry leaves rustling in the wind. Levi’s gaze was unrelenting as he pressed on.

“This is what we are,” he said. “Faywyn is not its stones, nor its gold, nor even its lord. Faywyn is its people. It is the blood in your veins and the steel in your hands. And I tell you now, so long as we stand together, so long as we endure—there is no force in this world that can break us.”

“The enemy may come again. Evil might slink through our woods, seeking to bleed us dry where they can. But I will not allow Faywyn to fall. I will not see your homes burned, your women carried off, or your children slaughtered in their cradles.”

He pointed toward the men before him, his gloved finger cutting through the air. “You are the iron in Faywyn’s spine. It is you who will march. You who will fight. And you who will win.”

A cheer rose from the crowd—a ragged thing at first, uncertain, but it grew. It spread like fire catching on dry wood, sweeping through the men, roaring with a strength born of grief and fury both. They were cheering for the dead, for themselves, and for the words that told them they would endure. Levi let it ring out, standing tall as the storm he had summoned.

When the sound ebbed at last, Levi turned to Ser Carter and gave the faintest nod. The knight barked the order, and his men-at-arms moved, stepping forward with lit torches in hand. One by one, the pyres were set alight. Flames licked at the bodies, and the smell of burning wood and flesh filled the air—a cruel scent, yet familiar to men who had seen battle.

Levi stood and watched as the fire spread, the orange glow consuming the fallen. It roared and crackled, devouring flesh and cloth, until the smoke rose in thick, black columns to stain the slate-grey sky. 

The young lord stood long after the last pyre caught flame, unmoving as the wind finally began to blow, carrying smoke and ash beyond the bounds of Faywyn. When all was ash and smoke, when the sun had begun to dip below the horizon, Levi turned and left without a word.