The Journey, Book 2: Chapter 45 - Previous Chapter
Chapter 46: Sorrow
The battlefield had gone quiet. Smoke curled in the air, carrying the bitter tang of ash and iron. Vivi and Tivor lay still among the fallen. With slow, deliberate steps, the soldiers moved forward. Their shields clattered softly as they lowered them to the ground, then lifted the elves onto the polished wood and steel. Every motion was delicate, as though the weight they carried might shatter.
When they rose and began the procession through Edena, the only sound was the dull rhythm of boots on stone. Along the road, comrades dropped to one knee, armour creaking as they bowed their heads. Even the enemy soldiers cast aside their weapons; steel struck the cobblestones in sharp echoes before silence reclaimed the street.
The march wound its way to the ancient tree beside the church, its vast branches whispering in the evening breeze. The air smelled of resin and old bark, a sharp contrast to the metallic tang of blood that still clung to the soldiers’ armour.
Inside the church, the pews had been pushed against the walls. Candlelight trembled across bare stone, and at the center lay two straw cots. The shields lowered once more, their burden carefully surrendered to the cots. The soft rustle of straw was the only sound, the final resting place prepared with the gentleness of a prayer.
Nekira walked at Elvina’s and Tara’s side, her hands folded, her face shadowed. Behind them, Dorianna’s footsteps barely whispered against the flagstones. Santaya and Kristolia took their places at the doors, their figures rigid and watchful, as though daring grief itself to intrude.
Last came Gabija and Althor, as they crossed the threshold, each warrior laid a hand upon the wolves’ heads. The animals lowered their muzzles, ears drooping, their soft whine threading through the silence like a hymn no human could sing.
“I… remember everything.” Nekira’s voice was scarcely more than a whisper, but in the hushed chamber, it carried like a stone dropped into still water.
The others turned to him, brows furrowing in confusion.
“When his life was taken, I… I saw things. A flash of memories. Not mine—his. Vivi’s. My father’s.”
The words struck like an arrow loosed into silence. Elvina gasped, a hand flying to her mouth. Tara’s breath hitched, while Gabija and Althor exchanged startled glances. Dorianna stood very still, listening, her expression unreadable.
“Vivi never knew,” Nekira continued, his voice breaking at the edges. “He didn’t know I was his son.”
For a long heartbeat, no one spoke. Then Elvina stepped to his side. Her lips parted as if to offer comfort, but words failed her. Instead, a crooked smile tugged at the corner of her mouth, brittle and trembling.
“Who would have thought,” she managed, “that I had a little brother?”
Her attempt at levity cracked the air, but it was Tara who carried the weight of it. She spoke slowly, her voice uneven.
“If Vivi was your father… then that makes him my uncle. Which means…” Her throat tightened. “Which means you’re my cousin.”
Tears spilled silently down her cheeks. “That means we can’t—” She faltered, shaking her head. “We can’t be together anymore.”
The three of them—Nekira, Elvina, Tara—looked down at Vivi and Tivor lying in stillness. The air seemed to grow heavier, thick with the ache of things unsaid.
Dorianna stepped forward, her voice carrying into the stillness. The words she spoke were in the First Tongue, heavy with age and sorrow, yet every listener seemed to understand them in their bones.
“From root to leaf, from flame to ash, all things return.
From the first cry to the final silence, all hearts are bound.
Vivi, son of light, Tivor, son of flame—
I return you now to the Mother’s embrace.”
Her tone deepened, her voice trembling but unbroken.
“You walked the long road of mortals,
and bled for kin who did not yet know you.
Sleep now beneath the boughs of the eternal tree,
until dawn breaks beyond all dawns.”
Her hands lifted slightly, palms outward, as though giving them back to the world that had birthed them.
“Let the earth hold you.
Let the stars remember you.
Let those who remain carry your names in fire and water,
until the circle brings us together once again.”
When the last syllable fell, the silence that followed seemed alive, as though even the stones of the church had paused to listen.
Dorianna’s final words faded into silence. She lowered her hands, her voice hoarse.
“May I have a few moments alone with my sons?” she asked quietly. “I’ve not seen them for a long time…”
Nekira studied her, his gaze tracing the lines of grief carved deep into her face. He stepped forward and bowed his head. “We will be in the next room.”
She inclined her head in gratitude.
The others followed Nekira into the annex, the heavy door closing softly behind them. His quarters were dim, lit only by a single lamp on the desk. Nekira moved toward it with a restless urgency, pulling out a small black book bound in cracked leather.
He opened it to what seemed a random page, yet as the light caught the parchment, ink began to bleed across it—shapes, names, a lineage unfurling like a vine. At the bottom, where once an initial had stood alone, now a name glimmered into being: Julia.
Nekira touched the letters with a trembling finger. “My mother. Julia. Thomaz’s sister.”
Gabija’s sharp intake of breath broke the stillness. “Are you serious?”
Nekira sank into his chair, shoulders slumping. His voice was low, ragged. “Vivi was captured years ago. Thomaz kept him in one of his cells. But Julia… Julia would slip him bread and apples through the bars.”
His eyes grew distant, as though he could still see the scene in the dark.
“One day, Thomaz’s wife fell ill. In a drunken rage, he demanded Vivi heal her—or watch her die. Vivi saved her. Saved the queen. But in doing so, he discovered her secret—she was pregnant with twins.”
He reached across the desk, fumbling for a cup, and Althor silently pressed a goblet of wine into his hand. Nekira nodded, then drank deeply before continuing.
“Thomaz came to value Vivi. For a time, he was more than a prisoner—he was an adviser. He was even there when the queen gave birth. Twins: Olivia and Christopher.”
The names hung in the air like ghosts.
“But something happened. The twins vanished, and the queen… she withered from grief. She died not long after. Thomaz went mad, lashing out at everyone in his palace.”
Nekira’s hand tightened around the goblet.
“In that chaos, Vivi and Julia grew close. Closer than anyone knew. And in the shadows of Thomaz’s fury… she became pregnant. With me.”
His voice dropped to a whisper.
“She died bringing me into this world. Died before she could give me a name.”
The room fell still. The flickering lamplight trembled across the black book, the inked family tree still shifting, as though history itself was uneasy with its truth.
Nekira’s hand tightened around the goblet. His voice grew quieter, as if the telling itself drained him.
“Thomaz ordered my death the day I was born. He demanded his sister’s body be burned, her memory erased.” His jaw clenched, eyes burning with old fury. “But Vivi defied him. He buried Julia beneath a blossom tree, in the yard of a quiet inn in the capital. Then he fled with me, carrying me in secret… bringing me here, to Edena.”
He stared into the middle distance, as though searching for the missing years. “The journey took him three years. Why? I don’t know. I can’t see it in his memories. That part is lost to me.”
Another sip of wine steadied his hand, though his voice trembled. “And from there… well, you know the rest.”
A wry, bitter smile twisted across his lips. “So here I am. Dragon Rider. Wolf Friend. Ingmar Slayer. Heir to a throne I never asked for… and still, with no name.”
For a moment, silence wrapped around him like a shroud. Then, like a soft wind through leaves, Amira’s voice touched his mind.
‘I am here with you, little one. Through thick and thin, we will face this together. I promise you.’
The words washed warmth into his chest, a fragile comfort against the weight of his confession.
Without a word, Tara stepped forward. She slipped her arms around him, holding him with a quiet strength. When she pulled back, her eyes glistened with tears. She turned then, facing Gabija with a new steadiness in her voice.
“Your Majesty… what are the Elvish customs? For burial?”
Gabija straightened, her hand brushing against the carved hilt of her blade, not as a gesture of war but as one of grounding. When she spoke, her voice carried both gentleness and gravity, as though reciting words she had known since childhood.
“In our customs,” she began, “the body is never burned, never cast aside. Flesh returns to earth, and the spirit to the Great River that flows between worlds. To sever that bond with fire would be to deny the circle itself.”
Her gaze swept over them all.
“We bury our dead beneath the living roots of a tree. Not just any tree, but one chosen with care—young enough to grow strong, old enough to endure. For the roots drink of the body, and the body feeds the roots. In this way, the fallen rise again in leaf, in blossom, in shade given to the weary traveller. The tree becomes their marker, and their legacy.”
She drew a breath, her tone softening, almost melodic.
“There is also the Rite of Whispering. When the body is lowered, each who loved them kneels and speaks their truest memory into the earth. The soil remembers. The roots carry those words upward, and in spring, the wind scatters them with the petals. It is how we ensure they are never forgotten, even when names fade.”
A faint smile touched her lips, sorrowful but steady.
“And when the moon is high on the night of burial, we light silver lanterns, one for each life lived. The lanterns drift upon the river, carrying their spirits toward the stars. It is said that when the lantern flame goes out, the soul has found its place among the constellations.”
Her eyes lowered once more. “So it will be with them. Warriors, sons, fathers, brothers. Their tree will stand here, in Edena, beside the ancient one. And their lanterns will sail until the night sky itself welcomes them home.”
The annex door opened with a groan, and the companions stepped back into the church. Dorianna still knelt between the two cots, one hand resting on Vivi’s still chest, the other brushing Tivor’s hair as though he were still a boy. She looked up as they entered, her face carved from grief, but steady.
“Are you ready, Lady Dorianna?” Gabija asked, her voice reverent.
The elven mother’s lips trembled as she drew in a breath. “Yes. I have had my moments with them. Now they must return to the earth.”
The company followed Gabija out beneath the night sky. Torches were lit, their flames bending in the wind. Beyond the church stood the vast ancient tree, and at its flank a young elm sapling stretched upward, slender but resolute.
Gabija placed her hand on its bark. “This one has taken root in the elder’s shadow. It will grow strong. It shall be theirs.”
Soldiers raised the shields once more, bearing Vivi and Tivor to the base of the elm. The villagers gathered in silence, circling the tree as though it were an altar. The Whispering would begin.
Elvina stepped forward first. She sank to her knees and pressed her palm into the soil. Her voice broke with tenderness. “Father… you guided me even when I fought against you. And Uncle, Tivor—you stood at my side when I faltered. I will carry both of you wherever I walk.”
Tara knelt next. Her hand trembled as it touched the earth. “Father… my heart will always be your daughter’s. And Uncle Vivi, you were the shield I never knew I needed. I will not let either of you fade from me.” Tears ran freely down her cheeks, darkening the soil.
Then Nekira bent low, his brow almost to the ground. His voice was hushed, unsteady. “Father, I found you too late… but I know you now. And Uncle Tivor, your strength was the shadow at my back. I will live so the world remembers you both.”
The earth seemed to drink their words, dark and rich beneath their touch. The elm’s young leaves stirred, though the night was still.
Finally, Dorianna moved forward. She pressed both hands flat to the soil between her sons, bowing until her brow touched the ground. When she spoke in the ancient tongue, her voice was fierce and sorrowful, like the cry of a hawk over the mountains. Each word rang with finality and promise.
When she rose, her eyes shone with grief, but also with pride.
The Whispering fell into silence. The elm sapling trembled faintly, as though listening to the memories now bound in its roots. The air hung heavy with grief, thick enough to still the breath.
Then a shadow swept across the courtyard. A sound like thunder rolled overhead—wings vast enough to stir the ancient tree itself. Two dragons descended, their scales catching the starlight like living jewels.
Amira alighted first, her talons striking sparks from the flagstones. She lowered her immense head, nostrils flaring as she leaned close to the grave prepared for Vivi. A keening rumble rose from deep in her chest, a sound so raw it felt as though the stones themselves grieved.
Beside her, Elqiana folded her wings and bent low over Tivor’s resting place. Her golden eyes glimmered wet, and a low, mournful growl rippled through the night air.
Then it happened.
The dragons’ sorrow overflowed, spilling into magic they had not meant to summon. From Amira’s breath, the soil around Vivi’s grave shimmered and hardened, crystal blooming like frost across the mound, glowing in hues of deep orange—the colour of his spirit. From Elqiana, a wash of emerald light burst forth, seeping into Tivor’s grave until the earth itself gleamed green as spring leaves after rain.
Gasps rose from the gathered elves and soldiers. No hand moved to stop it; no heart dared. The crystals pulsed softly, not as monuments, but as living echoes of the men beneath them.
Gabija bowed low, her voice hushed with awe. “The dragons mark what even kings cannot. Their souls will not fade.”
The crystals glimmered in the torchlight, casting orange and green across the courtyard, as if the fallen themselves now stood vigil beside the elm. The two dragons lowered their heads once more, pressing their snouts gently to the crystallised earth in farewell.
The group carried the lanterns down to the riverbank, the night cool and still. The water lay black and reflective, a ribbon of glass under the starlight. Torches flickered behind them, but all eyes were drawn to the crystalline graves back in the courtyard—the orange and green mists of Vivi and Tivor’s auras trapped in living crystal, pulsing faintly with the dragons’ lingering magic.
As the first lanterns were set upon the river, a subtle shimmer leapt from the crystals. Each lantern’s flame caught the refracted light, scattering prisms of orange and green across the surface of the water. The glow rose, twisting into delicate arcs that stretched upward, like threads of spirit pulled by the unseen hand of the stars.
Elvina knelt at the riverbank, letting her lantern float free. “Father…” she whispered. The orange light of Vivi’s crystal refracted through the flame, spiralling upward as though the river itself were carrying him home.
Tara’s lantern drifted next. The green shimmer from Tivor’s grave caught the flame, and the light danced across the water in a living spiral. “Father… Uncle…” she murmured, and the magic seemed to pulse with her grief, lifting the lanterns higher than mere wind could carry.
Nekira’s lantern followed, his hands trembling. As he released it, both crystals pulsed brighter, the orange and green streams intertwining above the river. The light rose in a spiral, twisting toward the stars as if guiding the souls of Vivi and Tivor along their final journey.
The dragons stood silently to the side, wings tucked, their heads bowed in quiet respect. Amira’s deep orange-purple scales shimmered in the reflection of the river; Elqiana’s opal-white gleam rippled across the surface. The magic of grief, love, and memory intertwined, and for a moment, the world seemed to hold its breath.
No one spoke. Only the river, the light, and the crystals moved—a final, perfect convergence of life, magic, and remembrance. As the lanterns drifted out of sight, the sky itself seemed to shimmer with soft hues of orange and green, a celestial promise that Vivi and Tivor had reached their place among the constellations.
The last lantern floated down the river, carried by the slow current. The orange and green spirals from Vivi and Tivor’s crystalised graves shimmered faintly, refracting the lantern flames in luminous arcs that stretched toward the stars. The dragons hovered silently, heads bowed, wings folded, as if their immense presence alone could lend comfort.
Elvina sank to her knees, pressing her hands together. “Father…” she whispered. The orange glow reflected in her eyes, soft and steady, and for a moment she let herself imagine him alive, smiling, proud. A tear slid down her cheek, but she breathed slowly, as if this fragile vision could hold her grief at bay.
Tara knelt beside her, leaning into Nekira. “Father… Uncle… I can feel you with us,” she said softly, her voice trembling but steady. The green shimmer from Tivor’s crystal pulsed gently, a subtle warmth against her palm.
Nekira, however, did not kneel. His hands were clenched at his sides, fists tight, and his gaze stayed fixed on the lanterns. He could see the magic, the dragons, the light—but the beauty of it only seemed to mock him. “They’re gone,” he muttered under his breath. “All of them… and for what?”
Elvina turned to him, startled, and opened her mouth, but he didn’t meet her eyes. The lanterns drifted further down the river, their flames reflected in his own restless heart. “We honor them… we give them peace,” Gabija said softly, her voice careful, almost a plea.
Nekira shook his head, frustration tightening every line of his face. “Peace?” he repeated, voice rising slightly. “How do we have peace when they’re just… gone? Father, Uncle… Vivi, Tivor… everyone we’ve lost—gone. And I’m supposed to accept that? I can’t! I won’t!”
Tara pressed a hand to his shoulder, gentle but firm. “I know, Nekira,” she whispered. “I feel it too. But this… this is the way we say goodbye.”
He swallowed hard, jaw working, eyes glinting with unshed tears and a flare of anger. “Goodbye doesn’t cut it. Not for the ones who raised us, who protected us… who gave us everything. I… I can’t just let them go.”
Dorianna, standing behind him, pressed a hand to her chest, her own grief flickering in her eyes. “Nekira,” she said softly, “our loss is a wound that never fully heals. But it is here we can honour them—through the tree, through the lanterns, through memory. That is how they live on, even if it feels unbearable.”
Nekira’s fists fell to his sides. He looked up at the hovering dragons, Amira’s orange glow over Vivi’s grave, Elqiana’s green over Tivor’s, and felt the weight of their silent blessing pressing into him. Still, the ache in his chest was raw, sharp, relentless. “I know,” he muttered. “I know… but knowing doesn’t fix anything.”
The others stood quietly, understanding and sharing the grief, their presence a small tether against the storm in his heart. The lanterns drifted onward, spiralling higher with the refracted orange and green light, guiding the souls of the fallen, but for Nekira, even as the light stretched to the stars, the fire of loss and frustration remained, a restless ember in his chest.
The river carried the lanterns away, the dragons’ heads bowed in solemn acknowledgement, and the night seemed to whisper in sympathy. But Nekira remained standing, fists clenched, gaze locked on the glowing spirals.
Here lies the end The Journey, Book 2. I hope you all enjoyed reading this, I enjoyed writing this one a lot more than the first, so much more depth, and action, in this one. A little rollercoaster of emotions, and of course some comedic elements, from Tarasque and Elvina teasing the tailor, to Martheel's disastrous antics, we of course can't forget the mischievous Amira. Thank you to everyone has read The Journey so far and to those who will read it in the future. Thank you to those who have supported me, and given me inspiration to continue writing. Until next time...
Chapter 46: Sorrow
The battlefield had gone quiet. Smoke curled in the air, carrying the bitter tang of ash and iron. Vivi and Tivor lay still among the fallen. With slow, deliberate steps, the soldiers moved forward. Their shields clattered softly as they lowered them to the ground, then lifted the elves onto the polished wood and steel. Every motion was delicate, as though the weight they carried might shatter.
When they rose and began the procession through Edena, the only sound was the dull rhythm of boots on stone. Along the road, comrades dropped to one knee, armour creaking as they bowed their heads. Even the enemy soldiers cast aside their weapons; steel struck the cobblestones in sharp echoes before silence reclaimed the street.
The march wound its way to the ancient tree beside the church, its vast branches whispering in the evening breeze. The air smelled of resin and old bark, a sharp contrast to the metallic tang of blood that still clung to the soldiers’ armour.
Inside the church, the pews had been pushed against the walls. Candlelight trembled across bare stone, and at the center lay two straw cots. The shields lowered once more, their burden carefully surrendered to the cots. The soft rustle of straw was the only sound, the final resting place prepared with the gentleness of a prayer.
Nekira walked at Elvina’s and Tara’s side, her hands folded, her face shadowed. Behind them, Dorianna’s footsteps barely whispered against the flagstones. Santaya and Kristolia took their places at the doors, their figures rigid and watchful, as though daring grief itself to intrude.
Last came Gabija and Althor, as they crossed the threshold, each warrior laid a hand upon the wolves’ heads. The animals lowered their muzzles, ears drooping, their soft whine threading through the silence like a hymn no human could sing.
“I… remember everything.” Nekira’s voice was scarcely more than a whisper, but in the hushed chamber, it carried like a stone dropped into still water.
The others turned to him, brows furrowing in confusion.
“When his life was taken, I… I saw things. A flash of memories. Not mine—his. Vivi’s. My father’s.”
The words struck like an arrow loosed into silence. Elvina gasped, a hand flying to her mouth. Tara’s breath hitched, while Gabija and Althor exchanged startled glances. Dorianna stood very still, listening, her expression unreadable.
“Vivi never knew,” Nekira continued, his voice breaking at the edges. “He didn’t know I was his son.”
For a long heartbeat, no one spoke. Then Elvina stepped to his side. Her lips parted as if to offer comfort, but words failed her. Instead, a crooked smile tugged at the corner of her mouth, brittle and trembling.
“Who would have thought,” she managed, “that I had a little brother?”
Her attempt at levity cracked the air, but it was Tara who carried the weight of it. She spoke slowly, her voice uneven.
“If Vivi was your father… then that makes him my uncle. Which means…” Her throat tightened. “Which means you’re my cousin.”
Tears spilled silently down her cheeks. “That means we can’t—” She faltered, shaking her head. “We can’t be together anymore.”
The three of them—Nekira, Elvina, Tara—looked down at Vivi and Tivor lying in stillness. The air seemed to grow heavier, thick with the ache of things unsaid.
Dorianna stepped forward, her voice carrying into the stillness. The words she spoke were in the First Tongue, heavy with age and sorrow, yet every listener seemed to understand them in their bones.
“From root to leaf, from flame to ash, all things return.
From the first cry to the final silence, all hearts are bound.
Vivi, son of light, Tivor, son of flame—
I return you now to the Mother’s embrace.”
Her tone deepened, her voice trembling but unbroken.
“You walked the long road of mortals,
and bled for kin who did not yet know you.
Sleep now beneath the boughs of the eternal tree,
until dawn breaks beyond all dawns.”
Her hands lifted slightly, palms outward, as though giving them back to the world that had birthed them.
“Let the earth hold you.
Let the stars remember you.
Let those who remain carry your names in fire and water,
until the circle brings us together once again.”
When the last syllable fell, the silence that followed seemed alive, as though even the stones of the church had paused to listen.
Dorianna’s final words faded into silence. She lowered her hands, her voice hoarse.
“May I have a few moments alone with my sons?” she asked quietly. “I’ve not seen them for a long time…”
Nekira studied her, his gaze tracing the lines of grief carved deep into her face. He stepped forward and bowed his head. “We will be in the next room.”
She inclined her head in gratitude.
The others followed Nekira into the annex, the heavy door closing softly behind them. His quarters were dim, lit only by a single lamp on the desk. Nekira moved toward it with a restless urgency, pulling out a small black book bound in cracked leather.
He opened it to what seemed a random page, yet as the light caught the parchment, ink began to bleed across it—shapes, names, a lineage unfurling like a vine. At the bottom, where once an initial had stood alone, now a name glimmered into being: Julia.
Nekira touched the letters with a trembling finger. “My mother. Julia. Thomaz’s sister.”
Gabija’s sharp intake of breath broke the stillness. “Are you serious?”
Nekira sank into his chair, shoulders slumping. His voice was low, ragged. “Vivi was captured years ago. Thomaz kept him in one of his cells. But Julia… Julia would slip him bread and apples through the bars.”
His eyes grew distant, as though he could still see the scene in the dark.
“One day, Thomaz’s wife fell ill. In a drunken rage, he demanded Vivi heal her—or watch her die. Vivi saved her. Saved the queen. But in doing so, he discovered her secret—she was pregnant with twins.”
He reached across the desk, fumbling for a cup, and Althor silently pressed a goblet of wine into his hand. Nekira nodded, then drank deeply before continuing.
“Thomaz came to value Vivi. For a time, he was more than a prisoner—he was an adviser. He was even there when the queen gave birth. Twins: Olivia and Christopher.”
The names hung in the air like ghosts.
“But something happened. The twins vanished, and the queen… she withered from grief. She died not long after. Thomaz went mad, lashing out at everyone in his palace.”
Nekira’s hand tightened around the goblet.
“In that chaos, Vivi and Julia grew close. Closer than anyone knew. And in the shadows of Thomaz’s fury… she became pregnant. With me.”
His voice dropped to a whisper.
“She died bringing me into this world. Died before she could give me a name.”
The room fell still. The flickering lamplight trembled across the black book, the inked family tree still shifting, as though history itself was uneasy with its truth.
Nekira’s hand tightened around the goblet. His voice grew quieter, as if the telling itself drained him.
“Thomaz ordered my death the day I was born. He demanded his sister’s body be burned, her memory erased.” His jaw clenched, eyes burning with old fury. “But Vivi defied him. He buried Julia beneath a blossom tree, in the yard of a quiet inn in the capital. Then he fled with me, carrying me in secret… bringing me here, to Edena.”
He stared into the middle distance, as though searching for the missing years. “The journey took him three years. Why? I don’t know. I can’t see it in his memories. That part is lost to me.”
Another sip of wine steadied his hand, though his voice trembled. “And from there… well, you know the rest.”
A wry, bitter smile twisted across his lips. “So here I am. Dragon Rider. Wolf Friend. Ingmar Slayer. Heir to a throne I never asked for… and still, with no name.”
For a moment, silence wrapped around him like a shroud. Then, like a soft wind through leaves, Amira’s voice touched his mind.
‘I am here with you, little one. Through thick and thin, we will face this together. I promise you.’
The words washed warmth into his chest, a fragile comfort against the weight of his confession.
Without a word, Tara stepped forward. She slipped her arms around him, holding him with a quiet strength. When she pulled back, her eyes glistened with tears. She turned then, facing Gabija with a new steadiness in her voice.
“Your Majesty… what are the Elvish customs? For burial?”
Gabija straightened, her hand brushing against the carved hilt of her blade, not as a gesture of war but as one of grounding. When she spoke, her voice carried both gentleness and gravity, as though reciting words she had known since childhood.
“In our customs,” she began, “the body is never burned, never cast aside. Flesh returns to earth, and the spirit to the Great River that flows between worlds. To sever that bond with fire would be to deny the circle itself.”
Her gaze swept over them all.
“We bury our dead beneath the living roots of a tree. Not just any tree, but one chosen with care—young enough to grow strong, old enough to endure. For the roots drink of the body, and the body feeds the roots. In this way, the fallen rise again in leaf, in blossom, in shade given to the weary traveller. The tree becomes their marker, and their legacy.”
She drew a breath, her tone softening, almost melodic.
“There is also the Rite of Whispering. When the body is lowered, each who loved them kneels and speaks their truest memory into the earth. The soil remembers. The roots carry those words upward, and in spring, the wind scatters them with the petals. It is how we ensure they are never forgotten, even when names fade.”
A faint smile touched her lips, sorrowful but steady.
“And when the moon is high on the night of burial, we light silver lanterns, one for each life lived. The lanterns drift upon the river, carrying their spirits toward the stars. It is said that when the lantern flame goes out, the soul has found its place among the constellations.”
Her eyes lowered once more. “So it will be with them. Warriors, sons, fathers, brothers. Their tree will stand here, in Edena, beside the ancient one. And their lanterns will sail until the night sky itself welcomes them home.”
The annex door opened with a groan, and the companions stepped back into the church. Dorianna still knelt between the two cots, one hand resting on Vivi’s still chest, the other brushing Tivor’s hair as though he were still a boy. She looked up as they entered, her face carved from grief, but steady.
“Are you ready, Lady Dorianna?” Gabija asked, her voice reverent.
The elven mother’s lips trembled as she drew in a breath. “Yes. I have had my moments with them. Now they must return to the earth.”
The company followed Gabija out beneath the night sky. Torches were lit, their flames bending in the wind. Beyond the church stood the vast ancient tree, and at its flank a young elm sapling stretched upward, slender but resolute.
Gabija placed her hand on its bark. “This one has taken root in the elder’s shadow. It will grow strong. It shall be theirs.”
Soldiers raised the shields once more, bearing Vivi and Tivor to the base of the elm. The villagers gathered in silence, circling the tree as though it were an altar. The Whispering would begin.
Elvina stepped forward first. She sank to her knees and pressed her palm into the soil. Her voice broke with tenderness. “Father… you guided me even when I fought against you. And Uncle, Tivor—you stood at my side when I faltered. I will carry both of you wherever I walk.”
Tara knelt next. Her hand trembled as it touched the earth. “Father… my heart will always be your daughter’s. And Uncle Vivi, you were the shield I never knew I needed. I will not let either of you fade from me.” Tears ran freely down her cheeks, darkening the soil.
Then Nekira bent low, his brow almost to the ground. His voice was hushed, unsteady. “Father, I found you too late… but I know you now. And Uncle Tivor, your strength was the shadow at my back. I will live so the world remembers you both.”
The earth seemed to drink their words, dark and rich beneath their touch. The elm’s young leaves stirred, though the night was still.
Finally, Dorianna moved forward. She pressed both hands flat to the soil between her sons, bowing until her brow touched the ground. When she spoke in the ancient tongue, her voice was fierce and sorrowful, like the cry of a hawk over the mountains. Each word rang with finality and promise.
When she rose, her eyes shone with grief, but also with pride.
The Whispering fell into silence. The elm sapling trembled faintly, as though listening to the memories now bound in its roots. The air hung heavy with grief, thick enough to still the breath.
Then a shadow swept across the courtyard. A sound like thunder rolled overhead—wings vast enough to stir the ancient tree itself. Two dragons descended, their scales catching the starlight like living jewels.
Amira alighted first, her talons striking sparks from the flagstones. She lowered her immense head, nostrils flaring as she leaned close to the grave prepared for Vivi. A keening rumble rose from deep in her chest, a sound so raw it felt as though the stones themselves grieved.
Beside her, Elqiana folded her wings and bent low over Tivor’s resting place. Her golden eyes glimmered wet, and a low, mournful growl rippled through the night air.
Then it happened.
The dragons’ sorrow overflowed, spilling into magic they had not meant to summon. From Amira’s breath, the soil around Vivi’s grave shimmered and hardened, crystal blooming like frost across the mound, glowing in hues of deep orange—the colour of his spirit. From Elqiana, a wash of emerald light burst forth, seeping into Tivor’s grave until the earth itself gleamed green as spring leaves after rain.
Gasps rose from the gathered elves and soldiers. No hand moved to stop it; no heart dared. The crystals pulsed softly, not as monuments, but as living echoes of the men beneath them.
Gabija bowed low, her voice hushed with awe. “The dragons mark what even kings cannot. Their souls will not fade.”
The crystals glimmered in the torchlight, casting orange and green across the courtyard, as if the fallen themselves now stood vigil beside the elm. The two dragons lowered their heads once more, pressing their snouts gently to the crystallised earth in farewell.
The group carried the lanterns down to the riverbank, the night cool and still. The water lay black and reflective, a ribbon of glass under the starlight. Torches flickered behind them, but all eyes were drawn to the crystalline graves back in the courtyard—the orange and green mists of Vivi and Tivor’s auras trapped in living crystal, pulsing faintly with the dragons’ lingering magic.
As the first lanterns were set upon the river, a subtle shimmer leapt from the crystals. Each lantern’s flame caught the refracted light, scattering prisms of orange and green across the surface of the water. The glow rose, twisting into delicate arcs that stretched upward, like threads of spirit pulled by the unseen hand of the stars.
Elvina knelt at the riverbank, letting her lantern float free. “Father…” she whispered. The orange light of Vivi’s crystal refracted through the flame, spiralling upward as though the river itself were carrying him home.
Tara’s lantern drifted next. The green shimmer from Tivor’s grave caught the flame, and the light danced across the water in a living spiral. “Father… Uncle…” she murmured, and the magic seemed to pulse with her grief, lifting the lanterns higher than mere wind could carry.
Nekira’s lantern followed, his hands trembling. As he released it, both crystals pulsed brighter, the orange and green streams intertwining above the river. The light rose in a spiral, twisting toward the stars as if guiding the souls of Vivi and Tivor along their final journey.
The dragons stood silently to the side, wings tucked, their heads bowed in quiet respect. Amira’s deep orange-purple scales shimmered in the reflection of the river; Elqiana’s opal-white gleam rippled across the surface. The magic of grief, love, and memory intertwined, and for a moment, the world seemed to hold its breath.
No one spoke. Only the river, the light, and the crystals moved—a final, perfect convergence of life, magic, and remembrance. As the lanterns drifted out of sight, the sky itself seemed to shimmer with soft hues of orange and green, a celestial promise that Vivi and Tivor had reached their place among the constellations.
The last lantern floated down the river, carried by the slow current. The orange and green spirals from Vivi and Tivor’s crystalised graves shimmered faintly, refracting the lantern flames in luminous arcs that stretched toward the stars. The dragons hovered silently, heads bowed, wings folded, as if their immense presence alone could lend comfort.
Elvina sank to her knees, pressing her hands together. “Father…” she whispered. The orange glow reflected in her eyes, soft and steady, and for a moment she let herself imagine him alive, smiling, proud. A tear slid down her cheek, but she breathed slowly, as if this fragile vision could hold her grief at bay.
Tara knelt beside her, leaning into Nekira. “Father… Uncle… I can feel you with us,” she said softly, her voice trembling but steady. The green shimmer from Tivor’s crystal pulsed gently, a subtle warmth against her palm.
Nekira, however, did not kneel. His hands were clenched at his sides, fists tight, and his gaze stayed fixed on the lanterns. He could see the magic, the dragons, the light—but the beauty of it only seemed to mock him. “They’re gone,” he muttered under his breath. “All of them… and for what?”
Elvina turned to him, startled, and opened her mouth, but he didn’t meet her eyes. The lanterns drifted further down the river, their flames reflected in his own restless heart. “We honor them… we give them peace,” Gabija said softly, her voice careful, almost a plea.
Nekira shook his head, frustration tightening every line of his face. “Peace?” he repeated, voice rising slightly. “How do we have peace when they’re just… gone? Father, Uncle… Vivi, Tivor… everyone we’ve lost—gone. And I’m supposed to accept that? I can’t! I won’t!”
Tara pressed a hand to his shoulder, gentle but firm. “I know, Nekira,” she whispered. “I feel it too. But this… this is the way we say goodbye.”
He swallowed hard, jaw working, eyes glinting with unshed tears and a flare of anger. “Goodbye doesn’t cut it. Not for the ones who raised us, who protected us… who gave us everything. I… I can’t just let them go.”
Dorianna, standing behind him, pressed a hand to her chest, her own grief flickering in her eyes. “Nekira,” she said softly, “our loss is a wound that never fully heals. But it is here we can honour them—through the tree, through the lanterns, through memory. That is how they live on, even if it feels unbearable.”
Nekira’s fists fell to his sides. He looked up at the hovering dragons, Amira’s orange glow over Vivi’s grave, Elqiana’s green over Tivor’s, and felt the weight of their silent blessing pressing into him. Still, the ache in his chest was raw, sharp, relentless. “I know,” he muttered. “I know… but knowing doesn’t fix anything.”
The others stood quietly, understanding and sharing the grief, their presence a small tether against the storm in his heart. The lanterns drifted onward, spiralling higher with the refracted orange and green light, guiding the souls of the fallen, but for Nekira, even as the light stretched to the stars, the fire of loss and frustration remained, a restless ember in his chest.
The river carried the lanterns away, the dragons’ heads bowed in solemn acknowledgement, and the night seemed to whisper in sympathy. But Nekira remained standing, fists clenched, gaze locked on the glowing spirals.
Here lies the end The Journey, Book 2. I hope you all enjoyed reading this, I enjoyed writing this one a lot more than the first, so much more depth, and action, in this one. A little rollercoaster of emotions, and of course some comedic elements, from Tarasque and Elvina teasing the tailor, to Martheel's disastrous antics, we of course can't forget the mischievous Amira. Thank you to everyone has read The Journey so far and to those who will read it in the future. Thank you to those who have supported me, and given me inspiration to continue writing. Until next time...