Memento mori

SUMMARY

Lann didn’t consider himself particularly devout — at least, not to the extent of these two — though he dimly recalled praying to the angels in his youth. Kneeling before Lariel’s sword, whispering his wishes to holy steel. Attempting to touch it, his hovering hands feeling divine, searing heat. Nothing came of it, of course. What god would listen to an abyss-touched mongrel?

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The Knight Commander and her retinue pay another visit to Martyr Zacharius’s Cemetery. Lann ponders his mortality.

Set in early Act 2.

See the end of the work for more notes.

Lann had never seen an uplander cemetery before. Or more likely, he couldn’t remember if he had. Memories of his mother burying his siblings had grown bleary over the years, though it had only been two decades since. Underground, the equivalent would be simple stone markers, but the prevailing tradition had been to torch the dead. Better to reduce their kin to ashes than for them to become a giant cave spider’s dinner. Or worse, unearthed as zombies, as what had transpired when Sosiel requested their party to pay his respects. The necromancer’s poor attempt to corrupt the cleric of Shelyn amounted to nothing: the Commander had simply arrested him, leaving his death wish unfulfilled.

They returned to the graveyard a few days later, at Sosiel’s request once again. No more zombies this time, he’d assured them. Still, Lann kept a hand on his bow. Just in case.

Sosiel knelt before a tombstone, laying his bare hand on the damp grass. He closed his eyes and breathed deeply, uttering no words to the dead. The graveyard was silent, only the cool breeze scattering dead leaves. Lann stood vigilant, monitoring for any signs of undeath as the cleric performed his ceremonies. His companions were nearby, also watching, save for Seelah, who had now joined Sosiel in his prayers. Lann didn’t consider himself particularly devout — at least, not to the extent of these two — though he dimly recalled praying to the angels in his youth. Kneeling before Lariel’s sword, whispering his wishes to holy steel. Attempting to touch it, his hovering hands feeling divine searing heat. Nothing came of it, of course. What god would listen to an abyss-touched mongrel?

Lann spied Woljif out of the corner of his eye, a brief flash of purple. With a sigh, he followed him into a mausoleum, mostly to spare the tiefling from explaining to their Commander why he’d been pilfering from the dead. Inside, the building was small and devoid of people, except for the long-buried family entombed within its walls. Curiosity pulled him further in, and he ran his scaled claws along etched letters on cold, smooth marble. He recognized a few of the letters, notably the ones from his own name — thank goodness for his mother giving him a short and simple one, and the thought of his mother sent a pang to his chest. His mother, who had buried his siblings not long after she carried them to life. His siblings, who didn’t have names, their mangled faces he could still conjure up in the occasional nightmare. Their grave markers he could not place, forever lost to a memory he wanted to forget. His father, whose image he could no longer recall before entropy caught up with him. And then, his thoughts came round to his mother again, her face a beautiful blank blur of a half-elf. Lann gazed upon the grave of an entire family — five of them, the oldest two at the bottom with chipped and decaying engravings — and wondered if anyone remained to visit them? Would there be anyone who would visit him when he died?

“There you are,” a voice came from behind him. Lann whipped around, a hand to his bow. The Knight Commander of the Fifth Crusade stood at the entrance, but she looked more like a ghostly apparition from the sunlight casting shadows behind her. “I’ve been looking for you.”

“Commander!” His shoulders relaxed at the sound of her voice. “Is it over?”

“Yes. They’re getting ready to leave.” She crossed the threshold, approaching him. “What are you doing here?”

The Commander’s spectre morphed into corporeal flesh — the hood of her cloak pulled down to reveal her angled tawny face, curiosity etched in the crease of her brow — and it effectively snapped him out of his reverie. What was he doing here? “I thought I saw Woljif come in here.”

“What do you mean? He was with me the entire time. Uh, are you okay?” She laid a hand on his human arm and he almost flinched back from her touch. Her fingers ran cold.

“I’m fine,” he said, convincing no one.

The Commander walked around, surveying the tombstones. “It’s a whole family in here.” She came to a stop before a shrine opposite the entrance. He followed her, and on the altar he saw a pile of dried flowers, short melted candles, and desiccated candies. She pointed at the small marker in the middle of the wall. The stone seemed nearly new, though decay was already festering at its edges. Lann squinted, struggling to make out the carved letters — A, B, I… — before the Commander read it out for him. “Abigail Holde. Four years old.”

Tane fished an arrowhead from her quiver and struck it along the altar’s edge. Lann realised her intent and cradled a candle near her fingers, and again, she struck, steel against stone. Sparks flew, and the wick burned to life; with it, he lit the rest of the candles. The mausoleum grew warmer and brighter with the candlelights, and a certain calm settled in his chest with the sight.

“To Abigail,” she said. “Rest well, child.” She brought a piece of pastry from her bag — leftovers from their breakfast this morning — and placed it on the shrine. Lann eyed her, silently questioning the practicality of leaving perfectly good food for the long dead. She spoke again, this time, her voice was lower, softer, still echoing off the walls: “And to my parents I’ll never know, Jin and Hiraya. I hope they found peace with Pharasma.”

He swallowed his thoughts and followed her lead. “To my father, Kinn. I hope—” he took a breath, and the words spilled out, quick as a shot arrow, “I hope his last moments weren’t in pain.”

And to my nameless brothers: I’m sorry my life gave our parents hope for yours.

“Let’s get out of here,” said Lann after a moment. “This place is giving me the creeps.”

Tane gave a small smile. “All right, come on.”

They left the mausoleum and then the cemetery without looking back.

NOTES

If I had a nickel for the amount of fics I wrote with characters pondering their mortality and trauma while in a graveyard setting, I’d have two nickels.

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