Posted on: Thursday, 31 December 2009
"...into the company of his father and forefather before him. For as Sir Ilvastarr leaves this world, he joins another: one where battles are fought not by sinew but by spirit, and where his courage and devotion will serve to strengthen us all."
The Temple of Helm was oddly quiet. Even during normal services, there was always the sound of life: shifting bodies, low whispers, passing footsteps. Now, though, despite being filled with nearly a hundred people, it was still. The high priest's voice carried full and clear over the gathered mourners – a deep, mellow voice whose mellow timbre and well-crafted words brough an almost magical peace over its listeners. Even Ajantis' family, who had spent the first part of the service choking back their grief, had now fallen silent. The images of strength and hope that the priest described seemed to take the worst edge from their sorrow.
Imoen stood at the forefront of the chapel, dressed in a robe more suited for a princess than a mage. It was borrowed – a gift from a squire's young bride, since Imoen had no fine clothing of her own. Keldorn, Wildorn, and Theodorus were likewise clad in finery. They'd donned their ceremonial armor and polished it to perfection, and now looked the part of the noble knights in shining armor. They stood at rigid attention, while Imoen stood straight and still. They were the honor guard: the companions who had been with Ajantis in his last hours.
"...stand and join us in the singing of Ever Watchful."
The crowd rose as one as the deep, powerful voice of the drum set the rhythm. It was slower than normal, and sung without the usual string and flute accompaniment. Imoen knew the words; she knew most of the basic hymns of the Faerûnean gods, having little other musical exposure within the walls of Candlekeep. She raised her voice along with the rest, but her attention was elsewhere. Her grey eyes were steadfast on the distant chapel doors, and her mind on the person outside them.
Cassandra wasn't present. Although as much a part of Bodhi's downfall and Ilvastarr's death as anyone, she hadn't been invited. Her black eyes and ashen-grey forearms unsettled people. You understand, the Helmite priests had said. Ajantis had died fighting evil; it would hardly be appropriate to invite it to the funeral. You understand.
Cassie had simply nodded. She understood, but Imoen didn't. She didn't understand why people focused on Cassie's Taint instead of Cassie. Sure, the eyes were freaky. Sure, the slow creep of change was unsettling to say the least. But Cassie's blood ran as red as anyone's, and she'd shed more than her fair share of it fighting the forces of darkness. Who else could say that they'd single-handedly ended the Sword Coast iron shortage? Who else had saved Baldur's Gate from Sarevok and his shapeshifters? No one else had had the guts to stand up to Bodhi – not once, but three times. Cassie had been stripped of her family, her friends, and finally her very soul, but she still kept fighting. She kept fighting, even when the people she helped abandoned her. Imoen didn't understand that at all.
And so Cassie had just nodded. I understand. She understood that it was just how things were: people loved you when they needed you, and forgot you when they didn't. The crowd that cheered you one day would burn you the next. The tired resignation in her voice as she'd agreed had upset Imoen more than anything. The way she'd been as they walked back to the Coppor Coronet: silent, tired, and withdrawn. Another person dead, another job done, and in the end nothing had truly changed. She was still Bhaalspawn; she always would be. You're a Child of Murder -- deal with it.
