The young elf stood in the yard by the Musarde River and stared into the distance. The plans before her were complicated and too complex, and the warrior had been trying to process them for some time.
How to remember people but not name them. How to stand up to the enemy, but not challenge them. The elf adjusted her white scarf, and a smile settled on her face. However, only briefly. Even if she was alone, why should she show emotion. Elf turned and hurried away, for much work still left to do.
The commander of the guard was facing the sorceress. While they failed to approach other houses and citizens to drag them away from their neglected dwelling, the call was successful. A large crowd of followers and loyal elves gathered to support Elevashe.
Elevashe, as well as Thalasum and Talasannu, approached them, placing themselves between two elves. The young guardian lit a candle and handed one to each of them.
"We have endured," she announced solemnly.
The sorceress handed each of them a flower.
"We endure," announced the d'oihne acolyte.
"We will endure," the two replied.
Then the leader of the guard turned to the crowd to wave at another person.
A long procession moved slowly through the silent streets. The light from dozens of candles flickered in the darkness, casting dancing images on the walls of the buildings. The warrior walked firmly at the front, leading the procession.
When they reached the gardens and the memorial district, the procession led them to the statues of their folk heroes. She placed the flower in front of them and asked the others to do the same.
One by one, the elves passed in silence. They laid flowers at the feet of the legends. As an act of honoring the past and yet in deceptive resistance.
Elevashe and their bodyguards took their stands at the fountain while others faced them. Now was the time to remember the lost and the fallen. And while Thalasum spoke of sacrifice and the burden each must bear for others, many knew better. Thoughts were also directed toward the unspoken. Things that could not be said openly. Words that would remind those who disappeared in the camp of Sorrow...
And while the sorceress recited a poem for the fallen d'oihne retainer, the soldier mourned. She mourned for the captured and abducted, for those killed in battle, and for the loss of the comrade who wore the white tree on their brooch.
For such is a fate of those who serve.
When time was up and morning came, she began to extinguish one candle after another with the palm of her own hand. She wandered from elf to elf. While she listened to the closing song of the Quartermaster:
