A great keening echoed over the rolling downs. It was a piercing, gut wrenching sound. A haunting melody accompanied it, rising from pipe and fiddle. The deep rumble of drums sat under it all. The hills seemed to pulse with the sound, a faint heartbeat that was both memory of lives lost and mockery of all that had been cut short.
Olaf Whitebeard stood in the midst of a circle of mourners. Before him lay a dozen pyres, awaiting the touch of fire. Among them lay his son, along with a niece and two great nephews. His faded blue eyes drank in the sight of their faces one last time. Faint lines traced jagged paths across them, thread pulling tight grievous wounds to restore a semblance of familiarity.
Waves of grief rolled through Olaf. He let them rise and fall, regular as the breath entering his lungs and wheezing from his mouth. Tears rolled down his weathered cheeks, trickling through the braids of his beard, staining his clean tunic.
Under the grief lurked a bubbling pool of anger. It was not right, that so many should be snatched from life so soon. Someone should pay for this travesty. Where was the Allfather? Did he bear witness to the madness threatening to tear this small community apart? Would he dare close his remaining eye and turn from them in their hour of need?
Awareness of responsibility returned. Olaf clamped down on his roiling emotions. Anger could wait. It was time to honour the fallen and release them to continue on their journey.
Olaf raised the torch above his head. The music came to an abrupt halt. The sudden absence brought a hush over the crowd. Heads turned towards him, expectation gleaming in tear filled eyes.
“It is right to grieve,” said Olaf. His voice was even, pitched low to draw the villagers in. “We have lost much, and there is no shame in acknowledging it.” Murmurs of agreement accompanied his words. “But we must be careful not to lose ourselves in that vast ocean. Equally as important as grief is remembrance.”
His voice rose and fell in a soothing cadence, as he began to recall details of the lives of those lost. They might be gone, but they would not be forgotten.