CXXXIV.

  The chirping of the daybreak’s voices stirred her from her sleep.

  She stretched her arms. Then cracked her joints; then leaped off from her bed.

  Step followed step unto the cobbled porch. Her mind: cast on, thread,

  Weaving the forthcoming day’s events. One couldn’t help but weep

  At the laborious yet vital task ahead of her.

  It had now been a quarter-moon since the event insecure

  And still no trace of the goddess. To Ríona this silent sweep

  Was a sensation unknown. No; solitude was the phrase sweet.

  CXXXV.

  Indeed, the girl revelled in it, and always found more work

  That had to be completed. At last, her stay’s main task was to give

  The Tsar a sepulchre; his rites, to wistfully relive

  The last night of his life before his spirit did embark

  Towards the eternal pastures and Our Lady Raven’s side.

  Befitting of a kin-in-kind, this ritual time did bide.

  Though not quite sure of his tribal root, she did see a clan mark

  That belonged to Rhuyk?-folk and would perform the work of their hierarch.

  CXXXVI.

  With a whirling of her digits, she harnessed the flow’s vastness

  Which streamed about this valley betwixt the Guardians and the lake

  Of Frozen Plains, gathering twigs, sticks and firewood to make

  A grand pyre. Without a heartbeat wasted, she would progress

  Down to the ground floor, as the timber swelled, amassed, accrued

  Afore the keep. Stepping outside, the lake sang its pure etude,

  Greeting her with the early morning song of great faithfulness.

  Thus, she collected the empty vessel and began the process.

  CXXXVII.

  In the absence of prying eyes, she expressed her command

  On the flow so openly that each task seemed effortless.

  Flicking her wrist yet again, she flipped a boulder measureless

  In weight, setting it flat, then laying down the vessel grand

  Upon it. She stripped his body of its mortal garments

  And cleaned off the divine blood without magick’s assistance,

  As tradition dictated: the vessel clean without a crimson strand.

  Repulsion must not invade her mind, this task she need withstand.

  CXXXVIII.

  Meticulously, she cleansed the Tsar’s brittle, bark-like skin.

  His hollow hallowed eyes shone brightly even in his passing,

  Putting to full display his long lost youth and the amassing

  Of the rings in form of wrinkles, marking what his life has been.

  This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

  The corruptive scarring imbued by flow, long had ceased to glow,

  Leaving his gaunt, haggard body in the state of peace bestowed.

  Finished with the cleansing, she kneeled down before her kind’s kin,

  Commencing the burial: this long awaited rite to begin.

  CXXXIX.

  She touched down with her left hand, digging her fingers into the soil,

  Then held it within her palm, blowing on it with a message

  For the other side: “Dear ones! I come before thee to ask for passage

  Of my kin-in-kind. I, Kaitríonne Eleanoir, give his turmoil

  An end, grant passage to this heroic vessel, once beloved!

  I beseech the Tribe Mothers and the shepherding godhead!”

  She stood as still as possible, awaiting the flow’s recoil,

  And slowly spirits wandered near, paying homage to her toil.

  CXL.

  In the grasp of uncertainty, she stumbled through her words:

  “I… give to thee the Tsar, the demigod of Rhüyke-folk,

  The hero of the Dark Days! As such, his triumphs I evoke:

  He saved mortaldom from the Wicrow, from the dreaded birds!

  I beg thee, Tribe Mothers, though he is not of Mockwiran blood,

  Grant him the passage to the Endless Pastures, the holy mud,

  For I don’t know where those who held him dear and true – his herds,

  His flock reside!” With those remarks, she wished for just rewards.

  CXLI.

  A lithe clap began to echo through the valley, resonating.

  Remembering her teachings, she knew she could not turn away,

  Open her eyes; make any errant twitch despite the sway

  Of wicked compulsion, which kept beckoning, beckoning.

  A graceful, innocent and meagre, yet somewhat brazen voice

  Reverberated within her mind: “A wealthy choice

  Of words… for a madman, such as he? Hailing and venerating!

  ‘Tis a venturous approach; stupid, yet so fascinating!”

  CXLII.

  “To ask for such a charitable yet unspeakable thing,

  While not adorned in colours of a shaman… amusing!”

  The voice belonged to a little girl, yet there was no confusing,

  Ríona knew full well the lass was the acting regent-king:

  Sky Pervuia – the most powerful living divine.

  To her luck, the goddess’ mind was distinct, often genuine,

  A refusal to toy with people-folk, rarely communicating

  With mortals; rather taking the dying souls under her wing.

  CXLIII.

  Thus, spirits of one’s forebearers sought for the Grim Margrave

  On behalf of the deceased; through the words of the shaman,

  And yet despite such staunch truths, this rite disturbed the regimen

  Of the goddess, calling forth her ever silent, curious rave.

  Nevertheless, where she sensed honest respect from the heart,

  She approached the entity equally, willing to start

  With dialogue peacefully, and now before her stood a brave

  And daring soul, which did not want to be a destiny’s slave.