Gone, But Never Forgotten

[Wilhelm Opens-the-Way]

Wilhelm's clothing was an illusion, a glamor. A silver suit and tie, or a grey cotton hoodie, or a white flowing shirt; these were all artifice. They said the clothes made the man, but in Wilhelm's case, the man made the clothes.

...well the Metis makes them anyhow. he thought to himself.

It was all a facet of the Fae armor he'd worn since he was a young man. It changed shape as he willed it, gave a pleasing, more socially (among humans) form to the fantastical gold and brass leaves of the breastplate and Fae crystal pauldrons of the Red Branch knightly garb that was the armor's trademark.

Today as he approached the stones that marked the Hall of Heroes, the steel and gold and brass and red copper became a simple tunic of homespun thread, slightly rough against his skin, the pauldrons became long sleeves and the gauntlets woven hemp bracelets around his wrists. Greaves melted into crisp flowing pants, and boots became sandals, melting into lanyards of spiraling leather between Metis claw-toes and around Metis ankles.

He was here because at the moot, something had been forgotten.

Wilhelm Opens-the-Way carried a small wooden tray laden with unlit candles. It had rained earlier in the day, a gentle, warm spring rain that carried with it pollen collected from the wind, and the floating seeds of dogwood, the petals of flowers and errant leaves. The rain had left these small life-gifts here and there for the morning sun to dry, or for the mud tin the creases of the hill to accept into it's womb beneath the arbors of flowing branches that had sighed with warm spring mists against the morning sun that threatened to dissipate them. Now in the evening beneath the nighttime stars seen fleetingly through rain-grey clouds, these little gifts lay over the tops of the stones, and at their feet.

Now Wilhelm set a candle at the base of each pillared stone, and lit each candle in turn with a dry wooden match wrapped up in a sandwich baggie in his pouch. Here and there he cleared the leaves away from their carved names.

"Rea" he said, lighting the first candle.

"Bullshit" he said, lighting the next. These were old carvings, from the old Sept, but the stones had been moved and given homes here with care and intent.

"Helga Ironthighs", he intoned, remembering the Nordic warrior and their fight together at the Oslo Sept when he was just a Cliath.

He paused at the next name, kneeling for a time. Here was his brother, his packmate from Deep Skies. He smiled, thinking of their many adventures together, of their first meeting, and of their final parting.

"Abraxis One-Ton", he said, touching the cool stone and lighting his candle. It blew out twice. He laughed. "Miss you two brother."

The next candle gave him pause as well. Here was a Silverfang's name. Once holder of the Alpha-Klaive of house Wyrmfoe, though it had been for him a death sentence. He had died at the battle to create the old Caern as a Cliath. A worthy name. A worthy death.

"Arthas Wyrmfoe", and the candle was lit. "Ancestors honor you."

"Death-Dancer," he said, kindly. Death Dancer had been a joyful warrior. The way she fought, as if cutting her enemies were a raucous battle song - it had stayed with Wilhelm. He lit her candle.

"Thallia Deed-Catcher", he sighed. "My second great love," he laughed. "I miss you sister. She was pack, an incredible warrior, bane of the abomination, killer of leech and Black Spiral and Bane in droves. Wilhelm had, for a long time an unrequited crush on her, before realizing she liked women. The realization crushed his puppy love, but the kindness with which she treated the crush's dissolution only served to turn Wilhelm's love to a more mature little-brotherly affection. He had adored her, and took pains to let her know it. Her death at the hands of Black Spirals, based on a call he'd made to defend their Alpha over her had been heartbreaking.

"You are always in my heart sister," he said warmly. "You know. I know you are with me." He lit the candle and lingered awhile in silence clutching his own shoulders. He could almost feel her near.

On to the next name. "Tink the Bone Gnawer" A passing acquaintance, he couldn't recall any longer how and when they'd met. He lit the candle anyway.

"Helene" A friend, an ally, a student. They'd sparred spoon to sword and she'd tagged him when his training had completed. He smiled at the memory and lit her candle.

"Strange Blood" Moons before she became Sept Alpha of the old Sept she had been the object of his first challenge for Fostern. Steal her fang necklace. Marks -the-Prey had given him that challenge, and he'd taken it from her neck without a whisper. Later Wilhelm remembered, he'd get into trouble for giving another Cliath that challenge with Gaia's Courage's Brooch of the Fathers, not understanding that the ban would cause his ancestors to forsake the Fetish! She was a good friend, killed in the challenge for Grand Elder. He lit her candle as well.

"Tommy" A bright smile, a heart for peace. A candle was lit for that light.

"Johnny Chaos" Who sacrificed himself so that the Nation had more time. Wilhelm could not think of a nobler death. The candle was lit.

"Vasilli" Wilhelm chuckled. What a tale, worthy of the heroic bards of old, and he wasn't done yet. He lit the candle anyway, but half serious, half joking, a wry smirk on his face.

"No-Sun" Family and pack. He would have continued to have been a great adventurer, if he hadn't taken an arrow to the throat. Another light in the darkness flickered to life.

"Explains-The-Plot" Wilhelm gasped. Someone had carved her likeness in the stone near the name. It was well done, and it had been here some time. He hadn't known. He wondered who had carved his niece’s face, which looked a little unsure, and a little defiant. It was her all over, perfectly captured. He touched the carving gently with his fingertips, then knelt and lit the flame of her candle. She was near, and had an agenda. He knew this. He nodded solemnly. "Soon sister."

"War-Eyes," the faithful Galliard photographer got a candle.

"Claws-At-The-Gates-Of-Valhalla" Another light for a valiant warrior.

"Blade-Whisper" A sacrifice that saved an entire tribe. "Thank you," he said to her fresh-carved name.

There was magic here, Wilhelm knew, and the Gauntlet between the world of solid things and the world of backstage, the Umbra, was so thin here that it felt like wet rice paper to him. He felt he could have simply leaned back to rest upon the hill of the hall and he would have fallen through it like a poorly woven basket of still-green reeds and right into the spirit world. But he didn't.

It nearly took a moment of willpower to resist the call of the Umbra, he realized for the thousandth time. The Umbra still called to him, as it had since he was a boy, like a song half-heard that he'd never truly been free of, an old familiar tune, tinged with a kind of nostalgia of times gone by. But for now he wanted the feeling of solid earth beneath him, wanted the cool night dew on his fingertips as he brushed them lightly over the leaves of oaks and pitchy pine needles. He rested his back against a tree, it's cracked bark scratching the slight wisp of an itch between his shoulders pleasantly, setting down the now empty wooden tray.

Here he meditated among the field of stars, stones and candles, offering solace to the honored dead.