The Funeral Hall

            Over two hundred townsfolk came to pay their respects, joined by considerable droves of relatives from neighboring villages and farmsteads. The Deorun were better dressed than usual; the women in long-hemmed sable dresses; the men - clean-shaven and well-combed - wore buttoned shirts and long-sleeved coats. The raiment every man, woman, and child had donned, was as always dark, though of a deeper shade than common, to meet this mournful occasion. Outside, under a purple-grey twilight, I watched the funereal well-wishers file into the Hall of Godsagan. It struck me that the Deorun were in their element. I never imagined they could be any more somber, but today they were. The night swallowed up the last traces of dusk by the time the majority of the guests had corralled themselves in the great hall. Why was it that in this country it always seemed to be fading to twilight, or drowning to night already?

            The Hall of Godsagan was a hulking structure, long and rectangular, likened to a town hall; its base of stone, the rest hewn of thick hardwood timber. The building was dedicated to varied purposes: ceremonial and even celebratory events, matters of governance, but above all else a place of worship, where the pious gathered to mumble fearful prayers to the unnamed gods beyond the mists. Thinking upon these shadowed things, part of me did not want to be here, did not wish to partake of this desolate ritual. Obligation forced my steps grudgingly onward, however, and I followed in with the tail end of the funerary procession.

            Inside the hall of the ancient gods was multi-beamed, and without adornment. Tepid torchlight and several rows of candles along the periphery illumed the interior. I caught my breath. Delilah's body had been laid atop a black ironwood table-dais situated in the very center of the chamber. She was swathed solely in black, and by the flickering light from echelons of low-burning candles along the dais's flanks, I saw the fabric shimmer like a distant, starry night. The Deorun gathered about the dais, direct family members positioned nearest. A number wiped tears from their eyes, some were consoled by those at their sides. Yet there was no open weeping, nothing comparable to the soul-wrenching howls I had heard yesterday, howls that I fear will haunt me forever. This evening a sedated air reigned, so calm it lulled me into feeling I had fallen into an eerie dream.

            In my fogged state, I could not say how long after we were gathered that the aisle opened through the dim throngs, cutting down the middle of the hall. Thick silence enveloped us. At the far end of the chamber were a pair of forbidding double doors, engraved with prophetic reliefs. They lead to the Hall of Godsagan's inner sanctums. The doors moaned open, and there appeared a tall priest, cowled and draped in sooty-hued robes, accompanied by a pair of youthful clergymen at either shoulder.

            As if to the slow beat of an unheard war drum, the three strode down the passage. The priest drew the cowl back. He was a man in the winter of his days, skeletal, though taller than anyone present in the Hall of Godsagan that evening. He walked stock-straight, strong, and never blinking, as if infused with a spirit of cold fire. Each step was ponderous, purposeful, a giant wading an ocean. Nearer, I saw the edges of his pale horse face, stony hard, wisps of white hair at his temples and clinging to his chin. Around his neck hung a silver pendant that gleamed richly in the torch and sconce-light. Under one long-sleeved arm he bore a voluminous, leather-bound text, brooding heavy with authority.

            The man's presence chilled me, so much that I wished to leave the great hall. He was Arawan's high-priest, everyone knew. I had seen him before on several isolated occasions, though solely at night or early morning before the grey sun awakened, and always with his cowl raised, pooling his features in gloom as if he were the shepherd of death. And every time I had seen him, advancing the streets of Arawan with his slow wraithlike stride, I intuitively kept my distance, as if he were an obelisk of doom.

            Now in the Hall of Godsagan, with nowhere to turn, the high priest was closer than ever, and drifting nearer. From the shadowed hollows under his harsh brow ridge, the man glared unflinchingly forward at no one and at nothing - angry or shocked, I could not say.  Those eyes, surely once bright blue, had become pale-misted like those of the blind. 

            Upon reaching the inception of the dais, the priest halted, looming darkly. For a minute the silence was absolute, shrouding my thoughts in a pall. Then the high priest's dry voice cracked into the void, addressing the congregation and guiding them in the repetition of prayers, raising their droning voices to the gods. After a series of monotonous chants, the ancient man opened the large book he wielded, and proceeded to read the ritual passages, which most Deorun knew by heart. Within the cavernous Hall of Godsagan their voices echoed as from the deeps.

            What unease this holy man produced in me worsened as the service swayed cumbersomely on. My innards clenched. There was a subtle tremulousness in his voice. I doubt others noticed, but it gave me the keen sense that beneath his harsh exterior, he was a most fearful practitioner. This is something I would never confess to anyone there; for it is my least wish to waver a single person in their faith, if it is what upholds them. Despite what secret dread the old priest harbored, he rode above it, speaking with staunch, warlike conviction. It gave me the impression that through his words he employed faith to battle back unseen hordes from the abyss. Not once did he blink; the fire in him burning steadily. Whilst he recited from the archaic tome, the young apprentices at his side cast their gazes reverently downwards, into forlorn depths.

            When the priest looked up from the sacred text, he rumbled the eulogy:

            "We have gathered this fateful evenfall, as testimony to our love, and to bid farewell to Delilah Dithean-skyeflur - dear daughter of Arawn and Deorun. Too young she has left us; but, by the same token, fortunate also, to avert the atrophy, and cruelty of this earthly plain. Verily, she has departed this world as she came: an angel."

            On and on the eulogy ground, grim as Deorun's cinereal skies. Although this priest's every aspect imparted me bleak presentiment, I noted that most gathered there drew comfort from his words. For my part, his voice disquieted, like a draft of glacial air through brittle leaves. Suddenly I knew with a sharp certainty, akin to revelation, that during his long days of servitude to the misted gods, this man had born witness to many a strange, unspeakable thing. Things not of the light, aye. Things which he had not spoken of to others. Whatever tortures his life of devotion had flailed him through, it had rendered a side of his mind and soul petrified. Even nearing the end of the eulogy, I do not recall him blinking, let alone shifting from his monolithic posture. 

            "Now, let us join our hearts and voices in prayer," said the priest, raising one of his knotted hands. "So her spirit may find its way through the mists of nether, to Neamhail - the blessed eternal country where the sun shines unclouded; where leaving behind these corporeal eyes, one can see truly."

            He held up a candle, summoning all eyes to the fairy flame. He allowed the flame to dance briefly before blowing it out. A black finger of smoke curled in its place. "And so her spirit rises," he intoned.

            The towering priest led the voices of those assembled. They prayed in unison, their supplicating chants resounding, echoes within echoes, more solemn than the slow clang of a bell in a forgotten cathedral, steeped in night. In the wake of this, the priest read a collection of closing scriptures from the heavy volume, which never left his hands. After what seemed a monotonous eon, he concluded the ceremony by raising a palm skywards to the unnamed gods, an almost cringing gesture that hoped of mercy. Unto the last the high priest did not blink, eyes ever shock-wide. Perhaps even when he is dead and cold, his eyes will still be glaring thus?

            The priest and his two deacons bowed, and departed the chamber by the same ponderous gait by which they had entered. Once the clergymen were gone, conversation slowly resumed among the guests, though downcast and whispered mostly. Inconspicuously as I could, I sighed my relief, letting it uncoil.

            The service entered its expiring phase as guests paid final respects. Beside the dais many followed the same ceremonial steps: lighting a candle, holding it high, offering a guarding prayer to quicken Delilah's soul, and then snuffing out the flame and setting the candle down anew. During the lengthy process others further away from the body spoke in hushed tones. There were tears and much consoling between family and friends. I waited until most had past before I wove through the crowds to the dais. Standing several paces back, my vision rested on Delilah.

            Her body was veiled in a lustrous, ink dress of silken like fabric. A black swan, in darkness, and in beauty, I thought. The raiment made her look very pale, and the dress being so long caused her to seem smaller, more doll like and fragile. Her eyes had been alluringly delineated with black khol, and a touch of rouge had been applied to her lips, rose red, contrasting vividly with everything else in this colorless realm into which I felt I had descended.

            "She's going to look the same as ever," an acquaintance had informed me earlier. Surely he'd seen I needed comfort in my disconsolate state. "Deorun morticians put the deceased through a process of alchemy that delays rigor mortis and decay. The preservation can last weeks, months, even much longer, some say."

            Aye, it was true. Tribute must be given to the embalmers, who had done impeccable work. Delilah looked fresh as a petal just fallen from the vine, merely sleeping one could believe, though locked in wintry cold, and without breath in her bosom. Amazing, truly. How long would she endure thus? Surely the freezing weather through the nights would help, ... but eventually, ... No, better not to think on such things. Regardless, there could be no doubt the Deorun had perfected their morticianary arts, perhaps attaining greater expertise in this than any other craft. Though kissed by death, Deliah remained as beautiful as I had known her in life, perhaps even more so.

            I'd seen corpses before, and always been struck by the impression that the spirit, or whatever the animating presence of life is, was no longer present, having left the body as a departing resident would render a house vacant, the hearth cold. In this case however, I sensed a part of Delilah's soul survived therein. I could see it in her expression, afraid, wincing against this cold fate befallen her. I wished desperately there was something I could do to help. I wanted to take her hand in mine and console her, and would have done so if not for the guests still in attendance.

            I pressed my eyes closed. How could I have been such a fool? Looking back, it was clear she had loved me too. My sense of unworthiness had blinded me. I wanted to offer apology, to her, to me, to everything. What manner of gods decreed the errant paths our lives took? Cruel deities indeed. To realize the love one could have known when it was already too late to save, was truly a catastrophic jest of fate. I gazed over the dais, offering feeble prayers, powerless against this divergence of reality confronting me. 

            Thoroughly numb, I wandered towards the periphery of the Hall of Godsagan, not speaking to anyone, my eyes down. Bestowing their last farewells to the deceased and goodbyes to the Dithean-skyeflur family, the crowds slowly trickled out of the great chamber. Dark garbed, the Deorun seemed to fade away as their numbers thinned. An unknown, most surreal aura gripped me. What was it? I could not certain. Perhaps I never would be.

            Where is Delilah?

            Was she still here, in that body? 

            Was she ever truly here?

            Where was she now?

            The heavens, ... the gods ...

            Pondering such an enigma was far too vast for me. Several Arawanun townsfolk I knew extended me their salutations; but engulfed by this mysterious angst, I merely nodded, dazed. When I closed my eyes it was still there: a wall of impenetrable shadow, immeasurable, depthless. Someone offered me wine. I thanked them, but went to serve myself instead, filling a large vessel with ruby-colored vintage to the brim - which was of course, more than decorum called for. In no mood to converse, I sat down on one of the long, polished oaken benches that lined the periphery of the Hall of Godsagan. There I sulked, feeling a fool, utterly astonished for the first time in my life that I knew nothing, that truly, that sorrowfully, no one did.

Author's Note