Work Text:
“The moon sinketh, taking her leave of the heavens. Yet her passing heralded the coming of a new day … Moenbryda hath fulfilled her destiny, hath she not?”
“The realization hath set her free. She may now find the peace which hath for so long eluded her. Oh, Moenbryda … my dearest … how I shall miss thee …”
“My Lady. I would mourn Moenbryda in mine own way. I beg your permission to return to the Waking Sands.”
[The following poem is excerpted from a volume of Early 6th Astral Era Belah’dian Devotional Poetry. One particular well-worn copy of this work, laying open to the following poem, sits carelessly strewn on a night table in a small bedroom in the living quarters of the Waking Sands. The candle on the night table guttered out long ago, and the small bedroom is comfortingly, blessedly, dark. Beside the night table, on a firm, narrow bed, lies a tall Elezen man, tensely and tightly curled up underneath a large and well-worn brown robe, trying desperately to muffle his sobs into his thin pillow even though he knows no-one is around to hear them.]
Hymn for the Burial of the Dead
attributed to Purutisu Denetisu (c. 348-413 6AE, Belah’dia)
Take her, Hydaelyn, to cherish,
To thy tender breast, receive.
We bring thee body of a woman,
Noble, though it ruin’d be.
Once was this a soul’s abode,
By the Warden’s Will ‘twas made,
With Her gift of breath bestow’d
in the form of Living Flame.
Guard her well, the dead we bring thee,
For Azeyma will demand
When She doth seek again Her creature,
Which was shapèd by her hand,
That when the hour upon us falls
To finally in Sunlight be,
That thou must render to the Warden
This, the charge we give to thee.
Never, though the years uncounted
Wear away these bones to sand;
Never, though the body could
Full be as ashes in one’s hand;
Never - though the idle wind,
While drifting through the empty sky,
Could scatter this, that once was living -
Will Azeyma let us die.
For She shall lead her faithful chosen
Down the Paths of Paradise,
Through Golden Gate, to Golden City,
To the heart of Heav’n of Fire.
Take, O take her, Loving Warden,
Take again thy servant’s soul.
Shepherd her from thrall of Oschon
To the home she’s longed to know.
As for us, our dead we honour,
Robe with earth, nymeias spread,
And carve her name in icy stone
To bear all of the tears we shed.