Stone Circle Exitlude

Memorial/funeral service for @Gunnar. Any who wish to attend are welcome, including those from neighboring packs, Swiftcurrent & Riverclan, or otherwise friends of his. No posting order.

@Figment @Germanicus @Ingram @Ulfhild @Inkeri @Bonario @Skáld @Bjorn @Vale Enid @Astrid @Kristjan @Katla @Ujurak @Sven @Swift @Reverie

They drove on without song, to the place where stood the ancients omnipresent and the tufted lea sent shivering in the coming winds of morning. Beneath the patriarch, the tallest of the monoliths, the one who overlooks them all, a grave was dug.

In it would go Gunnar. Their leader.

A bleary stare saw the wolves of Kvarsheim assemble, young men and young women in the level field. She drifts from where she’d been placed beside Fig and Skáld, Swift and Kat at their feet. She turns to address the mourning faces. She looks at Gunnar’s children. There is nothing to say to convince them this world is not cruel. She does not have the words. But perhaps Gunnar does.



“We are gathered to honor the life of Gunnar Ivarr Loðbrók. Faðir of Kvarsheim. Son of Thistle Cloud and Ragnar. Husband to Taktuq. Father to Astrid, Ujurak, Sven and Kristjan;

and to Skáld, and Bonario. And to Vale and Bjorn. To Ingram, Germanicus, Merry and Inkeri, Figment, Swift, Katla and Lemmikki. To Tauris.

Gunnar was a father to us all.

We can close our eyes and pray he’ll come back,
Or we can open them and see all he’s left for us.

We can turn our backs on tomorrow and live yesterday,
Or we can welcome tomorrow, because of yesterday.

We can remember him and only that he's gone,
Or we can cherish his memory and let it live on.

We can close our minds, be empty, turn our backs,
Or we can live as Gunnar has:
Smiling, with opened eyes,
to love, and live on."



Tears stream over the curves of her cheeks, she looks out into the pack, eyes searching for Astrid and her brothers, and any who may now wish to say something for Gunnar.

Bjorn swiftly needed Tauris’s call. The funeral procession was quiet, no song, no smiles, no laughter. They traveled up to the stone circle, and under the matriarch stone, a grave was dug, for none other than Gunnar himself. The pack would gather to commemorate him, and bid him farewell.

He turned to the crowd, as Bjorn himself would speak words of comfort, and hope. He spoke with a low tone, but loud enough for the pack to hear him: “Gunnar was a leader, a friend, and a father to us all. Even though he is gone, he has already left behind a piece of him in every one of us. We shall look back one day, and think not of sadness at his passing, but all the good he did.” He then looked, his gaze upon the old wolf, and he whispered, “Farewell, Faðir.” He then stepped back into the crowd.

Kristjan moved hollowly in the funereal march to the great stones, head low and expression utterly ill-tempered for the first time in his young life. Every action felt hazy that day; all of the world seemed covered in a fog of black pyre-smoke. His emotions simmered, too, bubbling and hissing just below the surface, unable to meet a single wolf’s eye from beneath his mourning shroud.

At some distance, in a far-off pinprick of light at the end of a very long and very dark tunnel, there were Tauris’ words at the place his father was to be buried. Her voice came in muffled, like sounds through drywall being heard from another room. Kristjan struggled to hear her.

Gunnar was a father to us all.

He listened more closely now, each of her statements driving another nail into his father’s coffin, every word piercing him with a sickening realization. They were meant to move on. They were meant to accept this. They were meant to carry him, not physically, but in their hearts…

It was all stupid!

Some kind of cruel joke, but nobody was laughing. Kristjan felt the sadness well up inside him; a sickening sort of pressure that threatened to overflow and spill from his eyes, his mouth, his ears, his nose. He felt nauseated – a cauldron of discomfiture boiling in his gut – and he could not fathom a single instance of relief that might touch him.

He stared at the ground, speechless and unseeing. He was exhausted from crying. There were no tears left in him, he thought. But there was another feeling: something that felt no better than the sorrow, yet he preferred it.

It’s not fair. This shouldn’t be happening! Why is this happening?

Stage two: anger.

He moved where he was needed, stone-faced and quiet. The tears he did not shed were shed in thousands by those who loved Gunnar throughout his lifetime. The pain they felt was pain Skáld felt too- and yet, he was able to operate better through the tragedy by remaining calm, and numbing himself to loss as he had many times before. 

It did not mean that he cared any less- it was simply a means of sacrificing his own emotional outburst so that he could make a dreadful occasion as peaceful and light as possible for those who were absolutely crushed. 

He smiled, still, at Swiftlet and Katla on the morning that preparations were made so that they could understand that grief and joy could exist simultaneously. Tauris would lead the ceremony, so he spent much of his time gathering the last of the flowers from the area with the kids and Figment, before taking a quick trip to deliver them to Tauris, check on her and the progression of the grave, so he might ornament it with little white blossoms. 

He said nothing, following the ceremony, to give space for others to speak. He knew in his heart that Gunnar would know the words that were to be spoken to him, and that those words would continue to flow for the rest of Skáld's life. He would whisper words in his prayers, and smile when he saw them answered when nature would inevitably bring him a sign that Gunnar was still watching over him. 

Now was the time to grieve but as well, it was a time to heal.

Ulfhild knew in her heart she had made a mistake in howling when Gunnar passed, especially in the way Skald had burned into her with his gaze when she did so... 
She did not know now, how to apologize best for this error and so the Shieldmaiden bore herself in dutiful silence, moving where needed or wanted, attempting to be a presence of comfort for everyone else.

The Protector of Kvarsheim was quiet as words from Tauris and others floated through the air, standing somewhere within the vicinity that gave immediate deference to Gunnar's kin, his family. His children, those who had been closer than she now felt she had been.
They mattered the most in this - she didn't. 
And she accepted this in her attempt to be a strong boulder for those who would need her to be.

Taktuq was thankful for Tauris. Thankful, for the systir who had risen alongside her to the helm. Thankful, when she had stayed her course, even when Taktuq had stepped down to care for the children - and then, to be present for Gunnar, too, when he soon followed.

Thankful, that she had risen to lead the procession.

Thankful, that she was ready with words to say.

Taktuq's love for Gunnar had not been long, nor very conventional, but it had been real, and she held it tightly as Tauris spoke. Tightly, not ready to let go, even though he would want her to let go. To let it take wing, as he had done. To let it take flight. To let it wash over their packmates, their family, their children. Perhaps to help mend them.

Because Taktuq couldn't help but feel guilt when she looked at them now. She loved them. Gunnar had, too. But had she been wise to bring them into a world where this had always been the end of things?

And yet, who better than she to raise then from here?

She knew what it was, to lose a parent.

Taktuq sat with her children, and reached for the ones who seemed to need her touch the most.

He loved unconditionally, and loved until the end, she said, soft, like their words to each other had always been. And what more could she say?

Goodbye, as Bjorn had said, but instead, she found herself quiet like the rest.

She couldn't say it.

Not yet.

Made to abandon his exploits and attend, Swiftlet trudged along sour-faced and agitated, lacking an appreciation for the significance of the loss and of the grief that had stricken the pack. His concerns did not stretch beyond his own nose; he only cared to know why he had been made to come, and beyond that his thoughts were preoccupied with the irritation of boredom. The procession moved slowly and quietly, and he could hardly tolerate it.

Once the pack gathered at the stones, Swift reclined and reached for a stick to work out his frustrations on, feeling the invisible tether of his parents' authority tying him to their feet. But when his mother moved away, and the rest of Gunnar's loved ones began their impassioned farewells, he lifted his head from chewing and observed; blue-green eyes scanning.

On the day of her father's funeral, Astrid's nose is cold. The tips of her ears swell with the windchill, and she holds herself tight; shoulders rigid.
On the day of her father's funeral, she is not the first to come to his side. She did not remember leaving him. She remembers Tauris, Skáld, her brothers, the figures moving in slow motion through the hours that pass. She remembers, yes, she remembers the coldness of the den; mamma and her tired eyes. Kristjan's anguish. How Ujurak had tried so hard alongside her to — help.
She remembers finding somewhere else to sleep.
On the day of her father's funeral, Astrid wakes up from a dream that she had been drowning, and her lungs feel no less clogged with water when she wakes. She says nothing to anyone; not to Tauris, not to her brothers or mamma or Skáld or Tauris's kids or Fig; a black veil of mourning draped heavy over eyes much too young to do so.
She tried.
She tried.
She tried.
On the day of her father's funeral, she comes alone. Anyone who dares try to touch her is met with a rough show of teeth, not a shred of tolerance left within a tired little body. She comes softly, sluggishly, and at first she sees all of those who she felt did not deserve to be here, those who did not understand what it was like. Swiftlet who gnaws loudly, who had been only a short blip in her father's life; Ulfhild and Bjorn who had not known him the way she did. She wished she could be alone with him, her and her brothers and mamma, for she had tried to fix it she had tried she tried and now he was gone gone gone and they did not understand—
How does a child prepare a eulogy?
On the day of her father's funeral, as she stares blankly at the looming stone that would now mark his eternal home, hotblooded tears fall into the soil and she wonders if he can still feel them flood his cold skin as they seep into the dirt.

There were no words that the paper and ink wolf could give. Nothing that could make this hurt go away, or help the family miraculously heal. Their Fadir was gone and though she hadn't known the love of a father, she had known the love of a mother and she knew the heart that beat in Gunnar's chest had been a kind one.  So it was a sadness that colored the day. Another good one gone to the other worlds. Where those left would mourn.

She found her way to the funeral and she settled in sea green gaze on the now quiet mound of dirt. That housed the patriarch of Kvarsheim.

She bowed her head when words were spoken. Unsure what to say, but feeling the pain regardless.

There was nothing he could say or do to make the grief leave. He felt as if a leaden balloon had settled on his chest. His nose felt wrong and full. His eyes always dripping with wet. There was a pain, such a deep pain in his chest. Other's tried. They tried to make him feel better, but it always felt hollow, wrong. Because the only thing that would make this better was Fadir's presence and it was gone. The den even felt a little less warm. There was not a small laugh for his antics, or anyone to look down upon him with eyes a mirror of his own. His mother was subdued. Astrid was just angry and precious Kristjan and Ujurak. They tried so hard to be strong, but Sven he didn't want to be strong. He wanted to be weak and cry and sob and wail. But how.

He nosed his mother's side, fresh tears against his cheek fur again. Only with time fadir had said. Oh he believed him now.

The stone prince had returned to the circle. Silvered pelt mixing against his mother's as he sat at her side.

Here where his father's last breath fell was where he would always remain. Beneath the tallest obelisk, his father would sleep forevermore.

The memorial was overseen by stone sentinels. Both the unmoving monoliths and the statuesque wolves that sat in near silent observance. The few words spoken barely registered as more than a whispering breeze in his ears.

How palpable the loss was. Collective grief thickened the air, filling his lungs with stifled sobs and unspoken words. How he choked on them as they crept up his throat to weight down his tongue. The cracked and shattered pieces of his heart falling loose into the soil with a steady stream of tears.

Tauris offered the floor to speak, an expectant look in her gaze. What could he possible say?

One thought remained at the forefront of his mind as he watched the shriveled flowers sway atop his father's grave:

I miss you already.

Fig stayed close to Tauris and their children as she spoke, his heart heavy. He had not known Gunnar well, but he had liked him well nonetheless. Other spoke after Tauris, but he held his tongue. He was not one for speaking in front of crowds, and it felt somehow too impersonal for him to do so now anyway. His words of comfort were saved for private conversations, for any who sought them.

Absently, he reached to brush his nose against Katla's and then Swift's heads in turn. A thought penetrated his mind that haunted him—that one day, it would be him leaving them. He prayed it would not be soon. It would be a day far, far in the future, when he had taught them everything and prepared them so well that they would not need him anymore.

His eyes moved across Gunnar's children. So young to be without a father. He held his own children a little tighter, as he would hold Tauris as close as he could later when they were alone. Like he might never get the chance again, for who knew really if he would?

Gunnar’s last sun lights the blades of his shoulder. A pass of her paw soils his sterling coat with damp earth. He meant so much to so many, and now he lies in dirt. Her wet cheeks cool in the autumn’s chill.

Time drains from a silent clock.

“Be at peace,” she thinks to him.
“Be kind to him,” she thinks to the earth.

When he is buried, she pulls away from his gravestone. Flickering in the eyes of his children is Gunnar.

A silent clock resets.

Vale sat on the periphery of the memorial. Offering deference to Gunnar's family and those closest to him. This day was for them as much as it was for him.

Her impressions of the fadir had been good. That he had been kind and wise with his age. Her eyes drifted across the gathering. All attending were all still quite young, at least in comparison to him.

Parting words and summations of the man himself were scare. Perhaps that silence spoke more about him that what any string of words could. Vale too remained silent in her observance.