They had come from far and wide to pay their last respects to Tirion Fordring, the Ashbringer, Supreme Commander of the Argent Crusade, and the man who struck the killing blow to the Lich King, Arthas.
They watched her as she claimed her place just behind the carriage that would carry her husband. Perhaps they waited for some weakness, some sign of her grief – but it did not come. Her steps did not falter, her expression did not change, and no tears were forthcoming. She walked calmly, with customary dignity, as the procession slowly made their way out of Mardenholde Keep.
A soft breeze caught her hair, and exposed a pale face with glittering green eyes to the world. She had forgone the traditional shawl and allowed her hair to hang loose.
At sixty-one she was still a very beautiful woman, her hair still as black as night, with not a single strand of grey in it. There were those who had envied Lord Fordring because of her – where others and dismissed her as a mere thing of beauty and amusement for an old man.
A few of them scoffed at her cold dignity. Lord Fordring had been much loved by everyone, a hero of several wars, the founder of the Argent Crusade, but his wife did not grieve his passing.
Apparently, even heroes made the occasional bad choice.
Another day, a different time, she would have caught their glances and read their faces and known what they were thinking. She would have cared very little. She had not lived this long by caring about the opinions of others. Only one mattered – her own.
And his. Ever since she met him, his opinion mattered.
Only those who knew her well saw the tightening around her eyes as she fought to keep her countenance.
The carriage stopped before a large oak. She heard the crowd behind her – whispering, crying, talking. She ignored their voices, knowing that they would be kept back by her men. By her husband’s men.
She would allow them to see Tirion one last time. She would allow them that. But this moment belonged to her.
Slowly, reverently, his body was moved from the carriage and onto the pyre. Fifty years ago it had been customary to bury the bodies of the dead in the earth. The coming of the Scourge had changed that. For the younger generations, funeral pyres were the only tradition they knew. By the time her generation was gone, only the ruins of mausoleums and the remnants of graveyards would stand witness to the old ways.
Cool, green eyes rested upon his face. It was the face of a warrior – sharp and defined. While alive his face had been marred by grief and toil, but she knew many of the lines were from smiling. The wrinkles around his eyes, the lines around his mouth. In death, they were all faded, and his face was placid and still.
Thirty years ago his hair had been steely grey, however strands of deep brown could still be found upon closer inspection – and she had made sure to inspect.
Now it was completely white.
His eyes were closed. Somehow that made her throat ache. She knew that if she turned around she would be able to see his eyes – two pairs of them.
She chose not to.
Two hands were folded across his chest – white and frail. She could remember a time when they could lift the heavy Ashbringer with ease. Only very rarely had she been able to best him in a sword fight.
She could remember how soft and gentle they could be when they made love, and how they would wrap around her and hold her close. Always warm.
The hands of a warrior. The hands of a lover. The hands of a father.
It was time now, to let him go. Her Widow’s Wreath. She had it made of icethorn – a little flower that grew in the melting waters of Icecrown Glacier, a wilful and sturdy white bloom among razorsharp thorns. Sometimes, in the midst of ugliness and danger, you can find beauty.
She stepped forward, slowly, and it gently to rest upon his chest. With the exception of Alexandros and Uther, everyone was too far away to see that her hand shook.
The words she whispered to him, no one heard.
‘Of all the things you gave me, Tirion, your love was the most beautiful.’Then she allowed the pyre to be lit.
The magical fire licked up around the wooden pyre. Soon it would reach the earthly shell that had once been her husband. It would ensure that Lord Tirion Fordring was properly incinerated, and that neither his body nor ashes could be used or raised, after his death.
For one wild moment she considered joining him on the pyre, but it was only a flash of a thought and she spared it no second glance. There had been women – and men – who had thrown themselves on the pyre with their dead spouse. She would not be one of them. The widow of Tirion Fordring would not leave this world on such a dramatic whim. Until the last, she would keep her dignity and honour. He deserved that much.
That night, when she was alone, she left her bed –
their bed – and went to the window. In her hands she held a sword encased in a worn scabbard. The leather had once been black and shining, but many years and many battles had taken its toll and the leather was now dull. The grip had been of white pinewood, but now it was darkened, by soil, blood and sweat.
A soft zing sounded in the quiet room as she slowly pulled the sword from the sheath. Where the scabbard and grip had been darkened and changed by age, the blade had remained blank and sharp. At first glance it was a simple sword, with no decorations, however if you looked closer you could see golden inlays on the crossguard and pommel, and on the chappè an image of a prancing horse. The Fordring coat of arms.
Below it there was engraved one word.
Nisheva.It had been a gift. In Lordaeron it was customary to give women gifts when they had given birth – if she had sons the gift was often more valuable than with daughters. Normally the gift consisted of jewellery, dresses, or land.
Tirion Fordring had known his wife well enough to know that such gifts would not be appreciated. She had no need for either. As such he had commissioned this particular sword – dwarvenmade - for her. Few women had understood the gift. While most men could appreciate a good sword, few of them realised just how much money that sword had cost.
She had been overjoyed, grateful and delighted, and the sword had followed her in every battle ever since. To this day, twenty-seven years later, it was still as sharp as the day it was made.
The sword was soundlessly returned to the scabbard.
Her life had not been an easy one – one war tended to slide over to the next, and much of her life had been spent in a saddle with a sword in hand. Yet these last thirty years, despite being filled with war and strife, seemed so very bright to her. It was as if the memories themselves were overlaid with a golden shine. She could not remember ever losing hope, and the years that was counted as the darkest years of their generation, were, for her, filled with happiness and laughter.
In the future, she knew, laid peace. Her sons would fight fewer wars and experience less grief. But where the world around her saw peace and prosperity, she saw nothing. Her future was laid out before her in the dull light from an old moon – bleak and grey.
She knew that the pain would fade with time. She knew she would live on. She would give what love she had left to her sons, and their children and families.
But she would always be less than what she once was.
She had given a piece of herself to Tirion Fordring, and he had taken that with him, to the grave. His light had been extinguished and she could not light the way alone.
In the darkness of her room, she knelt on the floor and clutched her sword –
his gift – to her chest.
Alone, she wept.
