"Wake, Knurlhiem! You cannot sleep now. We are needed at the gate- they won't start without us."
Eragon blinked himself awake, Nightmare shifting in his mind as he rasped. "What?"
"Ajihad's procession. We must be present for it!"
"No, what did you call me?" Eragon quested, glancing around the room while wondering how he got there. Saphira was draped across her mattress pad on her side, GB's soft snores clattering softly beside her. She rolled over and looked up, bleary-eyed.
"Stonehead!" Orik scoffed. "I called you Stonehead because I've been trying to wake you for almost an hour!"

Nightmare snorted mentally as Eragon heaved himself to a sitting position, struggling to recall the night before. He stood and bumbled over to Saphira. Saphira, how are you? She gave a low rumble, licking her teeth distastefully as GB whuffed, waking up himself.

The skeleblaster yawned hugely, ending in a whine as Saphira responded. Whole... I think. My left wing feels a bit strange; I think it's the one I landed on. And my head is filled with a thousand hot arrows.
"Was anyone hurt when she fell?" Eragon asked worriedly. Orik chuckled loudly. "Only those who dropped off their seats from laughing so hard. A dragon getting drunk and bowing at that! I'm sure lays will be sung about it for decades."

GB huffed in amusement as Saphira shuffled her wings and avoided their collective gaze indignantly. Orik went on. "We would have left you in the banquet hall if it were not for the etalthargen's ability to change places in an instant. Much to the cook's appreciation, too- he feared Saphira and GB would drink more of his best stock than the 9 barrels you already did."
Eragon scoffed at Saphira, GB chortling lazily. And you chatisized me once for drinking! If I consumed four barrels, it would kill me!
That's why you're not a dragon. She responded.

Orik pushed a ball of clothes into Eragon's arms. "Here, put these on. They are more appropriate for a funeral than your own attire. But hurry, we have little time." The human studied the outfit as GB turned his backside to him for privacy as the dwarf left to wait outside the room. It was a loose white shirt with ties on it's cuffs, dark pants, a red vest decorated with gold embroidery and braiding, shiny boots as black as the pants and a cape sporting a studded brooch. Zar'roc was fastened to a lavish belt. Nightmare quietly stewed about the clothes, considering it garish as well as despising the cape, though he never actually complained. It was just wordless thought.

Eragon rinsed his face and hopelessly tried forcing his hair into something presentable. He gave up and allowed Orik to usher him out to the hall and towards Tronjhiem's south gate. GB stayed close to Saphira, stumbling slightly before regaining his footing. The dragon herself was slightly unbalanced in her gait, doing her best to hide the clumsiness.
Can you make it through the whole funeral? Eragon asked her in concern.
GB grumbled as she bit back a grimace. That and Nasuada's appointment, but then I'll need to sleep. A pox on all mead!

The other only groaned good-naturedly at that, a kind smile stretched across his face. He finally added his own opinion.
I'll try to help however I can. I've been hungover more times than I can count; I know how to deal with the migraines.
Eragon paused, considering a question, then deciding against it and facing Orik.
"Where will Ajihad be buried?"
The dwarf shot him a cautious look. "That has been a matter of contention among the clans. When a dwarf dies, we believe he must be sealed in stone or else he will never join his ancestors.... It is complex and I cannot say more to an outsider... but we go to great lengths to assure such a burial. Shame falls on a family or clan if they allow any of their own to lie in a lesser element."

He gestured at the floor. "Under Farthen Dûr exists a chamber that is the home of all knurlan, all dwarves, who have died here. It is there Ajihad will be taken. He cannot be entombed with us, as he is human, but a hallowed alcove has been set aside for him. There the Varden may visit him without disturbing our sacred grottos, and Ajihad will receive the respect he is due."

Nightmare listened eagerly, curiosity flaring up. "Your king has done much for the Varden." Eragon observed.
Orik shook his head wearily. "Some think too much."

Arriving at the open gate, they all bore witness to an orderly column half-lit in sunlight streaming in from the high ceiling above. Ajihad was resting at the front on a marble pier carried by 6 men in black armor. A helm of precious stones and minerals lay upon his head. His hands were clasped around the hilt of his sword, the tip extending past the shield draped over his chest and legs. His cold limbs were encased in silver mail.

Behind the body was Nasuada, adorned in ebony. She held her head high, though tears still slipped down her cheeks. On her left stood Hrothgar in equally sable robes, beside him Arya and the Council of Elders. On Nasuada's left stood the strange fire elemental Sinead in a black dress, then Error and the rest of the Wyrdaí Islingrya.

Every door that could be seen throughout the city-mountain was open, every archway flooded with humans and dwarves alike. The hundreds of faces watched Eragon, Saphira, and GB, whispering amongst themselves as they arrived. Jörmundur waved at them to join, so they approached him.

Eragon and Saphira moved to stand at his side as Sabrae glared at them momentarily, Orik standing behind his king and GB behind Error. All lanterns were half-shut to cast Tronjhiem into its own twilight. Everything went still; completely and utterly still. It was as though they had all become stone. Something Nightmare was familiar with.

A single wisp of incense floated to the ceiling high above them. With it came the scent of juniper and cedar. It was the only movement in the eerily silent hall.

Then deep within Tronjhiem a drum sounded.
Error made a soft choking noise as he glitched in surprise at the sudden sound, notes of discord running through other members of the Wyrdaí Islingrya as well. But they quickly muted as it rang again, a deeper thrum joining the first.
The procession moved forward, keeping pace with the drum.

It gave each passing step a profound meaning, emotions rising up within all of Farthen Dûr. Sonorous and full of heartache, something that gave Nightmare precedence and fantastic strength.
Loss always was one of the greatest negative emotions.

As the cortege entered the main chamber wherein the remains of the Star Rose lay, the sorrow only increased. It was like staring across a field of crystal graves, somber and faded, a reminder of regret. The main shards were so large they towered over even Saphira and GB, accusatory.

The carriers pressed onward, weaving through the shards expertly before turning to head down the stairs to the many tunnels beneath. Through the caves they traversed, passing many carved huts of stone, mothers and children eyeing them from doorways and windows as they bore Ajihad into the final resting place.

A catacomb lined with thousands of niches. Each compartment held a tomb, a name and clan crest engraved upon each and every one of them. There were hundreds of thousands of dead here. Nightmare felt the hush of the atmosphere in this place, knowing everyone else was aware as well. The red lanterns were placed sporadically, casting long shadows like eternal twilight. The procession arrived in a lone room with an open crypt awaiting it's package to welcome Ajihad to darkness. Upon the lid was a simple engraving.

May all, Knurlan, Humans, and Elves,
Remember
This Man.
For he was Noble, Strong, and Wise.

Gûntera Arûna

Those mourning gathered nearer as Ajihad was ceremoniously lowered into his final resting place. Those who had known him personally were allowed to draw closer.
Eragon, seventh in line, experienced a well of regret and loss upon seeing Ajihad's face. He was in anguish, for he viewed this as much as a funeral for Murtaugh as it was for Ajihad. So he stared down at that tranquil body with terrible sorrow. The heartache emanating from all those present made Nightmare feel... wrong.

He was lamenting for the former leader of the Varden, yes; but he was collecting so much power from the raw emotions all throughout Farthen Dûr. He understood in this moment, he could return to his physical form..

..But to leave Eragon defenseless?
Is that the right thing to do?

He rested within Eragon's consciousness, thinking as the human studied the fallen. Ajihad was peaceful, as though in dying he had at last discovered tranquility.
Eragon and the Wyrdaí Islingrya had met Ajihad only recently, but he had rapidly ascended to great respect in their ideals. He was respected as the honorable man he was and for what he symbolised; freedom. The end of tyranny. A new life, a second chance to start over despite the roadblocks in the way.
Now he was dead.

Eragon finally thought of something to say.
"You will be remembered, Ajihad. I swear it. Rest easy knowing that Nasuada shall continue your work and the Empire will be overthrown because of what you accomplished."
Nightmare added his own, unheard eulogy.
𝔜𝔬𝔲 𝔴𝔦𝔩𝔩 𝔟𝔢 𝔫𝔢𝔳𝔢𝔯 𝔟𝔢 𝔣𝔬𝔯𝔤𝔬𝔱𝔱𝔢𝔫, 𝔑𝔦𝔤𝔥𝔱𝔰𝔱𝔞𝔩𝔨𝔢𝔯. 𝔜𝔬𝔲 𝔴𝔦𝔩𝔩 𝔟𝔢 𝔰𝔲𝔫𝔤 𝔞𝔟𝔬𝔲𝔱 𝔟𝔶 𝔡𝔴𝔞𝔯𝔳𝔢𝔰 𝔞𝔫𝔡 𝔥𝔲𝔪𝔞𝔫𝔰 𝔣𝔬𝔯 𝔠𝔢𝔫𝔱𝔲𝔯𝔦𝔢𝔰. 𝔜𝔬𝔲𝔯 𝔡𝔞𝔲𝔤𝔥𝔱𝔢𝔯 𝔦𝔰 𝔱𝔥𝔢 𝔰𝔦𝔫𝔤𝔩𝔢 𝔤𝔯𝔢𝔞𝔱𝔢𝔰𝔱 𝔩𝔢𝔤𝔞𝔠𝔶 𝔶𝔬𝔲 𝔠𝔬𝔲𝔩𝔡 𝔥𝔞𝔳𝔢 𝔢𝔳𝔢𝔯 𝔥𝔬𝔭𝔢𝔡 𝔣𝔬𝔯. 𝔜𝔬𝔲 𝔥𝔞𝔳𝔢 𝔯𝔞𝔦𝔰𝔢𝔡 𝔞 𝔴𝔦𝔰𝔢 𝔞𝔫𝔡 𝔟𝔢𝔫𝔢𝔳𝔬𝔩𝔢𝔫𝔱 𝔔𝔲𝔢𝔢𝔫... ℜ𝔢𝔰𝔱, 𝔡𝔢𝔞𝔯 𝔣𝔯𝔦𝔢𝔫𝔡.
ℑ𝔱 𝔴𝔞𝔰 𝔞𝔫 𝔥𝔬𝔫𝔬𝔯 𝔨𝔫𝔬𝔴𝔦𝔫𝔤 𝔶𝔬𝔲.

Eragon moved away wordlessly, letting Blueberry view the body in it's eternal rest.
"He... looks like he's sleeping..." The normally energetic skeleton mumbled incredulously, golden bone in hand.

Eventually everyone had paid tribute to the former leader of the Varden, leaving only Nasuada to stand over the corpse. Her once father.
She bent over the still form, holding his cold hand with gentle agony. After she groaned painfully, Nasuada starting singing. Wailing in words of an unfamiliar language, her anguished voice echoing throughout the chamber in heartbreaking cries.
Twelve dwarves approached then, sliding a thick lid over marble over the quiet form of Ajihad.
No more.

Blue sobbed into Error's jacket as Chaos hugged his other side.
Geno stood, gritting his teeth as a distant sound echoed in the catacombs; the voice of a crow.
Like his love.

A symbol of Death.