Boaz, the King's Horn, his messenger, took his time with Charon. The lamplight glittered off his long golden hair, which he pulled back into a long tail which ran down his back. It was the mark of a messenger, always waving in the air as he ran. He had a few chance meetings with the marvelous man. From what he described, he held each of them dear to his heart long before the hero's passing. No one knew how he would react as all paid their respects. Some believed that he would bid Charon farewell with a grin and a joke. When he faced the rest, shocking tears rolled down from his blue eyes, glistening off his olive skin. He said that it had something to do with never sharing a battlefield with the man again.
The Scribe kept to himself, watching the events unfold that he might keep a better record of it, though he did not know in what capacity. Still, he took time to spend a few brief moments with a man he respected above all others. If there was an important moment that they shared, now would be the time to reminisce on it; but the pair did not have such an encounter. The admiration the Scribe felt for the man was one that comes from watching from afar. Perhaps it was his youth that made him accepting of this travesty. With the graying of his hair and fattening of his belly, the memory becomes harder to bear. (I will not go into this further, lest my tears stain the parchment.)
Of the last three remaining, a unique member of the Twelve stood up, making her presence known. It was no secret that the Twelve were a male organization, but throughout its history, there were some exceptions to this rule. Dinaz, the only woman in this current iteration of the group, was one of them. When she first received her appointment, some believed that she would serve as the smiling beauty, bringing a beam of sunshine among the drab men, but nothing was further from the truth. (A matter for later in this recounting.)
Standing in front of Charon, she removed a windpipe from her elegant sleeve. Her long black hair brushed against her dark arms as she raised the instrument to her lips. If there was a poet among the Twelve, he would need to write an entire anthology to describe how wonderful every note of Dinaz's song was. It was not a mere formality for her to receive the title of King's Bard, sometimes referred to as King's Lute. The crystal-clear notes danced around the courtyard, within them was a story, the ballad of the Great Charon. They took those present to the struggles of his youth to the exploits on the battlefield to the despairing low they found themselves.
Tears from the beauty of this song would fall years after when they returned to the twilight of remembrance. When the last note faded, she lowered the pipe and sang in a language no one knew. Not even Barnabas with his extensive background on foreign languages knew which country these words came from. It was a language that only bards knew, and there were some secrets they refused to sing about. Despite this, those moved by the windpipe felt the same stirring as they listened to her song. When her performance ended, she bowed to Charon, stepping to the side, leaving everyone in stunned silence.
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Last of all were Habakkuk and Barak. Of those present, no one could find two beings more different from one another. Barak, for lack of better terms, was a pretty boy, a fair headed child with pale skin that seemed sculpted from marble. He stood at the ideal height with perfect muscles. His eyes were sharp, seeing the world with a passion which made him an easy choice to become the King's Bow, a position he only took two years before. It was difficult for him to walk through the city without youthful women swarming around him. He sat in his chair with his knees pulled up to his chin, burying his face in their embrace.
Habakkuk, the eldest of the Twelve, was a massive, hairy man. His olive muscles bulged with an ugliness that struck fear in his enemies and respect from his friends, while strangers avoided being one and begging to become the latter. Unlike the others, who wore robes, he wore his chain mail, with greaves on his arms and thick leather covering his legs. The left shoulder bore Hatra's symbol: the winged man, an angel. There were few times when he was without his uniform. Perhaps the biggest difference between himself and Barak was clear by the gray in Habakkuk's hair, which he kept pulled into a long braid. While Barak was at the beginning of his life, Habakkuk was reaching the end, or at least the end of his life carrying the title of King's Shield. It was rare that one reached his age and kept a position among the Twelve, particularly as a man who fought on the front lines during the war.
They stood together, with Habakkuk holding on to the lad's arm, helping him approach Charon. Barak's weak steps vanished in the booming presence of Habakkuk's self-assured clomps. When they reached the altar, pained expressions flashed on the faces of those present. There was no group around the Twelve that had as close of a bond as they. The Trio were together again, for the last time.
At last, Barak could not hold himself up, and he collapsed. The lad laid on his face, young tears spilling from him like an uncontrollable river. Standing over the lad, Habakkuk held steadfast, his arms folded. No one that remained said anything as Barak's sobs filled the air. In time, he regained his composure, though no one knew how long that took. When he did, his friend helped him back to his feet. Barak said what he could to their fallen friend. All of the words ran together, so no one knew what he said. Habakkuk remained silent.
