Chapter Text
Clancy didn’t notice when Torchbearer left early in the morning, nor did he notice the sun rise, nor the commotion around his tent. He did however notice when it went quiet. The shuffling and talking and moving of equipment was a background noise that he had by now gotten used to and even enjoyed. He supposed that it helped remind him he wasn’t alone like he was in Dema. But this morning, much to Clancy’s quiet horror, it was silent.
When he exited his tent, nothing changed. It was a still day. The storm had blown over and all the reminisce that remained was the sludgy dirt underneath his booth and the overwhelming smell of petrichor. The most movement he could see was two birds dancing above him in a twisting game of chase.
He walked through the camp, peering around tents and DIY’ed marquees, trying to catch a glimpse of anything human-shaped. Preferably another Bandito. And thank the Gones there was somebody, walking towards him up the slope at the edge of camp. The figure slowly came into view.
“Oh,” Clancy let out his breath and chuckled, “Torch, there you are. Where is everybody?”
Torchbearer didn’t say anything yet. He walked up and pressed his fingers against Clancy’s wrist. They fazed right through.
“Oh…”
“We’re over at one of the South camps,” his voice was low and melodic, one of the few sounds capable of calming Clancy’s panic.
“The ones that got hit by the storm first? Are you guys having a debrief?” Clancy paused, “It’s not usual for everyone to go for a debrief… unless-”
Torch lowered his head and Clancy could hear the shakiness to his breath. He quickly stood up straight again to speak.
“Karta, Pierre, and Hilt.”
Silence washed over the camp once again, this time in solemnity rather than fear.
“A nearby spruce got cracked by lightning and fell onto their tent. Hilt was just stopping by to deliver some rations.”
“I thought the storm had already passed by them?” Clancy bargained.
“It did, the one that hit us at least. A second wave came through,” he stopped to breathe. Torch often forgets to breathe when he’s stressed. “We won’t be getting the next. The Trackers said it will most likely dissolve into just normal rain by the time it reaches us.”
“So, everyone is over there and no one thought to wake me up?”
“Clancy, I-”
“I knew Pierre.” If Torch could look any more devastated, it happened when he heard that. “I can’t say I knew Karta or Hilt, but Pierre was one of the grave-smiths kept below the towers. He worked at the one I was held in… probably the nicest person there.”
Torchbearer seemed to be scrambling through his head trying to find the right words to comfort Clancy, only being hit with mourning.
“I’m glad he got out, even if it was only for a little while.”
“Come,” Torch had landed on, “I’ll guide you.”
. . .
Clancy’s hallucination did just that. Torch solidified his projection so he could hold onto Clancy’s hand through some more brazen areas of the forest. They were silent throughout their journey, but Clancy didn’t mind anymore, he knew Torch needed it. The birds kept his mind preoccupied instead. Although vultures are native to Trench, there are plenty of other species that call this place home. There weren't too many recreational activities on camp (nothing compared to Dema though, for that he was grateful) so Clancy had taken up bird-watching to pass the time.
His eyes followed a Northern fulmar that soared high above them. He wondered how old it was, they could live up to 50. There was a good chance it was older than him. He wondered also, how good it must be to be that free for that long.
He’d spent about a year with the Banditos outside of Dema’s walls, it wasn’t long but it felt like forever. He could barely imagine what being born into freedom would be like. Does it even know it's free if it’s never seen a cage? It quickly ducked out of view, probably from seeing a body of water to fish in.
“We must be close to the ocean now,” Clancy remarked, “Fulmars don’t tend to go too far inland.”
His hallucination smiled back at him, his grasp still firm. “You’re picking up land knowledge quickly. I’m glad.”
It wasn’t anything big, but it made Clancy’s heart soar like that free fulmar. Did he like being complimented or did he just like when Torch did it? Oh goodness, he can’t think of that now, they’re on their way to mourn. Clancy put a pin in this thought and continued striding forward not wanting to be left behind.
. . .
When they arrived at the South camp Clancy could instantly feel the wave of emotions flooding the site. Opposite from the home camp earlier this morning, people were scattered everywhere. He’d lose Torchbearer in this crowd if he let go of his hand, something he was surprised Torch hadn’t done yet. He was glad.
The crowd was surrounding a tall wooden structure with leaves and bark placed upon a bed in the centre and bodies in the middle. A traditional Trench funeral pyre. The beams were made of oak. A rarer tree in the South, but it was custom, as Clancy had discovered, to use it for special occasions. It had a special connection to the weather, something unpredictable and fierce and free, a reverent force.
Of course in Dema, the Bishops with their strange powers had always averted storms, only cultivating the lightning to power neon gravestones. Clancy wasn’t sure why they kept rain away, maybe it was just a bizarre assertion of power. A way to show citizens that they had complete control.
Clancy had learned in his time out here in Trench that weather was more than just the perpetually grey skies of Dema, but it was ephemeral, always changing, always new and different. He was still adjusting to the constant change, his body taking most of the toll, but he figured maybe if he spent more time around those oak trees he’d come to peace with it.
Right now, though, was not the time for finding peace–except for the three bodies laying in the centre of the pyre.
Torch had left Clancy at the front of the crowd. He went off to go and find something, a Bandito beside him clarified it was the flowers for the funeral.
Apparently, whilst the rest of the Banditos were gathering everyone up back at camp for the march to the south camp, Torchbearer had disappeared and came back with bunches of flowers, taking them all the way with him to south camp. Mainly blue and purple ones that only a few knew the names of, but atop all of the cool coloured flowers was one singular speck of yellow. Its petals, Clancy thought, looked similar to those that rained down on him the day that Nico on his horse had tracked him down and smeared him.
Now, Torch had returned with that same bunch of flowers. No yellow flower in sight.
The funeral began. The people on each side of him held his hand gently, part of him hated that it wasn’t Torches hand, but that thought quickly diminished after looking back up.
Part of the circle had split creating an isle that a group was to walk through. Torchbearer was at the front, holding his namesake in his hand high. Six Banditos followed him slowly. In two rows they walked, or rather, dragged themselves to the front of the pyre. One step, drag around, one step, drag around. It looked like a dance. One foot forward, then dragging the next in a circle with pointed feet. A deliberate motion that tracked where their procession had begun up to the place where the dead lay. A drag path.
Each of them had their heads high, looking up to the clouds to try and find a reason why this had to happen. Or perhaps it was just to help stop the flow of tears that were pricking their eyes. They all held a bouquet of the blue and purple flowers from before, the ones Torch had collected from their camp. No yellow flower in sight.
Once the group reached the wooden structure, the six behind Torch came to each side of it and placed down the bouquets. They stepped back, bowed to the bodies, then dispersed into the crowd.
The fire soon erupted onto the bark and leaves, crawling its way up from where Torchbearer had gently lit the tip. Torches flame seemed like a mere spark in comparison to the bonfire in front of Clancy. He’d never seen anything so… bright. This was nothing like the neon gravestones that surrounded Dema, this was natural, he thought.
Clancy had been so involved in watching the flames, remembering Pierre, and comforting the people beside him that he did not see where Torch went after setting the pyre ablaze. Clancy felt a whole new dread inside of him. Torch had spoken before about how distraught he gets when a Bandito dies. He didn’t think much of it at the time, it’s normal to not want people you know to die. Now Clancy knew, however, how involved Torch had to be in their post-mortem process and how awful that must be for him. He has to set them on fire, to show them the light one last time.
Before he could even set out to find Torch, there he was… up in a tree? No one else seemed to be confused by this, so Clancy assumed it was all part of the funeral. He stood and watched with the rest.
He stood on a sturdy branch, holding himself up against the trunk. He looked closer and- ah. Torch was holding the bright yellow gerbera daisy. One by one he picked at its petals and one by one he threw them out and down into the crowd. A reminder to keep seeing their colours in spite of tragedy, something they once all did for Clancy. A distraction. Hope. A little colourful daisy holding all the answers inside its soft, rounded petals.
Clancy managed to catch one. He placed it gently in his palm and traced over it with his finger. It was so delicate, the petal could snap at any moment. Clancy gave it an almost pitying look, but it was mostly full of fear. He was now solely responsible for if it broke or not, and with all the meaning it held to so many people, he felt as though it was a disservice to them if he so much as thought of damaging it. It was a symbol, but a fragile one. Enough pressure and…
He looked up, passed the crowd and passed the roaring bonfire, up at Torchbearer in the trees. Much to Clancy’s surprise, Torch was looking back at him with the same face Clancy had just had. Fear.