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Fjord is the first to go. None of them are prepared, the implications of his greying temples and creaking hands not sinking in. He slowly shifts from the ports to the porch, leaning back in a chair of wicker and smiling at the children who gather. It’s hard to see a half orc age- and he has been grey for as long as they’ve known him. Jester wakes and he is cold in the bed beside her.
Caleb is next. They see it happen now, the flimsy human. His copper hair streaks white, and his back is curved from so many hours over dusty pages. Hands are stained with ink from spells upon spells. He is at the Brenatto home, as he is every day. They fall asleep on the couch together, him and his best friend. She wakes at midnight, and feels his breaths slow. Stop. It is peaceful, and he is at peace.
A decade later, Beau goes. Fighting, of course, fists hardly slowed by uncooperative muscles. She discourages a thief, but not before they get in hits of their own. She dies in a temple, wife beside her, a smirk on her face, and one last scar on her ribs.
Jester has been pulled into the garden by an insistent halfling child, and she smiles as he shows her his new bed. She helps him plant, even though her tail droops. She leans against a tree, closes her eyes, catches her breath. Feels a voice like bells and laughter against her neck, and drifts away on the breeze.
They bury Yasha in what has become their part of the ‘Grove. It is overrun with flora, and she is placed in a collection of daffodils. It storms for hours, after, and leaves the stone sparkling. It does not read Orphan-Maker and it is not blank. It is a better fate than she would have ever thought for herself, and exactly what is deserved.
Caduceus buries them all, in the corner of the graveyard that has always been for them. When Nott passes, it is her . Her eyes are a faded brown, and her body is what she should have grown old in. She is buried with her trinkets, her collections. Buttons line her braid, ribbons sewn into her dress, pebbles in her pockets.
As Caduceus grows old, he retires to the Blooming Grove. His eyes mist and fur whitens. When visitors come, as they do, when they ply him for stories, as they will, he tells them. Not of a warlock, or a pact. Not of the zealot, or of beacons or wars. He tells them instead, in a steady voice over tea, of a sailor. A voice of caution, a loyal friend, a scholar and a trickster, and a gentle soul. These are not the stories they crave, but they are needed. They are clouded by memory, but they are in the world, now, where they should be.
He sits in the grass, and listens to the gentle words of the Wildmother. His back rests against a smooth stone, and he looks for all intents to be taking a nap, when the aide finds him the next morning.