Chapter Text
The flames from the funeral pyre rose steadily towards the night sky, the moon hanging blood red and swollen behind a thin layer of dirty looking clouds. There was a large crowd gathered around, a few hundred people at the very least, sobbing and singing the ancient funeral hymns to the best of their ability. The pyre itself was built in the centre of a large field, on the south side of a giant obelisk with an intricate pattern of symbols and writings carved into its black surface. Between the obelisk and the pyre stood a man, tall and lean, with shoulder length hair the same colour as the flames licking at flesh and wood and, eyes as green as the filed in summer, dressed head to toe in black – making his fair skin seem positively luminous against the darker background. He had a short beard, the same firey shade as his hair, and he wore a simple gold circlet around his head, but on him it seemed more regal and dignified than all the jewellery and precious metals ever would on an emperor in the centre regions. There was little use for luxury in these parts, not that this man needed it. He emanated such an aura of authority and calm control that no one would ever mistake him for anything other than the ruler of this land, the warchief. Standing slightly of to his left side was a woman, almost taller than him, with pale blonde hair and eyes a piercing blue that seemed to see through anything. She had the stance of a true warrior, and she was indeed. No man or woman in this land would draw their weapon at her if they had any say in the matter. He was Braith Hux, son of Brendol, and before his thirtieth naming day, he’d conquered five territories that his father had been struggling to even invade for two decades. Her name was Phasma, daughter of Isolde, and she was his cousin and commander of his high guard.
The body on the pyre had belonged to the Crow, the man who had been the warchief’s advisor, mentor, and spiritual guide since he was born. The Crows were strange creatures, wearing midnight all their lives, trained in the giving and taking of life and death, wielding the power to bend the world and the minds of others to their will, and bearing within them a bloodlust to rival armies. The Crows were sacred, and once they were sworn to the service of their chieftain, they remained so for life. It was the warchief who wielded the powers of the Crow, who was responsible for their actions, for their safety and well-being. This duty between warchief and Crow was considered more sacred than marriage and blood. A Crow was a child of the old Gods, and the warchief who laid his hand on his Crow in anger was a warchief soon to be dead. This Crow, Tarkin, had been Hux’ grandfather’s Crow before, then his father’s, and he had been Hux’ Crow for nearly seven years before his long life finally caught up with him. At the ripe age of ninety-seven, Tarkin was more than happy to go back to the Halls of the Ancestors. A new Crow would find their way here. These things were laws of nature. Never would a good warchief find himself without a Crow for too long; as long as the Gods favoured him, Hux would not have to see his nest empty of sweeping black robes, and the castle towers void of the fluttering of hundreds of midnight wings for more than a few weeks. It would be a few anxious weeks, regardless. A land without a Crow had only half a leadership, and half a leadership was a weak leadership. Even Hux and Phasma’s bloody reputations might not be enough to keep the opportunists at bay.
The pyre slowly burned itself out, and when the sunlight began to touch the horizon enormous flock of black birds of all kinds that had been occupying every single tree around the field gave a unison caw, and then they rose high in the air, and scattered in a thousand directions. The singing stopped. Tarkin’s soul had found its way home. He was no more. Hux nodded at Phasma and made his way around the pile of smoking ashes, and the crowd parted for him as he walked away from the field and back towards his castle. The silence was almost loud in the air as his people, his clan, began to follow. There would be no more words until after sleep. They would not risk Tarkin’s rest by speaking of him before the sun was high in the sky again. A selected few remained behind to gently gather the old man’s bones and place them in the sacred Cave by the sea, together with the bones of all the Crows before him. Then the ashes would be gathered to use as fertilization for the Garden of Healing, death bringing life – a complete cycle.
Hux put the circlet down on a small table next to his bed, before washing his face clean of any signs of ashes or tears. Crying had its time, and that time had passed now. Shedding his funeral clothes, the warchief tried to keep his mind as blank as he could, not wanting to face the thought of a new Crow in this castle just yet. Tarkin had told him stories, when he was a little one, about the Crows and the powers they had. Tarkin himself hadn’t been very strong with the Force, as he had called it. He could do what he was expected to, of course, but he was of no more than average talent in that regard. It had always struck Hux as odd how he seemed so accepting, even grateful for this. Just before his official rite of passage into manhood, Hux had finally asked him about it. Tarkin had smiled, and told him about the Force, and about the Knights. The Knights of Ren, he had called them – had whispered the name as if he wasn’t allowed to say it out loud. They were the sons and daughters of Death herself, born with a power that made Tarkin’s seem like an ant’s in comparison. Hux had protested, said that Tarkin’s power was truly impressive and that he was so much stronger than the other Crows Hux had seen. Surely he was just jesting. Pain had flashed across Tarkin’s features before smiling at the young lad. No, he had said. The Knights of Ren were not men or women, they were half gods, demons, creatures devoted to and devoured by the very Force that gave them life. One of them could slaughter the Hux clan’s entire army in a day if they so wished. They could not be made to heel, could not be controlled like Tarkin could. A warchief who was given the responsibility for a Knight would have to find a wholly different way of gaining his Crow’s trust and allegiance than a mere bonding ceremony. They were chaos, destruction – Hux had to understand that – but they were also plagued by their power, slaves under forces larger than the will of any warchief. The Knights were equal parts blessing and curse to any clan they made their home within. He should pray for an average one. For someone like Tarkin, with a sharp mind and gentle words – displaying the Force only when the need was dire. A Knight could be either his path to conquering the world, or to a swift and bloody death. It would be impossible to know beforehand, it always was with the Knights. They warped the fabric of the world around them. Since then, Hux had been plagued, too. Plagued by dreams of black clad figures watching him from the shadows, towering over him in his sleep. Of daggers in the night, of poison in his blood, of gods and monsters. But Hux knew they were just dreams. He was a warchief. Only Crows dreamt the future. Only Crows could know what the Gods wanted. For now, Hux could only wait.