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[Brendan]

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Time holds sway only with the living. The steady march toward the grave is punctuated and hastened urgently by the beating of a heart, and the drawing of breath. Every moment has a pulse, and each new pulse brings you one second closer to death.

Brendan watched across the flames as the dead stood straight and still at odd angles, their expressions confused, and watched the chaos amidst the fire. They were no longer frantic, no longer screaming in anguish. Peace had descended here in this place, but still the living fought for what was already lost.

Every movement was slowed, every intricacy of the moment magnified like motes of dust in a shaft of sunlight. The great white dog turned, baring fangs, snarling, snapping at any who dared approach his Countess. The Countess herself, whose eyes pooled with untold fear and sorrow as she screamed and fell to her knees, overcome by a madness that was tangible, and very nearly visible, to those in this new plane of existence. And then there were the others…

A golden-armoured cleric who pulled an infant and a gypsy girl from the fire, bursting through infernal barricades of fire to take them from this place and put them where they would be safe.

A gypsy priestess who claimed her wanderer from the fire and knelt before him, daring the flames to try and take him from her.

A sunny-haired paladin who angled for access to the Countess herself, sword drawn, and reached for her as she fell to the ground.

A dark-haired man with a lost expression, ever loyal to his Countess, finding himself now crossing the divide between loyalty and duty. And still held at bay from either by the menacing teeth of one who knows only loyalty.

And the dead themselves, who stood still amidst the chaos and looked to one another as much as they did to the scene that unfolded. And then, unbeknownst to those who still struggled, the camp was awash with the movement of spirits who no longer found themselves confined by the constraints of humanity.

Cautiously, Brendan reached out a hand and placed it upon the white dog as it lunged for the golden-haired knight, and the dog stayed its attack for the briefest moment. The knight caught the Countess by the arm and lifted her, struggling, from the flames.

Across the camp, a lost soul crouched before the priestess and the dying wanderer, and held her hands out, palms facing the fire, as the priestess whispered tearful prayers for protection. And the flames retreated.

Outside the palisades, one poor soul knelt over the forms of the children who lay in the dust and blew breath into their bodies as the golden cleric bade them quietly to breathe.

All these things manifested hope in the hearts of the living and quelled the fires that burned within, since they could not extinguish those which consumed the camp and incinerated the flesh of those who had now moved beyond.

Hope would be not only food and medicine for their bodies, but also healing for their hearts, and strength for their souls. They would mourn, each and every one of them in their own way. But they would mend. And the flames would die with the memory of the screams. Soft rains would come to wash away the ashes and renew the earth again.

And they would learn, as indeed these few had today as they assuaged the weary who waged battle amidst the conflagration, that death is not the end, but in all ways a new beginning.