In the far away land of Varn, the city prepares for a strange holiday. Whispers of flying beasts pulling a human about on a sled meet mouth to ear. The smithy has gather some ka-la-na wood at the cove and with help from a couple citizens they erect a pyramid structure. The perfumer meanwhile, hands out the finest oils in the land to the women of the village, who make their way to the cove. With faces covered and swollen eyes they lift the jars pouring the liquid upon the wood, soaking it with its contents. Down one lane, four warriors gather and position on their shoulders crossed spears with a lifeless body strapped to it. In unity, they shuffle through the city carrying the one fallen warrior.
Gorean’s being noble and not the type to display emotions on their sleeves, without a sound, heads bow and clinched fists pound chests as the procession passes them. An eerie quiet falls over the entire city as the pack makes their way to the cove. The gulls overhead and all the wildlife seem to fall silent as well. Even the mighty Thassa rescinds her relentless waves, becoming smooth as glass in a windowpane. The quartet hauls in front of the wood structure resting on the sands on the cove. They shuffle a bit, steadying themselves and with a grunt that echoes past trees and rocks, rumbling down every alley of the city, they lift the wooden stretcher borne on their shoulders, up and place it gently down on top of the pyre.
From the meager gathering one figure steps forward holding a torch trembling in hand. His lover holds out a torch and firmly states, “My brother… Marc… may your journeying to the cities of dust be swift and uneventful”. He kneels down on one knee reaching out with the torch gripped firmly in hand, touches the pyre. The flames leap from the torch and within an inh engulfs the structure with a resounding whoosh. Standing back up he takes one step backward to rejoin the gathering. Arms reach out from the mourners as hands find their placed upon his shoulder in unity and support.
“I sat in the darkness and wondered on honor, and courage. If they were shams, I thought them most precious shams. How else could we tell ourselves from urts and sleen? What distinguishes us from such beasts? The ability to multiply and subtract, to tell lies, to make knives? No, I think particularly it is the sense of honor, and the will to hold one’s ground.
~ (Marauders of Gor, p.6)
Even though death may be final, memories and honor are everlasting. If one speaks his name, he is not lost. At the garden in front of the temple in Varn an memorial has been erected for those who wish to speak their names again. Ga va shiva, meh ne kar sheku, ja’hesa.