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Findol sits beside the door to the great hall, on the ground, his back leaning against the building. A grand building of wood and stone. A monument. It's been rebuilt and refurbished many times over the centuries. It stands in the heart of nowhere. Hidden away by woods and wilderness for miles in any direction. Other satyrs travel from across the world to be here every four years. It's a sacred rite. None would dream of missing it, if they can help it.

There are few though, who hold this place closer in their heart than Findol. So much so, he lives in these very woods himself. Keeping an eye on the place. He keeps the key on him, always, for when it's time to open it's doors again. For the Mourning and the Revelry. For the holiday.

Every four years he's the first one here. He unlocks the door. Then waits beside it patiently, for a week or so, greeting every single one of his kin who enters by name. Sometimes they give him a name, someone else's. The name of someone he won't be greeting this time, or after. Those names he puts in his book, a large leather bound tome, with no title, that rests on his lap.

It pains him to do so. But it's how he helps. Another one of his little contributions to the whole thing. To know everyone's name. To keep a record of the dead. To remember them. Satyrs can't have children. When the last is gone, the book will be the only thing left.

There's a big crowd today. A lot of his kin have arrived this morning. He doesn't mind greeting each one at a time. Doesn't mind chatting with each for a moment, before they head inside. It's comforting to still see so many. Even though his list gets a little longer every time, a few less to greet every time, there's still so many out there. And they all come here for the satyr's holiday. They all see Findol's smiling, sheep-like face, on their way in.

There's something else in the crowd this time. Findol has to blink, to make sure it's real. There's a human, making it's way toward him. And his best friend Ezekiel walks with it.

Findol sets the book aside and stands up straight. Bewildered. He locks the door and puts himself in front of it. Ezekiel does not wait in line. He is a goliath, even among his kind. Decades of fighting, tooth and nail, against the world's most monstrous creatures, has shaped the stag satyr as such. Each satyr has their vices. Adrenaline is one of Ezekiel's. Defying death, is another. The crowd parts for him and the human. Ezekiel keeps a hand on Simon for reassurance.

"Don't say anything." Ezekiel instructs Simon quietly. The faces of satyrs, resembling various cervidae and bovidae, loom over the human. "Don't look them in the eyes, not until I say you can."

Ezekial stops walking abruptly. He holds Simon, who's staring straight down, from taking another step. Findol has always been scrawny for his kind. The runt of the litter Despite this, he plants his hooves down in front of the doorway, arms crossed defiantly.

"Findol." Ezekiel nods.

"Lashantir! Ezekiel!" Findol greets his friend by both of his names, satyr and human. It's Findol's job to remember names. And he knows his friend is fond of both, for different reasons. "Which one do we prefer this time?"

"Ezekiel."

"I'll keep that in mind for this go around. I can't promise not to slip up during the reveling though!" Findol warns whimsically. "Don't you hold it against me when I'm out of my mind."

"You're in my way." Ezekial points out, with his signature bluntness Findol knows well.

"I'm in it's way." Findol gestures to Simon. "You, my friend, are always more than welcome! I always keep an eye out for you. I dread the day a monster finally bests our own, home-grown dragonslayer!"

"Alright." Ezekiel rolls his eyes "I'll play semantics. Your in HIS way. Simon's. And you're going to greet him too. Your going to welcome him in." Ezekial states, as if it is already an absolute fact.

"HE, can't be here!" Findol snarls "This is sacred!"

"He will be a part of it, because I say he can. Because I say he will."

"That is against the rules! I'm not going to let you bully me out of the way. You'll have to pry me out from this doorway."

Ezekiel considers resolving this the way Findol suggested. But he also considers that Findol a close friend too. Since the very beginning.

"There are no rules for this. Never were. We made them all up as we went. I'm making one now." Ezekiel shakes the heavy hand resting on Simon's shoulder. "He will be part of our mourning. He will hear our songs. He is my son!"

If there were any satyrs who had not fully invested their attention, there are none now. It takes Findol a minute to even think of a response. The statement is so bafflingly absurd to him. This whole exchange is.

"We have no sons! This is insane!"

"I do."

It's... hard to respond to that... impossibly hard. Findol can't think of a way that wouldn't be awful. That wouldn't make him feel guilty... that wouldn't result in Ezekiel likely sending Findol straight through the door itself, horns first, like a battering... well... ram...

So he elects to say nothing. Findol remains firmly in place, silent instead, stomping his hoofs deeper into the dirt.

"Look, I'm not asking you to be kind to him or even acknowledge him. He's not going to be in the revelry afterwards. I DON'T WANT HIM IN THE REVELY! just to be clear!" Ezekiels lets out a long breath. "Just let him listen to the songs. I'll make sure he stays quiet... Who's on the list this time?"

Findol's eyes drift to his book, set carefully on the ground beside him. His rightous indignation, his fiery will to protect the closest thing his kind have to a temple, fades quickly, into something far less spirited. Far more vulnerable.

"...Sahren... He is one of the names. The one I'll sing for..." Findol is visibly pained to say this. A grief cracking his voice. "I wrote him in not long ago..."

"I'm sorry Findol." Ezekiel makes an effort to speak softer than before. "Let the boy be here to hear. Another ear to remember. He'll be respectful. I swear it. Let him honour Sahren too."

Findol sways uneasily. Ezekiel outstretches his arms, offering embrace. Findol takes the offer immediately, falling against him. He weeps against Ezekiel, his chest heaving. The cries of a wounded animal bellow out from Findol as Ezekiel wraps his arms around his lifelong friend, holding him upright. If it takes any effort to hold Findol up, Ezekiel doesn't show any of it. Doesn't say anything. Only patiently waits for it to end, for Findol to find some consolation.

When the sobbing does ends. Findol pushes away, wobbling some as he gets a hold of himself. He looks down at Simon and nods. Ezekiel pats the boy's shoulder, and Simon meets Findol's gaze with his own.

"Simon" Findol greets him by name, as he does everyone, everytime... usually with a voice less strained from crying.

He clicks his key back inside the door, unlocking it. Then steps aside from the entrance.

"I'll join you soon." He croaks to Ezekial "I need a moment longer. And there's still others to greet..."

As Ezekiel and Simon enter, they can hear Findol vomit his heart and soul onto the ground.

Findol wipes away the bile from his lips, shakes his head, and goes right back to smiling. To greeting every other guest. None of them question him. They know he's in pain, even if he's not wearing it on his face.

Eventually, Findol turns to greet the next satyr, only to see there's nobody left. That's all. They're all inside, waiting for the Mourning, the part Findol orchestrates. Waiting for the songs. He picks up his book, holding it close to his chest with one arm.

"This is gunna be a rough one" he tells the book. "I just have to get through it. Normally, you'd say something positive... Or something so stupid, that I'd have to smile."

Findol does smile, genuinely this time, just a little.

"It's gunna be hard without you. But I'll be strong." Findol states with confidence. With self assurance. "You're song will be beautiful! I promise!"

He kisses the book's cover, lightly, then heads inside himself. He's always the last to enter. Everyone is here.

Inside the great hall, the place is stuffed with satyrs. A massive, guard railed fireplace, stretching down the center of the hall, provides warmth and light, along with lanterns hung from wall hooks around the perimeter. Food of all kinds is being cooked in the hall's kitchen. To be served with drinks from across the world. The scents intermingle in transit as they flow past, along with so many voices. The fireplace ends, and a bit further, a grand stage begins. Stairs lead up to the raised platform on both sides. A stone podium in it's center-front. The hard wood floors, a more recent addition to the hall's design, are already scuffed from countless pairs of hooves of all shapes. They'll probably just go back to packed dirt if they ever... when they ever need to rebuild the hall again. The wooden walls have been carved with all kinds of graffito. Some, of better quality than others. Some more vulgar than others. Maybe one human is fine. Findol can barely notice them in this crowd anyway. Everything's perfect.

It's paradise!

Well...

It's almost paradise...

Findol makes his way up the steps of the stage, setting his book on the podium. He gathers everyone's attention. Asks that they take their seats, and everything is served. Findol always starts things off, before passing things over to whoever is acting as host for the Revelry side of things. This is likely the most polite the satyrs will be for the whole four years until the next holiday. They owe it to the ones who can't make it. They show respect for the Mourning. For Findol's side of the holiday. On stage, he decides which songs in the book, which names, will be sung this time and in what order. The only real rule is that the new names, the ones added since the last Mourning, must have their song sung at some point during this one. So everyone gets to be honoured at least once. He used to just go through them all every time, but that became harder to manage with the book's pages slowly filling a bit more and more.

One at a time, Findol goes through his list he's picked for this Mourning. Each name has a song specific to it. Composed and first performed by someone determined to have been the closest to the named deceased. The one who would "know their song best". This satyr composes and performs it for the first time, and the others learn it. After that, if the name is called again in future Mournings, either the original composer may step up, or another who knows the song if the composer is absent, or also deceased. Most of the songs are not written down. Mostly just the names. Satyrs can recall most of the songs just from the name of the deceased they were composed for. They are exceptional at remembering music.

Once a name is called from the book, and a performer is determined. the performer takes the stage from Findol. As they stand before the others, they begin to direct the crowd with their hands. Acting as a conductor as well as a singer. Each other satyr begins to stamp a hoof against the floor, until they all have a matched rhythm. Only then does the one begin to sing. Throughout their singing, the performer's hands dance to guide the other satyrs on their parts. A complex sign language of signals. The crowd pays rapt attention for each que. Every shift, pause, or signal directed to them to shift rhythm, sing along, stomp, clap, or lend their voice to the chorus or choir. The hands tell them what notes they need to hit. Exactly what they need to do. Then it's passed back to Findol. To read another name, and find another performer. Back and forth. All stamp their hooves, and play their part during the songs.

Except Findol...

He doesn't sing along this time... A ritual which has so often brought him warmth and community, today, fills him with dread. There's a cold fear that runs through him, as each new satyr steps up before the others. It grows more and more frigid, it draws nearer and nearer to his turn to sing the one he would know best. The one he has recently composed.

Each song sounds like any other drinking song you'd hear passing a tavern, and think nothing of. Each is boisterous, vulger, crass, and sung raucously. But listening closely to the words, each is about a person. A person gone. Their life, their adventures, even jests on the nature of their death, each sung with a powerful vigor. Each with an uplifting spirit. Each sung for and about someone who won't ever hear it.

When there's only one name left on the list. Findol slowly makes his way up the steps. He does not do so with the confidence he's always shown on stage. Not this time. It's his turn...

"Sahren... I'll be singing this one."

Even when he had to sing for close friends before, it never felt dreadful like this. It always felt like he was doing them a service. Sharing their life story, to be immortalized. It always stung to know they were gone, but he was always so honoured to do all this... to perform their death song for the very first time for everyone to hear... to remember...

Not this time.

It feels horrid.

It takes a noticeably long time for him to start...

When he begins, it's just like the others. A light hearted story of Sahren's life. No one else would know it better than Findol. It's every bit as high spirited as the others. Funny little stories Sahren shared with Findol about his misadventures before they met. Findol is loud, he is confident, he is determined!

Until he isn't...

Findol starts to sing about their love. About the clumsy, awkward start of their relationship. About their sordid, raunchy behavior at each Revelry, and in between. About all the little pet peeves they had with each other...

And then he loses the tune. The script drains away from his mind.

The song becomes discordant, jarring against the rhythm and out of pitch. His hands slow and offer conflicting directions. The stamping begins to fade as the satyr's start to take notice. This is not ordinary.

He sings about the way Sahren's fur smelled when they held each other close. About the look Sahren had, that always told him when he was in trouble. About how he always woke up first, and Sahren would be the first thing he would see every day...

The singing stops. His voice breaks, choking on the lump in his throat. He strains to keep going. But can only quietly whimper onward. He stops trying to rhyme. His hands fall still, onto the stone podium in front of him.

"He... He was such a bad cook..." the fur beneath his eyes dampens. "He burned everything. I used to complain... I'm never going to taste it ever again... I'm sorry..."

Some of the satyrs, on both sides of the room, put down their drinks. They start to make their way to the steps up the sides of the stage.

"I... I want to wake up!" Findol starts to weep, leaning his weight onto the stone podium before him. Feeling like he will collapse. "When am I going to wake up? I want to see him, still asleep, in front of me! He... his face twitches... when he dreams..."

The satyrs lay gentle but firm hands on him, and attempt guide him off the stage. His fingers clench onto the sides of the podium instead. White knuckled. The desperate grip of someone drowning.

"NO! I want to wake up now! I want to open my eyes!" Findol screams, pleading to his nightmare. Begging it to finally let him go. "I can't be here! Don't make him a song! PLEASE! I DON'T WANT TO SING THIS!"

Findol forces his weeping eyes open, Through the tears and pain. There's no Sahren. No early morning light shining on the love of his life. Just a room of blurred onlookers. Barely able to look him in the eyes.

"No..." Findol barely chokes out. Defeated. His heart is splinters. The tears from his face stain the ink on the open page. Stains Sahren's name. His hands loosen. The other satyrs silently walk him off the stage, each helping to carry his weight as he staggers, barely able to stand. "He was just here... He can't be a song. He can't be dead..."

After Findol is escorted outsids, another final satyr takes the stage, apprehensively, and delivers Findol's usual outro by memory.

"That's it for the death songs. Keep them well in your hearts. We'll all be singing yours one day too. But enough with the Mourning! You all know how we wash down our sorrows! How we drown our grief! To the Revelry!"

Everyone cheers. They clamour for the doors like a stampede, eager for the main events. Weeks, maybe even months of the great Revelry. The big one. Nobody throws a celebration like the satyrs. It's part of the reason their holiday is four years apart... and why they'd drop everything to travel across any distance to make it here. No expense is spared. Only a few stragglers remain inside.

Ezekiel stays seated. Simon gets up to follow the crowd, but Ezekiel's paw pulls him back beside him

"Not you."

"What happens during the Revelry?"

"I'll tell you next time. You'll be a little older by then. Old enough to know."

"So we only came out here, weeks on the road, days through these woods, to listen to songs?"

"Yes. And we'll do it all again next time. I've never missed a single one. I helped set up the first one of these, a little. It was mostly Findol. The old sheep always a better head for it. He thought to do the songs. He even came up with the hand signals for them. Most of the signs anyway. He'd get everyone together, I'd make sure they'd sit still. Trust me. You'll look forward to these one day. Especially when you're older. You'll beg me to bring you."

"He didn't seem to like the singing part."

"He's..." Ezekiel considers his choice of words, deliberating the exact ones "He's got a different kind of heart, from the rest of us. We're all built a little different... He'll be ok. Just needs time. He's actually very good, my favorite singer."

"Do you sing?"

Ezekiel laughs "Me!? Alright, maybe a few times. But that's not something you'd want to hear. Ever."

Ezekiel stands up and stretches.

"Are you heading to the Revelry?"

"And leave you here? Alone? No! You wish! Besides, Findol would kill me... I'll pass this time. I'll live without it. I just have to use the latrine, I'll be back."

Ezekiel makes his way across the hall, as Findol walks back in. He looks disheveled.

"Why aren't you out there?" Ezekiel asks "With the rest of them?"

"It's not the same." Findol answers, gutteral and rasped. His eyes are red and heavy. "Their all scorching their minds, trying to forget. I don't want to forget."

"Get some water in you. You sound like your dying... look, we'll talk when I get back. I'm worried about you."

Findol musters up a grin "You're right about the dying part!" He jests "You'd better hurry up before I drop! Could be any minute."

Ezekial pats his friend on the back before passing him by. Findol smiles, and keeps smiling, until Ezekiel leaves through one of the doors outside. When the door swings entirely shut, Findol's smile drops. His ear twitches, and he turns towards Simon. As he walks up to the young human, he nearly stumbles over, banging his hoof on a stool. His eyes don't break from Simon's. it doesn't slow him down any. It scares the boy.

"Your kind..." Findol wheezes. Leaning forward towards Simon "You believe in an afterlife? Lashantir said you do. Told me you do."

"There's a lot of us... We believe a lot of things..."

"Not what I asked!"

One of the other satyrs tries to intercede. Findol grabs a bottle from a table and throws it at them, with unrestrained force. The thick glass doesn't shatter, but it strikes their head. They tumble backwards and crash into another table, toppling it. They don't get up. Findol grabs Simon, crouching closer to his height.

"Just tell me!" Findol demands as Simon struggles "Tell me what it's like on the other side! I need to know!"

"Get Ezekiel" another satyr shouts. Multiple rush outside. Faster than any human could run.

"I don't know!" Simon shouts back "I don't know!"

"What do you mean you don't know?" Findol asks lower, more a growl than a question "You have to know something..."

Findol's ears drop, there's nothing but fear in Simon's eyes. Findol starts to come to his senses. Realizing he's terrifying the boy. He lets go of Simon, who runs to the far side of the room.

"I just want to know..."

Findol's ears shoot back up when the outside door burst back open, nearly off it's hinges. The consequences...

His heart skips a beat. As Ezekiel stomps towards him.

"Lashan-, Ezekiel! We're friends!" Findol stands up, shakily, and backs away.

Ezekiel doesn't say anything. But his eyes tell everything Findol needs to know.

"I fucked up! I'm sorry! I fucked up bad!"

"Get the door!" Ezekial commands past Findol. "And watch Simon!"

Findol spins around to see a satyr behind him nod, then swing open the door to a storage room.

"Wait! Why!?" Findol turns back to Ezekiel as he finishes closing the gap. "Don't hurt me! WE'RE FRIENDS FOR GOD'S SAKE! EZEKIAL!? DON'T HURT ME!"

Ezekiel clamps a hand onto one of Findol's ram horns.

"You don't have to-!"

He is cut off by his own bleating. By his own feral cries as Ezekiel drags him by the horn, kicking and thrashing, into the room.

The door closes.

Ezekiel lifts Findol with both hands and throws him backwards against the barrels in the storage room. The hanging lantern illuminating the room sways as some of the barrels topple over.

"Get up." Ezekiel demands.

"Lashantir! I taught you to read! I'd tell you stories when we'd camp! I remember your favorite poems!"

"GET! UP!"

Findol scrambles up to his feet. Holding his hands up between the two of them.

"You saved me from direwolves! They stalked me for days. You're my hero! I can't fight to save my life! I've always admired you so much!"

"The barrel." Ezekiel points to an upright one beside Findol, whose eyes follow. "open it!"

"Why?"

"OPEN IT!"

"Ok! Ok." Findol pries off the lid of the barrel with the pointed fips of his hoofed fingers. He looks inside

"It's, just water?"

Ezekiel grabs Findol by his ram horns and plunges his head under the water. The barrel shakes and sloshes. Findol doesn't even have time to hold his breath. His lungs start to take in water immediately.

This is it! He's killing me!

The thoughts surge through Findol's mind as he struggles for air.

I'm dead! My best friend is killing me!

But he's pulled back out. Water fountains out of his mouth as he coughs violently. His nostrils burn. He struggles to form words between each inhalation. He forces himself to plea regardless.

"NOT AGAIN! NO MORE!" Findol begs. His arms flail some, but they're already so exhausted."I FUCKED UP! I'M SORRY!"

Ezekiel, still holding Findol by his horns, deliberates internally.

"I GET IT! YOUR SON! I SCARED YOUR SON!" Findol hacks and gasps. "DON'T DO THIS! DON'T KILL ME EZEKIEL!"

Ezekiel lets go of Findols horns, and steps back. Findol collapses onto the ground. Still coughing.

"I'd never do that..." Ezekiel says, calming down.

"You could've fooled me!" Findol starts to laugh, an unbelievable wave of relief washing over him, but it's still more coughing than laughter. "I guess you're off the hook..."

"For what?"

"If you did kill me, you'd have to make damn good song for me afterwards!"

He shakes as he tries to pick himself up. He gives up, and settles for sitting on the floor facing Ezekiel.

"With Sahren gone. I think it'd be your responsibility to compose mine."

"Do I leave in the part where you horrified a child?"

"I didn't want to... Or... I dunno. Maybe I did, a little. I wasn't thinking. Please believe me Ezekiel. I wasn't thinking."

"How about the part where you knocked out one of your kin with a bottle"

"With one throw! A perfect toss! You damn well BETTER keep that in there! I didn't even know I could do that."

There's a long silence. Before Ezekiel sits on the floor too, in front of Findol.

"You're centuries older than Simon."

"I know." Findol's face sags with guilt.

"You're as old as me!"

"I know! I know."

"So why are you asking him to decide your beliefs? To tell you about an afterlife? You think he knows any more than you?"

"I dunno, I was kinda hoping. Yeah."

Ezekiel shakes his head.

"I don't see many of them out here Ezekiel. They don't really come out this far. I mostly hear about them from you... We can't all cross into their world like you can. Hell, I'd be too scared to honestly... I'm just the doorman. Just the bookkeeper... The funeral director..."

"He can't give you the answers."

"Right... I know... We never talk like this! Not anymore. Since you found your calling... Since I got married... Is this what it takes? For you to fucking drown me?" Findol haggardly smiles "You should have told me sooner! We could've been doing this all the time!"

"You weigh a lot less than you used to..."

"You would know."

"Have you been eating?"

"No... Not much. I just don't want to... "

Findol pauses, his eyes shut, and his head droops before it shoots back up. He continues.

"You're out there seeing the whole world... I'll still be here. You always know where to find me! That's for sure. And now you're a family man too? You should do parties, you can juggle a lot at once."

"You don't have to stay here."

"You'd take me with you sometime again? I always used to think I was a burden. When we used to travel..."

"A burden? No. Annoying? Yes."

"Haha! I'll take that. I can live with that!"

Findol struggles to stay sitting up. He leans his back against a barrel

"Ezekiel... You worship another god, right?"

"Worship is a strong word. I took some vows. It's part of my work."

"Can you ask?"

"Ask who? Ask my new god?"

"Yeah. They have a heaven, right? I read that somewhere in a book someone brought me. Can you ask if they can find him? If they can let him inside? He deserves paradise. I could vouch for him!"

"Findol..."

"I never asked Dionysus... Back when he was around. Never even thought to ask if there was anything after, for us... If we even have souls..."

"NONE of us did much thinking back then, Findol." Ezekiel gestures to his head "There wasn't any room for it."

"I don't need an answer. It's ok. They don't have to say yes. Just promise you'll ask them. He... he should be more than just a song. Just a memory..."

Ezekiel drags his hand down his mouth and chin. Then rests his head against his fist.

"I'll try." Ezekiel promises. It is difficult for Ezekial to hide how much it hurts him to see Findol in such a state. To know he's wasting away. He can't tell him the truth. That even he isn't sure if there's an afterlife. His eyes give it away. A kind of existential dread. One Ezekiel rarely permits himself to dwell on.

"It's ok. Don't go out of your way... Forget it."

Findol's eyes start to flutter shut. He starts to slump over but he catches himself in time and keeps awake. For now.

"I'm tired Ezekiel... I'm so fucking tired. I'm gunna fall asleep. But I wanna talk. I want to know you again. Meet your son, apologize. Will you still be here when I wake up?"

"I'll be around. I'll check on you."

"Thank you." It's the most sincere thanks Findol has ever given. The most genuine gratitude. And he starts to drift away.

"And you're going to eat when you get up."

"Ok... Since your gunna make me... I guess I could..."

Ezekiel says something else, as he stands himself back up. Findol never hears it. He loses consciousness. It's the first sleep he's had in nearly a week. Ezekiel finds something to cover Findol with.

"Goodnight."

A chill breeze snaps Findol awake. He's not indoors anymore.

"Ezekiel!? Where are you?"

Findol's eyes adjust and his mind catches up. He's at his post, beside the door. The guests are starting to arrive.

"Oh... That was ages ago..."

There's a meloncholic nostalgia in Findol as he stands up. He was really looking forward to spending time with Ezekiel. Even if it was just reliving memories. At least he should be here soon.

Findol produces his key and unlocks the door. Then sits back beside it, back against the wall. He picks up his book from the grass and sets it on his lap. Guests start approaching. He greets them each. Occasionally adding a name on a page for someone who won't be attending. Ever.

Between each greeting he scans the crowd. More and more arrive. But not Ezekiel. Hours pass. The crowd thins and dwindles. He isn't coming...

Findol knows better than to believe Ezekiel couldn't make it. He's never missed a single one.

Instead, An old man emerges from the woods, who needs a cane to walk. Camping supplies are hung over his back. This place is remote. Deep in the wilderness. It must have taken the old man a week to trek out here from the nearest road. The few remaining satyrs let him pass by.

Findol steadies himself, knowing the blow that the man is here to deliver will hurt. The man's face has changed so much over time. Findol's remains the same. Satyrs don't age like humans do. They do far, far slower. Barely at all.

"Simon..." Findol greets, with a nod. As he would any other satyr. "You're here... alone?"

"I have one for the list." Simon says solemnly "Ezekiel was the name I first knew. Lashantir was his birth name."

Findol writes both. Two names just for his best friend. Double the page space of anyone else. It's agonizing to see the letters form, one by one. To have to put him there.

"I'll prepare a song for him. I am his friend." Findol uses professionalism to mask his pain. "Thank you for informing me. It couldn't have been easy to get here... all by yourself..."

Findol stops himself from sinking. Not in front of Ezekiel's son.

"You're lucky you got here when you did!" Findol feigns a jovial spirit "Today's the last day for arrivals! You are welcome to be here for the songs! I'm sure... sure you'll want to hear Ezekiel's."

"I'll sing one for him. If I've your permission."

The request catches Findol off guard. Only satyrs have ever sung for one another. But there were never really any rules... and honestly, the idea brightens his mood a little. Simon has never sang at the Mourning. It'd be something new! And maybe beautiful.

"I don't knooow... ah hell! Why not! None would know it better than you." Findol shuts his book, and sits up. He is eager to help however possible. "Do you know how to conduct? Will you need help? I can show you the signs..."

"I think I'll manage just fine. I've been here a few times."

"I know. You are hard to miss. Just like he was."

Findol stands. Simon is even taller than him now, though Findol is short for his kind. He wraps a wooly arm around Simon, and holds him close. Careful to remember his strength compared to the old man.

"It will be difficult. If you change your mind. I will be there to help. You only have to signal me if it becomes too hard to continue."

"Thank you Findol."

Simon pats Findol twice on the back, and the satyr releases him.

"I wouldn't partake in the revels this time though..." Findol warns teasingly "I'm not sure you could take it at this age... Unless, you'd like to die like Dionysus!?" Findol offers with a grin, his face lighting up. "One last hurrah? Sent off surrounded by friends? There's worse ways to go! We'd turn away no requests! Anything for Ezekiel's boy. The son of Lashantir!"

"I think I'll pass this time."

"Suit yourself. The offer's there. Maybe just a chat then? Don't deny me that!" Findol pauses, the smile fading.

"Head on in." He says with sincerity "I'll join you soon."

After welcoming in Simon and the last satyrs, Findol turns and heads through the door himself. Looking forward to hear Simon's tribute to his friend. But when he enters the hall...

It's empty.

There's no one. No drinks or food on the tables. No fires alight for warmth. It's dark. And cold.

"Hello?" Findol timidly calls to the void. It doesn't answer.

A shiver runs through Findol's spine. For a brief moment, he shakes heavily, uncontrollably. Then it stops. As fast as it came.

"I'm here..." He whispers to himself.

His hoofs clack loudly against the hard floor. Normally, he'd hardly be able to hear himself think right now. He grabs an oil lantern off a hanger on the wall. He flicks it on as he heads up the stage, and up to the podium.

The book is in front of him. It's big. Pages have been added. The surface is worn smooth and thin. The spine barely holds together. Closer to a stack of papers than a book really. He sets the lantern beside it and starts flipping through.

They're all there. Every name. Each in Findol's handwriting, even the hundreds he can't recall writing. It was his idea to commit them to paper. He set up the first Mourning. Has been in charge of it since. He keeps all the names. He knows so many of their songs by heart but... there's only so many lyrics Findol could stuff between his ram horns. Only so much room in his skull.

"Everyone's here..." Findol says. Both to the filled book, and the vacant hall. He forces a smile. "It's going to be a tough crowd."

Findol drinks a pitcher of water, clears his throat, and calls a name. He does everything like he normally would. Except nobody else takes the stage to sing. It's just him. He starts going through every song he knows. Dozens. It's not even a fraction of the total list. He even conducts, carefully signaling to ghosts, to empty chairs. He stops and waits patiently when the song would have another person, or the crowd, sing instead of him. Pauses for the needed time, then continues. But it wears on him. After hours and hours and hours...

He gets to Sahren's song. And it catches up to him, that there's really, truly, no one left to hear it.

So he stops. He's sang it plenty of times before. Since he died.

He brushes his hoofed fingertips over Sahren's name, in a page flooded with others. In a page still stained with tears. And closes the book.

"That's it." He says to the void "That's all the songs for this Mourning. Keep them in your hearts. We'll sing yours too someda-"

No...

We won't...

There's no one left. But, there's still one more name left out. One more song, never performed.

"Mine." Findol realizes "There's no one to sing mine."

"WAIT!" He cries out at no one. "There's a few more I know, I lied, that's not all of them! we can still continue! I'll sing his again... We don't have to be done..."

The audience begs to differ. They've already left. Gone.

"Oh... I guess... I guess we are, aren't we?"

He picks up the book, holding it close to his chest so it doesn't fall apart. And also, so he doesn't feel so terribly alone. He exits the other side of the hall, to the Revelry.

There's no great bonfire set up this time, waiting to be lit. No kegs waiting to be tapped into. No one rushing over, asking for a dance. A big field of dirt beside a shallow stream of water running through the woods. That's the revelry.

He drags a stool near the circle of stones in the center, and puts the book on top of it. He pats the book's cover.

"You'll just have to keep me company this time." Findol says with a haggard, wavering optimism "I'll be right back with firewood."

The book waits patiently. All his friends sit silently for him to return. There's no chit chat. They're the most quiet they've ever been. Not one of them would start the revelry without him.

An old wheelbarrow squeaks closer. Full of sticks and branches. He parks it beside the circle and tosses them all in. They barely fill it.

"Hmm, I guess it doesn't need to be that big anymore, does it?"

Findol scoots the ring of stones inward, one by one, around his pile of wood. Then leans down and starts lighting it with flint and steel. It doesn't catch right away.

"Sorry." He apologizes to the book. "I'm not usually on fire duty for these. I guess I didn't give you guys enough credit for how hard it was." Findol chuckles "I really should've asked for pointers."

Findol tries over and over and over.

"You have to be kidding me... How the fuck do you do this? I thought this was easy! Am I really th-"

The sparks finally catch flame and begin to grow slowly. Findol leaps into the air, holding his hands high.

"I DID IT!" He exclaims "I never got to light the bonfire before!"

He turns to his friends.

"We're here! It's..." he loses his enthusiasm looking down at their frail bound pages. "It's the Revelry! Yay..."

His shoulders slump, and he lets out a tired, goatish bleat.

"Is this how you felt?" He asks the book's first name. "Is this what it was like, Dionysus? I wish... I wish I could make satyrs too. No. I wish I could make you all come back. Could you come back, Dionysus? Could you come back and make them all appear again?"

The book, sagging to the side, slumps off the stool into the dirt. Landing on it's face.

"Didn't really think so." Findol admits, picking up the book and setting it back on the stool. More evenly this time. "It was worth asking... Well... We can still make this work. Kinda. Don't go anywhere!"

Findol drags another stool over, then rummages through some old barrels and kegs behind the hall. Ones used in previous revels. He taps a hooved fingertip on each one and listens close, searching for one not entirely hollow.

"Found one!" Findol shouts over to the book.

He tips it and rolls it over. Humming as he does. What remains of it's contents sloshes around inside. Until it sits beside the stools. The fire crackles as Findol rests his arms on the keg for a moment.

"Nobody brought any fresh ones..." he explains "So we'll have to make do with left overs. But hey, at least there's enough for all of us this time." He exhales a little at his own joke. Recognizing how absurd this whole thing is. And pats the book again. "Ok. Ok. A little dark. But I'm sure at least one of you would have smiled."

Findol reaches towards the base of the keg, for something that isn't there.

"Ah damn... I forgot the mugs..." Findol sighs, running a hand along the length of his snout before it slackens to his side. "I'm being a terrible host, aren't I? I just... I just want this to still be special. We only have these every four years!"

His eyes look tired. Wearily looking down at the book. He IS tired. Dreadfully tired.

"We aren't going to have another, are we? This is it. The last one. You and me..." Findol picks himself up, standing straight and taking a deep breath "Well, I'm not going to waste it! I'm the host this time! And by whatever god is watching, I'm going to make it count!"

Findol marches off, back to the hall. Everyone stays huddled together in the pages. On the stool, bound in leather. Nobody moves an inch until he gets back. His friends have never been so still. So patient. They wouldn't drink without him.

Findol clanks two mugs together when he returns

"One for us each. I hope you all can share."

With a grunt, he tilts the barrel so what is left of it can spill out, filling both mugs completely to the brim. He spills just a little out of one of them, so that he doesn't have to risk it soiling the book. And sets it atop. He holds up the other one high.

"A toast! To..." He lowers it, and picks at his chin. "To what? What's there left to toast?"

He sits down on his stool, facing the book. The light of the flame licking warmly on the side of his face.

"To you... Sahren." He whispers. "To everything that used to be. And won't ever be again..."

He downs the entire thing, fast. As if he was dying of thirst. It tastes miserable... but... but just a little bit like old times. He stares into the flames as they dance. Dancing. Oh how he missed the dancing. The smell of cooking food. He never learned to do that. Cooking, professionally. He was always the doorman, to greet and tally people. Always the satyr's funeral director. The one who keeps the book, a record of the dead, to be remembered...

Dancing...

"Do you remember when you asked me to dance? The very first time? I was so shy. I couldn't believe someone so beautiful would pick me. I thought you were joking. But you weren't... It was the greatest day of my life. I thought my heart would give out..."

He sets down his mug, onto the dirt. Then carefully lifts the other off the book

"Ah fuck it... You're not gunna drink it."

He drinks down the other all at once too, greedily, but tries to slow himself down just a bit. Just enough that it lasts a moment longer. Then tosses the mug aside. He gives the book a bow, and holds out a hand.

"Can I have one more?" He tries to sound romantic, but struggles to keep a straight face "Ha! Imagine me having the guts to have asked you that first time... I wonder what song I would've wanted your hand for?"

He lifts the book, holding it out as his eyes survey it. frayed and fragile. He pulls it close to him as he slowly spins in the firelight. Imagining what the music might sound like.

"You're so frail... I'll try to keep it slow. You used to spin me in circles! I wouldn't know which way was up! You always took the lead. I loved that about you. But, I'll try my best to lead this time. I know your not your best right now..."

Findol moves his cloven hooves with grace and precision while his arms hold the book tight. Each pirouette sends the world slowly spinning in circles around them. If he closes his eyes, it's almost... something. He can almost pretend it's real.

"I don't think we've ever slow danced... come to think of it. You always preferred the fast songs... I'll admit it, I wanted to ask you to slow dance with me a few times. To try it. Would you believe I was too shy even then? Even decades into our romance, after all the things we did together, I was still afraid to ask to do new things with you. You were always the brave one. When we'd try something new, it was almost always your idea. And me you'd have to convince... I must have been so annoying, living in my rut, my routines. You were so free spirited. How did you ever stand me?"

For a second... for just a second. It is real. He can smell Sahren. Feel his love in his arms. He stops dancing and opens his eyes, a sliver of hope he'll see his beloved's face for one brief instant.

It's just a book.

He holds it out again, hoping for anything.

It's only a book.

"You aren't here... None of you are here anymore..."

His fingers constrict, digging into the ancient leather.

"Why do I have to be the last one? What am I supposed to do? Tell me what to do!"

The book doesn't answer. It never does.

"There's so many of you! I'm only asking for one! JUST ONE to tell me something. Is that so much? You can't just be gone! That can't be all!"

Findol shakes the book violently, but his grip is so tight that not a single page can escape.

"You left me behind! You all left me here! Alone! Why me? Why do I have to be the last one!? I HATE YOU!"

Tears stream down the thin fur on his face, soaked up by the thicker wool that begins on his neck.

"I should NEVER have started this book! I should NEVER have promised to remember you all! You're not going to remember me, YOU'RE DEAD! WHY SHOULD I HAVE TO REMEMBER YOU!?"

Findol lifts the book high over his head

"WHAT'S THE POINT OF REMEMBERING YOU!?"

He hurls the book into the fire. It swallows the tome whole, a few loose pages turn black in an instant.

"Wait..."

Findol blinks. He wrings one hand with the other. in the flames, the names of every satyr that ever lived incinerate. hundreds of names reduced to ash every moment, as the massive book quickly blackens....

"SAHREN! OH MY GOD! WHAT AM I DOING!?"

Findol shrieks in terror. His eyes dart for a solution. His hands grab pull at his horns, desperate to do something!

ANYTHING!

He reaches towards the flames but the heat forces him back. More and more of his kin disintgrate. Digested by the hungering flames.

"Fuck! No!"

When he closes his eyes, Findol can see them there inside the flames. He can hear Sahren screaming for help. He steels himself.

*I wasn't there for you then. When you needed me most. I couldn't save you.*

He takes a deep breath, holding it. His entire body braces to defy every survival instinct he has.

*I'm here now!

I'd burn for you.*

His hoof kicks back a small cloud of dirt. And sends stones careening into the side of the great hall behind him.

*I'D BURN FOR YOU!*

Findol plunges his arms into the flames. The thick, dry wool on his body catches immediately. The hellish fire engulfs him, tranforming him into a living inferno in seconds. He pulls Sahren out of the flames and runs screaming, more a pyre than a person. His instincts tell him to, no, force him to move in a direction. As fast as his legs can go, he sprints towards the stream.

When he feels the shallow water against his legs, he dives into it, hitting hard against the stones along the stream's base.

Findol rolls in the shallow water, holding the book, holding all of his friends and loved ones close to his chest. He grips it with both arms as tight as he can. The flames extinguish. What is left of his wool is charred black. He can feel the burns across his body, even if the flames only lasted seconds. They would have probably been worse without the thick layer of wool. At least it will grow back... Eventually.

"I did it..." Findol says in a moment of relief, sitting up on his knees. The shallow water flowing over his legs. "I saved-!"

He lifts the book and freezes solid. There's nothing. What little bit of the binding and pages is left, is blackened and drenched in water. entirely illegible. Breaking apart in his hands.

"I'm so sorry... Why? Why did I do that?" Findol hugs the remains of his kin as close as he possibly can, as they crumble away, falling apart, decaying more and more. They drift slowly further down the stream, further and further out of his reach. His heart shatters into inconsolable wreckage. His face contorts in sorrow. "You're all gone. It's all gone. You were my responsibility. And I let you die again. There's nothing left of you now. There's really nothing left. I've killed the only pieces left..."

Findol inhales until his lungs ache to hold in the air. His body tenses, shuddering and shaking to hold his anguish back in his throat. It bursts through, first as broken, high pitched moaning, like a boiling pressure hissing out from between clenched teeth. Tears squeeze from his eyes, mucas runs down from his nostrils, and his stomach twists with nausea as he rocks back and forth. He inhales sharply again, leans back, and screams until there's no breath left inside of him. Then the air surges painfully back, in stuttering gasps, to be screamed out even harder than before. The tortured wailing of an animal, dying. It is not a graceful death. It's agonizing and merciless.

It fills the great hall.

It echoes throughout the woods.

It spreads across the whole of the earth.

It reaches into the heights of Heaven.

It burrows into the depths of Hell.

No one hears it.

No one.

When Findol runs out of stamina, when his throat and chest burn, he leans forward... and finally lets go. The last, blackened fragments, start to float away. Findol watches them depart. Still on his knees. Silent. There's nothing more to say. Except...

"I love you." He whimpers.

Findol lifts a hand and waves faintly at the last scraps as they drift away.

"I... I'll miss you."

Eventually, Findol drags himself out of the water. His... everything is sore. The fire is burnt out. The embers are still warm, but it's mostly just smoke now. That's it. The last revelry. When the bonfire dies, when they let it burn out, it's over. Time to go home...This is the shortest Revelry there's ever been. These usually lasts weeks. Sometimes, rarely, months. Not this one.

"I guess... this is were I say goodbye." Findol tells the field. Tells the smoking embers. Tells the stools, the mugs, and the kegs. "It's been fun. I... I'll really miss this. I'll think about it all the time. How could I ever forget? We had so many, so many, incredible times." He runs his hand through the dirt "I'm really gunna miss this place."

Findol stands to his feet. Alone. The most alone he's ever been. His hands feel so empty without the book. He crosses his arms and holds his own sides tight, to fill the void. He heads back into the hall. His hoofs clatter back onto the stage one more time. Addressing the room.

"It's been an honour. Thank you so much for everything. I wish... that I'd memorized more of the songs. I guess some were more catchy than others." Findol laughs. He begins speaking with his hands too, now that they're free. "And, thank you for letting me be your host! It... It was a total shit show, this revelry... You wouldn't believe how bad I screwed it up at the end..." He smiles and laughs again, harder, despite the tears in his eyes. "You were all great. You were all so good to me. I couldn't have asked for better company. Better friends... better family... I think... I think I *will* sing just a bit more after all! It's a little late but, I don't think you'll hold it against me..."

Findol drinks down another pitcher of water. It's a huge relief. Then he straightens himself, clears his throat, and sings Sahren's song one last time. Except, it's not just Sahren's. It's his too. He adds to it. He sings about how much he loved each and every one of his kin. How he was there for every single song. There to celebrate each of their lives. How hard he really tried to remember every single one of them. Because he cared so much. He sings as best as he can. As heartfelt as he can. It's not performed perfectly, not after everything he's been through, but... it's performed earnestly. With his whole heart and lungs. He closes his eyes, and imagines them all there. Laughing and drinking and singing along. They're there for him. Sahren is there too. To hear his song. To celebrate him. His life. Sahren sings with him. Perfectly. They know every note, every lyric. Of course they would. Then, after the last note fades, everything becomes still again. The hall becomes a tomb again. When he opens his eyes. There's nothing there.

"Goodbye everyone!" Findol shouts, as if over the noise of a crowd. As positive as he can muster to be. "Goodbye! I'd say I'll see you all again, but, I really don't know if I will! But I love you! I hope you know that Sahren! I hope I told you enough times, every day. Every morning and night. You're the love of my life! I still think about you... and the rest of you too. I love you all! So, so much! ... ok. That's it. That's all..."

He turns and looks at the door... to the outside... to the vast world he honestly knows so little about.

"Well... Can I tell you something first? I was, uh, gunna take the book. Take you guys with me when I left. So... I wouldn't leave any of you behind. It was gunna be a surprise. We'd travel the world together! All of us! I thought maybe, I dunno, you'd all guide me or something? Maybe I'd find some beautiful place, high up and windy, and let all your pages take off in flight. Just like birds! Guess that didn't work out... It was a stupid idea anyway! Imagine me, lugging a big ass book, barely holding together, around the world! Haha! The rain would've probably ruined it in the first week. I'd probably drop it running from a wolf or something. I would've looked like a total idiot!"

Findol, having gone through the worst day of his entire life, starts to tear up still. Knowing it's coming to an end. It didn't go anything like how he wanted.

"I don't know how I'm gunna talk to you all now. The only thing crazier than a guy talking to a book is a guy talking to nothing..."

He wheezes another laugh, stalling, looking for something. A sign maybe?

Something?

"I... I have to... I have to leave! Wow! There's... just nothing... I guess I hoped that... maybe... Hoped for a miracle? ... I'd have settled for a ghost, at least... just to pop up for a moment? Just to let me know you're ok? You could say anything! Or just wave! I'd kill for a hug. Just one? I don't care if it's cold! You can have the coldest, most icy ghost hands and I wouldn't give a shit! Hell, after the burns, it'd probably feel amazing. You could give me frostbite and I wouldn't give a damn! Is that too much to ask for? For just one of you to reach out and touch me? ... please?"

Anything?

"There's a couple thousand of you out there! Right? It... It can't really just be me..."

Nothing...

"God... It really is isn't it? All this was for nothing... wow..."

Findol bows. He turns to walk off stage but steps on something. It crinkles under his hoof. Findol looks down to see a sheet of paper. He picks it up, eyes wide as he desperately scans it. It's a page from the book, it must have slipped loose. He turns it over, both sides are blank. He can't remember a page falling loose. He's always so careful.

His eyes dart around the room. Searching for some kind of indication of... something...

"Is *this* the sign?" He asks meekly. "Could... could I ask for something clearer? I'm not good with metaphors..."

Findol deliberates on the aged, crinkled, parchment for some time.

"It's just blank..."

Findol's ear twitches as a bird taps the glass of a window. His hooves tap along the floor as he approaches it. Even through the glass, he can hear it singing just outside. Outside... The world seems so impossibly bright today. He hadn't noticed before...The trees sway rhythmically in the breeze. The sky is a perfect blue. There's so much color today. How can there still be color? How can birds still sing?

Findol gets an idea. He begins filling the page with another song. The final song. On the final page. The last one. The only one that will remain. The blank space fills with ink, and a few of the last satyr's tears. He whispers it quietly, as he writes... but doesn't have the strength to perform it.

"How can the birds still sing?

How can the frogs at night?

Why does the sun still rise,

If you aren't in it's light?

Not one of them will know,

Not one of them will care,

That you are gone.

That you stood right there.

The world never needed you in it.

But I'm so glad that you were.

I treasure every moment we spent,

Of it being together.

I know...

It meant nothing...

But to me...

Time should have stopped then.

The world should have ended.

But it still breathes.

Without you in it.

How can the birds still sing?

How can the frogs at night?

Why does the sun still rise,

If you aren't in it's light?

I'm still alive,

Without you here...

I'll still sing,

When you can't hear...

I know...

It means nothing...

But to me...

You meant something."

Findol sniffs hard, and wipes away the last of his sorrow from his eyes. He sets the last page, now filled with his heart, with great care on the podium. Exactly where the book would have sat. It looks so incredibly small by comparison. So much... lighter...

"Ok... I guess I'm ready..."

His hooves clack along the floor towards the door as he descends the stairs of the stage. He hangs the lantern, empty, on it's hook. No point refilling it.

He grabs the door handle and his stomach churns. It's impossible to turn it. This, has been the center of his whole life. For centuries. It's over. It's really over.

"I'm scared..." Findol admits. Before bracing himself.

"But... But I'll TRY! Try to make the most of it... I'll... GOD DAMNIT! I'll learn to COOK! I'll learn to FIGHT! I'll learn to... I dunno, make pottery!? Definitely should learn to properly start a fire. I promise I'll TRY!"

His grip tightens on the handle. But he turns back towards the stage.

"I'll meet people. Humans! Dwarves? Even leprechauns! I dunno. I'll tell them all about you! I'll sing and dance and drink... and maybe... maybe fall in love all over again!? Someday... Would you forgive me if I did?"

Just then, something loudly *snaps*. Before Findol's eyes, the ancient mechanisms of the stage finally fail. The curtain falls. The stage is gone. The show is over. There is no applause.

Findol shivers. He violently shakes. The room is dark without the lantern, only faintly lit by the windows. The handle rattles in his trembling hand. The shadows seem to twist at the edges of his vision.

"I... Are you?" Findol struggles to speak, hyperventilating. He summons the strength to calm himself enough to force the words out.

"If it's you! Save me a seat, wherever you are! I'll be the last one inside! Just like always. You know me..."

Findol smiles for a moment, the shaking stops. The smile fades as he exhales.

"And if it's not you... well... I guess it doesn't matter... Love you!"

Findol blows a kiss into the darknes. He twists the handle and opens the door back outside. He steps out into the sunny breeze. It feels nice against the thin layer of wool still on his skin. He looks down at his arms, once covered with white fleece... The surface of it all is scorched black from the flames.

"I look like I'm made out of charcoal!" Findol chuckles. "I even smell burnt! They would've never believed I'd end up like this."

After he gently closes the door, he locks it, like always. And hides the key behind a loose brick in the wall. Like always.

"Welp... That's it." Findol tells himself as he turns away and starts down a worn dirt path to his home nearby. He lets out an incredible sigh of relief. "Honestly Fin... It could've been worse. You didn't do TOO bad hosting, all things considered."

He laughs.

"You ONLY burned the most important thing in the world. Oh well..." Findol yawns, exhausted. "Oh well! I... think it's time to sleep. It's been a hell of a day. The show is over."