Now prepared for the ritual, I leave my improvised hut to face the pack. Everyone is here, waiting quietly around the two warriors, as they were when I went to ready myself. I open my mouth to say something, but then change my mind. There is nothing to be said anymore. No words that I can say can repair the damage done, nor can they comfort the mourning. There is, of course, comforting to be done, but that is best left to others.
For now, a gesture shall suffice to start the ritual. I motion for the mates of the two to come forward, and forward they come. Though they step with pride, showing no outwardly signs of sorrow, I can see by their eyes that they have wept. I offer a slight, reaffirming nod to each and then proceed to offer the ritual daggers to them. They accept the silver blades from my hands and move to kneel beside their loved ones' bodies. Both say their final farewells to the deceased and then look back at me. I nod a second time, and the silver daggers sink deep into the dead warriors' chests, cutting the rib cage like butter. In a moment the warriors' hearts have been dug out of their chests. The mates stand up, holding their knives in one hand and their mates' hearts in another, and walk back towards me. They offer their knives back to me, and I accept them. After this, they continue quietly into the hut from whence I came.
Once the mates have entered the hut and the door has been closed, I face the pack, spreading my hands as if in offering. Slowly, almost hesitantly, they move in on the bodies and start consuming them. I look at the all too familiar sight; the warriors' comrades and adversories sharing their flesh in perfect understanding. At least in death some differences may sometimes, perhaps, be reconciled...
With a feeling of sudden emptiness I return towards the hut, but not wanting to disturb the meal of the mates of the dead ones, I stop outside the door and sit down to meditate.