"Greetings, how can we assist?". Three men coated in black hooded robes with one knee bent addressed them in a sullen dry tone.
They placed the body gently upon the floor. "Madam has passed. She needs tending. The girl is young so she will be in attendance for the bear". The Old crone said no more as she took the midwife with her.
"There's a bucket in the left corner to your right of the wall. Please use it and not the floor if need be". One spoke in a sunken posture, while the other stood in a prayer. And lastly the younger who seemed more dramatic and laid back said nothing.
Today of all days she is casted amongst the most alienated of her people. For they are Grievers, chosen at a young age to become contenders in the act of death.
They witness it, preserve, and dine with it. It doesn't faze her that they have become obsessed and fairly strange. She cannot judge too harshly, for they rarely ever leave the catacombs. They're skin has lost all fairness, like the statues in the halls of all the Great assassins before Al-Mualin.
A new master shall take to the fort one who has shown true strength and obedience in all things. His beginnings were harsh, but the outcome created the best. She wished to one day stand at his side.
The girl was still naive, and one should think it best not to take the words of a biased tongue twister to heart.
She watched them with 'a steady heart'.
"Do you think she died peacefully?"
The men grumbled amongst themselves as they worked. "No", the younger one said. His mother had died the same. They nodded quietly, perhaps this is a comfort, they are finally able to grieve with him. For death gave them no rest and neither did the sanction.
"Fetch us four buckets of water and bring clean linen". Their voices sounded crass and, in her attempt, to depart in silence failing miserably, she was once again reminded she was not the old crone. They must have thought of her as a pesky little beetle. Always around the corner but never truly helpful.
They paid her no mind as they began removing the remains. "Thread the needle", they told the younger one. He did not like this, it is precisely why they beckon him. They have been in his place several times all but lingering between the lines of rationality and morality. Their teachers showed them no mercy and if this act continues amongst them, they will be punished. He knows this which is why they must insist.
They must work as one mind, to become three pairs of the same quill. They must be sharp and contended in all matters of the dead.
Or they will be forced to become contenders. Spectators who build the tombs of the fallen. It is a tedious job, the slightest crack found in the statues leads to one's life half bloody and beaten. This work is easier. They're hands are not to be broken nor they're limbs torn and twisted. They have seen it and tended to many with this condition. They would not make it through the year with such a profession.
They're methods are cruel but it is for obedience they're teachers shall not be here much longer than they so they must learn quickly or else they be casted aside for the younger ones.
She arrived with all four buckets. Two weighed heavily upon her shoulder, the other in hand and the next on her head. "I will bring the linen". Her voice was no higher than a whisper.
They removed what was needed and began placing the tools aside, focusing on cleaning their hands. A ritual, perhaps? Something passed down among the Creed.
"Don't forget to create smooth lines on her skin". They reminded him. The girl brought forth the linen, deciding to be a part of the process. Helping in certain areas that needed washing.