The Guild’s Farewell

1587-11-23
Fechtschule Courtyard, Maraisbourg

The bells tolled low. We gathered under a grey sky with our best doublets and our blades at our sides. Four seniors carried Merryen’s coffin, the guild device stitched in black thread across the pall.

The salute was a sequence, not a flourish. Zornhau. Krumphau. Zwerchhau. Schielhau. Scheitelhau. Each cut taken slow, each recovery clean, each guard held long enough to remember who taught us to stand.

I stood to the fore with the lute and played the river air he favored. The melody threaded the courtyard while steel whispered its replies. There were tears, and there were set jaws.

We buried him in the northeast corner, beside a young oak the color of new coin. Right hands to the earth, left hands to the hilts, we swore to keep the craft honest and the measure true.

The yard felt wider when we were done. The sound of the salute lingered like breath in winter, a promise to carry his teaching onward.