From a distance, Elemmírë watched stonily, her face a masque of impassiveness, as the surviving archers dragged the remains of their comrades over to the makeshift graves. Conscious of their lowered voices and fearful looks that they cast towards her, the elf chose prudently not to reply to their looks nor their whispers "witchcraft" that seemed to run through the village after the battle. Standing as still as she could in an effort to mask her own weariness, Elemmírë watched as they gathered before the graves, each removing their hats in plebeian obeisance, pledging to take care of the families that the dead had left behind and as well as to keep save whatever secrets that was exchanged between the dead and them.

The grey elf watched them calmly, wondering if they as humans could truly know what it was to be alive while other had left before you? To survive and the weight of survival. Elemmírë had her doubts and wondered which one of these men would wake up in the night, screaming of the horrors that he had seen. Her eyes flickered from one to another as she waited for them to say their peace before taking their first steps away from the scrap collection of religious objects that they had salvaged from their houses and temples. Ignoring them, she moved silently in a straight line that seemed to cut through their shadows and crossing the gulf before them.

Pausing to bend down slowly and pick up a handful of earth, the elf ignored the sudden rise in whispers behind her. Hefting the handful of earth on her palm into the air while pulling away her hood, she crumbled the earth between her fingers and allow the earth to fall between her fingers onto the fresh graves before her. Her voice shook for a moment out of exhaustion before steadying to rise to a lament of her own people, the grey elves and one that had not been heard out of the Central Mountain Range in years. The lamentation spoke of the mountains, the vales.

Rest your swords
Your trials and journeys have ended
Forever in Lorien's grace

Elemmírë scattered the last of the handful just as she repeated the last verse, allowing it to fade off into the thin air. The grey elf knew she could hardly be named as a priestess of Lorien but she did not cared what the temple elders would have thought but merely that these people had given their short minute lives to protecting their right to worship as well as Lorien's right to be worshiped - so protocol be dammed. Stumbling back slightly as a wave of exhaustion overwhelmed her, she quickly steadied herself without the help of anyone and turned to head back into the village without another world to the surviving archers. Waiting silently for a few moments, she stopped before a long figure furiously shoveling out another grave. The figure attacked the earth as though it was her enemy and that with every stab of the shovel, there was something to be begotten. The elf paused for a moment, trying to mask the fatigue and numbness that was slowly encroaching on her. Giving the lone figure a long enigmatic look, she spoke at long last,

"Are there really so many dead that you would rather bury them all then to tend to the ones who need you?"