Before my thoughts can wander further down that trail, I realize my ignorance — she is more than old enough to remember the chaos and bloodshed when the Usurper King moved through the countryside, violently claiming his new kingdom after defeating the Queen. I don’t have the heart to ask the girl if she remembers the invasion, but I am sure she must to some degree. Hopefully, Celeste had made it to the safety of the House of Starlight before they witnessed much of the carnage.
“Well, she must be prepared then.” Lyra interrupts my thoughts, and my head jerks to study her again. Her beautiful face is stony, and understanding settles in — she wishes to do the honor of preparing Charlie herself.
“I can help you if you need me to, Lyra,” I tell her gently. “You don’t have to be alone.” I would be happy to use some of my herbs to create the ceremonial wash water for Charlie’s body if Lyra has intentions to honor her in the Old Way.
“Thank you, but I want to say goodbye alone,” she nods solemnly, acknowledging my offer. “Can you bring me what I need? I’ll use our room if that’s all right.”
“Of course. Whatever you need.” I touch her hand as it rests on Charlie’s still chest, then rise to my feet to retreat to my surgery to gather the supplies.
There aren’t enough herbs to make a large batch of the scented water, but I should have plenty to anoint each of the deceased before their burial. Fresh water is precious aboard the ship and I don’t want to waste it, but for this day, for this cause, we can spare it. An hour passes quickly as I blend the sweet herbs and steep them in the bucket of freshly heated water. Before returning to the deck to clean and anoint the other dead, I knock gently at the door of my shared room, leaving a mug of the mixture outside the door for Lyra.
Many of the able-bodied crew are still aboard the commandeered vessel adjacent to us, sorting through supplies and moving crates and weaponry, but none are bringing those items across to the Bartered Soul as I would expect. The dead from the King’s crew are no longer visible on deck, so I assume they have been given a swift burial at sea. In the end, we have lost six of our crew, including Charlie. Not a large number, but the loss makes the crew somber as they go about their duties.
Stars rise above me before my preparations are complete, the moon shining down on the deck around me as the deceased are sewn into shrouds of canvas for their watery grave. When I finish sewing the last stitches, I rise to my feet, stretching as I gaze around the deck. Lyra stands at the top of the stairs leading from the hold, still wearing her stained cobalt gown, but has straightened her hair into a tidy chignon and cleaned her face and hands, all traces of blood and tears mere memories. Erik walks to her side and speaks softly with her, gently placing a large hand on her shoulder. He then nods before walking below, returning a few moments later cradling another shroud to place next to the other five I have prepared.
The crew gathers around me, their faces expectant in the lantern light.
They’re awaiting the ritual.
It’s been over a decade since I participated in death rites. My gifts leaned toward the arts of love and the flesh, along with healing once I completed my initiation, so I was removed from comfort and death duties shortly after becoming a fully-fledged priestess.
For a moment, my nerves threaten to pull me under; my palms grow slick and my body prickles with anxiety as I meet their friends’ eyes. I cannot possibly honor these men and women properly.
But I raise my chin, and my gaze settles on the only eyes that matter – the assuring dark green of Captain Lennox’s. Sweat shines on his brow, even with the cool evening breeze, but we all look haggard after the battle and its aftermath.
Lennox stands tall and gives me a small nod of encouragement, fortifying my nerves. What speech I can offer is better than none at all, especially for those who have not been able to openly worship for so long. With this reassurance, I dip my hands in the herbal water to cleanse them and stand tall to begin.
Words find me of their own volition, and I beseech the Goddess to watch over the departed souls who prepare to take their last dip into the sea, asking Her to ensure they reach the underworld. The name of each fallen crewmember is called, and their friends and crewmates step forward to remark on their life, virtues, or talents. Charlie’s name is called last — Erik, Lennox, and Lyra all step forward to speak.
“Charlie was a brave and fierce crewmember. She fought valiantly at the end, and died a death that one should be proud of, man or woman,” Erik states, his light accent lyrical in the twilight.
“Charlie was always bright, always quick, and always a steady friend. She will be missed,” Lennox adds, silver lining his eyes as he looks at his heartbroken niece with deep despair.
Lastly, Lyra steps forward, far more composed than I would expect — back straight, shoulders squared.
“I met Charlie the last time she was ashore while I was in town with my mother,” she pauses, taking a deep breath, before continuing, “I had never met someone, man or woman, who made me feel beautiful and strong like she did. I regret we will not have more time together, but I don’t regret the moments we did share. I know I will see her again in the afterlife.”
On a shaky breath, she steps back out of the lantern light before her body is wracked with sobs. Lennox carefully places his arm around her shoulder for comfort, and Erik looks at the boards of the deck in sadness. Surprisingly, Pike steps forward to wrap an arm around the girl as well, materializing from the rest of the crew. Lennox leaves her hugging the older man, stepping back to Erik’s side.
My eyes burn as a tear rolls down my cheek; I cannot hold them back any longer.
After goodbyes are dispensed, each shrouded figure is hoisted over the rail to their watery grave, each one enclosed with a prized possession chosen by a friend on board to carry with them to the beyond. I stand at the rail long after the last body — Charlie’s — is dropped over the edge and sinks beneath the waves.
As I stare at the stars, listening to the lapping of waves on the side of the ship, familiar footsteps sound behind me. Without a glance, I know the Captain stands at my back. Warm arms bracket my waist, and I turn to look up into Lennox’s eyes. His skin is damp, but sea-mist sprays freely over the deck often, and I lean against his chest to allow him to hold me.
“I’m so glad you’re all right,” I murmur into his chest as he surrounds me with warmth.
“You’re not terrified that I am truly a sea monster after you witnessed what happened on the other ship?” He asks against my hair, cheek pressed to the top of my head.
I pull away slightly to study his face. “You’re not the monster. The man — the King —,” I say his title on a growl, “who made us what we are with his cruelty is the monster.”
He nods, reassured by my words, and I bring my hands up to cup his jaw, studying this man in the moonlight. A sheen of sweat coats his face, and his usually golden skin is pale. I push away further, examining him more closely.
“Are you all right?” I ask.
“Yes…” he hesitates. “Nothing to worry about. Just, just a little scratch,” he says swaying on his feet. I clutch at his coat as he begins to fall.
“Erik! Pike! Help me!”