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For the entirety of Vyse’s 10 years, his grandfather had always been nothing less than a typhoon of nerve and mettle. Even in the twilight years of his life, the muscles remained taut and toned under his tanned skin, his laughter the boisterous bray of a young sailor rather than the shaky wheeze of an old man.
Everyone expected his death to be in the skies -- likely in one of their many skirmishes against the Valuans. He would go down in a blaze of glory, dragging the entirety of the enemy ship down to the grave right along with him. His memorial would be one of sorrow and awe, and the legend of his final stand against their foes would endure across time. His grandfather even seemed to look forward to it, those deep-set eyes practically twinkling as he imagined the various ways his final moments would play out.
It was doubtful that anyone was more disappointed that he was when the winter consumption took hold of him and refused to let go.
“Damn it all to every level of hell ,” he had rasped in his final days, the vibrance of his voice sanded down to only a shadow of his former self. He coughed, and spat yellow-green phlegm on the floor.
“You listen here, boy,” he said, his hand grasping Vyse’s with all the power of a dried fish, “Don’t you let them bury me on land.”
He was gone before the first thaw of spring, his hardy spirit snuffed out like candle flame.
Vyse wasn’t one to cry. His grandfather never wept, after all, even when trapped upon his death bed by his own failing body. His father didn’t cry, only shouldered the preparations for a burial with silent stoicism. Even Granny never shed a tear, calm and peaceful in the conviction that her dear husband had found peace in the Moons’ embrace.
So Vyse would not cry.
The journey out was long, and longer still when Captain Dyne ordered a stop to Sailor’s Island to gather the necessary materials. Through it all, Vyse’s grandfather laid pale and still upon the Albatross’s spare bed. Vyse closed his dry, burning eyes and tried to imagine his once-lively Grandfather so silent. But even in his sleep he was never silent, always cutting through the air with rumbling snores. Even without seeing that pale, drawn face, Vyse knew this was the silence of the dead.
Vyse didn’t recognize the panic that had been seeping into his nerves until they docked. The jostle of the ship caused the lifeless hand on his grandfather’s chest to slide and fall. On instinct, he reached to catch it, warm skin coming into contact with the icy touch of a corpse.
Vyse froze, his chest tightening and releasing in a way that resembled breath, his lung releasing air in a shaky wheeze. That’s what Grandpa sounded like , his mind whispered to him, He sounded like this before he died.
Aika’s worried voice barely registered in his ears. Familiar fingers grasped at the fabric of his clothes, but the door to the deck was already open, and the outside wind was stinging Vyse’s eyes enough to make them burn and water as his mind continued to screech Don’t cry .
The Albatross had not yet fully docked, but Vyse couldn’t wait. Ignoring his father’s shout, he clambered up the ship’s railing and leapt to land himself. His palms and knees stung as they scraped against the gravel, his body landing in a heap just inches from the island’s edge. Vyse barely acknowledged the pain before he was on his feet again, bursting through the town entrance.
A child running through the streets was not an uncommon site, and most of the residents were far too wrapped up in their own affairs to pay Vyse any mind. But Vyse could feel the tears threatening to drop, and the panicked, self-conscious corner of his mind demanded shelter for his weakness. He twisted into a sharp turn and flung himself into a secluded alley, finding protection among the bushes and barrels stacked against its walls.
He choked and wheezed and fought back the salty sting of his eyes, a tight, keening moan escaping his lips. Even through the bustle, it seemed to bellow over the town chatter, the sound of his voice demanding attention and ridicule in equal measure.
Vyse chanced a glance over his shoulder only to see that he was not only ignored by the masses, but they seemed to take no stock of his existence at all.
It was an odd dichotomy of emotion, to be both relieved and disappointed that something so utterly life-changing for him was nothing of note for anyone else. Vyse chose to lean into the relief instead, focusing on the stinging of his eyes and his gasping lungs, caught between the desire to push it down and to simply let it fall.
“Are you all right?”
Vyse tensed and whirled back around, chest tightening in an odd panic at the acknowledgement, and through his hazy, red-rimmed eyes he came face to face with a man.
He seemed made up of contrasts even on the first glance, the man’s face both soft and sharp, delicate yet unyielding. Like one of those fragile, finely-painted dolls Aika had always coveted from Valua. And from the sharp tilt of those green eyes to the fine strands of silver hair that framed his face, every part of him seemed intentionally sculpted to achieve the height of perfection.
He was beautiful. And more than beautiful, he was eerie . Uncanny. Like he was staring at a creature that shouldn’t exist.
The man spoke again, in a baritone lilt that seemed to reverberate through Vyse’s chest, “Are you all right?”
Vyse was often the type to cheerily socialize with new acquaintances. He had often struggled with a pirate’s need for discretion. But with the turmoil of his grief and the unnerving nature of this man’s appearance, his only response was to keep his lips pressed together in uncharacteristic silence.
The man didn’t move, only stared at Vyse with a curious tilt of his head. His tone and his words were kind enough, but with his pale skin and the somber color of his clothes, he looked for all the world like a veritable specter of death. It was enough to unnerve him with his grandfather’s corpse ready to be laid to rest, but as always Vyse fought down the urge to retreat and only stared defiantly back at the stranger, eyes as steely as they could be in the face of his drying tears.
The man seemed neither afraid nor incensed at the sudden hostility. He simply continued to stare, as though Vyse's tearful hostility was an object of interest rather than something to be pitied or scolded.
There was an odd comfort in that — enough for Vyse to wrench his hostile gaze to instead stare at the ground, but not quite enough for him to answer.
The silence stretched again, and it was only the shifting of shadows that made Vyse look back up. The man had disappeared without a sound, the sunlight now in Vyse’s eyes the only indication someone had been there at all.
Vyse huffed out of breath, not quite one of relief as he leaned his back against the building’s wall and slid down into the grass, drawing his knees to his chest and hiding his face in them. The alley hid him from view, and Vyse was not inclined to answer the call of his name, even though the worried edge of Aika’s familiar voice sent a stab of guilt through his heart. He squeezed his eyes shut and ignored the thought that his grandfather’s booming voice would have rattled Vyse from his hiding spot whether he wanted to or not.
Vyse felt the presence beside him before he heard anything, and that would normally be a cause for alarm. But a sweet smell wafted into his nose, exotic and rich enough for him to quickly exchange that caution for curiosity.
It was the strange man he saw again when Vyse lifted his head. He had knelt down to Vyse’s level, dirtying the no-doubt expensive fabric of his trousers, but he didn’t seem to notice. In his hands was a tankard, filled with steaming brown liquid that smelled so sweet it made Vyse’s twisted stomach give a pang of want.
Decadent would be the word Vyse would use to describe the smell, had he known it. But all he knew was that smell was new and sweet and it made his air pirate blood whisper take what you want.
But he didn't need to take. The man extended his arm further, the rim of the mug nudging against Vyse’s fingers.
“Drink,” he said, his voice low like far-off thunder, “You seem like you need it.”
Perhaps he should have refused. His father would no-doubt scold him for accepting treats from a stranger. But Vyse had never been particularly cautious, and the novelty of the drink was enough to reach out and snatch the mug to himself, taking an enthusiastic gulp.
“Careful!” the man said, alarmed, “It’s—“
“Hot!” Vyse finished, yelping at the burning sensation on his tongue. But following that were far more important realizations.
Sweet.
Exotic.
Undiscovered.
His mouth relaxed, forming a grin that was far more at home on his face than his twisted frown. He took another sip from the tankard — slower this time — and was delighted to find the same explosion of decadence on his tongue.
“Wow!” he gasped, face flushing from the heat of the drink, “What is it?
The man’s lips curved into a smile as he settled himself next to Vyse, like he was conversing with an old friend.
“ Cacao ,” he said, the unfamiliar syllables flowing off his tongue and ringing in Vyse’s ears, “I received this as a gift from my employer, as we are currently en route to the land of its origin.”
“Where’s that?” Vyse asked, his curiosity fully piqued. He’d not forgotten the man’s eerie, unreal appearance, nor the ache of loss in his heart, but as was his nature, he set those uncomfortable feelings aside and simply focused on the joy of the moment, of learning and discovering something new.
The man, however, simply pressed a finger to his thin lips. “I am afraid I’m sworn to secrecy. You’ll have to find out on your own.”
Perhaps another child would have disliked the evasive response, but Vyse only grinned back, his nerves alight with the thought of a challenge.
“I will!” Vyse exclaimed, “I definitely will!” He punctuated this with another gulp of his drink, committing the sweetness to memory.
If nothing else, it would make an excellent story for Aika.
The man simply nodded in acknowledgment, lapsing into silence for a few moments to let Vyse enjoy his drink. And then, softly, he said, “Would you like to tell me what was wrong?”
Vyse froze.
The silence seemed agonizingly long to him, but the man simply sat there, calm and waiting as if ready to receive a confession.
Somehow, the quiet patience from that stranger soothed him, and the words came tumbling out.
“... My grandpa got sick,” he said, focusing on the milky-brown swirl of his drink, “And now he’s gone. He wanted a sailor’s funeral, so... that’s what we’re giving him.”
Vyse expected the usual platitudes. My condolences. He’s in a better place. At least he’s no longer in pain.
He received none of them. His companion instead had only lapsed into thoughtful silence, thin brows furrowed as if puzzling out a difficult problem.
“What is a sailor’s funeral?” he finally asked, with all the earnestness of a child seeking instruction.
Vyse just stared. And the stranger stared back, patiently awaiting an answer.
“What?” he finally said, voice filled with unflattering disbelief. He could scarcely believe an adult was asking such a basic question, was almost certain he misheard — a fact the man was more than happy to clear up.
“What is a sailor’s funeral?” he said again, his intonation unchanged.
Vyse only continued to stare. The man stared back, infinitely and obliviously patient, immune to the weighty silence between them.
“It’s... a burial in the sky,” Vyse began, the words tumbling out of his mouth before he could fully comprehend them. Anything to escape that silent pressure. “For when… somebody dies. You put them in the sky. My grandpa wanted it this way, so...”
It was odd, honestly. Under the weight of this stranger’s open, receptive stare, Vyse could feel the knots around his stomach begin to undo. With his mind focused on the meaning and logistics of a sailor’s funeral, it was easier to distance himself from the reality of it, from the heavy weight of grief on his heart.
Still, he expected the conversation to twist into Vyse swatting away well-meaning sympathy as the pressure in his eyes returned.
Again he was caught by surprise when the man’s face instead brightened, lips curving into an earnest smile as if Vyse had told him a delightful secret.
“That’s wonderful, ” he said, his voice breathless.
“Wonderful?” Vyse repeated back, struck dumb by the comment, “I... how?”
The man seemed to catch himself there, his eyes tilting down in an embarrassed countenance. “Of course, the end of your grandfather’s life is unfortunate... but I believe that’s a wonderful ritual your people have created.”
Vyse didn’t have the time to ask what he meant by your people ; the man had already continued his explanation, practically radiating excitement.
“His life may be at its end, but now he is one with a place he loved.“ The man leaned back, tilting his head up to gaze at the sky above, “In that sense, your deceased never truly leave you. To be one with the sky itself is to be one with the essence of this world.”
Vyse sat in silence, staring at the dregs of his drink. There was an instinct to feel angry that this stranger seemed to take such delight in this painful event, but his words sunk in and echoed in his mind before that anger could fully manifest.
One with the essence of the world. One with the sky itself.
Vyse thought back to his grandfather once again. Not the sickly shadow of a man in those final days that haunted his memories, but the image of his grandfather at his prime. Tall and strong, like the sturdiest sailboat, his great arms gathering Vyse and Aika and promising safety in his embrace. The tickle of his beard like fluffy clouds, the wetness of his kisses like morning fog. The booming laughter of his voice, like the soothing sound of far-off thunder.
“... I wish I could rest like that as well, when my time comes.”
Vyse was broken out of his reverie by the soft rumble of the stranger’s voice. The breathless delight was gone, replaced instead with an undercurrent of deep, doomed melancholy. Vyse glanced over in surprise at the sudden change in his tone, in time to see the twist of sadness in the man’s delicate features. As if he was pining after an impossible dream.
“Why can’t you?” Vyse blurted out, “You just gotta ask, right? Or that’s what my grandpa did...”
The memory of his grandfather’s desperate plea made his heart sting, but he was soon distracted by the sad smile on the man’s face.
“It’s... more complicated than that.”
Complicated . Vyse never liked that word. It was always just a hair’s breadth away from impossible .
“It doesn’t have to be,” he said, speaking with a confidence that only a child could have, “Aren’t you a sailor? That’s what your crew is supposed to do for you.”
“My crew,” the man repeated, as if the words were foreign on his tongue, and his lips curved into a small smile. “I suppose.... I am part of a crew now, aren’t I?”
“Um… yeah,” Vyse said, uncertain,“I guess?”
“Speaking of which,” the man said suddenly, standing up with an alarmed look at the sky, “I must go. They have likely finished resupplying by now.” He glanced back down at Vyse, his tone carefully gentle, “Do you feel able to return to your family?”
Vyse considered the question. His father would likely be unhappy with him, and Vyse certainly wasn’t looking forward to that, but…
“Yeah,” he said, surprising even himself with the fact that he meant it, “Yeah, I think so.”
“Good,” the man said, voice soft but now clearly distracted, “Please return that tankard to the tavern before you leave. The owner was kind enough to allow me to borrow it, and I would hate to betray her trust.”
Vyse absently glanced down at the mug in his hands. He thought to respond to that, assure him that Blue Rogues never steal from civilians, but the man was gone by the time he looked up. Only the smell of exotic decadence from his mug was any indication it hadn’t simply been a manifestation from a grief-struck mind.
Vyse clutched the tankard to himself as he stepped out of the alleyway. He glanced to the dock, half-expecting panic to take hold of him again. But there was nothing but aching peace in his heart — his grandfather would be one with the sky, after all. He would never truly leave him, so long as Vyse kept sailing.
He thought back to the stranger whose name he never caught, and that wistful sadness in his fine-boned features as he pined for the same ceremony in death. And idly, Vyse thought one thing before he stepped into the tavern.
I hope you do.