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The burials are meant to be the work of many hands.
Quick, efficient, lest their spirits fall prey to darker forces before they find rest. The purification of materials, the song-weaves, the cleansing and preparation of the body, the crafting and placement of the pod itself…
Merrin has no-one but herself to help. No guidance but their whispering, wounded spirits.
It was rare, once, for more than one or two Sisters to die at any time. It would only be the work of five hands and two, three days for the grave to rise.
Alone, with dozens to care for, it takes her months.
Months of shaking, bleeding hands. Months of barely sleeping from the knowledge they try to press upon her before they fade. Months of hunting beasts too large and strong to do so safely, while the Nightbrothers struggle with an Outsider out-of-sight.
Her Sisters must be cared for before something darker turns its attention on them, and in turn upon herself.
And so they were.
Merrin does not remember how long ago the healing salves ran out without time to make more.
She barely recalls the last time she ate more than once, maybe twice, a day.
It is done now, though, the whispers of her Sisters finally tapering into nothingness with their rites seen to at last.
They are safe. No restless dead and no soul-eating fiends will be called to this place. Not anymore.
Their spirits are free.
Merrin is alone.
She is tired– so, so tired. She can finally rest, now that they’re gone and her task is done.
Her eyes slip closed.
(One day nearby, a pale imitation with ichor burning behind her eyes uncoils from a distant dream.)