Requiem
Warm rain pours down my face. I'm soaked to the skin. It's hard to breathe out here, in the damp.
I don't really care.
Wet sand churns thickly under my feet. I try to sprint for the platform, but Father holds me back. His grip on my shoulders is like iron. I scream, I cry. That's Mother up there! "Don't let them take her! Don't let them! Stop them!"
I am old enough to know what death is, but too young to truly understand.
Father doesn't move. He just stands there like a statue as the hanar lift Mother's body from the platform and slide it into the water. The sea swallows her up, and she disappears. I will never see her again. "She is with Kalahira now," says Father. His voice is calm, controlled—like always.
But she should be with us! With me! Suddenly angry, furious, I turn and begin to beat on Father's chest with my fists. Doesn't he feel anything? "Why weren't you there?" I demand. "Where were you? You could have saved her! Why weren't you there?"
Instead of answering, Father sinks to his knees and wraps his arms around me. I struggle for a moment, and then all I can do is cry in his embrace.
Standing on the same sandy beach with the eternal rain of Kahje once again washing the tears from his face, Kolyat Krios dragged himself out of the wells of memory and back to the all-too-similar present. Another platform, another hanar priest with its attendants. Another body wrapped in sea vines and weighted with stones.
And an orphan left stranded on the Near Shore.
The hanar even sang the same hymn. "The Fire has gone, to be kindled anew…" But the pitch wasn't quite the same. The tones of the present clashed violently with those of the past, jarring and dissonant in their juxtaposition. Kolyat gritted his teeth, clenching his fists on either side of his head as if he could block out the memory.
It was all wrong, anyway. As much as he had respected the hanar and their religion, Thane Krios had been deeply devoted to the Old Gods of the drell. But he had served the Compact, and the hanar wished to honor him in the only way they knew how. So after the drell priests had given their blessing, it was the Enkindlers who were now invoked to guide him across the sea. It made Kolyat's scales itch.
The more he thought about it, the angrier he became. Who did these hanar think they were, anyway? Father had secured his release from the Compact over twenty years ago, and hadn't been back to Kahje in ten. And now they wanted to just swoop in and take over his funeral, forcing their religion down the throats of those for whom it meant nothing? Kolyat trembled with rage, and had almost made up his mind to storm the platform when he felt strong hands gripping his shoulders.
No one was there, of course. Just memories and ghosts.
But the anger faded all the same, leaving Kolyat empty and numb. What did it matter? Father was beyond caring. Let the hanar have their say. It would make no difference in the end.
Besides, what kind of Gods would inflict a mess like this on someone? To reunite him with his father after so many years—to give them just enough time together to begin to heal those old wounds, only to tear them open again in such spectacular fashion—where was Arashu's grace in that, or Kalahira's mercy? For that matter, where was the light of the Enkindlers, the wisdom of Athame, or the love of Jesus Christ? Would anybody's Gods own up to this disaster of a life?
The hanar lifted Father's body from the platform and let the waves take him. Choking on humidity and grief, Kolyat fell to his knees, fingers clutching uselessly at the sodden sand.
My face is still buried in Father's shoulder, but I'm too exhausted to cry anymore. Dimly, I hear him speaking to someone, and then a gentle hand takes my arm. Aunt Kaedi, Mother's sister, pulls me away from him, picking me up when I stumble and carrying me away. I watch over her shoulder as Father squeezes his eyes shut and pitches forward until his forehead almost touches the sand. His fist flares blue as he slams it into the ground, his grief blasting a crater into the beach.
"This one does not wish to intrude…"
Kolyat froze as the sound of a hanar's hesitant voice over his shoulder pulled him back out of the memory. "What do you want?" he ground out rudely, not caring if he offended its delicate sensibilities.
But the hanar was undeterred. "This one is called Orander. It offers its condolences, and would be happy to escort you back to the Dome if you are feeling unwell."
Lurching unsteadily to his feet, Kolyat sneered at it, trying to project an animosity he didn't quite have the energy to muster. He wished it would leave him alone. "What's it to you?" he snapped.
Orander drew back a pace, but persisted. "This one knew your father well. It was one of his regular contacts, even after he left the Compact." The edges of its body drooped. "It likes to think it was his friend."
Kolyat snorted derisively. "Father didn't have any friends. Not until Normandy, anyway."
"Please forgive this one, but that is untrue. This one used to converse with Thane at length about personal matters—hopes, dreams, family. It had even considered telling him its Soul Name." It paused thoughtfully. "He spoke of you quite often."
That caught Kolyat's attention. "He did?"
Orander dipped its front end in an approximation of a nod. "Indeed, young sere. Your safety and happiness were always of paramount importance to him."
Father had assured him of exactly that countless times over the past months, and Kolyat had eventually come to believe him. But to hear it from someone else—and a total stranger, at that—loosened something in his chest. As though a dam had burst, a fresh wave of grief and guilt crashed over him, with an icy undercurrent of irrational anger. Why couldn't he stop being angry?
Kolyat let himself slip into silent reflection as he followed Orander, trudging wearily back toward the Dome that enclosed the climate-controlled drell settlement. He was angry at his father, he realized, for leaving him behind—again. But Father had died a hero, saving the life of the salarian Councilor, and Kolyat felt guilty for selfishly begrudging him an honorable death. And he felt angry that he felt guilty. It was a vicious cycle that churned in his guts and clouded his brain, leaving him restless and confused in the face of a vast, dark, uncaring galaxy.
He was very, very alone.
Exchanging polite farewells with Orander at the doorway, Kolyat entered the Dome and took a deep, grateful breath of the relatively dry air within. The sudden change in humidity made him cough wetly. He felt waterlogged inside and out, half drowned and exhausted as if he'd spent the afternoon fighting riptides in the ocean. In a sense, he supposed, he had.
Finally back in his hotel room, he changed into dry clothes and made a cup of tea, then settled into a chair by the small desk opposite the bed. Father had begun to teach him some basic meditation techniques, and Kolyat needed to quiet his mind before he could sleep.
He stilled his body and closed his eyes, taking deep, measured breaths. Memories welled up and washed over him, trying to drag him out with the tide, but he simply acknowledged them and let them slip back out to sea, remaining firmly planted in the present. Father had been right—this came easier with practice. Soon, the temptation to drift away into the past subsided altogether, leaving behind a quiet, if illusive, sense of peace.
Once more, Kolyat felt phantom hands on his shoulders. Not restraining this time, but guiding, encouraging.
I understand. And I am not alone.