Ever forward. Time carried on without a care for those caught in its wake, as hours passed into days, days into weeks. It waited for no one. Buried by duty and demands, grief struggled for air amidst the rapid currents of life. Within the maelstrom’s eye, a brief moment presented itself. A private goodbye could finally be said as splintered wood from Skira’s wreckage was gathered and wrapped within a strip of weathered looking cloth. Held close, Vol’kari walked deeper within the swamp, far away from prying eyes until winding paths gave away to a small opening amongst ancient trees whose branches and canopies interlocked overhead. There, with only spirits of old to watch over him, the wooden bundle was placed atop a small pyre, materials of heart and home being laid to rest before fire consumed it all.
In somber silence, the funerary altar’s immolation reflected within a visor, gray with grief. What words were there to say? And how could it matter when the one they were meant for would never hear them? No. There were no words spoken, no eulogy offered to a darkness who cared not for his grief, such ceremony was not his style. Instead, as he stood there in the orange glow, he chose to remember. A rumbling laughter that’d become his favourite sound, one now lost except in memory. Learning about a culture and people that he ultimately would join. Wearing a weathered and ragged cloak when time together was infrequent and far apart. One by one, they played out before him until long after the pyre burnt out, lit only by smoldering embers whilst ash spread and dissipated within the swamp. Words would finally be uttered into the soft breeze, a voice so remarkably soft and vulnerable that it was hard to imagine it belonging to the surviving Kurs’kaded Al’ram.
“I wish time had been kind to you. There’s much I wanted to tell you. To share. To celebrate. So much I wish I’d said. I’d spoken much of it to the stars, hoping you were there, and that one day they would return you to me.” With a shuddering breath he paused, quiet tears falling down his cheeks. “They returned very little of you, in the end,” Vol’kari croaked and stepped forward. Kneeling, a small vial was lowered towards the remaining ash, collecting what would fill the vial before it firmly was sealed. Holding it tight within his hand, agonised brown eyes looked upon what embers remained.
“Ni su’cuyi, gar kyr’adyc, ni partayli, gar darasuum… Inarin…”