The priest drew the cloth up over the body of the young man, closing it around his neck and tightening it so only his face remained open to the humid sea air. The priest was young, barely aged enough to wear the dark robes of his kind. Certainly younger than the man he was working upon.
'Vataloi, haun ibn satma taloi.' he whispered, beginning the chant with the broken samak phrase. 'We offer this body to you, Bright One, and ask you to accept the soul trapped within into your light, to be reborn at the end of times.'
The assorted grievers - a handful, barely a dozen men and women - repeated the words. The man had been a stranger, apparently a sailor of somekind from Vasir, and a scoundrel and thief like many of his kind. The priest idly wondered if the people here were his debtors and enemies - certainly some of them didn't seem too affected by his death. Still, the Bright One did not discriminate, and he knew many worse men had gone to the Light with week-long laments and grand processions. In any case, in his opinion, no-one deserved the man's fate, ravaged by disease, the long death of wasting away into a husk. His corpse resembled a skeleton, his muscles atrophied to nothing and skin drawn tight across his bones.
The weather was good for the funeral, the sun blazing down on them a sure sign of His favor. He took the torch from his side and lit it, turning to the crowd.
'Will this body's kin step forward to set the fire?' he asked. It was traditional, but if no-one was willing or present, the task would be left to him. The cloth, soaked in oil, and the corpse under it, burned well with a bright flame. In the country, a variety of weaker substances were used, resulting in a foul-smelling black smoke that was sometimes seen as a rejection of the soul by the Bright One.
Nobody moved at first. They cast awkward glances at eachother and shifted their weight. The priest felt a newfound pity for the dead man. To have none of your family at your funeral...
There was a shuffle of feet and a hesitant cough. A figure detached himself from the shadows below the rocky outcropping in the cliffside and moved past the crowd towards him. The priest wasn't sure how he hadn't noticed him earlier. It was a big man, broad-shouldered and muscled, dressed in loose sailor's rags. He had a hard, cragged face and features, but there was an obvious tinge of sorrow in his eyes.
'You are his...?' the priest managed, offering the torch. The man took it.
'Brother. Only one left.' he replied, walking quickly around the body to study the face.
'Set the fires, then. Let us release him of his fleshly prison.'
The man nodded, and with careful movements, touched the bottom of the cloth with the flickering torch. The oil went up immediately, white flames springing high above his body. The priest felt the heat wash over him and took an instinctive step back, but the solemn brother stayed and watched, just out of reach of the fire. The priest hurried to continue the ceremony.
'So is,' he paused, looking at his side, feeling faintly embarassed he had to check, 'released from this world this soul, to bask in the Light of the Bright One. So is released Etiac Belladom, to be reborn at the end of times.'
---
Etiac Belladom is claimed by a disease.
His brother, Maraas, arrives in Liguria for the funeral, with his ship and crew.
Author
Topic: You Are King II: Tales of the Storm Coast (Winter 416a) (Read 238494 times)