People that Rael and Azmond only knew in passing became more vivid in death, their lives and merits boasted to the open sky between sips of alcohol. And when the first barrel was empty, the celebration of the lives of the fallen shifted into one of personal victories and anecdotes during the last battle.

Rael, who had nothing to offer for their fallen crewmates, was quickly pulled into discussions of their own. They half-heartedly talked about their manic experience on the galley, a small audience listening with rapt attention, though none more so than Azmond. They winced when Rael lost their weapon, gasped when the commander held them by the throat, and hooted loudly for every encounter Rael had with the young legionnaire, ‘Puke’.

Yet for all their laughter, Rael did not waver in their stoic façade. They didn’t want their audience to think they were shaken. ‘Let them believe I’m badass. Better that than a coward.’ Because even though Rael knew they were justified in the lives they took…they still felt guilty. Rael still felt scared. When they talked about being held against the mast by their neck, they could still feel the ghost of the commander’s hand crushing their windpipe. See the sadistic gleam in his eyes. Hear the gurgles of blood seep from his opened throat.

“They fought well.” Someone eventually said. “The wargs, I mean.”

Rael paused. They traced their fingers over their recovering arm. Azmond leaned closer to Rael and offered out his hand to be held. Rael squeezed it tight.

“Do you think we can get our own?” Someone else asked.

Rael bristled.

“I hope so. Can you imagine unleashing them on the Bergin scum?” There was some raucous laughter.

“What do you think, Dragonward?” Faces turned expectantly towards them. Rael paused under their stares, horn of mead hiding their scowl.

“They are…monsters.” Rael settled on saying. “The wargs were just as likely to go after their ‘masters’ as they were to attack me. I’d rather not have to fight by an ally that licks its chops at the sight of me.”

“Maybe they haven’t been properly disciplined.” Someone offered. “A bit of good ol’ Faulkie training could get ‘em to do what they’re told. If we had a Meta…”

Rael’s nails dug into their knees.

“If we had a Meta make our own wargs, we’d be no better than Bergin.” Rael hissed, their eyes burning with barely concealed rage. The man flinched and cocked his head curiously. “You’ve heard of how wargs are made, right?”

“Only rumors.” He answered reluctantly. “The way I see it, we can get a crocodile and a Meta—”

Rael briskly sat up and walked away, their fists itching to wail on the ass. Azmond followed, listening to the whispers of admonishment from the others aimed at the man.

“You idjit, Dragonward Rael was a slave.”

They leaned over the edge of the ship railing, trying to pierce the foggy nothingness below. Azmond set his chin on the railing, big eyes staring sideways at Rael.

“You showed remarkable restraint.” A familiar voice chuckled.

“Mm.” The Dragonward grunted as Feldon stood next to them.

“A few months ago, you would have punched him.”

“I was never this tired then.” Azmond poked Rael in the side and rose an eyebrow. “Or maybe I’m not sure anymore.” They acquiesced.

The three of them stood there for a while, the wind gliding past them to tug gently at the rigging. The Jarl made a movement with his hands, a flash of light appearing behind him for a moment. The chatter of the crew muffled until all they could hear were the barest impressions of muted conversation.

“You had your first battle. Your first kills.” Feldon sipped his mead. “Cause enough for any good person to doubt.”

“It’s not just that.” Rael knitted their hands together. “It’s the wargs.”

“Oh?”

“I’ve seen them fight. Not just through my own eyes, but through Bjorn’s.” An involuntary shiver ran up their spine. “They are violent and cruel, worse than anything—nearly anything that I’ve seen.”

“But?” Feldon stared at the horizon beyond the fog.

“They were chained. They were caged and collared, probably since birth. And I can’t help empathizing with them. When Az and I escaped from the slave ship, I was ready to do anything, kill anyone to get out.” Rael squeezed their hands tight. “I wonder…if I had been imprisoned as long as them, would I have been just as cruel to get my freedom?”

Azmond opened and closed his mouth a few times as the adults stood in silence. He wanted to tell Rael that they would never be as violent as the wargs he’d heard about. Say that Rael had done everything to help others. He knew that they’d give him that sad smile, tousle his hair, and go back to brooding. After a few moments Feldon broke the silence.

“Is that all?”

“’Is that all?’” Rael swung their head around with a growl. “I’m here wondering about whether it’s right of me to kill for your war, terrified about the blood on my hands, and you ask me if that’s all?!” The incensed Dragonward threw their hands in the air. “You know what, it isn’t. Here I am, wondering about whether wargs are irredeemable monsters or victims of misfortune…and your crew can’t stop gushing about how great they are as warriors.”

Rael turned around and stomped a few steps away from the railing.

“Warriors.” Rael spat. “They are barely more than weapons. Forged not from flame and steel, but misery and slavery from the moment of their conception.” They swung around to stare balefully at the back of the Jarl’s head. “And if the Faulk are okay with that, then I’m not sure I want to fight by your side.” Rael voice steadily increased in volume as they talked.

“The Faulk are no strangers to misery.” Feldon rumbled quietly. “It is the burden all those in the Jarldom must bear. Every person on this ship has lost someone. Diseases, fickle fae, hungry beasts…they roam our lands without respite. The specter of death follows us like a dogged hunter. So we sail into every raid, every battle, knowing it could be our last. We cling to life as desperately and madly as you clung to freedom on your wreck. When presented with the possibility of survival, we take it. Always.”

“That makes you no better than the wargs!” Rael shouted.

“I’m no stranger to slavery, either.” The Jarl leaned back on the railing, ignoring Rael’s outburst. “My own brother betrayed my family and sold me into slavery when I was even younger than you.” Rael’s temper cooled as Feldon continued. “That’s how I could recognize you for what you were. Recognized the wargs for it, too. That blazing fury in your eyes, the way you set your jaw…An anger that explodes from you in every direction. You were trapped in a life you hated long before you were ever sold. But all that energy needs to go somewhere. I devoted my life to revenge against those who brought me and mine so low. At the end of it all, I was left empty and without purpose.” Feldon let out a heavy sigh. “I imagine the wargs feel the same way.”

“But if you were given the chance, you would use them.” Rael crossed their arms.

“I don’t know.” The jarl shrugged. “I do know some of the other Jarls would. I’d find it difficult to make the decision. I may if my people were in danger, and it wouldn’t be done eagerly.”

Rael and Feldon stared at each other, Azmond looking between the two until Rael slumped and walked back to lean over the railing.

“Maybe I don’t I belong here.” The Dragonward muttered as they shook their head. “You are born warriors. You can see through this damned fog. The first thing you do after battle is party. I don’t think—”

“There are no born warriors.” Feldon interrupted. “Everyone is a product of their environment and their choices. And from what I could see—” The smile he aimed at Azmond was a rare one. “—you’ve channeled your anger into making some fine choices. You may not see yourself as Faulk, but we see you as a friend. Now come. We are beginning to light the braziers.” He clapped the confused youth gently on the shoulder.

The faded conversations came back. Reduced by food and drink, the jovial atmosphere had shifted into somberness. Eight of the round shields that hung off the sides of the drakkar were pulled up and were held aloft. The crew stacked wood onto each of the shields, and soon the friends of the deceased began to throw in an assortment of objects. An old drinking horn. A lyre. A well-worn gambeson. Things that reminded them of the dead, things that they wanted to give them while they were still alive, things they had given to the living, once upon a time.

Rael and Azmond watched in silence as these objects were stacked onto the pyre. When there was no more room, [Levitation] spells were cast to bring them up and a single hair from the locks of the fallen was placed in each brazier. With that, they were ignited and left to float past the sail and above the fog. The light of the eight floating pyres glowed softly through the fog, flickering and ethereal like the memories of those they represented.

The normally jubilant and cacophonous Faulk were quiet as they stood in silence beneath the pyres. Eventually, the last of the fires burnt out and the shields were lowered back onto the ship. Feldon’s voice echoed softly throughout the ship.

“Be it in Xythael’s embrace or Arafell’s halls, our brothers and sisters have found peace. Their fires are cold, yet their ashes remain to give us the strength to continue. If there are any who wish to speak to them, let this be the last time.” His tome-warrior appeared behind him as he cast the same spell as earlier around the pyres. “[Privacy Zone].”

One by one, the crew walked by the shields. They would walk in and trail their fingers in the ashes. When they came to the brazier of one they were close to, they kneeled and whispered secrets, regrets, and confessions. Many would cry, their tears mixing into the ashes. Others would take their knives and cut their hands to bleed onto the remains, muttering oaths of vengeance and promises of protection. Finally, they took the mess and spread the caky mix of tears, ashes, and blood onto their face in dark lines. They walked away from the shields with a renewed sense of purpose.

“Faulk do cry.” Rael whispered.

“We are only human after all.” Jarl Feldon hummed by their side.