Citizen 1482 Apollo

The clearest memory Apollo has of the sea is the waves. Standing on the shore as a youngster, staring out over the surf that roared on the edge of the beach. The white-tipped waved chewed at the shore, churning up sand and spray. Behind it, cliffs rose high and mighty, but weathered - showing that even their grandeur could be worn away by the every hungry ocean. 

Do not wander into the waves without aid, its ba murmured into its ear, voice lost to memory so that it blended with the rush and whisper of the waves, for you are young, your magic not yet stable… the ocean will take you as its own.

Apollo had listened, and had not swam the shores without supervision. But others had not. A youngster in this hidden town of pirates had, on a dare, ventured out into the surf - and the ocean had taken them. A riptide had torn them from the shore, from the air… they had been found floating, lifeless, on the ocean hours later. 

Apollo remembers that day. Remembers how the corpse looked, lacking the animating force that had been Xenia. Gone and dead and nothing but meat. But that lifeless meat had still deserved respect, and a fitting burial. 

And so they had loaded their ship, set sail, and headed to the Graveyard of Shipwrecks. 

The waves were less past the breakers. Apollo remembers sitting at the rail, looking down at the rippling waves. Its magic stable, now, it could come along without the fear of drowning. It had nearly not been able to come, hysteria over Xenia’s death rampant - but it had wanted. It had wanted to see what respect for the dead looked like. 

The waves shimmered, reflecting the night sky above. Setting sail from one of the further Posian isles, they still went at night to avoid the Navy’s watchful eye. There was no place for the Navy in this errand. The ship that carried what had once been Xenia flew a flag that marked them as a funerary procession, free from the usual competition and raiding of other pirates. 

Apollo had seen the night sky every day of its life. But the night sky reflected in the water? It stared out at it in awe, trying and failing to see where the sea and the sky met. The rocking had taken some getting used to - it felt like it was learning to walk again - but soon it had adjusted. 

The smell of the ocean surrounded it, and it inhaled deeply. That odd stink of rotting seaweed, but the clear crispness of the salty night air mixed in its nostrils, and it sneezed. There was more there, and it took a moment to inhale, breathing it in and committing it to memory. 

The prow rode a wave up and then crashed down, sending the deck tilting, and spray flying over the side. Apollo shook its head and made its way to the front, looking out past the figurehead and towards this mysterious isle of graveyards and shipwrecks. 

It looked out, towards a grey smear on the horizon, lit by the light of the moon and stars. It turned its head, seeing movement, and saw a pirate ship approaching, ready to fight… and then the lookout spotted the funerary flag they were flying. Activity on the ship changed, and Apollo watched as it drew up alongside, movements unthreatening, and began to accompany them. 

The pirates were strange to outsiders. They would kill each other in a moment over something as simple as a spilled tankard, but seemed to have some strange accord over death. To Apollo this was merely a fact of life; in life, you had to be on your guard, fighting for survival. But in death, once you could no longer care for yourself? There was a promise of honor, of care, of a proper burial so that your spirit could rest. 

It turned it’s nose into the wind, watching as the fog on the water grew and grew. 

Eventually the call came for anchor - they would go forwards from here in dinghies that could safely navigate the treacherous waters - and the other pirate ship peeled off to continue its errands for the night. They would cut into their profits only so far for someone they did not know. 

The experience of the dinghy was far different than that of the ship, and Apollo did not like it. Instead of the smooth, rolling grandeur of the ship, the dinghy bobbed in what, to it, was an incredibly undignified fashion. Each small wave made the boat rock, and salty water got into everyone’s eyes. 

But still, as it wove through the creaks and moans of the shipwrecks, Apollo had to appreciate its use. There were places and times you couldn’t or should not use a sailing ship, and this errand was one of them. 

Eventually, the fog cleared, and before them lay a shore that shone bone white in the light from their lanterns, and a dark figure carrying a shovel. 

“Who do you bring me?” asked the Graveskeeper of the Isle of Shipwrecks.

Author: SilveryStormWing