#and jaewon turns the ship around to head to valluria for the funeral

[syxjaewon]

expiration date, part 1; ‘illaia’

                                 rule five : the universe owes you nothing.

the call comes inconspicuously, a low hum in the relative quiet of his ship, the message entering the mainframe the same way most all of them do, to be gauged and assessed first by the piloting station, the bridge, before rerouted down to its intended recipient, in this case being yang jaewon. kinam’s voice carries through his communicator as he tells the captain there is a hail coming through for him, which he accepts despite the day being late, the evening hours setting in, his coat being somewhere on the bed, boots parked by his bedroom door.

when the incoming location arrives on his screen, it’s from zephyr, and there’s very few people on that planet at the moment who call him through these means; it must be vera, which is why he stands up straight, readjusts his shirt, perks to attention. they talk weekly, but she’s early, so he assumes it’s something important.

when the image finally cuts through however, jaewon is greeted by the dark brown eyes of saito kyoji, vera’s first mate of over ten years, another piece of the puzzle that had helped raise and shape jaewon into who he is today. of all the brigands and renegades who came and went from the ship under vera’s command, kyoji had always been the one man who could manage to keep up with her, the one man sturdy enough to weather through her storms, the one man who knew more about her than jaewon did himself.

“saito,” jaewon breathes, addressing him politely by his last name.

“yang,” the older man responds, his eyes warming, the creases in his skin forming pronounced there. he wears specs of grey in his hair now, a salt and pepper look that jaewon is not surprised still looks good on him. “it’s good to see you, you’re looking well.”

there’s always been a calming aura laced through kyoji’s presence, the man immobile, immutable, unphased despite whatever racket or turmoil raged around him— something jaewon has always envied and wished to emulate more than anything else. whereas vera is steel and hurricane, kyoji is earth and roots, the way mountains reach deep into planetary cores, every word from his lips a measured, calculated response, seemingly never confused or unsure about anything, the whole universe laid out for him and he’d barely bat an eye. he’d taught jaewon how to fight, knives and long-blades, how to shoot, how to stand your ground against impossible, insurmountable odds, how to stop running from the explosions ( as he’d done in his childhood ) and instead run towards them.

jaewon nods to the compliment, not really knowing what to say to that, how to properly respond; he’s never been any good with praise but thankfully kyoji is used to that by now and doesn’t take offense. “i didn’t know you were going to be on zephyr,” he tells his mentor, gold eyes flickering to the small spaces behind him, whatever he can see of the apartment he’s in— it doesn’t look like vera’s place, which is strange since whenever anyone visits, vera always insists they stay with her.

kyoji inhales deeply, something in his eyes darkening, sobering. “i didn’t know i was going to be, either. until yesterday.”

jaewon blinks a few times, an unsettling worry boiling up inside his system. something is wrong. something is not the same. “what’s happened?”

the older man hesitates, blinking, pausing, a pain leaking over his face for only a split second, not something jaewon is used to seeing, not something he’s used to registering when looking at his longest friend, the delay lasting only a few seconds yet somehow spanning out across a thousand years. his heart drops, his breathing holds, the whole universe around him mutes itself, preparing for the onslaught of what he knows is about to be something terrible, something horrific. kyoji never falters, never struggles, so what’s the one thing that could make him do so? jaewon almost doesn’t want to hear it, almost wants to rescind his question, go back to small talk, go back to last week when he and vera had argued, when he and vera had laughed, had confessed to caring too much about the other, back to when she was fine, she was alright, she was on the screen right in front of him.

“vera called me last night, sent me some messages to pass along to you and henry. i thought it was strange so i tried hailing her back but she wouldn’t answer. you know angel isn’t that far away from zephyr, so i just hopped on down here this morning and…” his eyes cut away from jaewon, staring past his screen, beyond it, beyond time. “she passed, rat. sometime in the night. apparently she was very sick, had been for a long while, probably before she even left her ship to you, probably why she left her ship to you. didn’t tell any of us, so…” his voice trails off for a moment, eyes hollow, voice grating but still steady, the baritone heavy like a stone sinking to the bottom of the ocean.

and that’s how jaewon feels. he can remember the first time he’d ever seen a massive collection of water, remember the first time he’d ever almost drown in one, the suffocation, the building pressure, the weight of the entire planet seemingly enclosing around every line and crevice of his body, the way there was nothing to hold onto, nothing to grab, nothing to reach, no way out. this is reality and there’s no way out. he can remember the way the surface looked from underneath it, like life slipping away from him, moving further and further, despite how hard he fought, despite how fast he tried to move, his limbs burdened by their own measure, slow and dumb, lungs aching, lips unsure whether to gasp or stay shut.

it’s unthinkable to imagine, but somehow the words leave kyoji’s lips and jaewon is already seeing it in his mind, vera blackhound, all ice and tempests, all lightning and power, devoid of movement, devoid of breath, heart gone silent, eyes closed. he can see the way the air gathers around her softly, dust particles themselves careful not to infringe too much into her space, the moonlight gliding in from her window, passing by, passing into morning while she lays still, stationary, stagnant. beyond that, he imagines her decaying, skin collapsing in on itself, growing grey and dry, growing brittle, her hair thinning.

somehow he’d never pictured this before, not in his entire fourteen years of knowing her, of talking to her. despite the lives they lived, the dangers they wrapped around themselves like blankets to hold, to sleep in, despite her waning body, age chipping away at her the same way it chips at marble statues, he’d never thought she could die. silly of him of course, because with as close as he’s ridden with death, he ought to expect it with everyone, he ought to know death hungers for everyone’s flesh, but not her— not the woman with more emotions kept in a single word than most people feel their entire lives, not the woman who’d survived love lost, family broken, who’d demanded the respect of men much larger than her, stronger than her, meaner than her.

illaia. the woman who’d given him everything.

he stands stock-still, so untouched for a moment he wonders if his heart is still beating— he knows his lungs aren’t working, his eyes have gone grey, his throat has closed. he can’t speak, can’t react; any expression given would be a catastrophe he’s unsure whether he would be able to hold back, the dam of his emotions cracking, threatening to overspill. he wants to think this is a prank, this isn’t real, this isn’t happening, that she wouldn’t just die like that without saying anything to him first, she wouldn’t just leave without one last soliloquy about how to take care of the ship better.

but then, much like jaewon, she’d always hated goodbyes.

kyoji continues, despite the whole universe grinding to a halt. “i’ve already talked to the other crew, they’re on their way to vallura for the wake. i’ll be leaving zephyr with her soon also. i’m forwarding you the messages she’d wanted me to give to you and henry, i trust you’ll pass along the engineer’s to him. and tell him i—”

“to valluria?” the words breech through jaewon’s lips out of sheer surprise, his registering of the words almost too late, his brain still somewhere at the bottom of an ocean. “vera was from ariel, why would she…?”

his question tapers off into the white-noise of his mind, the strange sort of non-silence that floods through him. kyoji’s eyes glance downwards for a moment, his own emotions verging on breakage as well, his voice coming through the screen as little more than a whisper. “you know, she’d always called me brother. and you son. we’re the closest to her, and no matter how far and hard we try to run from it, we’re still both vallurian. i think she always wished she was too.”

finally jaewon blinks, lowers his head, stares at the floor by his feet, the roots of him upended, his equilibrium capsized. she’d never once judged him for his background, had always coated him with pride, always allowed him to be confident in himself, even in the scars and damage that world left him with, and having kyoji there alongside her had always reinforced that even more. the two of them are the reason why he has any self-reliance at all, any dignity associated with valluria that he carries with him through the verse. they are the reason he’s never been ashamed to admit his background.

“the wake will be held there, in three days. i’ve named you the vigilant for the jan’hazal.” jan’hazal, valluria’s customary, deep-desert burial ritual; a pain in the ass, but also an honor and one jaewon has to accept simply because he must. kyoji’s voice strengthens a bit, hardens. “you’ll be there. right?”

“i’ll be there.”

“i’ll send you the coordinates.”

and just like that the screen cuts out and jaewon is alone in the dimly lit room as though things are supposed to continue on like nothing had happened. like he ought to be normal now, the verse and all its planets start spinning again. like everything hasn’t just dismantled itself, come unwoven around his ankles, the pieces all falling away, crumbling. he stares for a long moment, long after the small five-note beep of the secondary message coming through, two personal missives and a set of coordinates.

he deals with the coordinates first, puts his boots on and takes the palm-sized stick of information up to the bridge, nothing in his gait reminiscent of thunder or hail, his usual stride muted as he steps past members of his crew, eyes fixated downwards for once, unable to meet any of their gazes, unable to communicate with any of them. he winds his way onto the cockpit, setting the stick down onto the console in front of where yihan is sitting. when he speaks, his tone is deliberate, subdued. “follow this please. we’re changing course.”

he steps over to the intercom, picking up the small, handheld object into his hands, inhales and exhales fully before turning it on to address the whole of serenity.

“this is your captain speaking. i know we’re currently on route to boros to pick up a job, but unfortunately, plans have changed and we need to make a pitstop on valluria. we’ll be there only a day and a night, before leaving in the morning. this is not job related, this is… something personal to me. the original owner of serenity, vera blackhound, has passed and i’ve been named her vigilant to the wake. i would suggest everyone remain onboard and be ready to leave in the morning after the ritual, but it’s your decision.” the lump burns in his throat but he’s got to get through this, he has to. “henry, if you would come meet me in the mess hall, i have something to give to you.”

and with that, he cuts out.

#tw: character death #part 3 of 4 in the 'tabi doesnt understand small solos' series #| expiration date | #| illaia | #syxhenry #<< you're most just called at the end of this #ily #also kinam and yihan are mentioned #not much tho #basically for anyone who doesnt want to read this solo for the rest of their lives-- #vera is gone ;;;; #and jaewon turns the ship around to head to valluria for the funeral #| this cosmic insignificance ( words lasting only a moment ) |

[syxjaewon]

expiration date, part 2 ‘shed no tears for the dead’

wakes in valluria are never black and never covered in tears. water must never be given for dead things

jaewon steps off his ship dressed in ritualistic garb, long white wrap-around garments, pants that require ten strings to hold fast, a cloth sitting heavily over his shoulders, draped around his tattoos and branding, covering the scars on his body except for his forearms, the ends of it flowing off him and trailing behind him as though he himself were made of wind, formed from winter, a son of the sun, bright and blinding. his hair and mouth are covered in more fabric, the tails of which tuck down into the rest of his ensemble, parts of it tight, others loose, the designs modeled after what the ancients must have assumed death looked like. he strides slowly down the cargo bay landing door, looking like someone from thousands of years ago, eyes dulled but steady, a low smoldering gaze hooded beneath heavy, long eyelashes.

three days have gone by at a break-neck pace, jaewon’s ship breaking all sorts of interplanetary space-travel laws to get to the desert planet on time, all throughout which, her captain barely speaks, barely eats, sleeps even less. three days have gone by and he is devoid of thunder, no color to speak of, the kaleidoscope of his temper landing flat like a base note, a monotone, broken only by the extensively higher rate of cigarettes he’s taken to inhaling, seemingly always lighting one up or snuffing it dead, going through more than three pack in a single day. he answers nothing about the funeral, nothing about vera, nothing about valluria, except to say they’ll only be there for a day and a night and they leave again at first light. and if anyone wants to attend, he won’t stop them.

he is not himself and he doesn’t try to be, doesn’t try to extend out, arms reaching, voice calling, burning like the head of a lighthouse, the way his crew is used to seeing him do, doesn’t try to hear them, see them, understand them; much like the ghosts who latch themselves to his wrists, his shoulders, his back, he wanders through the ship in the middle of the night, reminiscently disembodied, disengaging with anyone who attempts to get too close, to ask too many questions, want for too many details.

he tries to keep himself busy, but his mind always returns back to that same white-noise place, where a thousand memories squeeze and crush themselves inside his head, a thousand images flashing at once.

when the ship lands, kyoji meets him, gives him the proper attire necessary for his position in the wake, neither of them speaking much to each other. they gather with the others a short walk away, previous crew members who are happy to see jaewon, albeit not under these circumstances, the group of them heading towards the fringes of the lowkey city, where the dusts and sands swirl together in miniature tornadoes, the sun howling down on them all. he’s missed these people, these half-hidden faces, all older than him, congratulating him on surviving as long as he has, using the name “rat” synonymous with “friend.” they all know a piece of him, of who he was as a child, of who he can’t indulge any longer with the crew he’s with now, asking him just what you’d expect of old friends catching up on each other in hushed voices as they make their journey; has he married yet? still a grenade of a boy? how’s the ship, is she still flying true? still as beautiful as ever, despite the loss of her first love?

somewhere in the distance behind him, he can almost hear serenity crying for vera— figures one of them ought to be.

the arrangement is simple: kyoji and jaewon, named as family, sit at the forefront, dressed the same, kneeling in the sand, facing east while the sun looms along the western hemisphere, while behind them, everyone else kneels the same way, all in the same color, all with the same sentiments, and for the duration of the funeral, turning to the west is taboo. before the gathering is a single flat, square stone, noticeably grey a few centimeters above the sand; beyond it an altar, stone and incense, burning vallurian brews and spices, creating the inescapable scent of cinnamon, three shamans, and a large pyre with a corpse-sized box atop it.

they burn her body, the fire raging higher than anything jaewon’s ever seen before, but can still somehow relate to it, eyes caught in the flames, the cackling of the heat sending him into a daze for most of it. he listens to the shamans’ song, the holy rite passed for her spirit, the ghoul of her life collapsing down into dust inside the coffin held high away from them, and something inside him wants to be able to see it. to see vera, to come closer to her, to comfort her— as though she might be scared trapped inside that enclosure, as though he could hold her arm the same way she had held his every time he’d come to her, broken from nightmares and memories and demons.

illaia….. illaia…..

the word repeats itself over and over inside his head and he has to fight against the lump that keep rearing up in his throat, fight against his own heart breaking itself against his ribs, fight against the urge to stay here, rooted to the dunes of his homeworld. the wind kicks up the sands against his clothes but he doesn’t flinch, doesn’t blink, doesn’t sway. we are born of the desert, kyoji once told him, we are as much earth and stone and sky and light as we are flesh and bone; we do not let anything overtake us.

finally, the fire simmers out, the collection of her ashes and remains compiled, and they call him forward, initiating the next phase of the wake: the jan’hazal. jaewon swallows and inhales, bringing himself up, steeling himself against the tremble in his legs, the wavering of his soul, reminds himself he must be mountain, he must be lightning. he’s not ready for this, he doesn’t want to say goodbye, doesn’t want to give her up, doesn’t want to be here at all right now, inhaling the dusk, but he stands anyway and approaches the grey stone, shoulders back, the line of him tall and straight and shining. the way vera taught him to be.

he turns towards the west, the setting sun casting long, orange lines across his clothes, coloring him in the shades of his surroundings, of his history, of his people, and kneels down again on the stone, his arms outstretched for the shamans to unwrap his headdress and shirt off him, revealing his face, head, torso, and arms. blonde hair whips against his forehead and ears, sand scratching against his skin, but he doesn’t move, gaze locked on the setting sun as the mourners before him watch. two of the shamans begin painting his face in red dust, his neck, his shoulders, regardless of the scars or tattoos embroidered on him, a testament to the fact that no matter what else he does to his body, above and below the flesh, these sands will always remain on him.

the third shaman stands before him a few feet away, eyes black, features somber and serious, the urn in his grasp, and jaewon already knows this rite. “you have been named as the vigilant. you understand this.”

“i understand this,” jaewon answers.

“you are to take the remains of this woman into the desert. you are to ride an hour to the west, chase kalidasa until you can follow no more, until all light leaves the sky. you understand this.”

“i understand this.”

“you will stop. you will bring body and dust together, allowing her to rejoin the sands from whence she came, so that she may unite with her lineage, so that her essence will once again flow with the darkened waters of the world below, where all time stops. you understand this.”

“i understand this.”

“you will wait there throughout the night, you will keep vigil for her passage. vanashim the great witch, the howler, will come to you to tempt you with exhaustion and with hunger. you must not surrender. take nothing, believe nothing. keep your watch. you understand this.”

“i understand this.”

“when kalidasa returns to the sky, travel to the east and return. remember, young vallurian… shed no tears for the dead. you understand this.”

“i understand this.”

finger-painting finished, jaewon stands and receives the urn, small, hot, white, pretty unassuming considering the storm of a woman it used to be, and is re-wrapped in his headdress, torso still bare, red skin still on display. they lead him to a hovercycle and he gets on it, securing the urn, securing his footing, securing his lungs, his heart, his hands. don’t break. gold eyes flicker back to the rest of the still-seated mourners for only a moment, a strike of weakness, uncertainty, fear, dread, pain.

and then it’s gone again, shoved down into the corners of him as he clenches teeth tightly, eyes sharpening to knives, pinned on the horizon. white-knuckles grip the handlebars, the engine revving as sand spews outwards, the machine launching him into the dimming orange sunlight.

*****

the night is long and dotted with bright stars, smoke gathers around chimney tops in this sleepy desert town, some of the older crew rally to reminisce in taverns and bars, between beers and laughter, stupid stories about vera in her youth, about jaewon as a pre-teen, about the days when the skies were clear and much less charted, much less ruled, the edges of space still mysterious, still full of dragons and whirlpools, the days of real pirates, real deep-space hauntings. they sing old glory days songs, forgetting some of the words, making up others, they remember their last conversations with vera, their last goodbyes to the ship, their last voyages out into the black.

it is a night for endings, a night for expiration dates, everything letting down, the dust settling, the sands breezing, the air still scented with spices. there are glows that follow footsteps in the streets, lighted beacons to warm serenity as she sits and keeps watch, facing the desert still, facing the long edge of the world still, rigid and calm. everyone else tucks away their tabs of life, tucks away this chapter, says goodbye in their own small or large way, to a woman who’d always somehow managed to be stronger than anything that challenged her.

and only serenity sits and listens to vera’s son, the scarred boy, screaming into the dark, miles and miles away, the broken boy, tearing at the sands for all he’s lost.

*****

when the captain returns to his ship at first light, as promised, he is dusty, sandy, messy, and golden, the dunes of valluria having painted the bare skin of his chest bronze, the red paint on his face chipped, smudged, already half worn off. no shirt still, but the cloth for his headdress is slung over his shoulder as he strides through the metal gate, lips chapped and solidified downwards into a permanent frown, his brows heavy and dark, gold eyes blazing and resentful, the sun in him scorching and exhausted. he wants a damn shower and a cigarette, he wants to get back to his job, he wants to get off this world— this world that has seeped into his bones, dried him free of blood, fused itself to his life unwanted, each mountain his birthmark, each city an open, gaping wound.

he cannot cry, so instead he burns. he burns the same way everyone on valluria burns.

with a fist, he hits the intercom that connects to the bridge. “captain on deck. get us the hell off this planet.”

#last installment #vera's wake #| expiration date | #| shed no tears for the dead | #| this cosmic insignificance ( words lasting only a moment ) |