Burial Water

   The water was air and he breathed it deep. The salty rush filled his lungs in rhythmic, comforting puffs. It was all he could control. His small hands shook at his sides; his bright blue eyes were wide with trepidation.

   The water did not fill her lungs. Instead, one long lonely scream issued from her full lips and echoed through the water that surrounded them all. She tumbled over the lip of The Trench. Her long blonde hair billowed around her slender body like dancing seaweed. Her long arms were out-stretched, reaching up to him in supplication. He thought that if he reached out, he would feel several wisps of her hair brush his fingertips.

    What could he do?

    The hand on his shoulder was bigger, stronger, heavier than his own limp limbs and it belonged to the man who could do anything. And that man had chosen this for her.

    She fell, her legs frozen in the pumping motion they had assumed the moment she had been thrust from the balcony, the one built into The Trench's towering sides. The water around her had been cursed to prevent her from swimming away.

    He would not permit her the decency of a last graceful swim.

    Traitors do not deserve the honor of the Ocean Blessing. Traitors deserve to drown.

    The hand suddenly tightened and he knew he had flinched involuntarily. They both heard it. The volcanic explosion of cracking earth as the bottom of The Trench split open like the terrible smile of a magma dragon. The rolling lava was blinding after so long in dark sea and he squinted against the raging red. Heat shot through the air, sending streams of bubbles and steam toward the surface. Several of the Royal Entourage leaped away from their viewing balconies least they get burned.

    He wished they would erupt into boils. Let their viewing cost them.

    Behold the punishment of defiance.

    He still saw her, falling in slow motion, still reaching out to him. Her body was outlined by the raging lava beneath her and still he forced himself to watch.

    Suddenly, there was movement behind her, a furious mass of swarming creatures. His fingers twitched and his eyes focused in on the dagger on her hip. He remembered the spear at her back. He wanted to yell at her, order her to draw her weapons.

    Put up a fight! His fingers throbbed and the water was rushing faster in and out of his lungs.

    The Swarm blossomed into a torrent, blocking out the pulsating glare of lava. A rogue thought entered his mind and he did not turn from it.

    They survived, they live Below. It is possible. But she began falling faster and The Swarm was getting larger. He took one step forward and this time the hand did not hold him back.

    He reached out and gripped the railing, eyes vigilant.

    The last he saw of her was her golden white outline. The scream had ended and he imagined her eyes closing, hands wrapping around the weapon at her side. He wanted to imagine her at peace, pretend that the screeching creatures and condescending governors were gone. He wanted to see this as her Funeral Wash, not her execution. He wanted his father to be wrong.

    The tears could not course down his cheeks. The water swirled and pulled them away. But the agony lingered, the hollowed out piece of him never to be filled.

The Swarm descended and The Trench received its latest sacrifice.