What Comes Ashore (Completed)

Five

It had come to this. We could no longer wait. The sickness was spreading faster than we could control, and those who hadn't turned yet were close. Too close. The air on the ship was thick with it now—the smell of sweat, fever, and fear. None of us spoke as we dragged Kjartan to the rail, his body limp and burning with sickness.

He wasn't dead yet. But he was close enough. "We can't wait anymore," Ingrid muttered, her voice low, heavy. She stood beside me, her face pale, dark circles beneath her eyes. The weight of what we were about to do was written all over her, but there was no other choice left. We knew what came next, and we couldn't risk another Vigdis or Bjorn.

Gunnar nodded grimly, his hands wrapped tightly around Kjartan's wrists. "Before they turn," he said, his voice cold, like he was trying to convince himself. "We have to do it before they turn." Kjartan's breath rattled in his chest, his eyes glassy, barely seeing us. He didn't struggle, didn't plead. I wondered if he knew what we were about to do—if he cared anymore, or if the sickness had already hollowed him out.

Ingrid leaned over the edge of the ship, staring into the black waves. The mist hung low on the water, swallowing everything it touched, and it felt like we were drifting into the void itself. Gunnar and I lifted Kjartan, our movements slow and deliberate, careful not to look him in the eye. The rope we had tied him with dangled from his wrists, but it didn't matter now. He was too weak to fight, too weak to even speak. With a final heave, we tossed him overboard.

The splash was soft, barely a sound at all, but it felt like a stone had dropped into my chest. The water closed over him, swallowing him whole, and we stood there, staring at the ripples until they disappeared.

Behind us, the others lay still, their breaths shallow, their eyes closed. They hadn't turned yet, but it was only a matter of time. We would have to do the same for them soon. It didn't feel right. It didn't feel like anything a person should do. "We should say something," Ingrid whispered, her eyes fixed on the dark water. "For them. Something to send them off."

"What good will words do now?" Gunnar muttered, his face hard. "We're beyond words." And he was right. The time for prayers and rites had passed. All that was left was survival.

We dragged the others to the rail one by one. Hapthor, barely breathing, still muttered to himself as we pushed him over. Then Orm, his body stiff with fever, but still alive enough to understand what was happening. He didn't fight, though. None of them did. It was as if they knew there was no point.

When it was done, when the last splash had faded into the silence of the sea, we stood there, staring out into the endless black. The ship felt emptier now, quieter, but the weight of what we had done hung over us like a storm waiting to break. "They were our comrades," Ingrid whispered, her voice thick with grief.

"They were dead," Gunnar said, but his voice lacked conviction. We had thrown our comrades to the sea before their time, and no matter how much we told ourselves it had to be done, it didn't feel like justice. It felt like murder.

The ship groaned beneath our feet, the ropes creaking in the night, but the dead faces stayed with us, just beneath the surface, as if they were still there, watching, waiting for their revenge.

The ship was quieter now, but it wasn't a peaceful quiet. It was the kind of silence that gnawed at your guts, the kind that made your mind turn on itself. The air was thick with something else now—a broth of guilt, paranoia, the weight of what we had done. The dead were gone, but they weren't far. I could feel them, just beneath the surface of the water, drifting along with the ship, their empty eyes fixed on us.

We didn't speak of it. Not out loud. The act of throwing our comrades overboard had been agreed upon, but the decision hadn't settled in us. It festered, growing heavier with each breath we took.