What Comes Ashore (Completed)

Six

By the time dawn broke, we were fewer. The night had stolen more of us—some to the sickness, others to the madness it bred. The ship felt hollow now, the creaking wood and lapping waves our only companions. Those still with us were shadows of who they had been, eyes dull and lifeless, bodies worn thin with fear. None of us spoke of what happened to Ingrid, but the memory clung to us, suffocating.

We were down to the hardest choices now. The newly sick lay bound where we'd left them, their breaths ragged, their skin waxy with fever. But they hadn't turned. Not yet. That was the cruel part—the waiting.

Gunnar stood by the mast, staring at them, his axe in hand. His face was drawn, tight with the weight of command that had become a burden too heavy to carry. But he was still the one we looked to, still the one we expected to make the call.

"They won't make it," Gunnar said at last, his voice low but firm. "You know that. We can't risk another night. We end it now." There was no argument. The words hung heavy in the air, and I felt them sink deep into my chest. He was right, of course. They wouldn't make it. They were slipping away, already halfway gone, and when they turned, it would be worse. We couldn't wait any longer. We'd seen what the sickness did when it took hold. But doing this—ending it while they were still breathing—was something different. Something we weren't ready for.

"They're still alive," I muttered, though I knew the protest was hollow. My eyes flicked to Gudrun, her chest rising and falling in uneven, shallow breaths. She'd been with us through more winters than I could count, her laugh once loud enough to carry across the ship. Now she was a ghost, barely hanging on, but not yet gone.

"They're not coming back," Gunnar replied, his voice hard. "We've seen what happens. You want to wait until they're clawing at our throats?" Ingrid's last moments flashed in my mind, the madness that had gripped her before she threw herself into the sea. Then Bjorn, Vigdis, and all the others. They hadn't been themselves when they turned. They'd been something else, something beyond saving.

I tightened my grip on my axe, the wood rough in my palm. The decision had already been made. It wasn't about mercy anymore. It was survival. One of the younger ones—Einar, barely more than a boy—stood frozen, his face pale as bone. His hands trembled around his sword, and I could see it in his eyes—the doubt, the terror. He wasn't ready. None of us were. But there was no time for doubt now.

"We have to do it clean," Gunnar said, his voice sharp as a blade. "No hesitation. No mercy. They deserve a quick death, not the sickness." I nodded, though my throat felt tight. Quick death. Easier said than done. Gunnar moved first. He didn't flinch, didn't let his hand shake. With a single swing, he brought his axe down on Gudrun's neck, the sick thud of the blade echoing across the deck. There was no scream, no struggle. Just silence.

The others followed. One by one, we dispatched the sick—Freydis, Thora, comrades we'd fought beside, laughed with, bled with. The axe fell again and again, and with each swing, the weight in my chest grew heavier. Then we came to Hrolf. He had been too quiet. His breath was steady, but there was something off about him—something I hadn't noticed before. His eyes. They were wide, wild, darting around the ship like a trapped animal.

"Hrolf?" Gunnar called out, his axe poised. Hrolf didn't answer. He was staring past us, past everything, his lips moving in rapid, frantic whispers. His hands clutched at the ropes that held him, his knuckles white, and it hit me all at once—he hadn't been silent because he was sick. He was silent because he was gone. Not to the sickness, but to something darker. "Hrolf?" I stepped closer, my heart pounding in my chest.

He snapped then, thrashing against the ropes, his eyes wild, his voice rising in a shrill, broken cry. "They're coming for us! We're all going to die here!" Gunnar moved quickly, but Hrolf was faster. He broke free from the ropes, lunging at us with a strength that defied the fever raging in his body. His eyes were wide, crazed, filled with a madness that had been festering beneath the surface.