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The Lyra do not have special garb for mourning. We don’t sing, we don’t give speeches, and we rarely sob. Our practice is to solemnly return our people to the sea from whence we came, and to dwell on their contributions to our race.
I find this difficult to reconcile with the loss of so many.
Rath was my home.
But I do not cry. I dress in Warrior Caste blacks and button my high-necked tunic, peering at myself in the plain mirror in my quarters. My long white hair is down around my shoulders, silver-blue scales dull from three sleepless nights in the wake of the attack. My inky black sclera seem to absorb all the natural light from my shining irises, eyes that should flash in the light dim and dark.
I reach back to take my hair in my fist, pulling it up to wind it into its customary topknot. It’s grown long since I took on the mantle of bodyguard for the High Council in Saga, thick and luxurious.
I’m going to be late if I wait any longer to leave.
I place my other hand on the blade at my hip, my fingers curling around the hilt.
The metal rings as I pull it from its sheath, the light of the algae lamp overhead dancing across its shiny silver surface. I hold my hair up and stare at myself in the mirror, then twist my hair away from my scalp for clearance.
The weapon is sharp enough that it cuts clean through each and every strand, leaving me with a rope of silver-white that was once attached to my head. I pull my left hand down to stare at the cut hair, years of growth clenched in my fist.
Our hair is grown long as a sign of honor—a sign of our caste.
A warrior who has failed to protect his home doesn’t deserve honor.
The rain falls in a spray of cold mist as I make my way to the beach, walking away from my quarters in the Council Chambers. I move past the re-built archives, past the pillar commemorating those who lost their lives defending our sovereignty in the Lyran Civil War.
We do not have monuments like the ones I know humanity does—no statues of individuals, no heroes. For us, it is best to honor the dead as a unit, to remember people who made the ultimate sacrifice for others. The pillar is inscribed with the names of each and every Lyran who died on our side, when an opposing force decided that interacting with humans should be forbidden.
The path meanders across a bridge, over one of the channels where glass subs jet to the north and south. They are all strangely empty for this time of day; the city has seemed to stand still since Rath was destroyed, since one billion Lyran lives blinked out of existence in a heartbeat. I realize why when I crest the bridge over the channel, the road leading down toward the beach.
Everyone is in mourning.
Lyra wearing every shade from black to white stand on the beach, heads of white and pastel hair dulled by the grey skies. They barely speak, just a few voices floating over the crowd. As I make my way toward them, I realize they stretch as far as the eye can see, Lyra of every caste and every background here to grieve for those we lost.
I catch more than a few looks as I walk through the crowd, suddenly self-conscious about what I’ve done to my hair. I’m sure it’s messy; I’ve never cut my own hair before. Beyond that, it’s strange to see a Lyran Warrior of my station, with three silver bands on my collar, with short hair. Cutting off one’s hair is something done only when you’re made casteless.
I finally push through to the front of the crowd, where the Councilors have gathered without us. There are other guards watching them—guards that did not need to grieve themselves, though the loss of our distant moon grieves us all the same. There is only one other Va’lora here amongst them, a tall woman with silver scales, pearlescent irises, and long white hair that trails down her back.
My kin.
Myonlykin, as all the others of my familial pod were murdered on Rath.
I hold back a shudder as I come to stand beside Councilor Va’lora, who looks gravely out on the gentle waves. This is normally where we would offer our fallen brethren to the sea. After the Battle for Saga, when Loyalist forces took back the city from the Separatists, we sent hundreds of our dead to the garden of stones at the bottom of the sea, to be devoured by the beasts that roam there—to join the cycle of life once again.
The victims of the attack on Rath left nothing behind, however.
Thus, there is nothing to bury beneath the waves.
Councilor Va’lora does not look at me, her black eyes blinking as she stares out at the waves.
“Your hair,” she murmurs.
“My hair,” I repeat.
“What is the meaning of this?” she says. “It’s unbecoming of a Council guard. People may think you’re casteless.”
“Perhaps I should be made such,” I say. “My kin are dead.”
“Don’t be a fool, Malix. This is not about you.”
She finally looks at me, her ink black eyes narrow. I can see the flash of pearl-colored irises in those pools of black, her pupils mere pinpricks. I can’t read her emotion; over the years, the Councilor has become adept at hiding them.
