Day 5: Emotional Collapse & Mourning Ritual
The morning rose to quiet, the kind of quiet that felt respectful, almost sacred.
Talia blinked awake slowly, feeling the first strange flicker of something she hadn't felt since Earth died: the faintest thread of steadiness in her chest. Not peace. But the smallest whisper of healing.
Outside, the camp moved gently. People weren't collapsing or shaking anymore—just moving slow, brittle, careful.
Theo called the newly instated department heads to the Lord's tent. Talia followed him in, still stiff, still tired, but clearer than she'd been in days.
Everyone waited inside, shoulders hunched but backs straight. The family, Dale, Auntie Junia, Brielle, Joel, Reno and a small group of new faces.
Theo exhaled. "We need to formally choose the Lord."
A quiet fell over the tent.
Dav rubbed a hand along his jaw. "Who has the Highest Lord level?"
Murmurs of discussion arose.
No boasts. No rivalry. Just weary realism.
Grandma Elene lifted her chin. "Well? Who is it?"
The levels were shared. Talia didn't speak—Theo did it for her.
"Talia has the highest."
Silence stretched—thick, startled, disbelieving.
Grandma Elene's eyes narrowed. "Highest? As in… above the other Lords?"
Theo nodded once. "By a margin that should not be possible."
Dav scrubbed a hand down his face. "Tay… seriously. What did you do out there?"
Talia hesitated, then exhaled. "Uh… possibly brought down an entire tunnel? One that wasn't even being used. And maybe… accidentally started a few fires."
Joel choked. "A few? I distinctly remember multiple fireballs."
Cael raised a brow. "Public menace confirmed."
Grandpa snorted. "So we're following a delinquent. Wonderful."
"She's our delinquent," Brielle shot back, fierce and protective.
Talia threw her hands up. "Hey, look, everything that collapsed was already falling apart! And the fires? Strictly beast-related. Mostly. Probably. And for the record—" she jabbed a finger at the group, "I wasn't the one who set off the nuke."
A ripple of exhausted laughter broke through, shallow, cracked but real.
Dad pinched the bridge of his nose. "Sweetheart, were you fighting the apocalypse or… contributing to it?"
"Bit of both," Dom muttered.
Auntie Junia hid a smile. "Well, if the planet needed extra help collapsing, I suppose we sent the right girl."
Talia lifted her chin, her voice steadier. "I did what I had to. For all of us."
The room shifted—no judgment, only the quiet understanding that responsibility had already chosen her long before any vote.
Someone whispered, "War Goddess… she has to be the Lord."
"We still need to make it official," another murmured.
Votes rose without hesitation.
"Talia."
"Talia."
"Talia."
"War Goddess."
No one needed to see if it was unanimous, it already was. The decision was instinctive, immediate, settled before anyone walked into the tent.
Theo was voted in right after.
"Shadow Lord," Cael declared mockingly.
Soft laughter rippled through the weary group.
Talia snorted. "Really? Shadow Lord?"
"Acting Lord and Logistics Commander," Theo corrected, smirking but the new name stuck.
The meeting softened after that. The weight of leadership settled—heavy, but not crushing.
Auntie Junia cleared her throat, drawing attention. "We need a ceremony. For the dead. Before the grief festers."
Heads bowed under their memories.
"A pyre suits our conditions," she continued. "Each family can offer something for those we lost. A cleansing of the mind and body."
Another unanimous agreement passed.
Talia added, "If we're doing it, invite the other Lord groups. We've all lost people."
Runners were sent and the other camps accepted immediately—some with relief so palpable Talia felt it across the meadow.
The normally chaotic children's tent felt strangely quiet that afternoon.
Brielle sat cross-legged on a woven mat, Jace curled against her hip, Lira tracing patterns on her sleeve. Around them, younger kids sat reading picture books, building with wooden blocks, or playing with the assortment of comfort toys salvaged from space inventories.
Every now and then, a child looked up at Brielle, eyes wide with unspoken questions. She answered with soft smiles, and gentle cuddles.
Outside, camp noise stayed low as if the volume switch was adjusted. Crafting tools, murmured instructions, the rustle of tents all muffled, distracted.
The children sensed the camp tension and stayed unusually close to their carers and unusually quiet.
When Theo peeked in, he paused, shoulders easing for the first time that day, even grief softened in the presence of children still trying to play when the world around them changed.
By dusk, the eight camps gathered in the center where Auntie Junia had arranged her small stone shrines. The air tense—expectation, grief, hung heavy.
Auntie Junia and Grandma Elene stepped forward.
Groups split again into smaller groups, families stuck together, children clung to parents, couples linked hands and Friends leaned on one another.
The meadow hushed.
Auntie Junia began speaking gently,
"We remember the ones we loved.
We remember the ones we could not save.
We remember the home that birthed us—
and the Earth who gave her last strength to carry us here."
Families stepped forward with offerings and names were spoken sometimes softly, others breaking. Some whispered, some barely breathed.
Earth's name was last.
"Gaia," Auntie Junia said, voice trembling. "Mother of us all."
The offerings continued to build at the base of the pyre, aching memories: Scraps of paper, a broken necklace, a torn cloth patch, a pebble from Earth, a child's drawing of the old sky, a postcard and other fragile remnants.
After the final memory was laid at the pyre base, Auntie Junia performed a final chant and nodded to Luana.
Luana stepped forward with the torch. Her hand shook, but she touched it to the pyre. Fire caught instantly—gold-white flames rising with a soft roar.
A ripple moved through the crowd.
Something brushed them—warm, gentle, like a mother's palm on a fevered brow.
Someone whispered, "It feels like Earth's last hug."
The meadow pulsed—once—like a heartbeat beneath their feet as agreement murmured through the crowd, hearts tearing open.
Auntie Junia's chant continued—soft words of love and loss, of letting go without forgetting. As she spoke, a symbol appeared on the back of her hand, glowing faintly leaf-green before fading. She flinched but hid it, unsure if it was imagination or some deeper awakening.
The ritual ended, but no one left.
The cying began slowly—one voice, then another—until it swept the crowd like a tide.
People sought comfort among family, friends, quiet groups, even strangers.
A low, mourning melody from some distant culture came from the crowd.
When it faded, another began, it didn't matter the song; it was the intention behind it. People sang along, some accompanied with salvaged instruments—a guitar, a violin, hand drums, even two cups tapped like cymbals.
A group of dancers led by Brielle circled the pyre, releasing their grief through movement.
The audience settled on blankets, stools, and wooden blocks, watching quietly or whispering to one another. The impromptu performance wasn't grand, but it wasn't meant to be. It was a farewell. A release. A healing.
When the fire began to dim ,many moved toward the long cooking pit where Henna ,Malu and others cooks, ladled warm stew into wooden bowls.
No one rushed. Everyone moved as if the air had thickened. But the smell of simmering herbs and beast-meat drew them in with the promise of something grounding.
Families sat in loose circles. Children leaned into parents. Fighters set aside their weapons. Soft, low conversation spread—small memories of Earth, quiet hopes for tomorrow.
Talia sat among them, her family around, her bowl cradled in her hands. The food was not the best her camp had had, the meat was spread to thinly amongst the crowd but it was warm, real, and tasty.
Around her, people finally relaxed, shoulders loosening as they ate and allowed themselves to grieve among others who had experienced similar loss. It wasn't joy. But it was the first step toward feeling human again.
The night stretched long, until the pyre burned down to embers. Still reluctant to leave, people lit the prearranged firepits and drifted into small resting groups, to spend the night among the crowd.
When the crowd drifted into groups, the other Lords approached Talia and Theo.
"Thank you," The young Lord Eli said. "I didn't know how to help them."
"It helped," Amita, another whispered. "I could see my camp breaking, but… I had no idea how to release it."
A third, Mei Chen, bowed slightly. "My people didn't know they needed this—until they joined."
The other five Lords looked over, the group a mix of disdain, curiosity and calculation.
As the meadow settled into rest, people looked at each other differently. Less fear. More recognition. Something inside the camp had… released.
The air had changed and it began to pulse with strength, with Life.
We survived once and we can survive again. It seemed to say.
Talia and her family lay on a spread of blankets beneath the twin moons, ready to spend the night outdoors. The stars of Beastworld shone overhead—clearer than anything on Earth, almost painfully bright. They could now finally appreciate them, it still hurt to know their own sky was gone, but now they could see and appreciate the beauty of their new one.
A new beginning: hard-earned, painful. But theirs.
Tonight, they mourned and healed, together.
Tomorrow, they would begin to build.