"She holds, however, a special place for those who travel this life as a journey."
Chiana -- the quintessential vagabond she's talking about -- places her lips against Aeryn's cold skin and stares up into infinity. One crystal tear on gray skin; eyes almost shut tight, almost black. Accusing the sky from inside a pain so immediate and strong it has a physical presence but no sound, no movement. There's a downside to innocence.
"Aeryn Sun will surely harvest that favor. Her life was a series of strides toward enlightenment. Casting off the chains of prejudice and hatred."
John -- her companion in those strides -- stands very still. Chiana returns to Jothee's side; D'Argo -- living proof of those chains, cast aside -- weeps and unsheathes his Qualta Blade.
"Reaching beyond violence and bigotry. She sought a balance of lasting inner peace."
D'Argo places his Qualta Blade in the pod, wrapping Aeryn's hand across the hilt. The only sacrifice big enough, for all her honor, and strength. For the love and acceptance and wonder she was able to show him, warrior to warrior. Beyond violence and bigotry; toward balance, toward peace. It's a language only the two of them ever understood.
"In her name."
Jothee gently takes Chiana's hand in his, the two of them children here. Rygel hovers to Aeryn's side: "You are more worthy of this." He removes a royal sash with a golden seal, places it over her crossed hands. "Be at peace, Aeryn." He calls her by her name. He calls her Aeryn.
Pilot sits with his head bowed and a single claw raised, one hand up and one hand down, touching mourning Moya, saying a prayer. One only Aeryn, among them, could ever hope to understand. If she were there to hear it, in the silence.
Zhaan passes a censer over Aeryn's casket. "May the Goddess receive you with charity." Stark, the very spirit of charity, gives an "Ahmet."
"May the Goddess sanctify your spirit." D'Argo joins Stark, sanctified by knowing her, and loving her, both of them: "Ahmet."
"May the Goddess purify your soul." Chiana, most innocent among them, joins the mourners in the purity of their chorus, promising never to forget: "Ahmet."
"May the Goddess recite your name on the whispers of the wind."
"Amen," says John, barely a whisper. His hands still shackled to the waist, dragging chains by his ankles, he walks so slowly to her side. He is in shock, full of anger and confusion, nearly a zombie. He stares down at her silently.
"D'Argo, give me your knife."