Our weather-seer predicts grim winds, and the ship must make an Offering for its safety. I won't be seeing the far shore. My clan's doing very well indeed from the ocean, and Balance requires that the ocean claims something back. It will make its choice from among us, and there's nobody on board it's more likely to pick.

So when the compass needle points at me I've already made my prayers and come to what peace I can. I'm granted two hours preparation time, and I spend it alone on deck gazing my last at the sea and sky. I make no plans for escape: I would be a poor sailor indeed to value my survival over that of the entire vessel, and besides there's nowhere to go.

The sea-gallows is set up midships off starboard. Nobody's calling it that, of course, but it's the exact same structure the empire uses to dispose of pirates and marine malefactors. A regular land-gallows minus the noose and beam, just the platform and trapdoor. The sea and a weight will do the business.

The rite of the Offering is somber and respectful and tries very hard to not look like a criminal execution. My arms are tied but that's meant as a kindness: the theory is that it's easier to go down in peace when struggle's not an option. I'm pretty sure though that Offering and Execution have some things in common: the finality of your last step ever as you position yourself on the trapdoor; the scrape of the rope as the weight is tied to your ankles; the inner struggle of dread against acceptance; the shock of dropping followed instantly by the shock of the cold water; and the sight of the surface receding above you, a bright shimmering disk hemmed in by darkness.

Acceptance comes easier once I'm under, as if I left my fear at the surface. It helps that the clan got me good drowning classes. That sounds morbid even to me, but the lessons were wise and practical: the techniques and meditations that slow and calm the drowning process, giving more chance of lasting until rescue and a peaceful end if rescue doesn't come. So my fear is gone, and in its place are just sadness and loneliness. I know my future. Consciousness will fade and sputter out and my body's last life will quickly follow; my corpse will decompose and be eaten by a thousand tiny mouths and my spirit will dissolve into the dark water. I shall be one with the ocean, and the ocean is cold and vast; I will die alone and be dead alone. And that is the thought at which my stoical acceptance falters.

Orthodox Elementalism sees the ocean as a strictly impersonal presence, one you can negotiate and strike balances with but never get in any way close to. I'm with the heretics who believe the ocean has a more personal aspect, one that can be worshiped and befriended and called on in need. I pray to it now: *I am Offered to you, and give myself willingly. I beg you be with me as I enter your kingdom.*

And to my awe and joy it comes. A huge fish, visible against the dark as if it brings its own light. Huge lidless eyes that gaze at me and seem to read my entire existence. It grants a miracle:  my descent halts as the rope slips from my ankles, the drowning-weight continuing down alone. I push down hard against the flash of mistaken hope: my life is not spared, I am still the Offering for the ship. I bring my feet back together, hold them out towards the fish and feel its great cool lips close softly round them.

I will drown just as thoroughly in that belly, if I do not digest first, and my spirit's destination will likely be the same; but to me it makes all the difference, to be be taken by a living presence rather than a void.

The fish begins to swallow. I had expected to be taken in a few strong gulps, with a shock like that of my plunge from the ship; but instead there is a great smooth suction pulling me down and in, taking my shanks, knees, thighs into its welcoming gullet. As I go I throw back my head to release my last breath in a final ecstatic howl, and see the cloud of quivering bubbles head up towards the far and dimming surface.