Shellvig

Shellvig follows the last of them – the Nassians, Orchestrans, River-climbers, small and bright against the endless dark – as they leave the known world behind. Their engines glow faintly, one wave of light after another. He keeps his distance at first, but never loses sight of them.

They move like they always will from now on: a spacefaring diaspora, settling for a time, harvesting what they can, then burning their traces and moving on. The only rhythm some of them will ever know, down the line. Shellvig falls into step with it, quiet and careful. He helps where he can. He guides ships that have drifted off-course, offers his calculations, resources, quiet assistance. Shellvig never announces himself, but they know he's there.

When they stop, Shellvig settles nearby. Then he rests, entering long cycles of hibernation, waking only when the migration begins again. He is content with this rhythm. He has learned patience.

Sometimes, between journeys, he works on the memorial. A vast construction of glass and metal and light. The shape is familiar – Sealvig’s old form, scaled up to planetary size, hollow but radiant. It looks like a crystal sun, breathing light into the dark. He visits it sometimes, drifts around it in silence. It feels like a gravestone.

In the centuries between migrations, Shellvig records. He collects stories, songs, accounts – the lived fabric of Nassian history. He does not curate, he listens. When these records are shared, when the fleet inevitably encounters new worlds, he makes sure their voices come first, not his commentary. It feels like the one honest gift he has left to give.

Shellvig keeps in touch with Vaass for as long as he can – quiet signals exchanged across impossible distances, fading slowly as it drifts toward its end. He never stops sending the pings, even when he stops expecting replies. He never contacts Venssira. Some silences deserve to remain unbroken.

Shellvig lives on, for millenia. Facilitating new departures, he witnesses the birth and death of generations. By the end, he is just a presence – warm and comforting – just a spirit watching over his own.