For the Memorial Day drabble-a-thon.
He’s used to causing wakes, listening to eulogies with a smile on his lips.
The sobs of spouses, parents, and siblings were like songs to his heart. A hundred and fifty years of revelry.
There are no songs here.
Nothing but the cry of a crow in the bare sky over their heads.
Devoid of color.
Devoid of warmth.
The whole world has washed away with a single phone call, the pieces of hope he carried crumbling to dust as if someone had taken a stake and thrust it into the left side of his chest.
Fred cries, clutching dandelions to her nose, and Wesley mourns silently.
Gunn hides behind his mirrored shades, and Lorne's eyes are watery underneath the wide brim of his hat.
They are letting her go, one by one, from their hearts, into the cold, hard ground.
He won’t.
He fingers the dull red stone between his palms.
The scroll is tucked safely in the breast pocket of his suit.
Wesley recites a poem, and Gunn offers up a prayer.
Angel makes a promise.
+