A Funeral

Only a handful of people have gathered around the open grave. A few Mariners, some of the old crew, standing even farther in the back than you. The Cerulean Factotum, carrying an oversized wreath. A handful of sombre gentlemen in dark suits – other Captains maybe – or business contacts unknown to you. Her family, a weeping sister and the bereaved parents, arrived on the early morning ferry.

{if The Almost Bishop of Anceleisle = 1} There is a priest, preaching on Canticles 13:13 and on just rewards. He does an able job, but you cannot stomach listening to his sermon. Not today. {elseif A Heretic = 1} There is a priest, preaching on Canticles 13:13 and on other self-righteous tripe. But the sanctimonious platitudes do not even register. You cannot even bring yourself to sneer. Not today. {else} There is a priest, but you cannot stomach listening to his sermon. Not today. {endif} Rain falls on the open grave and the assembled mourners. Dark mists and acrid smoke billow up from the faraway docks and shroud the day in oppressive gloom.

You do the expected things. You deposit sporing stalks and grave earth on the cold iron casket. You shake the hands of her father and mother, and you accept a too-long hug from the crying sister. You eat some sweetened bread and drink some unsweetened coffee. You stay long enough for the other Captains to break out the Rum and for the dirges to turn into drinking songs.

And you do not say no when a Mariner shares his supply of Powdered Spring.

The next morning, you wake with your eyes bloodshot and a splitting headache. Your mouth tastes like ash and carpet, and you realise that your bones ache because you slept on the floor. Then a figure startles upright from your bed. Her black dress is ruffled from sleep, and her face looks worse than you feel.

She looks so much like her sister, the same dark hair and amber eyes. And on any other day the Younger Dustwell may have looked innocent, bucolic – well young. But **** and grief have taken their toll. Her lips are stained with Mash. And so are yours. Her hair is a messy tangle, and deep shadows surround her glassy eyes.

”Fuck,” she says. ”Did we?” Fabric rustles and she groans. ”I fell asleep didn’ I?”

Your own memories are fractured. Hazy. But you are on the floor and she is in your bed.

”Fuck! I’m such a... You wanna have a go now?”