there are fists on the front page and blood in the sky

[suninhades]

Who: All Hellsing employees, their families, and anyone who wished to attend.
What: The funeral of Dean Winchester
Where: Sobek Croix’s cemetery.
When: Backdated to not long after the blood frenzy in Mafaton.
Notes: This is a slightly unorthodox log, in that for the most part it exists so people can write their own mini-narratives in the comments as to their characters presence and feelings and reactions; if you want to have a post-funeral thread here, that is cool, too. Funeral details were published with an obituary in the newspaper. This post was a collaborate effort, and for ooc details, see here.
Warnings: ...death. And a child’s broken heart.

the streets of my home town still look the same, but behind shaking fingers they're whispering your name. it's funny the tears that time will allow, but the dirt is your lover now. fingernails, thorn trees, my fickle heart too, so many things in this sad little world grow back except for you.

The clear, warm light filters down to them even in Sobek Croix, ringed as it is with dense forest; it doesn’t seem quite right, incongruous with the sombre mood of the assembled mourners sitting and standing at the open graveside. In the absence of a Protestant priest (American, for preference), Nuala is regal in black satin and ruby at one end, her hands folded on the ceremonial axe Integra commissioned specifically for this purpose, honouring this son of Man now in the same way she’d once honoured her brother’s fallen warriors. Her voice rises and falls with an ancient cadence, a language that few (if any) here will understand but a sentiment that transcends the words. He is one of theirs - is, not was, and she had spent as many hours as she could spend sat by his side as they prepared for this, because it was right and because he shouldn’t be alone - and he deserves this respect.

It’s a blend of traditions that comes together, shaped by Integra and Nuala’s hands both; when she steps aside, laying the axe reverently on the flat lid of the coffin covered by the Hellsing banner (that she’d sewn at his side) and American flag, she thinks with brief wryness of the loaded gun holstered within before she withdraws to trade places with Integra, moving forward for the eulogy.

Sir Hellsing is clad in formal blacks, from the normally white of her gloves – dark today – to the mourning armband above her right elbow, mirrored with the Princess's. The only deviations are the red of her tie and the small flecks of gold that detail her rank; marks for the United Kingdom, and for the Guilds of Baedal.

“Today we lay to rest a valiant, brave man, with one of the strongest hearts I have ever seen.”

When Integra speaks, her voice is steady as she and Nuala present a unified stoicism, from how smoothly they move in tandem to the unflinching way they grieve now; the familiarity of these proceedings, married now in traditions new and old, does not diminish the weight on the shoulders of these women, both forged in war.

“I would like to believe that the weather today is here to honor his good humor, that touched everyone, and not a cynical touch that he – like all of us – was equally fond of.” Her smile is fleeting, sad, but present. “Dean Winchester is not the first soldier that I have buried, and he is not the first friend any of us have lost. He will not be the last, for to do our work is to stare death in the face every day and challenge it, dare it. Dean knew this, he lived in it every day, as a child, as a man. He never once bowed to fear. He never once let the darkness drown him. He was a warrior – a mortal man, gifted with no preternatural skills, who stood tall and unflinching against all evils, of the earth and beyond. The shadow of his work and his courageous spirit will be cast far over all of us, as a reminder that there is no excuse not to live fully, work fearlessly, and stand alongside your brothers and sisters always.

“Dean is not the first soldier laid to rest for any man or woman here, but he is the first of mine to be taken in this city. When I met Dean Winchester, he had never worked cooperatively with nearly anyone – much less anyone not human, God forbid unAmerican. In the name of serving and protecting innocents everywhere he went, he not only adapted, tolerated, and learned, he flourished. Dean was an exemplary agent, but more than that, he was a friend. No one, human or vampire or demon or xenian, could call Mr. Winchester anything beyond loyal and dear. Here and now, in the face of forces that would have us tear each other apart in this place, he stood up for what was right, and he was struck down for it. We should all be so lucky as to be worth that end, because the value of having stood there at all is beyond what most men will ever have in a hundred lifetimes.

Dean Winchester was a good soldier. He was a great warrior, and leader of his comrades. He was my friend. And he was my brother.”

Beside Integra, Nuala finishes the eulogy with aching simplicity: “He was our brother.”

Now goes the coffin into the earth, with Knight and Princess each standing beside. Integra speaks again, her voice more dull now – a recital, emotion locked away in a more quiet place, drifting somewhere in the dark sea her eulogy has made. A hint of it is mirrored in her companion; Nuala closes her eyes for these final words and grieves anew that this must be the way she finds new respect for human traditions.

“And there shall be no more curse: but the throne of God and the Lamb shall be in it; and his servants shall serve him. They shall see his face, and his name shall be upon their foreheads. There shall be no night there, and they need no candle, neither light of the sun, for the Lord God giveth them light, and they shall reign forever and ever. Amen.”

The sun goes on shining.

Comments

[hehaseatenthepancake]

When he'd first gotten the news, Hellboy had that all too understandable initial spasm of disbelief. He volunteered to sit in on the autopsy not merely to ensure that nothing had taken residence in Dean's body, but also to make the knowledge of his death more real, to push past the denial and be ready with the anger if anything should happen. Nothing did, of course, which left Hellboy to wrestle with the anger afterwards, to direct it to something useful, but he had always had a temper and so was familiar with that struggle.

After that, he got by as best he could. As one of the few remaining senior agents -- and having had a similar position in a similar organization once upon a time back home -- Hellboy knew how important it was to be there for the agents under him, a reassuring presence to help them through their own grief. He went out and finally got himself a proper Hellsing uniform tailored, complete with custom footwear that would better suit the uniform than his usual half-boots while still accommodating his hooves. As preparations for the funeral were underway, he made sure to get a pouch of Holy Smokes, suitable papers for same, and a small box of wooden matches, and stashed the lot in the casket as a final tribute.

And now here he is, bringing up the rear of the pall bearer procession, easily carrying his portion of the weight in his mismatched hands. He does his part with the burial, but he doesn't ask to speak. If asked, he'd say it's because he's not very good with speeches -- and that's true enough, as far as it goes -- but in truth he's just not sure he'd be able to keep his voice together long enough to say anything.

He was our brother, Integra and Nuala say, and Hellboy echoes it silently. Dean is not the first person that he's ever acknowledged as unofficial family, but it's not a long list by any stretch. The reminder of the ones he's had to leave behind -- had left at the Bureau, even before being dragged here -- is like a hand squeezing around his heart, and he has to clench his left fist at his side just to have something else to focus on to keep quiet. The feeling passes after a few moments, and he barely manages to choke out a quiet, "Amen," in answer to the end of the prayer.

After it's over, he retreats to the shade of the nearest tree. He doesn't want to just bolt, but the sun is too bright all of a sudden, and he needs somewhere to collect himself and hopefully get a cigarette lit without anyone looking sourly at him for it.

[captaincocksure]

Jim shoulders the weight of the casket willingly, with all the care and respect the responsibility warrants. It is, after all, both the very least he feels he can do for this fallen comrade, and a reprise of what brought them here today. He shouldered the weight of command in the field willingly, accepting the responsibility for all the men and women he sent out there with care and respect, and now he's here to honor one that didn't make it back.

The thing about Starfleet officers is they take this kind of thing personally--

No, that's not entirely true. That's not what regulations say, not what the example of nearly all the captains before him set. But it's a quality Jim himself values as much as he recognizes it in himself. A good officer, in his estimation, takes a loss like this personally because they haven't forgotten that the people who serve with and for them are still people. They know all the people they've thrown their lot in with, have a sense of who they were and what they meant.

Jim only met Dean in passing the week he was hired. He'd been roaming the guild hall and the grounds, memorizing the layout, and he'd recognized an accent near to his own in the greeting of a man out in the gardens. Kansas, not Iowa, but also not the coasts and not a huge metropolis, so close enough. The guy seemed easygoing enough, smartassed enough, and so earnest as he quickly explained about making holy water in toilets and drawing symbols to ward off demons.

Jim had come away with the sense of a capable man, a decent man. And a man held in respect by his comrades. Seeing and feeling the grief around him now, he knows it went deeper than that.

He may not have known the man at all, but he's taking this loss personally. The guild as a whole is suffering and he wishes he could do something.

His eyes follow the casket as it's lowered into the ground, his bearing and expression nearly at war with one another. He holds himself as a captain should, his posture what one expects from a man given responsibility and able to wear it with grace, but his face... His face betrays his youth, gives away that his composure isn't yet second nature; his blue eyes are a little too wide, gaze a little too intent on the ground, and his mouth twitches nearly imperceptibly.

He lingers beside the grave, silent. His gaze lifts just once, seeking McCoy in the crowd gathered for the service; his CMO is a damned good officer, by his standards, and he too is taking this loss personally. There, too, Jim wishes he could do something, ease the doctor's guilt. For a moment he considers moving to his friend's side but the crowd has begun to thin, their respects paid or their grief no longer bearable in the presence of others, and McCoy stalks off before Jim can go.

So he stays. It's all he can do.

[captainredwhiteblue]

There is no greater honor or duty, to Steve Rogers, than to serve others. To stand up for those who cannot protect themselves. To fight for the greater good and to try to fix injustices. To make sure everyone is safe and everything is fair.

And there is no greater sacrifice than to lay down one's life in carrying out that duty.

He is glad to see the day, and the life they have gathered to mark, given the utmost respect and and honor. Not that he had any doubts or expected anything less. Every man and woman he's met since he joined, from the ladies in charge to the newest trainees, have proven to be stand-up kinds of guys and gals. He knew they'd do right by Dean Winchester.

He just wishes this wasn't happening.

He knows, all too well, what little comfort the ideas of honor, duty, service, and sacrifice can mean to those left behind in the wake of a loss like this. He's felt the pain himself, wished it was him in the casket or lost down the side of a mountain in the place of another man, a better man.

He didn't know Dean Winchester. But he knows what the man's sacrifice meant, and he can see the grief in his wake.

So for that, he kneels respectfully beside the grave, once the crowd has thinned, to say a few private words of thanks, to honor this fallen soldier. Then he gets to his feet and he sets off into the sunshine, following the rest of his fellow servicemen and women, to see if there's anything he can for them.

[cailisairgid]

Hand in hand with Alucard during the procession into the cemetery, Liesl cries quietly and steadily beneath the shade of her parasol while her father walks ahead as a pallbearer and wishes this weren't so fucking familiar for the both of them. She's five years old; this shouldn't be something she's done before, not something she knows well enough to try and behave for. She shouldn't know how it works without prompting, but she comes to him quietly when he moves from the casket to take his place.

They sit at the graveside for the service, like family, and he wraps an arm around her shoulders when she turns into the side of him and leaves tearstains and wrinkles in the side of his suit jacket. He lets himself go under the Bethmooran language that Nuala grieves in; he closes the shutters again with the bible verse that he could recite along with her (but doesn't, never will). His daughter's hand curls inside his, and she hiccups herself still as last respects are paid and mourners begin to disperse.

She folds her parasol down as they leave the cemetery, watching the sky with dry eyes, and Sol smooths a hand over her hair when she says, "I'm not mad," quietly.

[platanera.livejournal.com]

There were so many excuses Maggie could have made in order not to go to this funeral of a person she didn't know. The main one was really that she didn't know him at all. She's heard his name passed around the halls of Hellsing, but like all the other names, she ignored it. If they weren't signing her paycheck, they really weren't important to her.

Not that she thought they were below her, but she was taught, trained even by her mother, to keep her head down and her nose clean when it came to her job. She was there to work, not to make friends, and making friends is the last thing you want to do at a job anyway. When it's time to get fired, they won't be there for you. When shit goes down, they'll be nothing but a shadow for you to depend on.

But what Maggie witnesses from the rear of the crowd of people coming to pay their respects to Dean Winchester contrasts everything she knows. Granted, maybe one or two other people clad in the Hellsing uniform like her showed up because it was required of them, but the majority, the majority who openly cry, bow their heads, and carry their fallen brother on their shoulders, they're here because they want to be. There's a certain amount of responsibility they have to do that and it's one they take willingly.

She can't say that she's ever had the same. And maybe she wants it, deep down inside. But it's a big responsibility and while she might be adult in years, she's still a child in mind. It's nothing she will ever admit in words, but her actions, they speak volumes as she makes the sign of the cross over her chest and kisses her fingertips when the end of the prayer arrives. Part instinct, part newfound respect.

In the end, she doesn't stay for what comes after funerals. The food, the sharing of memories, the crying. Maggie turns and walks away as silently as she arrived, wondering if she had been the one who died, would anybody call her their sister.