babylon. (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
suninhades) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
multiversallogs2011-11-07 02:15 am
suninhades) wrote in multiversallogs2011-11-07 02:15 am
Entry tags:
- @ sobek croix,
- alucard,
- dean winchester,
- hellboy,
- ilde decima,
- integra hellsing,
- james t. kirk,
- lucius malfoy (jr),
- lyla tzigano,
- martel,
- nuala ní balor,
- rodolphus lestrange,
- solomon koenig,
- steve rogers,
- { boromir,
- { nazca barsavi,
- } brie cormac,
- } leonard mccoy,
- } mabel albans,
- } maggie thomas,
- } narcissa malfoy,
- } sebastian lemat,
- } shiori sakita,
- } youko shimura
there are fists on the front page and blood in the sky
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 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.
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.
no subject
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.