So Long and Goodnight

Morgaine was exhausted.

That wasn’t unusual for this time of year; pretty much everyone expected to wake up the morning after All Sinners’ Day hungover, sore, tired, and possibly in an unfamiliar location without some of the clothes they had been wearing the night before. He’d probably spent more time drinking with customers than actually tending the bar, and that was before the biggest party of the night that the church put on. Everything after a certain point was just a blur of drink, noise, laughter, and playful touching with friends and strangers alike.

Then Morgaine woke up in the morning, and Oleander was dead. He was still drunk when he heard the news, and it took several more hours to actually sober up and begin to process it. It had seemed like a bad joke, then; now, several days later, it barely felt any different.

Out of the frying pan and into the fire, as they say. Something like that. Maybe it was more like a headlong plunge into cold water.

The past few days had felt like an eternity. The bar was operating on shortened hours, and the evening crowds were sparser than Morgaine had ever seen them even accounting for the curfew. It all left him with far too much time to stew in his thoughts, chasing “what ifs” and “maybes” around in circles in his head, never coming to any productive conclusions.

The announcement of the funeral was a relief, in some ways. At the very least, it was a step forward, even if it didn’t bring any answers. It was the tiniest bit better than waiting in limbo, wondering what had happened and what would come next. Morgaine had RSVP’d right away, though he had seen the state that the church’s clergy were in and doubted that they were keeping much track or even cared who turned up, so long as the attendees didn’t cause more problems. He hadn’t even had a chance to speak to Mercy, only caught a glimpse of them from afar as they directed the priests, nuns, and acolytes about and fended off well-wishers and rubberneckers alike.

Unsurprisingly, Mercy still looked like a wreck on the day of the funeral, but a wreck with a thin veneer of composure painted on top. They greeted each attendee at the door of the church with a subdued air as everyone slowly filtered in and found a seat among the pews. Morgaine wasn’t able to pause for any longer than to greet them in return, with the press of bodies lined up behind him, all pushing forward into the building.

He’d never seen the church so packed, even during the height of holiday service. If Moragine had delayed getting there much longer, it probably would have been standing room only. 

The large, heavy, dark shape of the casket up at the front of the church seemed to loom over the congregation. Morgaine had expected to be ushered forward to it, in order to view the body and pay some last respects, but to his surprise he saw that the casket was solidly closed. A wreath of flowers was laid atop the lid, and a large picture of Oleander, smiling beatifically, stood next to it.

Rumors had swirled in the aftermath of Oleander’s death, the capstone of the strange murders that had been in the news but largely overlooked in the lead-up to All Sinners’ Day. Maybe those things were more connected than had been officially said. Maybe whatever had happened had left Oleander in no state to be seen now.

…It didn’t bear thinking about. Instead of moving up to the front, the crowd was directed down the aisles between the pews, forcing the attendees to find any open seat that they could. Morgaine squeezed into the first open space in a pew that he passed and tried to put anything more morbid than church hymns out of his mind.

There were numerous familiar faces among the crowd, even some that he hadn’t expected to see here. Several rows ahead, he could see Dove and Jackal, and even Satin’s brother Silver, sitting stiff and awkward between Jackal and his sister. Buns that Morgaine was certain hadn’t set foot in a church in years were here; half of Burrowgatory had to have turned out for Oleander’s last rites. There was a constant low murmur among those seated in the pews, as there always was with a crowd this large, but no one person raised their voice enough to be heard above the dull tide of noise. It was as though everyone was afraid of disturbing the fragile peace as they all settled in.

The pews did inevitably fill to capacity, as Morgaine had expected, and the remaining crowd lined the space behind them, shifting and shuffling and muttering nervously. Finally, the church’s front doors creaked closed, and the members of the clergy that had been directing the arrivals took their own places. 

The crowd hushed as Mercy walked the center aisle up to the front to stand at the altar by Oleander’s coffin. Their expression was morose, but they held their head high as they looked over the packed church hall and opened their mouth to speak. Morgaine reached into his pocket for the rosary that he typically only brought out during sermons, threading it through his fingers as Mercy began.

“Thank you all for coming here today,” they said. “I know that Father Oleander’s heart would be warmed by the sight of his church so full of well-wishers, whether you are regular members of the flock or here just to pay respects.” 

A soft murmur of assent followed their words. (Here was where one might expect Oleander to crack a joke about “coming in church” or such, were he the one speaking. Mercy had neither his zeal nor his sense of humor, especially not now.)

Taking a deep breath, Mercy continued. “Oleander was- is-” They stopped short, frowning. Morgaine’s fingers, moving over the beads of his rosary, lost their rhythm and came to a stop as well. The crowd murmured uneasily in the unexpected pause, and Morgaine swore that Mercy’s eyes darted over to where Dove and the others were sitting for just a moment. It happened so quickly that he couldn’t be sure, but-

“Oleander was a pillar of faith in the community, and he loved those under his care in the Church of Sulfur more than anything,” Mercy said, recovering. With a sardonic twist of the mouth, they added, “In more ways than one.” That got a polite, if strained, titter out of the audience. It was nervous laughter, more forced than genuine. Many, Morgaine included, didn’t bother trying to fake it.

Movement from the pew near the front drew his eye again instead. It was Silver, glancing around furtively. What was he looking for? Someone in particular? Or did he expect something to happen?

Wasn’t Silver some kind of… private investigator? What was it that he did again?

Morgaine shot another glance at the closed casket. Mercy seemed to be pointedly not looking in its direction as they carried on. It was hard to refocus on just what they were saying, now that his attention had been shaken. People in the rows behind him were beginning to whisper amongst themselves.

“...He will be dearly missed.” Mercy’s eulogy finally came to an end. It took all of Morgaine’s self-control not to breathe a conspicuous sigh of relief. He realized very belatedly that he was sweating; it was sweltering in here, with so many bodies packed so close together, despite the cool temperatures outside. Morgaine fished a handkerchief from his shirt pocket and mopped his forehead with it.

He clearly wasn’t the only one feeling the effects of the overcrowded church and the strange atmosphere within. There was a palpable tension among the attendees as the priests designated to be Oleander’s pallbearers rose and filed down the aisles to collect the casket and take it outside for the burial. As Morgaine watched them, one nearly stumbled when they hefted the casket, as though they had been braced for something more difficult to lift. They quickly recovered, steadied by one of the other priests, and managed to settle the casket on their shoulders without further difficulty.

Just what the hell was going on here?

 As the pallbearers made their way to the front doors, a solid number of the congregation rose to follow them, either intending to pay further respects at Oleander’s graveside, or else just eager to get out of the church. Morgaine rose more slowly, not wanting to be trampled by a crowd that didn’t seem to know what it wanted besides to not be inside this heavy atmosphere any longer. He pocketed his rosary and stood with his hand resting on the back of the pew in front of him, watching for a break in the flow of people streaming past him. 

He didn’t consciously make the decision to continue on to the graveside service; rather, when he finally slipped out of the pew and into the crowd, that was just where the movement of the bodies carried him. At the very least, it was a clear day. If it had been raining, on top of blustery and cold, that really would have been the icing on the cake in a particularly bad way.

The crowd did disperse somewhat once outside, allowing some precious breathing room. The tight tension seemed to seep away from everyone just slightly as they spread out, though it was still palpable in the air. Morgaine didn’t march right up to the edge of the open grave plot; he spotted Jackal and Dove lingering nearby and drifted towards them. They were familiar and comfortable, and very little else was right now, despite how much time he spent around the church.

Dove glanced up when Morgaine arrived next to them, and they offered him a tired, strained smile. “It was nice of you to come,” he murmured, in lieu of greeting. There was no good way to greet people in the middle of a funeral.

Dove shot a look at Jackal, who looked distinctly uncomfortable. When Morgaine looked at her as well, she shoved her hands into her pockets and glanced away. “It’s the least we could do,” she muttered back. Dove nodded in agreement, though their expression didn’t relax.

“It’s been tough for everyone the past few days,” they said. It was a somewhat meaningless sentence; true, but lacking substance. Morgaine couldn’t particularly blame them for that though, under the circumstances. “It’s… nice, to see everyone come together to support each other, though.”

He nodded as well, briefly resting a hand on their shoulder and giving it a squeeze. He wasn’t quite sure what to say to them; perhaps they’d been to their share of funerals before, perhaps not. Either way, the circumstances of this one were unlike any in Morgaine’s own memory. He somehow doubted that a lot of murderers were running around in the Heavenly Meadow.

The three of them fell back into awkward silence as Mercy took their place next to Oleander’s grave while the pallbearers stood at the ready. Morgaine stood with his hands folded and head bowed as more words were said, and the casket finally lowered into the open grave beneath the headstone that bore Oleander’s name. It was a surprisingly simple plot for such a beloved figure in the church, but then, Oleander hadn’t been an opulent bun, necessarily. His extravagance was more in the vein of personality than the material.

Mercy threw in the first handful of dirt, and the rest of the remaining mourners lined up to do likewise one by one. Dove and Jackal fell in line behind Morgaine, but Jackal leaned forward to whisper to him again.

“Don’t stick around when we’re all done here. It’s not safe to be out after dark.”

Morgaine glanced over his shoulder, frowning. “...Yeah. You hurry home too, after this.”

Jackal’s expression was hard to read. “It’s your turn,” she said gruffly, and Morgaine turned back to see that this was in fact true. Heaving a sigh under his breath, he stepped forward to the edge of the grave to grab his handful of dirt to toss it in.

He tried to pause in front of Mercy when he came to them to finally say something meaningful.

“Mercy, I’m so sorry-” But the flow of the crowd once again swept him along before he could say more. If Mercy acknowledged his words at all, he wasn’t able to make out their response. Dove and Jackal passed him, Dove pausing only briefly to catch his shoulder and squeeze like he had done for them before. 

When he looked back and was able to catch a glimpse of them again, they had joined up with Mercy and Silver, who had been hanging back from the crowd at the graveside. The four of them didn’t seem to exchange any words, but they grouped together and beat a hasty retreat back into the church. Morgaine stood and watched them go, frowning uneasily.

What was up with Dove, Jackal, and Silver? What did they have to do with any of this?

He looked back at the fresh mound of earth covering the grave, still being added to a handful at a time by those who passed by. He reached for his handkerchief again to clean his own hands of grave dirt, but he didn’t feel clean no matter how he wiped at his hands.

He felt like he needed to go home and have a strong drink.