Summary: Charles is released from his earthly duties. Spoilers for "Dethrelease".
Pyre
His suit is itchy, constricting. Nathan isn't used to wearing things with collars; the back of his neck prickles. He wishes he had a rubber band to tie his hair back with. Then he remembers that guys with ponytails are pussies.
Beside him, Pickles stares straight ahead, blinking a lot. On Nathan's right is Skwisgaar, who looks similarly stiff. Both men are flanked by the bassist and Toki, respectively; the five of them stand together, shoulders nearly touching, taking comfort in the silent presence of one another. They're all trying not to show emotion; nobody wants to make it onto the five 'o' clock news as the one Dethklok member who broke down.
Nathan's not sure what he's supposed to feel. It hasn't sunk in quite yet that their manager is dead. People die around Dethklok all the time. He's not sure what makes it any different, except he's pretty sure it is. He's pretty sure things will never be the same again.
As per usual, Charles has taken care of the preparations. It's sort of ironic that he's at the helm of his own funeral arrangements, but Nathan is glad that he doesn't have to think about any of it.
One of the Klokateers lights the traditional funeral pyre. It was decided on a whim one night, many years ago that having a Viking funeral would be brutal, and the idea stuck. Nathan wracks his brain, trying to remember more about the specific conversation. He's not even entirely sure Charles had been there when they'd talked about it. Still, if he hadn't been, Charles had somehow found out and remembered. Charles always remembered.
He watches the flames lick the sides of the corpse, wrapped in thick blankets. Toki sniffles. Nathan hears Skwisgaar sigh; he silently watches the guitarist move his hand the miniscule amount required in order to wrap his fingers around Toki's. Murderface's arms are crossed protectively in front of his person. He will snap at anyone who thinks he needs comforting.
Nathan remembers the shock of finding Charles sprawled on the ground outside of Mordhaus, bloody and beaten. He remembers cradling the body a bit until their servants had swamped the scene and carefully, yet firmly pried it away. He remembers sitting on the cold ground and staring at the halo of blood droplets left behind.
He doesn't know that the corpse being slowly devoured by fire isn't Charles Ofdensen. None of them do. It's how Charles planned it, and Charles always knows best.
There's a gathering afterwards on the periphery of Mordhaus property. The air is thick with smoke. The band is used to seeing their servants dressed from head to toe in black, but the solemnity of the event has enhanced the already dark pallor of everyone's outfits.
Klokateers are everywhere: To the unwitting observer, they exist to circulate food and make sure nobody's trying to steal anything from Mordhaus, but Nathan senses that they're on high alert. Eventually, he figures, he will have to learn exactly what that means.
"Someone should say somethin'," Pickles offers. Four sets of eyes, bleary with varying degrees of intoxication and sadness, whether they'll admit it or not, lock onto Nathan.
He grunts. "No," he says simply.
Pickles blinks and then shrugs. He sizes up Toki, slung under Skwisgaar's arm, and finally makes eye contact with Murderface. The scrutiny seems to piss him off. Taking a long gulp of something out of a plastic cup, the bassist wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and squints angrily. "I'll do it," he snaps. He takes another drink and tosses the cup on the ground. "Pussies."
Murderface is halfway through his speech when he's interrupted by his own bubbling onslaught of tears.
Nathan goes through Charles' desk, miraculously unscathed by the recent fire. The small pile of headshots seem strangely out of place, but they look like Charles. Nathan gives one to each of his fellow bandmates. On the back of his own copy, he writes Charles' initials and the day of his death in tiny block letters, and then tucks the photo into his wallet.