He itched. Strange after all that had happened that he found that to be at the forefront of his mind. Well, maybe not the forefront.
Bruce covered his mouth to hide a yawn. It wouldn't do to appear bored or uninterested - even if in truth he was. Beside him, Diana kept her gaze fixed ahead, focused on some indeterminate point above the casket. He couldn't bear to look, either, he refused to. He'd seen enough of what death could do.
In death, before being turned over to the mortician - a family friend, Mrs. Kent had assured them all, who already knew the truth about her son - Clark seemed to have fallen asleep. If he had not seen with his own eyes the younger hero's impalement; seen the mortal wound inflicted; seen the blackness of Clark's pupils dilate until they overtook his blue irises. . .Bruce would not have believed it.
He had wondered at first what made Martha Kent want to have an open-casket ceremony, but when he saw that he, Diana, Lois and Martha were the only ones in the small country church, he understood.
For the most part, the bereaved women grieved in subdued silence, but as the priest began to speak, they began to wail:
"Friends, we have gathered here to praise God
And to witness to our faith as we celebrate the life of Clark Joseph Kent.
We come together in grief, acknowledging our human loss.
May God grant us grace, that in pain we may find comfort,
In sorrow hope, and in death, resurrection. . ."*
Lois and Martha clung to each other, no longer bothering to stifle their sobs. Bruce felt the telltale prickle of tears in his own eyes, but steeled himself. The rest of the service was excruciating. Diana remained stoic, but during the closing prayer, she took Bruce's hand, squeezing until he grunted in pain.
. . .
The rest of the afternoon seemed to pass in a blur. Along with a trio of workers supplied by the family-friend mortician, Bruce was a pallbearer. As Clark's casket was slowly lowered into the ground, Bruce wished he could get a drink. The urge was powerful, but he would have to do without. He had wasted a year and a half hating the man, regarding him as a rookie at best and a criminal at worst. All along, he had been an ally, and would have been a true friend.
Bruce suddenly swayed, and would have stumbled if Diana hadn't steadied him. "Are you alright?" She touched him, hesitantly, stroking his cheek as she crooned a litany of phrases, exotic sounds and syllables that soothed him. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. "No," he murmured.
"I haven't been alright since I was 8 years old." Diana's eyes widened, and she lowered her hand to her side. She didn't ask why, and Bruce didn't offer more. He wasn't entirely sure why he had said so much, except that he was tired and grieving. Bruce took her arm in his, and led Diana across the clearing to Lois and Martha. "Miss Lane, Mrs. Kent. . ."
"Martha," Clark's mother corrected him gently. "Please call me Martha." Lois said nothing, glaring at him balefully. Bruce averted his gaze, chastened. It was only right for her to blame him, maybe even hate him. If he hadn't been so afraid of Clark, so threatened by his abilities, could he have seen reason sooner? Could he have saved him?
Mercifully, Diana nudged him, not allowing him to marinate further in his guilty despair. "We have to go," she murmured, sotto voce. Then, after quickly embracing Martha and Lois, said "We are so sorry. If either of you need anything. . ."
"Thank you. Well, Lois. . .we should get back to the house. I have something for you." Abruptly, the bereft mother and almost-daughter-in-law turned and walked away.
Notes: The italicized words spoken by the minister are from "A Service of Death and Resurrection" found in the 1989 edition of the United Methodist hymnal. There's not much plot or substance to this work. My uncle passed away the same week the movie was released, so basically this is a therapeutic activity.