Story Title: Church by the Sea
By: Passion4Spike
Wildflowers Dancing in the Sun
Summary: Death comes for us all. Even the Slayer.
Story Notes:
My best friend's father passed away last night. He was 92. He'd had a long, good life. It's still devastating. I needed a release. If you aren't in the mood for melancholy or tears, save this for a time when you are.
Thanks much to Cosmic Tuesdays for looking this over on the spur of the moment and offering suggestions. She made it that much better.
Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended.
The church was full.
Red roses. White lilies.
The pews overflowing with mourners in black.
Friends with familiar names, only the faces had changed.
She'd outlived them all. By far.
So incredibly far.
Now only reflections of ancestors long past:
Grandchildren, many times great,
Nieces and nephews. Also grands and greats. Some by blood; others by love.
Slayers were there. People she'd saved,
Lives touched and changed.
Veneration. Gratitude. Reverence.
They spilled from the doors into the moonlight,
The humble church unable to embrace the magnitude of her life.
Silent tears slipped from downturned eyes,
Eulogies delivered from emotion-clogged throats.
She'd saved the world. A lot.
The stories of a Slayer, THE Slayer.
Happy. Sad. Heartfelt.
More stories than any one person had a right to.
But she did.
She'd earned them all... and more.
And when the stories were told,
When no eye was dry,
When no heart hadn't been broken and mended and broken again,
When there were no more words,
They lifted her coffin onto their shoulders.
Not six.
Just two.
Two who had died before her and lived beyond her.
Two dark heads bowed in grief.
Two unbeating hearts shattered.
The crowd stood—respect—as she was carried down the aisle.
The same aisle she'd once skipped down, white veil trailing behind, rings exchanged, vows pledged.
The same aisle she'd carried their little ones. Christened, William Henry and Joyce Anne.
Her joy and laughter still echoed from the high ceiling.
The same aisle her children's coffins had once traveled, so many years ago,
Not as children—as man and woman—lives well lived.
Her sorrow also clung to the walls of this church.
This church by the sea.
The sea she loved so much.
This church that had seen so many beginnings, so many ends.
Beyond its all-seeing walls the small churchyard awaited her body.
Mortal, after all.
The ocean roared in grief, the moonlight wept silvery beams,
The nightbirds warbled an anguished refrain.
The broken men laid her to rest beneath the soil.
One shovel at a time, she vanished.
Ashes to ashes.
The world was changed.
Not for the better. Not for them.
One hundred and seventy-nine years
Was not enough, was never enough.
Flowers were laid. Red roses and white lilies.
The milling crowd slipped away, silent and forlorn.
And then there were just two,
Two left in all the world who'd known the girl she had been.
Who'd loved her in their ways.
One husband. One friend.
No words. They both knew.
One would stay.
One would go.
An embrace.
No pretense at manliness.
Their tears unrestrained.
Their grief unrelenting.
No sharp words. No parting blows.
Unusual for them,
But it was the end.
With the rising of the sun,
The world would change again.
Just one left now at her side,
On his knees.
She'd often brought him to his knees.
With joy. With pain. With passion. With love.
Now with emptiness.
One final bouquet. Wildflowers.
She wasn't a rose, wasn't a lily.
She was a wildflower dancing in the sun.
He laid his weary body upon the soft earth,
And waited.
Waited to feel her embrace again,
Waited to hear her voice again,
Waited to drown in her laughter again,
Waited to dance with her,
In the sun.