It had always been one of a priest's sadder duties to preside over the laying of the dead to rest and the consolation of the living after the death of a loved one. Before coming to Korea, Mulcahy, only recently ordained, had felt awkward helping people through this time of grief. In many communities, the local priest was a well-established figure who knew each member of the congregation on a personal level, and compared with the depth of consolation offered by these individuals, Mulcahy felt his offices in this department somewhat empty. He knew that he'd grow into the part, given time... but then, Korea. There was never the time for a funeral, here. Sometimes, the far-off noise of a procession among the LIPs would reach the priest and make him lift his head, wondering who the person was, what their story was, who was presiding over the sacred offices; but as to the dead of the Americans and their allies: no. No time. Send them home, and keep on killing. Yes, funerals had always been awkward for Mulcahy, and no, he hadn't gotten much more used to it since his arrival in Korea, despite the number of deaths he'd seen.

But that awkward position would have been "grace itself" in comparison with the one of a man in the act of delivering a funeral service for a his first murder victim. How was Father Mulcahy going to go about it?

As carefully as he knew how.

He stood over the wooden cross, which, on closer inspection, had the word "Meg" crudely inscribed on it. Mulcahy got the sudden impression that the tables had been turned, feeling the righteous indignantion he'd shown to the vampires in the camp being turned back against him, feeling about to be ill as he wavered the sign of the cross.

"Friends..." he began quietly, casting a look toward Irene, who nodded and smiled in encouragement.

"We come here this evening to say farewell to... um... Megan... and to place her in the hands of our Father--" he paused briefly, looking up from his prayerful attitude to see if that came out as poorly as he thought it had. Indeed, Hawkeye WAS giving him a look with an eyebrow cynically raised.

"The Lord our Father," Mulcahy repeated, trying to correct himself, "That He might free her from everlasting life--" He paused, startled at his own words, "I mean, that... he might take her into eternal death... Rather... rather, I mean--"

This was going less than well. The little audience started to grow antsy, on the whole.

Mulcahy took a breath, "Free from everlasting DEATH... into eternal LIFE. Right. Um, and she," he tried to righten his posture and sound official, "And He took her out of this world, in whom she had put her faith and trust."

Mulcahy thought that that part, at least, was about right, until he caught a pained look from Radar, and realized-- "Oh, no, that's not what I-- oh..." he sighed, and then took a deep breath.

When he began to speak again, his tone was more natural, less forced, and he obviously wasn't trying to recite from the Big Book O' Catholicism.

"I can't GIVE absolution to Megan. To be fair, I don't think she would have taken it if I'd tried. And now... it's too late for that. But I can take this opportunity-- this God-given opportunity-- to express my very best wishes for all of Megan's kind, that they should never give up to the forces of unholy power, that they should ever strive, as we all strive, to live the best way we know how, and that those of them who will not or can not do so..." He felt the surge of adrenaline pump up inside of him, but he let his words fall silent, the thought uncomplete. "Amen." He mumbled.

"Amen," the group mumbled back, feeling the gravity of the situation.

Next, the Seneschal prompted by Irene's careful nudging, went up close to the cross, and dropped a sickly-looking yellow weed of a flower from in front of the Swamp on 'the grave.'

"Meg was..." He frowned, evidently not having much better luck with this than the Father, "A good Scourge. Well. She wasn't, really, actually she was rather incompetent, but she was... nice enough... I suppose... under the layer of filth."

Henry came up next to Joles and tossed another flower down near the first one. "She tried to kill me, once," he offered, in hopes of finding something to say about her. "I think the only reason she didn't was because Pierce got her sloshed." A playful smirk wandered awkwardly across the Brujah's face. "I always did have better luck with women who were easy drunks..."

At a severe groan from the general audience, Henry laughed, "Kidding! Kidding! Here's to you, Meg, and all the other incompetents out there. We all need to stick together."

Radar came up next to Henry and smiled up at him, "Gee, that's a nice thought, sir..." he mumbled, and tossed a third flower shyly on the grave. His head lowered toward the ground, he pushed his glasses up on his nose and began to speak:

"When I first met Meg it was 1945 and we were in our second year at James Peters High School together in Ottumwa, Iowa. It was the first day of our English class and there was this crow, you see, that had gone and scared me off of my textbooks I'd left under a tree near home..."

Father Mulcahy, finally understanding, rolled his eyes toward the heavens in something like prayer, but less serious. He listened to Radar's tireless and fascinating rambling until his gaze fell back to earth, landing hard on the egde of camp. The Pooka's words faded into the background as his jaw gaped with wonder. The Seneschal was already staring in that direction. Henry finally caught the Father's stunned expression and turned around.

He was already quite pale in the bright moonlight. Now, Father Mulcahy noted out of the corner of his eye, Henry turned a rather funny shade of dead.

~