It was only noon and the light was already thin and tired. It had to ooze down through a heavy cloud cover and stuff itself into the crannies under eaves and porches. Spring was the season of waking, where the earth kicked off the blanket of snow and began to work itself up to summer's frenetic burst of energy, but this was a day where it seemed to feel more like going back to sleep instead: everything was slow and slightly blurry, seen through thick glass lenses by someone with a mind strung out on exhaustion.

Purple hyacinths spilled from her hands. Nita looked down at them and felt distantly sorry, because her fingers were getting all along them and shredding the thin purple petals into a zillion pieces. They were as soft and fine as silk, and wilting under her rough calloused palms. Flowers: it was kind of a horrible idea for a wizard to give flowers to the dead, wasn't it? It would have been better to set the plant into the earth, push energy into it and let it grow. Instead they were dead.

It was just poor taste.

The coffin was swallowed, under the dark earth. Nita mashed the flowers against her itchy black sweater and didn't let them go, even as the stems bruised dark dark green.

Afterwards, there were refreshments.

Little hot dogs, casseroles, cake with black frosting. Nita was suddenly very hungry, and she mashed it all together onto a limpish paper plate and sat in a folding chair and tried not to dump it all in her lap. She clutched the bouquet between her knees and sawed at a leathery piece of beef with a plastic knife. Peas and ranch dressing slopped off the curled corner of the plate and onto her long black skirt. She wiped at it with a napkin and kept eating.

Dairine sat nearby, picking at a piece of bread. She had a bruised, hollow look under her large eyes; the black clothing washed her out terribly. "How can you eat all that?" she asked Nita. The older wizard stared down into the stew of various foods on her plate and dragged the fork around in them without responding. Dairine leaned against her older sister and, after a few minutes, began a low, snuffling series of sobs. Awkwardly Nita folded the plate in half in her hands, then folded that into quarters. The flowers were sticky with salad dressing. Eventually Dairine stopped crying, and just let her sticky face rest against her sister's shoulder. She looked even more terrible after crying, with her nose pinkish and swollen and her eyes puffy. Nita felt vaguely horrible for even thinking that way about her sister, who was at least crying, who was at least reacting to all of this, which was better than what Nita was doing just sitting here thinking about flowers and food and how terrible her sister looked. What was wrong with her?

The bread and cake and vegetables were suddenly churning around horribly in her stomach. Nita got up slowly, enough so that Dairine could get her balance again. "I'm going for a walk," she said distantly, shoving the bouquet under her arm, and took off over the patchy lawn.

They had picnicked on the lawn in the cemetery, and Nita set off across the flat earth towards the headstones in the distance. They looked like teeth coming from the dark earth; clean white teeth, which were brushed on a regular basis. It was easy to get lost in them, staring at the clean lines of crosses and the stooping, sympathetic looking angels. Her mother had a sad-eyed angel with long robes and intricate wings on her headstones, which her mother's side of the family had paid for. The whole overdone mess with the lunch and all the guests was paid for by her mother's family. Poor Daddy, poor Harry, forced into a suit and given a glass to hold and sad people he didn't really know to chit-chat with.

Poor all of them. What were they going to do without her?

Her mother's grave was fresh, the earth churned up and dark. Maybe if it was summer there would have been earthworms, coiling and writhing when they were exposed to the air. Now it was just damp, mossy-smelling dirt. Nita crouched down by the line between undisturbed earth and grave and watched the hyacinth petals drift down.

Shoes appeared.

It was like a dream. Shiny black office shoes, the kind really rich people wear, the kind who can spend a king's ransom on shoes. Funeral shoes. They were kicked at the dirt, printing deep random patterns into the earth.

Nita looked at them for about three seconds, and then she backed up.

He offered her sprays of flowers (red astilbe, really beautiful ones, the kind that won contests), and the most terrible smile in the world. He looked very neat, very gentlemanly: the red hair brushed down, feathers of it curling at the nape of His neck and around His ears. It seemed almost obscenely bright in the grey spring day. You would never have guessed that He had killed thousands, by His own hands and through more indirect means.

"Greetings," He said. "I hoped that I would find a chance to speak with you alone. How are you enjoying the funeral?"

It was sickening. It was too much. Nita backed away, having trouble breathing. It didn't seem to help. "Get out of here," she said, hardly feeling her lips move, forgetting politeness. "You have no… no business being here. This isn't your business at all."

"You forget," He said mildly. "Death is My business. Your mother, in the end, was just one of many who came under Me. I hope that this won't prejudice you needlessly against Me- I would still be pleased to have your cooperation in many aspects of My work."

This had to be some kind of sick joke. Nita's nails bit through the soft skin of her palms. "If You think, that after You killed my mother, that I'd ever have anything to do with You, then You must be going some kind of crazy-"

He looked regretful and rather indulgent- an adult, humoring a recalcitrant and stubborn child. It was a terrible expression, patently false, very well-rehearsed. "Of course if you feel that way," He said, "then it's no business of Mine forcing you into it…"

She laughed like someone crazy. "Not forcing? Is that what you call it? Threatening my- my mother- if I wouldn't join you or give up? That's isn't even a choice at all!"

"Oh, I assure you," He replied, "I never force anyone. The strongest vessels are the ones who are willing- and eventually, all wizards will come to Me willing."

The Lone Power sighed, regretful, at her still-shaking head. "I see you still require more time to think things over. Well, that's no issue to me, I suppose… I have all the time in the world. When it comes to the quick of it, you have very little." He knelt and put the flowers on her mother's grave. "Those are yours, if you care to accept them. If you ever find yourself in despair, then feel free to call My name. Of course I will come for such a charming maiden." Delivered sincerely, no hint of sarcasm, but his promises were as hollow as empty sea shells.

Nita turned and stormed back towards the group, towards the marginal safety of numbers. Blood was beating about and thrashing all through her body- she could feel heat beaming from her palms and face. Halfway there she stopped behind another gravestone, feeling her throat seem to wobble and expand. It was all so tortuously unfair. After a few minutes she vomited, thick and steaming in the chilly air- it felt like a curse, a blemish on the world. It wouldn't disappear from her mind.

END

September 4, 2005

Written for the myriadwords challengefic community on livejournal. The challenge was flowers for the dead, and it's not a focus but it's there, I guess. For this challenge I looked up flower meanings a little. Purple Hyacinths specifically mean please forgive me (picture: www. /tutorials /tube/ hyacinthpurple.jpg). Astilbe mean I'll still be waiting (picture: www .funboplantskola. se/ perbild/ astilbe.jpg). The fic itself is extraordinarily unlikely, but... I had fun I guess? I dunno.