@feral-alchemy || this is from the sex funeral ask but I’m mobile and am too lazy to tag it LOL
Deacon hadn’t given much thought to death until he’d stepped foot on the HMS Terror. Until he’d stepped onto it from their last familiar port, to be precise. He’d ran into some O’Myres there who had quickly buttoned up their lips when he’d said he was heading far North. Proper North.
‘Fearghal know your routes?’
Deacon had snorted loud enough for the whiskey and bar food in his gut to threaten to make a second appearance, the action no different to his stomach than a purge. Even if his father knew his location, what would he do? Sail to the crown of the world and drag him back home? Flog back the ice into submission? Not likely.
The other kelpie, Oisin, had smiled tightly and too quickly, as if not to dampen Deacon’s spirits. ‘A fine view, ‘m told. Just... Be careful, Dea. North’s far up there. Far enough to lose yer head.’
The words had stuck with him long after they’d left port.
Kelpies have a big fanfare for death. It’s upsetting, of course, when somebody in the clan passes whether from an accumulation of years or illness or just a freak accident. They’re returned to the sea and spoken of in long and fond tales that spread from clan to clan. And When the storm season comes the departed are celebrated in the winds and rains. If it’s a lead, long recounts of feats can be sung about for verses and verses. A legendary death like that is sought after. It’ll probably take years to sing his parents’ songs once they’ve seen this world through.
The sorrow would be great for him if either of his parents were to pass away unexpectedly. Or if his best mate Seamus were to befall some tragedy or many of the band members he’d come to think of as a second blood family it would be equally as crushing. Like if Woods were to meet some untimely demise. Or slapstick Lester and his sunny personality. Even coal-sprayed, sour Darcy.
And if he were to die... well...
Deacon hefts his shovel into the hard ground as if it’s soft and loamy soil, pushing the thought away. Standing here in this nearing six foot deep grave contemplating his eventual demise spooks him more than he’d like to admit. It’s not the actual act of dying that bothers him... but the after. He’s come to rely on traditions, old and new, and stories and recountings to navigate his life. No one has anything of the sort for death - there’s no manual or how to.
And who’s to know just how a being like a kelpie, who preys on others to survive, is received in death if there is anything that comes after?
He was too far North in his thoughts lately. Oisin has been right.
Woods cracks a line that should have sent him guffawing into a fit but he only provides a tight smile instead and traces the wall of earth in front of him with an index finger. The soil (if it can even be called that) is thick and hard, not the tender loam he’s grown accustomed to in Killarney and beyond. “This isn’t a grave. It’s a tomb.” The words are too heavy coming out of his mouth, heavy like the frozen rocks and dirt will be over the lad’s dead head. Deacon offers up a snort to lighten the mood. “Mhm, right. Treat those fillies good and proper for me.” He chuckles but it’s a dry sound compared to his others. A toss of his head points out the shrouded corpse above them on the bleached ground. “Lay the poor lad down so he can finally rest, the lucky bastard.”
