Weldon Elks was buried on a sunny Sunday morning, in a moving funeral service thrown by his family, who didn’t know anything about him.
Or, at least, they didn’t know how he spent his time. His job was fake, a made-up cover story tailored to fit the night and weekend patrols that few other Order members could stomach.
They didn’t know who his friends were, either. That much was evident. Gideon had handed his coat to somebody when he walked in, streaks of tears staining his face. It was only later that he’d realized it was Weldon’s brother who’d taken his coat – and that he’d forgotten to track it down again before leaving, which explained the cold he fell to in the days that followed. Everywhere in the room, those not too distracted by mourning were finding the time to shoot curious looks at the redheaded twins, inconsolable in the back of the room.
Someone asked Gideon a question, at one point – was he the nephew of so-and-so, the old bastard? Gideon, who was choking on the smell of flowers, accidentally agreed. Not that that stopped the whispering.
Gideon hadn’t been a member of the Order for long, and this was the first death he’d experienced. He hadn’t been there when It (the capital-I infected everyone’s whispers at that point) happened, but the aftermath was difficult to swallow. There would be more lost before the war was over, Gideon knew that. There would be harder sights to stomach, toughing hills to climb. Gideon knew that.
But fresh out of school and barely dispensed of his status as a New Recruit, he couldn’t imagine it. He couldn’t imagine anything more gut wrenching than the sight of Weldon’s sister throwing herself, sobbing, over the edge of the closed casket as if Weldon would wake up within and push the lid open with his infectious laugh. He couldn’t imagine anything more unnerving than the pale looks of all the elderly people in the room who assumed they’d be the firsts – by a long shot – to go.
And none of them even knew why he’d died. Or how. Or for who.
Definitely not for who. The Elks family was a small one, closely knit. Neighbors came and went, cousins struggled to control their children while maintaining their composure. But the main family, Weldon’s real one, stood in the same protected knot at the front of the room.
Weldon’s other family stood together at the back of the room.
Two redheaded twins, a man missing an eyebrow, two blonde woman that had nothing in common save the color of their hair and their penchant for defensive charms, and the space they were saving for Moody or Dumbledore, all the while knowing they wouldn’t show up. They stood just as tightly knit as the other group, murmuring variations of ‘we should say something’ and ‘we should leave.’
All around them, everyone else murmured, ‘who are those people?’
When Molly got married, Gideon and Fabian had delivered their toast the same way they’d done everything up to that point in their lives – together. They’d come into the world together, entered school together, watched their sister float down the aisle as a bride together. Joined the Order together. They were together today, too. Standing at the back of the funeral hope. There was no speech – eulogy, Gideon reminded himself, it’s called a eulogy – to deliver today. Not together. And certainly not for Gideon.
That honor (was it an honor, though?) belonged to Weldon’s partner Tristan.
Gideon had nothing to read, which was good because he had nothing to say.
Or, rather, he had too much to say.
Too much to say and no time given to say it, surrounded by a roomful of people that did not know who he was and did not understand why he looked every bit as upset as the rest of them. Not that Gideon could blame them for their confusion. He didn’t know any of them, either.
Even among the tearful clan of Order members who’d shown up to mourn, Gideon didn’t feel known. He’d begun to think of them as his family, in the loosest of terms. But his real family was beside him: Fabian hadn’t let go of his arm since they walked in, and Gideon knew he wouldn’t drop it until – until, not unless – he twisted it free of his own accord. He was grateful for it. He hated it, too.
Tristan (Gideon didn’t know his last name and felt an unpleasant twist of satisfaction in that fact) stood up to give the eulogy at one point, and it didn’t last long. It was a tidy, emotional thing, which had clearly been written and rewritten until it sounded perfect. Perfect, but dry. Perfect, but cold.
There was nothing cold about his face when he fell into silence. Someone tried to be helpful, prompted him along. Asked if he had ‘any last words.’ That blow fell suddenly and heavily against everyone in the room. There was something so sinking, so final about it. Last words. It was a concept that none of them could grasp, even after spending their day in this cramped, perfumed room talking around the idea of death to honor a man who was already dead. Who could not hear them. Eyes searched for eyes, looking for answers even on the faces of those they did not know. Did Tristan have any last words? Did anyone have any last words?
Oh, god, Gideon heard someone whisper, closer to the front of the room. It was a woman’s voice, but he couldn’t see where it came from, or from whom. Did Weldon have any last words?
It was a rhetorical question. Of course he’d had. But that didn’t change the fact that a sickly confusion was now spreading through the room. It was a mix of people realizing that they didn’t know exactly how Weldon had died. It was a mess of people realizing that everyone there would eventually have last words, and that somebody might not be around to hear them.
Gideon thought about wrenching his arm away from Fabian. He held onto his brother more tightly, instead.
Last words…last words about Weldon? It didn’t seem possible. What it seemed was ridiculously simplistic, especially because of all the things still unsaid.
Like the fact that Weldon had faked a work conference out of town for a long weekend just because one of the youngest Order recruits was having panic attacks about her glitching shield charms and he wanted the uninterrupted time to coax and coach her through it; Gideon had gone too, lounged on a couch nearby and watched Weldon’s wrist snapping with the elegant confidence of a swimmer.
Or the fact that Weldon spent every Christmas Eve cooking a dinner for Order members who had no families to go back to, or didn’t feel safe returning home. He’d looked genuinely stricken when the Prewett twins mentioned that they’d be spending the pre-holiday at Molly’s. He’d pressed a plate of still-warm leftovers into Gideon’s hands the next time they saw each other after New Year’s.
“I want to go home,” Gideon whispered to Fabian. For a moment, he worried his brother hadn’t heard. But then an identical chin gave a slight, understated nod. Neither of them moved yet, but they’d made the transition from staying to leaving. They were treading water through the uncomfortable grey space in between. Fabian’s eyes flickered toward the exit, mapping out – it was unlike him, unlike the both of them – the least intrusive path possible. Gideon’s eyes stayed fixed on Tristan.
They’d almost kissed once, Gideon and Weldon. At the time, Gideon chalked it up to his imagination. There had been drinks, and they were talking the same way they’d always talked, and nothing had happened at all. But there had been a moment…a look. Something heavy and tangible had passed between them in that moment, and the only thing that stood between a grieving Gideon and a guilty Gideon now was the fact that neither of them had leaned in, and that nobody else knew.
Gideon did not remember arriving home. He only remembered the heavy sensation of falling into bed and passing out almost immediately, some faint half-conscious awareness of Fabian telling him he needed rest to feel better. Pulling the blankets around himself to block out the light, Gideon also remembered being seized by a fleeting, desperate hope that he’d sleep peacefully and long enough to dull the overwhelming effect of all that had happened that day. That day, and in the weeks leading up to it. He just wanted to sleep easy.
He did not.
That was the sleep that brought his nightmares for the first time.
When Gideon woke up, visions of his bloodied and tortured family still swam before his eyes, ripping him out of sleep and shoving him into a world of cold sweat and a dark, lonely bedroom. It was the first time he realized he might never sleep easy again. Not until the war was over; not until he’d done everything possible to make sure his family was safe.
He needed to make sure both of his families were safe.
He didn’t want to have a funeral with a dividing line to separate the people that knew only a certain side of him. He didn’t want to stand in the back of the room watching more of his friends carried away by pallbearers to find new rest beneath the ground. He didn’t want to stand at the front of the room, either, knotted into a grieving family unit and forced to read out platitudes about people who couldn’t be dissolved down into a few neat words on a page.
All in all, Gideon had slept fourteen hours. He didn’t feel rested at all.
He stood up, still in his clothes from the day before, and didn’t break stride until he arrived at Order Headquarters. He’d been scheduled to have the next few days off but undid that with a stubborn wave of his hand. The next mission, he insisted. Whatever you’ve got. I’m in.
It was better, he reasoned, than somebody else having to go.
