Like a Flower of the Field


wf_abby2_icon.gif wf_delilah2_icon.gif wf_griffin2_icon.gif wf_quinn2_icon.gif wf_ryans2_icon.gif

Also featuring:

wf_colette2_icon.gif wf_eileen2_icon.gif wf_elisabeth2_icon.gif wf_deckard2_icon.gif wf_delia2_icon.gif wf_kaylee2_icon.gif wf_raith2_icon.gif

wf_unknown1_icon.gif wf_unknown4_icon.gif wf_unknown5_icon.gif wf_unknown7_icon.gif wf_unknown9_icon.gif wf_unknown10_icon.gif wf_unknown11_icon.gif

Scene Title Like a Flower of the Field
Synopsis Five dreamers are gathered to witness an event that may or may not be in their shared future.
Date January 22, 2011 (?)

Pollepel Island (In Dreams)

Snow falls powder-fine and dusts the rocky shoreline of Pollepel Island in what looks like diamonds in the white light of the early February morning. Mist wafts across the Hudson River, pristine, still and covered in a layer of ice so thick that only a trickle can be heard in the stillness, though there are birds whistling on the other side of the water in trees that have begun to grow green where leaves will open after the thaw.

The pine box is elevated on rocks, the lid left off, and crystals gather in the corpse's dark hair and feathery lashes, his gray skin a startling contrast to the black suit he's dressed to be buried in. Dead fingers are wound around crucifix of silver and glass.

There are no seats for the mourners to settle in, and no altar for the woman delivering the eulogy to stand behind, but maybe she wishes there was because her hands are unsteady, and the only way to keep them from shaking is to tighten the grip of the bible she's holding, an old, worn thing with a heavy leather cover and well-loved pages. Kaylee has the resolve not to cry, but her eyes are rimmed in pink and their sheen wet and glassy. Threads of gray are woven through her hair, making her appear much older than she really is. The laugh lines around her mouth and the dark, exhausted circles under her eyes are at odds with one another.

"— a loving husband and father," she concludes. "He wasn't by any means a perfect man, but he was a good man, and it was by understanding his own personal demons that he taught me how to tame mine. Maybe yours, too. He touched a lot of people's lives. There were times I was selfish, times I wished he was only mine, times I wanted him to stop helping others so he could start helping himself, but that wasn't who he was."

Kaylee forces a wan smile. "Wasn't the man I married." She edges her thumb along the bible's spine and lowers her eyes. "He's had this for as long as I can remember. I think it was Gillian who gave it to him, back before all this started and most of us still had hope without needing people like Joseph to inspire it. I wanted to prepare a selection of readings that would celebrate his life, but I kept coming back to just this one. A psalm."

Blonde hair is pulled tight at the base of Abigail's skull, a tidy bun to match dour black clothes under dark jacket as she sits. She's hard pressed to refrain from adding a soft amen each time that Kaylee lists off what he was, her own hands clinging to another weathered bible embossed with her own name on it and gilt edges half erased by a fire so very long ago. She keeps her ankles crossed, blue eyes regarding Kaylee where she stands, shedding her own tears for the preacher man who lays in the box in a suit that likely was never made with the purpose of being a burial suit. Pink lips press together, and eyes close for a few moments to send a prayer up skyward, the few wrinkles around Abigail's eyes that she'd gathered, deepening in the light.

Standing with her back rigid is a woman that is familiar to some, maybe less so to others. Her own blonde hair is bound in loops down her back, a loose braid with pieces of greying gold flung free in snagging winds. Elisabeth can cry, does cry, but doesn't cry today with her squint hard against the winter sun as she regards the woman speaking before the group. It is a hawkish look of compassion and scrutiny, stamped in the crows feet beside her eyes. Though she stands with the group, she also, in her own way, stands alone. Her dress is black.

And her hand rests on the scalp of a boy, hair dark and combed and undone again by the wind, the falling snow and Elisabeth's fingers. Sort of a gentle reassurance as well as, maybe, keeping his attention ahead of him. He stands with his hands laced together, and though he lacks a suit cut for the proportions of an 8-year-old, a navy woolen jacket against the cold is sombre enough.

In the periphery of Benjamin Ryans, a woman stands at his side, her red hair left to hang free down her back, partially tucked into a scarf wrapped around her throat. Her arms are wrapped sturdy and secure around a toddler, a little girl who remains quiet and grips onto Delia's coat with tiny hands. A woolen cap is pulled protectively over her ears, and wisps of silky blonde hair make curly spells where they peek out from it. Delia whispers something into the crown of the girl's head.

Rather than watching Kaylee, Robyn Quinn's gaze is angled dowm at the feet of someone in front of her, eyes closed as she listens to the eulogy being delivered. Silent, she stands still and rigid, dressed in black to suit the occasional, even if her jacket and skirt aren't exactly fitting of the occasion, nor is the black rounded hat she wears, pulled down low over her face. Her own black bible, a silver cross embossed on the cover, sticks out from under arms that cross in front of her. She doesn't cry, she managed to hold that in for the most part. Instead, she simply whispers a prayer to herself, a hand raising to trace a cross over her chest as she finishes, before finally looking back up towards Kaylee.

Far too many people dying.

Standing near the back, away from the others, is a lone figure. The tall, lanky fellow has his head dipped down toward the ground, his posture slumped forward as he seems to be in prayer; his eyes are closed, his hands enfolded in front of him, though he carries no bible, and he utters no prayers. The man wears a black suit, grey shirt, black tie. Black, the color of mourning, the color most closely associated with death.

Grey hair is far more predominant on the lanky man's somewhat long, slightly curled hair, though streaks and whisps of his hair still cling on to their dark pigment for dear life. Wrinkles adorn Griffin Mihangle's features, tired lines of worry and discontent that have worn a path over his features over the years that have gone by far too fast for his tastes.

As Kaylee offers a reading, tired green eyes open to watch her quietly. To listen.

He is like a stone statue there, standing among the mourners, head tipped down and hands laced together in front of him. The slate gray suit helps this illusion. The suit fits a little looser then the last time he wore it, his hair grayer as well, the mix of silvery and dark strands brush against his cheek. The silver thickest as this temples. The short scruff of facial hair also salted with the silver.

Benjamin Ryans is silent and vigilant. Knowing full well what she felt like, though the stretch of years have taken the edge off the memories of Mary's death.

Eyes drift to the man in the box, features as always unreadable. He knows he'll miss the Pastor. A friend and associate for so many years now. Like so many of them there. Ben lets his blue eyes drift up to the man's wife, listening intently. Ryans had never been a religious man, but somehow Joseph had made him think about such things.

Hearing the soft voice of Delia pulls his gaze away from death to the young life in her arms. Hands slowly unfold so that Ryans can reach over to touch the arm of the red head, reassurance for her… maybe for both. Even so he listens, because the words are important. The life lost even more so.

Not black, no- Delilah would be lucky to find anything she owns to be black. Nothing appropriate for a February goodbye, anyway. So, the dress is the darkest blue, and her coat heavy. Though the hour is cold, it isn't quite as cold as the month before. January is always colder, for some reason. Her red hair is as spry as ever, a lengthy mane of burnt color against the wool of her coat and the curve of a scarf. Her arms are knit around her, gloves worn at the fingertips. Creases tickle around her mouth and at the corners of her eyes, though the neutral colors of makeup seem to mask them as best they can.

Delilah's lashes seem heavier than they should be, as her brown eyes move between studying Kaylee, and studying the calm face of deathly quiet in the pine box. Delilah is very still, as if waiting for something- maybe Kaylee's psalm, maybe Joseph sitting up and yelling 'You shoulda seen your faces!', despite the total absurdity. She can wish.

Near the front of the assembly, there is a small gathering of children, many still of the age where it's difficult to assign an exact number to them. A tall, lanky teenage boy with a face brushed with freckles has skinny arms around a smaller brunette girl with dark eyes and hair frozen to her cheeks by tears. She's having a hard time breathing — it comes in short, haggard gasps that cause her entire body to quake and shudder. The boy buries his nose in the top of her hair and squeezes her just a little tighter. Holding the brunette's hand is another girl roughly the same age but a little taller with a fuller mouth and a rounder face, eyes green and gently-shaped. She looks to the boy, worry creasing around the corners of her mouth, then back to her friend. Like everyone else except Kaylee, she says nothing.

Nearby, Eileen Ruskin seems to focus on the casket itself, her chin tucked in against the high-collared dress she wears paired with an old wool shawl around slim shoulders. Her face is grave and her eyes solemn as they always are, and she stands in the shadow of a much larger, grizzled man who has the courtesy not to be smoking a cigar. Raith places a hand between her shoulder blades but that is all.

"As a father has compassion for his children," Kaylee begins, willing her voice to remain steady, "so the Lord has compassion for those who fear him, for he knows how we are formed, he remembers we are dust. As for man, his days are like grass, he flourishes like a flower of the field; the wind blows over and it is gone, and its place remembers no more."

The brunette girl makes a strangled sound in the back of her throat, and Kaylee pauses, raising her eyes from the bible. They are very blue and full of quiet alarm, but before she can resume, the girl tears herself from the teenage boy's arms. "This is your fault!" she screams at Ryans and Raith, her voice raw and hoarse with grief. "If you'd done your jobs like you were supposed to, he'd still be here!"

Kaylee's talking and Abigail's not going to stop the telepath from her eulogy nor let the girl do so. She's abandoning her seat and her bible to move forward with all the speed that she can muster so that Abby can draw the pre-adolescent to her, wrap her arms around her and tuck her close to body. "Shhh, not here. It's not fair, I know, but not here. He wouldn't like that would he? Now's not the place"

Abigail moves to the side before crouching down towards the back and trying to comfort her in ways that her own mother had done for her, her hand to the back of her dark hair and stroking. "Shhhhh" She won't tell her that it'll be okay. It won't. She knows it and she can't bear to tell that lie to the child.

Dressed in a suit beneath bundled layers of less formal wool, Flint Deckard is a gaunt and alone presence, the shadows in his long face telling both of age and mood. There is a crumpled quality to his left sleeve, the idea of something missing in collapsed fabric, but details are hard to make out when both hands are dug into his pockets, his chin sunk low and pale blue eyes tricking over the display. They only dim out of their intent cyan stare when he sends a glance in the direction of Abigail when he imagines she isn't looking.

By the time psalm is being read out, he turns a shoulder to the event, cast an infinitely invasive stare out towards the river. A tie, snaking out of his coat, turns over in the wind. His shoulders only tense when the yelling begins.

There's always someone yelling.

Delia has settled her head on her father's shoulder by the time loud voice of the young girl snaps like a bullwhip through the solemnity. She straightens her spine again, blue eyes widening and a hand coming to protectively cup the child's head she carries. Mouth parts in some shock, and she tears a look towards Kaylee, full of sympathy as well as quiet demand before Abby intervenes. She sighs out a breath of steam, and risks freeing a hand to squeezing his arm.

Whispers murmur across the crowd, not the least of which would be from one dark haired boy to the other, both of them old enough to stand separate. The one with paler eyes listens a little to the mutter from his companion, and it's Elisabeth who is near enough to give the speaker of the two a mild and matter of fact swat upside the head.

This has the one she'd been guarding exchange a smirk at the older boys before he schools his face into something more solemn before he can get swatted too. Especially with her hand already placed upon his head.

flip flip flip

Her bible open and held out in front of her, Quinn is ready toread along with the psalm, even if it's slightly different in her bible - when suddenly, the outburst occurs, causing her to tense up as her gaze darts upwards, looking towards it's source as Abby moves to her, and then alternating between looks over towards Raith, then Ryans. She's on the edge of her seat, figuratively, ready to help Abby vomfort the young girl if necessary, but outside of a small step forward, she doesn't make a move or a sound, not wanting to further disrupt the order of things.

Only quiet comes from the older man in the back. Griffin's green eyes travel from face to face, examining their features and the emotions they bear. The sadness, the mourning, the grave expressions. This man was loved in his life. As Kaylee delivers her eulogy, the man turns, quietly listening to the woman's words, his eyes closing and his head dipping once more.

As the yelling begins, Griffin lifts his eyes once more, turning to silently watch the girl as she has her outburst. He unclasps his hands, shoving them into the pockets of his coat; he makes no move to intervene, however much the scene tugs at his heartstrings. Silence instead reigns from the lanky fellow, hunched as he is in his little corner.

The interruption of the child has Ryans' shoulders stiffening, back straightening despite the way age and injuries makes throb with a dull ache in the cold. Delia can feel the tension of her father through the hand on his arm, muscles drawn tight.

The small brunette gets the full weight of the old man's gaze and he is old… older then he looks. Older then his partner. And those blue eyes hold that age in them, maybe a touch of tiredness finding it's way to the surface. He listens, she needs to let out all that grief. So he lets her.

He doesn't have the heart to stop her.

While outwardly, Benjamin shows nothing, on the inside the guilt those words bring sit heavy on his stomach. Finally, he rests a hand over the one on his arm, giving it a squeeze. 'It's alright' it says without it being outloud.

It isn't often that Delilah has such a baleful expression, eyes like a doe and manner similar. Her coat dampens the movement of her shoulders, though doesn't hamper her legs as she takes a few tentative paces closer to Abby and the young girl. A short buffet of a breeze picks up some of her thick red hair, the locks some of the longest that hang near her waistline. Abby seems to have inserted herself first, at least, so by the time that Delilah is hovering there too, it seems less of a quelling of an outburst, and a bit more like an intervention for the girl's sake.

Her gloved hand is quick to find a place near Abby's, a protective and comforting touch onto the preteen's shoulder blade. Abby is right. It isn't the place, even if the words feel right in their bursting forth.

The girl sobs into Abigail's chest, grasping fistfuls of her clothes, and Delilah's, as soon as the other woman is close enough. The teenage boy who had been holding her directs an apologetic look at the redheaded woman, his mother, and then finds that he cannot meet her eyes more than a few moments. His head ducks, and there's guilt in his guarded expression.

Raith takes the opportunity to excuse himself with a nod to Ryans, his hand dropping from Eileen's shoulder as he turns to make his way through the small crowd, and there's no one unwise enough to put themselves in his way. He passes Quinn and Griffin, passes the protective huddle Abigail and Delilah have formed around the girl, though he gives them plenty of space. Booted feet carry him up the crumbling stone steps carved into the castle's bluff, his movements not nearly as spry as they used to be, and he's gone.

Eileen's eyes snap across to Liz, and her lips tighten, fury visible in the small shape of her mouth, but she remains where she is. Her hands go white around their clasp.

"But from everlasting to everlasting," says Kaylee, her voice louder now, clearer, and she does not have to struggle to be heard over the muffled sound of crying, "the Lord's love is with those who fear him, and his righteousness with their children's children— with those who keep his covenant, and remember to obey his precepts. The Lord has established his throne in heaven, and his kingdom rules over us all.


"He'll be watching over you honey" Delilah's given a grateful look for help, a glance to Raith as he passes, carrying on with consoling the girl. "It's cruel that the Lord above saw fit to take him, call him to his side but he did and now, he's gonna watch over you from his right hand and he will love you from afar. Keep crying honey, it's good to cry. Always remember that hmmm? It's good for the soul" SHe whispers this all so not to interrupt Kaylee's speech, even as she shh's the child. Something like this is hard on the children. Blame has to go somewhere, has to be assigned and she's assigned it on Raith and Ryans it seems.

A hand slips into the curve of Quinn's elbow companiably, or seeking comfort — as opposed to giving it. This, Quinn might be able to see in the way Colette's eyes are raw red from crying, making the emerald-cut irises of her's stand out brilliantly. She gives her friend a watery smile, before turning her pixie-like face towards Kaylee— a trait that seems only encouraged in age instead of worn down— as she ends the psalm. She doesn't say 'amen', but she does shut her eyes on its final-like note.

Elisabeth does, however, the word murmured, and the boy she stands with echoes it after her. Her hand slips to his shoulder, squeezing, releasing. But rather than run off, he only slinks back to her side, an arm hugging around her waist, and her eyes unfocus in damp blur before he pulls him into a more proper embrace. "It's okay, kiddo," she mutters.

Delilah joining Abby and the girl has her retreating a half step back, a long sigh escaping her breath as she finally turns her gaze back up to Kaylee, choosing to finish reciting the pslam from memory rather than reopening her bible. All without too much outward emotion coming from her, outside of teh distinct look of sadness painted across her face.

Until she suddenly feels the touch against her arm.

Turning to look at Colette. The red eyes, the sad smile, the shutting of eyes, it's too much for Quinn. A few tears finally make their way down her cheek as she echoes out the Amen, doubly loud as if she's doing it so Colette doesn't need to. And then she just turns to her friend, hugging her.

The scene unfolds before the old man's eyes— and Griffin is getting on in years, nearly fifty now. All that he can do is sit back and relax. One hand reaches out for the cane he has resting against the wall nearby; it's uncomfortable to stand for so long. He leans against this, turning his eyes back down toward the ground once more, closing them.

As Kaylee continues, Griffin slumps a little bit more against his cane, closing his eyes. Quietly, he mumbles his own little prayer in Scottish Gaelic, his own little well wishes for the late Joseph. He can't add much more to the scene— he never was very good at the whole funeral thing. Always brings back harsh memories.

The nod is returned a slow dip of respect and silently Ryans watches Raith's departure, until he passes out of his periphery. A shoulder twitches as the old many feels the desire to follow Raith, but he knows too well, that for the moment Raith needs space.

Maybe a bottle of Jack later will help both.

Instead of leaving and putting distance between him and this family, Benjamin stays. He moves to rest an arm around his red headed daughter. It's probably not the first or last time someone will scream at him for the death of a loved one. He doesn't murmur a word of Amen, or offer his own silent prayer.

But as blue eyes look to the Pastor, laying there among his friends and family one last time, it view blurs at the edges and Ryans is forced to finally look away. Pressing mouth to red hair, arm giving a bit of a squeeze to Delia's shoulder. Emotions are not his thing, something he can't afford to show, so he takes a moment to quell the moisture that threatens to gather.

The look that Delilah casts to her son is a blameless one, past the few curves of dark hair and Abby's shoulders. She settles for putting her cheek down, warm against the child's head, her arm wrapping behind, fingers at the ends of her hair. She murmurs, barely audible, a mimicked 'amen' when the time comes. She tries to look most everywhere else but to those around her, and so her gaze eventually settles gently on Joseph's casket. They could all use a little bit of Jack, couldn't they?

Maybe that's right. Maybe not. Delilah just knows it wouldn't hurt if they did. She lifts one hand to push hair behind her ear, letting her palm fall, calmly, onto the girl's shoulder.

On the other side of the island, the sound of clamouring church bells fills the air, but it's distant somehow, hollow like far-off buoys calling out to one another through the mist. Beneath it, a low, sonorous whistle that builds in intensity until the mourners can not only hear it in the sky but feel it swelling in their guts and vibrating in their bones.

Kaylee looks up in time to see a pair of fighter jets streak past through the misting clouds several miles away, and she angles her hand to shield her eyes from the glare of the sun as it appears behind Bannerman's tallest point—

Brooklyn: Speakeasy Hotel and Casino

It takes her a moment, a handful of them for Abigail to remember where she is when she opens her eyes. The dingy wallpaper that looks like it should have been replaced years ago. The sound of vermin in the walls and likely a hooker a room or two away. The speakeasy, cheap cheap rooms and they don't ask questions. She blinks, staring at a stain, remembering what she was dreaming about, the people there, the crying child. She turns onto her back instead of her side, blankets drawn up to her chin to ward off the cold that seeps into the room, transferring gaze from wall to ceiling, trying to make sense of it all and why.

Greenwich Village: Village Renaissance Building

Awakening with a bit of a start, Quinn just takes a breath as she blinks in the darkness - only for a moment as the ambient light in the room brightens enough for her to see red hair filling her vision - she's in her apartment, back at The Verb. A wrinkle of her nose, and a hand raised to her cheek as if she's seeing if it's actually wet from the streak of a tear, but no such phenomena has occurred. Rolling on to her back, she stares upwards, curious. It's been a long time since she had a dream she could remember so well. Blankets are pulled up tight, and she heaves out a sigh. What a strangely depressing dream for her to have, and once morning rolled around, if she could still remember, she would certainly be jotting it down.

Pollepel Island: Bannerman's Castle

Moonlight filters into the room in Bannerman Castle that Griffin has taken up for himself and what is left of his family. Nadira is curled up against him, sleeping soundly as the man awakens with a slight start, his eyes snapping open to stare up at the ceiling as he awakens in the doubled up sleeping bag on the cot. It's quiet. Dark. Peaceful. Green eyes find the window, looking up toward the sky, even as Nadira grumbles and nuzzles closer to the man.

Those green eyes trail down to the cot near his and Nadira's, where Owain is curled up, sleeping soundly. Then, Griffin sighs faintly, closing his eyes. That was a strange dream; he recognized a few of those people, Ryans, Delia, Eileen, Abby, Kaylee…even Elisabeth. Strange that the woman who he gave a concussion to long ago was in his dream.

Shaking his head, Griffin wraps his arms around Nadira, closing his eyes and doing his best to return to the land of sleep. Somehow, he has a feeling that sleep won't return to him easily after that depressing dream.

Ruins of Midtown: Grand Central Terminal

Waking takes away the aches of age, though Benjamin Ryan's back is a little stiff from where he rests on a unforgiving cot, cold seeping in through a blanket only thick enough to take the edge off. The sounds of people sleeping, alerts him that he's truly awake.

He forces himself to sit upright, knees high enough that only a slight bending of his back allows him to prop elbows on knees and head in his hands.

In the depths of Grand Central, he listens to the sounds of the others sleeping, before he straightens a little to thumb at the moisture still there at the corners of his eyes, as they were in the dream. The guilt still sits heavy in his stomach, unable to shake it.

Throwing the blanket off, Ryans pushes to his feet, taking a moment to shove feet into boots. He doesn't bother lacing them, his mind more focused on seeing if there is anything strong to drink tucked away. For him, it shouldn't be hard to find and confiscate.

Roosevelt Island: The Octagon

The plushness of Delilah's quilt is the first sensation that she remembered when she woke up, the next is the vague disquiet in the next room reaching her ears. The faintest of fussy noises from Walter's room. For a moment there was a stirring body beside her, until she lifted a hand to still it, coaxing the figure back to sleep. Maybe it was something left from the vividness of her dreams, but it takes her some time before she is able to pry herself out of the bedding and slink off of the mattress.

The redhead sits there for some time, it seems, listening vaguely to the discontent with a hand stroking fingers through her hair, only falling just past her shoulders. Delilah takes a deep breath and lifts herself across too the door, sidling out and then into the nursery. The baby in the crib, warm and cozy where he is, still somehow finds the sheer muster to be wrinkling his face up and letting out intermittent and upset squeaks, threatening to cry out. He peers upward when Dee leans in over his bed to pick him up.

She is humming softly into his ear when she sits down in the cushioned rocking chair, the baby boy laying his head on her chest, fists balled up to the nightgown over her breast. Just a dream or not just a dream- it still meant something- and it weighs just as much.

Unless otherwise stated, the content of this page is licensed under Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike 3.0 License