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When Prehnite'd gotten the call - no - when Reed had? Unexpected heart attack, a worry that'd wormed holes in his heart; that gnawed away at gray matter rotted and clotted thick with other thoughts from the weeks long venture. His soul screamed of mistakes and the rest cursed in turn that he didn't care if he stood alone atop the mound of the world at its end.

He'd done a good deed - this one thing? This. Culmination and pinnacle of decency owed to a decent person, no matter their choices at the end of it all. With that, Reed crawled from bed - pinged Sylvite to appropriate the acquired pine box simply lacquered and full of past friend to a very specific location.

They would be quick with it. A deed done in darkness, in secrecy, because even if he'd had aid in digging the hole, the burial, this? It was for them. Him and Sylvite alone. Anyone else could go hang and choke for wanting. Slate would remain somewhere peaceable, a sight better than paltry surroundings and mass county cleanup sites full of nameless john does or those without so much as family to their names.

Together it'd be an easy task -- a pair of generals strength...

A swath of greenery deep in the forest; neatly cleared only in the parts nearest the grave itself. Bluebells and daffodils wound the periphery, a fairy ring of life that held memories -- meaning -- gifts of mourning. A fresh bench painted in greens that flecked iron sat between trees, and the headstone.

Sylvite said Slate liked busking, liked --

Simply designed, an homage with Slates full name and an end date, the symbol of his senshidom - to hold out hidden meaning for those who'd know it; a pentacle. An approximation of birth gleaned from records the Negaverse held, because umber had been a thing. Come and gone and died - had been Slates brother, the older to the younger...It helped that Sylvite was good at her job.



They'd make it quick - say words - he swore he wouldn't cry while he dug earth over the pit and made the empty hole something that signified a place of rest rather than a hollow sucking void. He'd plant clovers over it afterwards, dandelions. Edible roots and mushrooms that the small alien had seemed to like. It made sense that Ochre's passing should give way to life...like completing a circle? A proper ending.

What felt like a held breath left him in a soft whoosh upon seeing Sylvite, the car -- the tarp slowly peeled back to reveal the final cradle of the most precious of parcels. He took softly shadowed steps from the line of tree to the opened bed of the truck, took his turn in offering aid.

"Sylvite," and Prehnite was only glad that his voice didn't waver as he spoke her name. "I don't think I'll ever be able to thank you enough for this." and the cold lacquer didn't bite when he touched it reverently; traced short-nails over cool metal handles. The lid didn't spring open and reveal it all to be some delirious lie.

Everything was quiet, still, peaceful greenery with a soft breeze. He could just keep breathing while he gave her an admiring look. Oh, he'd never have the words to express the kindness she'd done, not that he thought he needed too, surely she must've known?

He hoped too, that Sheikh knew. That some part of him which lived on as Senshi were supposed to, was aware he'd left a mark on the world. All whimsy and wish, but still? Prehnite could hope..

"Everything's as ready as it can be. I think. Hopefully? He'll enjoy the space. Of course you're welcome to visit whenever." things that needn't be said, but he was ever one for spilling words - for offering Sylvite a small smile. The forest would be his friends sepulcher. Undisturbed, well guarded, and even if the state of his soul was an uncertainty? It was assured that his physical form would have a proper space for resting.

"You say that having done so much already, Sylvite. I feel like I owe you in ways I can't repay.." and his gaze tripped up from the cool trim of dull lacquer to Sylvites soft gaze, Prehnite felt his sadness swell around his gratitude for her, and lay out along the lines of his smile. She'd known him best, if she thought he'd like it? If she liked the spot herself? That was enough for him, to prod him into nodding and reaching out for a burnished handle inlaid at the ends and sides -- never before was he more grateful for a Generals strength.

There was nothing overly fancy in its design, but that was almost a welcome thing. The way the bed that'd bear their dearest friend into the longest night matched the scenery. Blended in, almost seamlessly, with the boundless quietude that would only be interrupted by natures steady pace, and the slow weave of time.

"After we say goodbye..." grunted heave, a huff for the way his voice creaked instead of the wood. "...I've flowers..." shovels, spades, and there was the act of the actual burying, of him asking her for help with one more task, one final time. "...I thought of tiger lilies with him, soft little forget me nots. I brought his journals along. His thought's shouldn't linger in that place for others to pursue." That'd felt right, to tuck something private away. Wrap it decoratively and put it all to rest with Slate himself.

Was he any better at goodbyes than she was? A doubtful thing, considering how he was shamelessly terrible with 'Hellos', and 'my name is's' and - all other manner of normal communication that didn't require some etiquette driven, classroom ingrained, drolling induced purely because proper protocol demanded such.

He realized as he touched the stems, neatly wrapped and tied in adorning white ribbon; a well rounded bouquet adorned in symbols of peace, and sadness and fire. That oh yes - he was quite terrible at goodbyes. Hadn't trembled this much since he was a lieutenant; first grasping a starseed while buried elbow deep in a strangers chest; outright 'panicking'. The adrenalin that'd coursed, stayed, for hours - days - after, or so it felt.

How taking the life of a stranger was nothing compared to saying goodbye to that of a friend. All sorts of nameless, faceless, human refuse. How this wasn't that. This was so --

Personal.

The flowers went in. The dirt went over. His hands were steadier holding a shovel than they had any right to be, but it was so similar to handling his weapon? To daily tasks. That muscle memory overrode -- that his shoulders shook and his lack of breath only caught up to him at the end. Once he found himself settling next to Sylvite; close enough to steal her warmth with his shoulder and smudge dirt stains across the corners of his eyes.

"I'm not crying..." and still his tongue could drip loose lies, he could've watered whole estates with the likes of them. Kept the grass evergreen and new with the amount of falsehoods that lived behind his very wet eyelids. "It's allergies." Yes, it seemed he was quite allergic to the burying of friends.