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ʙɪʀᴍɪɴɢʜᴀᴍ, 𝟷𝟿𝟸𝟷
𝐅𝐑𝐄𝐃𝐃𝐈𝐄 𝐓𝐇𝐎𝐑𝐍𝐄 𝐃𝐈𝐄𝐃 on a bleak and somber winter day, adequately mirroring the sullen air hanging over the people assembled in St. Andrew's graveyard to put him to rest.
Caterina clutched the flower wreath in her hands closer to her chest, the smell of fresh lilies and roses sharp and nauseating for her empty stomach. It was her first funeral since mother, though death became a close companion of hers in the years that followed.
She did not have the privilege to bury her brother, like many other sisters, mothers, wives and daughters of the war-drained countries. And what would she possibly lower in the ground; the yellowing paper of the telegram, two lines of uniformed condolences from his commanding officer saying how bravely he fought for His King and the Country? How she should be proud of the sacrifice he made for the people of Britain, for the greater cause.
She cared not for the King sitting on his throne of blood, and Britain might as well burn to the ground for all she cared; all she wanted was her brother to come home and spin her around in the yard as he used to, only for both of them to fall on the grass laughing.
No grave to lay down his bones, no cross or stone to cover it, somewhere in the flooded fields of Gallipoli.
"I promised my friend, Freddie Thorne, that I'd say a few words over his grave if he should pass before me. I made this promise before he became by brother-in-law, when we were in France, fighting for the King..."
Thomas was talking over the open grave, reciting a poem of sort that held a sentimental value to the Flanders boys. She could hardly concentrate on the words he spoke, instead, her eyes fixed on the crumbling pile of soil by the hole, ready to be poured over the casket. In the end, rich or poor, young or old, we all end the same; with a heap of dirt above us.
Forcing herself to look away, Cat couldn't help her eyes from wandering to the woman standing next to her, holding her child as if it was her lifeline.
After all the horrors of France he had gone through, it was pestilence that dealt the final blow to sergeant Thorne, a quiet murdered that crawled into their home not even two nights ago, claiming the man's last breath by the next sunrise. His body had barely gotten cold by the time they hauled the casket on the next train to Birmingham for the funeral.
Her heart weeped even if her eyes did not, for Ada and her godson. Though two years and a significant geographical distance separated them, the only Shelby girl was the closest thing she had to a real sister.
She reckoned it was unlikely Ada would ever remarry — the bond she had with Freddie was something Cat had never witnessed, a pure sense of devotion no matter the circumstances and objections standing on their path.
