So, I went and saw Kill Bill with

therissole today. Then they told me I should write Wilbear Martin fic. So here it is . . .

Title: Standing Still on a Sunny Patch of Ground
Author: MelWil
Fandom: Wilbear Martin
Rating: PG
Summary: If Jacobi has to die, than The Mentor has to visit her grave

~*~

It occupied a sunny patch of carefully tended ground. It stood – proud and tall and confident – alongside the graves of good people. It rejoiced in its privileged position; feeding on it, growing in it, controlling all that lies around it. Random visitors shuddered as they meandered by it.

Someone (not Jacobi. It just couldn't have been Jacobi.) had ordered a stone of ornate curves and intricate tendrils. It carried a grotesque combination of names and dates and florid, vapid tributes. None of them are entirely correct. None of them are entirely wrong.

He wondered where the order came from, which of the many well meaning fools inflicted this final punishment? It must have been some random flunky – a stranger. No one who'd known Jacobi – even with her mess of contradictions – would have believed this to be her style.

If the powers had put him in charge things would be different. Her grave would sit alone in a vacant corner, where the tree cover was thick and fought to keep the sun away. The stone would be flat and square, with simple words printed in simple writing. Just her name. Her name and the date she died.

That's how she would have liked it.

He stands still and tall and you wish you could get closer, wish you could see if your death has changed him. He is dressed entirely in black and you would consider it mourning – except he always dresses like that. He has discarded his sunglasses, though, and he stands in front of you with uncovered eyes.

There are flowers clutched in his hands. Red flowers, even though white or pink would have been more appropriate. You believe they are roses and you breathe deeply as he lays them down. You see his eyes are red. You see he is confused.

You can't blame him. It wasn't your choice for it to happen like this. You never chose to bury yourself in a place where sunlight burns. You never wanted him to see you like this.

He stands still again and you wish you could wrap your arms around him. You wish – and you know it goes against everything you believe in – you could bring him comfort, the knowledge everything will be alright.

But he turns from you and walks away.

You are alone again. Alone, in the stark sunlight, standing next to the people who were good.

Off to find images and make a Wilbear Martin icon . . .