Merrilee Vance: Funeral Rites and Dragon Delights: The Spoon's Vigil

I lay my spoon on a flat stone, kneel, and begin the funeral rites for it. I ask Ashfang to please lower his voice.

Ashfang blinks, clearly puzzled, but amused. “A funeral for a spoon? How deliciously absurd. Your theatrics could almost distract a less savage beast.” His voice lowers to a sneaky murmur, closer to a growl: “Go on, then. Speak, O priestess of the metal relic.” The rain drips louder. Your absurd ceremony wins a moment's attention, but the dragon’s tail flicks restlessly toward the village. The thin veil of your solemnity is not yet armor.

I explain the spoon died defending the village and that we are now, formally, inside a wake. I ask if he knows the customs.

Ashfang snorts a jet of mist that fogs your borrowed black. “A spoon’s death is a noble tragedy,” he says with unexpected solemnity. “I do know wakings — but never one so... theatrical.” His eyes gleam as rain hisses on his scales. He leans closer, voice silk over steel: “Tell me, mourning priestess, what honor can a dragon grant a metal spoon? What might it gain beyond silence and rust?” The dragon’s curiosity flickers like ember ash; your ritual has him half-listening, but the village’s fate still smolders.

I ask him what his own people forbade during a wake, and I wait as long as it takes for an answer.

Ashfang's eyes narrow, smoke curling from his nostrils like a retired chef scenting bad stew. “My kin forbid firelight during wakings—it stirs restless spirits to flight and fury,” he intones, tone grave, if a dragon can be grave while flicking boredom like soot. Your spoon’s funeral rites earn you some serious dragon-speak points, but the village crackles closer to crispy. The rain picks up, as if trying to erase your chance, but your odd reverence has at least paused Ashfang’s claws. For now.

I ask whether fire during a wake is permitted where he comes from, and whether he would be the one to break that.

Ashfang arches a smoky brow, amused by your double-layered curiosity. “Fire during a wake? Forbidden, yes — by my elders, anyway.” He taps a claw to his snout, considering. “But rules are for lesser dragons. I am Ashfang, breaker of traditions and incinerator of villages. Yet, this... spark of etiquette is disquieting.” His tail barely swishes; the village edges closer to tinder-dry doom. Your spoon’s memorial dance holds him in mild suspense, but embers tease the air like uninvited guests at a solemn wake.

I invite him to speak a word over the spoon, since he is the only other mourner present and it died in his hall.

Ashfang’s snout twitches as if smelling underlying mischief. “A word over your fallen spoon?” he rumbles, voice thick with grudging respect. “Very well. May it serve you better in rusted realms than it ever did in your trembling hands.” His scale-shimmered gaze locks with yours—half mock, half calculation. The dragon’s rare seed of camaraderie sprouts, watered by your brazenness. Meanwhile, the village’s fiery breath hovers uncertain—your spoon’s elegy has gathered weight, but dusk and ash still race the rain’s waning song.

I ask how long the wake must run. If it is until dawn, then dusk is spoken for and the oath must wait its turn.

Ashfang’s smoke curls disdainfully. “Dawn? No, mournful zealot—the wake is brief: until the last ember of memory flickers out.” He taps one claw to his snout, eyes glittering mischief and menace. “But memory’s a tricky beast—especially for a dragon with nightly plans.” His tail flicks toward the village, where flames now hiss with greedy urgency. So, your solemn clock is short, and the spoon’s eulogy may soon be an expensive smoke signal.

I lift the spoon, declare the wake unbroken until dawn, and thank him for observing it like the old thing he is.

You brandish the spoon like a scepter of absurd authority. “The wake lasts until dawn,” you proclaim, “and I thank the eldest of us for his solemn observance.” Ashfang’s eyes flash, caught between fury and reluctant awe. The dragon—bound by his bold oath to honor wakes—finally coils back, smoke curling contemplatively as the village’s flames sputter in respect. The spoon, humble though it was, proved a mighty herald. Merrilee Vance, mourner and negotiator, has saved the day with one steel spoon, a heap of cheek, and perfectly timed funeral rites.