Roddy did not know any of the deceased, nor did he know Bryan O'Keefe, but that did not stop him from attending. If anything it was a better reason. He had grabbed a candle, nodded politely and encouragingly to Felix, and took a spot somewhere near the back of the Church, so that people who knew the deceased would have room closer to the front. He sat there, in silence, watching the candle burning and thinking, of all things, John Donne. Roddy was not by nature a big fan of poetry, but as a teenage boy interested in changing the world, his junior year English teacher reading the poem had struck a chord with him. And he just sat there, thinking about it, going over the only poem he had ever memorized in English over and over again.

‘ Each man's death diminishes me, for I am involved in mankind.’

He also thought, of course, about Benten. He had received a gift from her, and a mission, and he was not entirely sure what to do with either. He could read the pictures he had taken of the Key of Solomon before it was destroyed. They looked like names, but Roddy was not sure what he could do with names. He looked around at the other mourners, a slight feeling of duty filling his chest. He had been asked to avenge Masato Inoue. He was fairly certain, somehow, he had gathered all of the pieces to put an end to this, to stop these deaths from happening. He had spent days reading the pictures he had taken, trying to figure out how. He was not good at magic, he had no idea and certainly no talent for it, but he felt like that was something he would need to do.

He could stop this. It was a slightly worrisome feeling to have, but he also felt glad, because that meant there was a way to stop it. He felt, almost, like standing before the crowd and asking for help, or assistance. He wanted to tell them this could be stopped and that he had the pieces, he just needed to put them together. But he didn’t. Maybe he should have, but he had a slight feeling this was something… some people should not be made privy to. The Oracles had spoken of wrong hands. Perhaps it was wise to not make himself any more of a target than he already was.

So he sat, eager to hear someone speak about the deceased, specifically about Masato Inoue, although knowing that anything said would only make him feel more guilt for not knowing what to do with the information at hand.