That the Acolytes deserved to die is one of few things they would both agree on. No one he truly cares for was taken so it's not about revenge, for Michael, but he does think it weakens their future bargaining position to go easy on those that refused to make a deal. Unfortunately, he was outvoted. For better or worse, Solvunn is full of soft hearts.

Knowing what he does about how the commune treats members who've committed only minor wrongs, he expects something far harsher from the execution.

Michael arrives in plain but solemn clothing, black head to toe. The occasion isn't quite a funeral, but even if there's nothing left to bury, someone will be dead by the end of it. His host family had agreed it was appropriate.

He adds his name to the stone when called upon as one of the Summoned under the sign of the Emperor—in common script instead of Enochian, of course. The sigil for his name holds a power all its own and he's still ill at ease around these pagan rituals. His expression is nonetheless impassive throughout the ceremony, save for the moment where the dual pinpricks of someone staring—no, glaring—at him from somewhere across the field grows too heavy to ignore. Michael turns and finds exactly the face he expected.

Hi, Jo. Still mad, huh?

(That's fair. He's still not apologizing.)