Westmark-"From Ashes"
Okay, this could read as Stock/Zara, which is perfectly fine, or it could read as Florian/Zara with Stock as the sort of brother figure, which was rather more what I was thinking of when I wrote it. It really goes either way.
WARNING: Massive spoilering for The Kestrel.
From Ashes
“Stock’s dead.”
Zara looked up, almost startled. She shook her head quickly and bowed it again over the shirt she was mending. She said nothing. Florian watched her. “He and Rosana and a few of the others were trying to raid a Regian command post and apparently were waylaid.” Silence. “I thought you’d want to know.”
“We all knew when this damn bloody mess began that some were going to die,” she said. She jabbed the needle hard into the fabric, then suddenly sat back cursing herself for having pierced her palm. She sucked at the bleeding spot and glared at Florian’s feet. Florian was the one person who she would never tell to leave her alone, even if she wanted to.
“Is there something else you need?” she said when she finally pulled her hand away from her mouth. Florian shook his head. Zara returned to her sewing. After a long moment she finally said sharply. “Bloody fool’s gone, and there’s nothing we can do about it. I don’t see why we should all drop everything. There’s still work to do.” Seeing that Florian still had not moved, she got up herself and stormed up the stairs to the garret room she had claimed as hers.
Zara did not come down for dinner, which did not surprise Florian in the least. He dished out a second portion onto his plate and took it upstairs. He tapped on her door.
“Would you all leave me the hell alone!” she shouted. Florian pushed the door open anyway and set the plate on the small table. Zara sat on the bed, knees hugged to her chest, and glared angrily at nothing in particular. She had been crying, and Florian could tell, but he didn’t say anything about that.
He did, however, pick up the empty wine bottle from the table and give her a look both scolding and sad. “You’re no good to me if you’re not alert and able to think on your feet,” he said.
“‘M fine,” she said. “I walked it off earlier.”
“How much did you have?”
“None of your damn business, but it was less than a half bottle. He was wrong.”
“Oh?”
“Stock. He said the Phoenix rises from it’s own ashes. If that were true, he’d be here now.”
“He is.”
Zara gave him a bitter look. “Where? You show him to me alive with his stupid poems and maybe I’ll believe you.”
Florian slipped his hand under her pillow and pulled out the tattered sheaf of papers hidden there. Some were old and covered with a precise handwriting. A few, however, were a bit newer, and covered with a sort of wandering and unsure printing. Zara snatched them from his hands. “Leave those alone! No is supposed to see those.”
Florian smiled gently. “And there his is. Our beloved Phoenix rising from the ashes, reincarnated as our own Firedrake. Certainly he may be a bit rough about the edges right now, but with time I’m sure his pen will flow as fluently as ever. It can be difficult to adjust to a new set of hands, after all.”
Zara hugged the bundle to her chest long after Florian had left with a gentle touch of her hair. Her reading and writing were nothing like Stock’s. He had hardly been able to teach her anything before the war started. Her poems were silly and horrid and…and he had never laughed at them. He had recognized that her muse was mysterious fellow in a dark blue coat, not a balding poet. He had seen something in her that must have made him want to teach her. “You must have, you daft bird, or you never would have put up with me,” she said to the papers.
She wondered if Stock had known somehow. She wondered if he had planned it all along.
WARNING: Massive spoilering for The Kestrel.
From Ashes
“Stock’s dead.”
Zara looked up, almost startled. She shook her head quickly and bowed it again over the shirt she was mending. She said nothing. Florian watched her. “He and Rosana and a few of the others were trying to raid a Regian command post and apparently were waylaid.” Silence. “I thought you’d want to know.”
“We all knew when this damn bloody mess began that some were going to die,” she said. She jabbed the needle hard into the fabric, then suddenly sat back cursing herself for having pierced her palm. She sucked at the bleeding spot and glared at Florian’s feet. Florian was the one person who she would never tell to leave her alone, even if she wanted to.
“Is there something else you need?” she said when she finally pulled her hand away from her mouth. Florian shook his head. Zara returned to her sewing. After a long moment she finally said sharply. “Bloody fool’s gone, and there’s nothing we can do about it. I don’t see why we should all drop everything. There’s still work to do.” Seeing that Florian still had not moved, she got up herself and stormed up the stairs to the garret room she had claimed as hers.
Zara did not come down for dinner, which did not surprise Florian in the least. He dished out a second portion onto his plate and took it upstairs. He tapped on her door.
“Would you all leave me the hell alone!” she shouted. Florian pushed the door open anyway and set the plate on the small table. Zara sat on the bed, knees hugged to her chest, and glared angrily at nothing in particular. She had been crying, and Florian could tell, but he didn’t say anything about that.
He did, however, pick up the empty wine bottle from the table and give her a look both scolding and sad. “You’re no good to me if you’re not alert and able to think on your feet,” he said.
“‘M fine,” she said. “I walked it off earlier.”
“How much did you have?”
“None of your damn business, but it was less than a half bottle. He was wrong.”
“Oh?”
“Stock. He said the Phoenix rises from it’s own ashes. If that were true, he’d be here now.”
“He is.”
Zara gave him a bitter look. “Where? You show him to me alive with his stupid poems and maybe I’ll believe you.”
Florian slipped his hand under her pillow and pulled out the tattered sheaf of papers hidden there. Some were old and covered with a precise handwriting. A few, however, were a bit newer, and covered with a sort of wandering and unsure printing. Zara snatched them from his hands. “Leave those alone! No is supposed to see those.”
Florian smiled gently. “And there his is. Our beloved Phoenix rising from the ashes, reincarnated as our own Firedrake. Certainly he may be a bit rough about the edges right now, but with time I’m sure his pen will flow as fluently as ever. It can be difficult to adjust to a new set of hands, after all.”
Zara hugged the bundle to her chest long after Florian had left with a gentle touch of her hair. Her reading and writing were nothing like Stock’s. He had hardly been able to teach her anything before the war started. Her poems were silly and horrid and…and he had never laughed at them. He had recognized that her muse was mysterious fellow in a dark blue coat, not a balding poet. He had seen something in her that must have made him want to teach her. “You must have, you daft bird, or you never would have put up with me,” she said to the papers.
She wondered if Stock had known somehow. She wondered if he had planned it all along.