Westmark-"Ghosts of the Past"
Yes, Manon, I am aware that I write the most utterly horrible and out of character quasi-Florian/Zara fic ever in the history of Westmark fic. Thant being said, here is Florian/Zara fic, with OMGSPOILERS IF YOU HAVEN'T READ THE TRILOGY!!!
Ghosts of the Past
Florian by nature did not hold grudges, or not in the typical sense. However, there was one thing, one cruel and bitter regret, which he had never fully been able to push to the back of his mind. But now that he was very old, and his Children were long gone, he had returned to the old farmhouse to face the ghosts that remained.
He bitterly regretted that none of his children had been given proper burials. All of them had died in battle, some way or another. Stock, he knew, had been buried, but it was hardly with dignity considering what had been done to his body. Luther and Rina had been dumped together into a shallow grave, probably with half a dozen others as well, for there had been no time to do more. Justin had been burned with several dozen others; the number dead that day had made it impossible to allow families to try and claim their relatives, so they had all been simply reduced to ashes. Zara…he had never known what became of her. He knew only that she would rather have been killed than been a prisoner, and that was what she had forced the soldiers to do.
He went from room to room, picking things up as he went. The farm was his, and he had ensured it was left alone. It had not been touched since he and Zara and Justin had moved to Marianstat because of the consulate. By the time he got all the way through the house and back to the dusty main table, he imagined he looked rather like Keller’s Water Rats.
He sat at the table and laid down the things he had picked up: Stock’s quill pen, a bar of Rina’s lye soap, Justin’s old wooden practice sword, Luther’s pipe, and Zara’s sewing basket. He looked them over carefully, as he always did when he visited here. He could have taken them with him back to Marianstat, but it didn’t seem right. He always gathered them when he arrived, and put them all back in place when he left. After all, the objects weren’t all he came to see.
“It’s about time you got back here. I’ve been waiting for ages.”
Florian looked up, his old half smile creeping onto his face. The redhead at the opposite end of the table crossed her arms and glared at him.
“You’re not really here, you know. You’re dead,” said Florian, almost with a chuckle.
“And yet, I’m always here when you drag your arse out of politics for long enough to visit,” she shot back. “Therefore you’re obviously a senile old coot who’s losing his mind. You can either accept it and enjoy being crazy, or you can be your usual self and out-logic any possibility that I’m actually here.”
“So are you my imagination, or are you actually here?”
“You’re the smart one, you figure it out,” she said with annoyance, a tone still terribly familiar to him. She planted her hands on her hips. “You coming with me this time or not?”
“Are the others there?” he asked, finally laughing at the absurdity of this conversation. He never could keep from laughing during one of these conversations, despite all the annoyed glares he got in return. In fact, she gave him one as she nest spoke. “Is it going to make a difference?”
“No,” he said, finding that he rose from his chair more easily than he had in a long time.
She looked over his shoulder, and he followed her gaze. It was strange to see himself still sitting, head on the table, but then again, he had seen much stranger things in his life. He offered his arm to Zara, who ignored it, as he had expected.
“You did tell someone you were coming, right?”
He smiled. “It seemed more appropriate that I didn’t.”
Ghosts of the Past
Florian by nature did not hold grudges, or not in the typical sense. However, there was one thing, one cruel and bitter regret, which he had never fully been able to push to the back of his mind. But now that he was very old, and his Children were long gone, he had returned to the old farmhouse to face the ghosts that remained.
He bitterly regretted that none of his children had been given proper burials. All of them had died in battle, some way or another. Stock, he knew, had been buried, but it was hardly with dignity considering what had been done to his body. Luther and Rina had been dumped together into a shallow grave, probably with half a dozen others as well, for there had been no time to do more. Justin had been burned with several dozen others; the number dead that day had made it impossible to allow families to try and claim their relatives, so they had all been simply reduced to ashes. Zara…he had never known what became of her. He knew only that she would rather have been killed than been a prisoner, and that was what she had forced the soldiers to do.
He went from room to room, picking things up as he went. The farm was his, and he had ensured it was left alone. It had not been touched since he and Zara and Justin had moved to Marianstat because of the consulate. By the time he got all the way through the house and back to the dusty main table, he imagined he looked rather like Keller’s Water Rats.
He sat at the table and laid down the things he had picked up: Stock’s quill pen, a bar of Rina’s lye soap, Justin’s old wooden practice sword, Luther’s pipe, and Zara’s sewing basket. He looked them over carefully, as he always did when he visited here. He could have taken them with him back to Marianstat, but it didn’t seem right. He always gathered them when he arrived, and put them all back in place when he left. After all, the objects weren’t all he came to see.
“It’s about time you got back here. I’ve been waiting for ages.”
Florian looked up, his old half smile creeping onto his face. The redhead at the opposite end of the table crossed her arms and glared at him.
“You’re not really here, you know. You’re dead,” said Florian, almost with a chuckle.
“And yet, I’m always here when you drag your arse out of politics for long enough to visit,” she shot back. “Therefore you’re obviously a senile old coot who’s losing his mind. You can either accept it and enjoy being crazy, or you can be your usual self and out-logic any possibility that I’m actually here.”
“So are you my imagination, or are you actually here?”
“You’re the smart one, you figure it out,” she said with annoyance, a tone still terribly familiar to him. She planted her hands on her hips. “You coming with me this time or not?”
“Are the others there?” he asked, finally laughing at the absurdity of this conversation. He never could keep from laughing during one of these conversations, despite all the annoyed glares he got in return. In fact, she gave him one as she nest spoke. “Is it going to make a difference?”
“No,” he said, finding that he rose from his chair more easily than he had in a long time.
She looked over his shoulder, and he followed her gaze. It was strange to see himself still sitting, head on the table, but then again, he had seen much stranger things in his life. He offered his arm to Zara, who ignored it, as he had expected.
“You did tell someone you were coming, right?”
He smiled. “It seemed more appropriate that I didn’t.”