Pairing: None (Well, Seifer x Squall if you squint really hard...)
Genre: angst
Rating: PG
Warnings: character death
Disclaimer: I do not own Final FantasyVIII or any of the characters, and this piece of fanfiction is for the sole purpose of entertainment.
Summary: The gravestone did not carry an embellished epitaph. Squall visits Seifer's grave. Squall's POV, post-game.
A/N:Because I can just imagine Squall feelinginsubstantial, like a shadow,after everything has ended.
Flowers for the Deceased
It was a strange feeling that plagued his chest. It wasn't unfamiliar, which made it odd that it still seemed so awkward after all this time. Yet it did. So he didn't question it.
There were a lot of things that he didn't question. He surmised that it was simply in his nature to let things run their course. The extra knowledge to be gained would have nominal to no effect on the outcome, so why bother? Curiosity didn't need to be sated. And besides, the hope that one can alter the course of events only leads to suffering. In the end, it never really works out anyway. Best not to question it; that way, the weight wouldn't rest so heavily against the mind.
A lot of weight still bogged down his mind however, but he mused that it could have been worse.
The small stones scatter beneath his feet as he traverses the gravel path. He isn't really paying attention to where he is going; his legs move of their own volition, powered by memory embedded deeply in muscle that was clearer than any of his thoughts could ever be. Strange, since in the muscle wind minute veins, blood and all its murky impurities razing through the ribbons of flesh. Strange that something appearing so muddy can function with such clarity and certainty.
He isn't quite aware of his body's motions; he learned long ago to ignore them. It never gave him any satisfaction to bend to their order. Nothing was ever reaped besides a feeling of vacancy that he couldn't quite place. Generally, he chalked it up to the whole hope idea. Hope for too much, hurt when little is received.
The last time he cried eludes his memory, and he really has to wonder whether it's been that long. Again, the function of the body was unfulfilling. His body urged him to cry, told him it would feel better; yes, just let it all out, everything will be all right. He just felt all the more empty, as if he'd inadvertently let another crumbling piece of himself slip out from the crack he'd opened at his body's urging. And since then, he'd stopped believing in the words of the flesh. They were lies, at any rate.
Hunger never really bothered him much anymore. He continued to eat, of course; as pitiful as succumbing to the will of the body was, he still couldn't force himself to tug at the collar that bound him. In that way, he knew he was weak, just like every other puppet to the flesh's desires. It was almost as if he wanted this torture, as if he was trying to prove something.
Yet to this day, he still hadn't figured out exactly what it was.
Desire continued to roar in his system, licking at the edge of his consciousness, a constant reminder of his enslavement. Though it may have staggered him initially, forced him to listen process obey—that was no more. All that remained was the persistent nudge, more like a dull ache that's quite easy to ignore once one becomes accustomed to its presence. He liked to think that he had some control of himself, more so than when he was young. Although some may argue, stating that his body was quite youthful, he didn't think that he was so young. He didn't feel young.
His feet stopped and he suddenly found himself aware of his new surroundings. The mild disorientation comes with the ignorance, he supposed. The light breeze doesn't register past the hindrance of bangs blowing into his eyes. But it wasn't bothersome enough to merit the energy wasted in brushing them aside, so he left them as they were.
He didn't need to look down to know what lay in front of him; in fact, he could see it clearly with each snap of his lids. So instead, he kept his gaze focused on the grey sky, not really taking in the misty clouds. Nothing ever seemed important enough to take notice of; it was just too taxing.
The gravestone did not carry an embellished epitaph. Nor was it even of an expensive marble, carefully crafted in design. It was a smooth slab of stone, as smooth as nature would deign it, scarred without a thought. Its scars formed a name, and just a name; there were no dates. They weren't necessary. Harder to forget about it if there is a constant red flag jutting out at a distance; it was difficult enough to forget as it was. He didn't try to speed the process along, though; that would have been foolish. It would eventually occur in the end, at one point or another. And he had time.
He had thought that the grave was the cause of the strange feeling in his chest. But as time passed, it didn't change. Whether he was there or not, it still remained. He even found it hard to remember when it had started, but he guessed that it didn't matter. It was just another attribute that he had to learn how to ignore, just like the desire that used to drive him wild. He was getting better at disregarding, in his opinion.
Eventually his eyes settled on the stone, noting the weeds that had taken it upon themselves to adorn the marker. It didn't add any beauty, rather, it made it look garish, like a one-hour lover that puts on her face too thickly in an attempt to mislead. It would have been revolting, he guessed, if he cared as much. Next noted was the fact that not even a single wildflower graced the stone.
His hands were empty and he knew why his traitorous body hadn't attempted it. Attempt to bring flowers, a gift, some love: anything to make it all better, that lustrous and false promise. Even his body had resigned to accept the fact.
For a shadow can't possibly bring flowers for the deceased.