This is a short fic with three chapters, making it complete. I'll post a chapter a day, just to keep the anticipation up. Also, I haven't written anything in months other than essays for uni, so forgive me if I'm a little rusty. Another thing… this is my 50th fic on this site. YAY ME!
Lyrics and title are by The Band Perry. They're probably one of my favourite bands right now. The eulogy from this chapter is taken from "September's Notebook" written by Paul Terry and Tara Bennett.
Disclaimer: Fringe doesn't belong to me, if it did, we would have gotten a full season 5 and even a season 6.
If I Die Young
By Samvalasam
Chapter 1: 2026
If I die young, bury me in satin
Lay me down on a, bed of roses
Sink me in the river, at dawn
Send me away with the words of a love song
Peter Bishop spoke with anguish as he read his heartfelt eulogy for his wife. My Olivia. "Olivia Dunham. My wife. She was – everything to me. When I met Olivia, I was a nomad. Moving from place to place, job to job. Olivia gave me a purpose. She taught me to believe in something bigger than myself. She taught me to fight to keep our world safe – and then, more recently, to keep it from dying. The moment we're born, we're dying." Peter looked up at the funeral goers, illuminated only by the flames surrounding them. Their tears brought more to his own eyes. He took a deep breath and continued.
"And if we have one hope, it's that we find some meaning in our lives before that last day comes, that we find peace, happiness, love. Olivia was all of those things to me. There was no one like her, and now she's gone, I'm afraid. Afraid that while I'll never give up fighting, that I've already lost. We've all lost. Because the world is a darker place without her."
Peter folded up his already worn piece of paper and tucked it into his jacket pocket. He turned around and moved purposefully towards his wife's coffin and laying a hand on the lid, bowing his head slightly, allowing the tears to drip onto the varnished wood. "Goodbye, my love," he whispered before standing aside to let the officers push the unlit pyre into the water.
Standing stoically, Peter watched as the non-descript officer gripped one of the torches, set the pyre alight and pushed it further out onto the water. One-by-one the funeral attendees approached him, offering their condolences with a hand on the shoulder or a teary smile. Only Ella and Astrid afforded him a small hug, which he returned, detached from the moment.
Peter sat and watched the burning fire in the distance until the sun began to rise over the horizon. Only when he could no longer see it did he begrudgingly make his way up the beach and his seemingly long trek home. Home. He didn't think of it as home anymore. Not without Olivia. Without her, it was just a house. A cold and uninviting place of dwelling. How was he ever to live again?
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