Disclaimer: All of Final Fantasy 8 belongs to the demigods at Square Enix and Sony and it makes me sad.
Post-sorceress war.
The song Gloria is copyright G. Mossa, comté de Nice.
Warning: vague references to Squall+Seifer, don't like, don't read.
It was, if anything, a beautiful funeral, though no one was there to witness it, but for the man taking care of it.
It was a calm Sunday afternoon, the sky was blue and dotted with small clouds of pure white, the roar of a monster sounded, every now and then, from the nearby forests and, in the small port of the town of Balamb, a young mans ashes were being scattered as had been his request.
Pastre que siès dintre li mountagna
Calas aici per li vé Jesù
No friends were there to honour him, no chums to say a few last words about what a great person he'd been, no pals, no buddies to have a drink in his name.
He'd abandoned them all years ago, when he'd chosen the wrong side in a war that left the world shocked. Shocked and searching for someone to blame, an easy scapegoat. He'd given them what they wanted, let them banish him to prison for as long as they wanted, allowed them to curse his name, spit in his face and declare him dead to society.
Venes emé li vouostri coumpagna
Adoura lou bambin qu'es naissù
He'd been alone as a small child, only seen with others if he was picking a fight, and alone he died, not of old age, but because he'd been tired of life, too tired to handle even the slightest task, simply too tired to keep his chin up and move on.
His body was cremated, as per his last wish, and his meagre were belongings stored away, only to be thrown out when no one came to claim them. His ashes joined the water as they were scattered, joining them in lapping gently at the small beach and the boats in the dock. Finally at peace.
Gloria, Gloria, Gloria, Gloria
Gloria in excelcis Deo
Gloria, Gloria Deo
Gloria in excelcis Deo
And when all the ashes were gone, the urn empty in his hands, the lone man turned and left, his last duty toward his long time friend completed.
He tried not to think about it, attempted to forget it and eventually almost did, left with nothing more than a distinct feeling of discomfort at the passing of the only one who had possibly ever understood him completely.
Intras bèn lèu, la pouort' ès duberta
Aginouie-vous lou cap desnu
Nobody else ever said anything about it. It was well possible that they didn't even know, having forgotten about him the minute he'd been condemned, having removed any thought of him the second he'd left their lives. Having taken the easy way out, not carrying a burden of regret, not knowing the nightmares, the dreams of wanting to do it all over, the wish for a second chance.
But no one knew and no one cared and soon he too grew tired, so tired, too tired to move on.
The only difference was that he got the funeral of a so-called hero.
Cadun li pouorte la siéu ouferta
Au ciel un jou tout sera rendù
