Fic: Tamarix
Title: Tamarix
Fandom: FMA
Pairing: none
Rating: G
Wordcount: 556
Warnings: gen, angst-ish, semi-introspective?
Shortly after the end of the Ishbal Rebellion, she regularly visited the graves of her son and his wife, young Winry in tow. They would clear away the wilted flowers, replace them with fresh ones; a handful of zinnias at the base of each headstone. That particular morning, someone else had come first. Nestled next to the blooms they had picked from the window-box at home lay a pair bouquets, thick with deep-hued hyacinth, yew-flowers, and tamarix.
It had eased her mind, that someone else remembered, still cared enough to leave them for her lost children. Or at least it had until she'd spoken to the local florist, curious to see who had purchased them. Mrs. Garrings didn't carry hyacinth, since it didn't grow well locally, and never carried tamarix, because it grew in the desert, and who would want a desert flower that effectively meant someone had done them wrong?
The following year she'd been busy in the kitchen when a flash of movement out the window caught her eye. Peering through the curtains, she'd seen him at the base of the porch steps, a handsome young man, or at least he would have been, if not for the smartly cut military uniform and the shuttered expression. A deep breath, a foot on the first stair, and then he'd turned away brusquely. That evening at the headstones of her children she found two matching bouquets of hyacinth, yew, and tamarix, and she cried for them again, for the first time in nearly a year.
The next year brought the return of the brothers Elric, or what remained of them. Edward, bloodied and dismembered, Alphonse a terrified, miserable echo of the boy she remembered.
There was no knock at the door; surely in the thunderstorm they wouldn't have heard him. But the face of the man who entered was one she'd burned into her memory, had wondered if he would re-enter their lives in the form of two bundles of flowers that cried of grief and mourning and a crime gone unpunished.
There was no sign of grieving in his voice though, face and tone both schooled carefully into businesslike professionalism. Even when he addressed her, placating and cool, his gaze only flickered onto her for a moment, was far more intent on Alphonse and the boy swathed in bandages in the bed. It was infuriating, made worse when he proffered a letter from Edward as his excuse for being there, two years past its postmark. There was no admission on his lips, but even as she pressed him, his eyes flickered over her granddaughter and the hitching of his breath effectively condemned him. She wanted to throttle him, force out of him the missing piece, what his role was in their deaths, why he had appeared yet again and ripped open the wound that would never quite heal. Surely he could see in her eyes that she knew?
He disappeared as quickly as he came, leaving with them nothing more than a name and an invitation meant for the boy who still lay unconscious and bleeding through his bandages.
She'd prayed that she was wrong, that she was jumping to conclusions, but next morning in the cemetery, sodden from the storm, lay the declaration of his transgression: two matching bouquets of hyacinth, yew, and tamarix.
Fandom: FMA
Pairing: none
Rating: G
Wordcount: 556
Warnings: gen, angst-ish, semi-introspective?
Shortly after the end of the Ishbal Rebellion, she regularly visited the graves of her son and his wife, young Winry in tow. They would clear away the wilted flowers, replace them with fresh ones; a handful of zinnias at the base of each headstone. That particular morning, someone else had come first. Nestled next to the blooms they had picked from the window-box at home lay a pair bouquets, thick with deep-hued hyacinth, yew-flowers, and tamarix.
It had eased her mind, that someone else remembered, still cared enough to leave them for her lost children. Or at least it had until she'd spoken to the local florist, curious to see who had purchased them. Mrs. Garrings didn't carry hyacinth, since it didn't grow well locally, and never carried tamarix, because it grew in the desert, and who would want a desert flower that effectively meant someone had done them wrong?
The following year she'd been busy in the kitchen when a flash of movement out the window caught her eye. Peering through the curtains, she'd seen him at the base of the porch steps, a handsome young man, or at least he would have been, if not for the smartly cut military uniform and the shuttered expression. A deep breath, a foot on the first stair, and then he'd turned away brusquely. That evening at the headstones of her children she found two matching bouquets of hyacinth, yew, and tamarix, and she cried for them again, for the first time in nearly a year.
The next year brought the return of the brothers Elric, or what remained of them. Edward, bloodied and dismembered, Alphonse a terrified, miserable echo of the boy she remembered.
There was no knock at the door; surely in the thunderstorm they wouldn't have heard him. But the face of the man who entered was one she'd burned into her memory, had wondered if he would re-enter their lives in the form of two bundles of flowers that cried of grief and mourning and a crime gone unpunished.
There was no sign of grieving in his voice though, face and tone both schooled carefully into businesslike professionalism. Even when he addressed her, placating and cool, his gaze only flickered onto her for a moment, was far more intent on Alphonse and the boy swathed in bandages in the bed. It was infuriating, made worse when he proffered a letter from Edward as his excuse for being there, two years past its postmark. There was no admission on his lips, but even as she pressed him, his eyes flickered over her granddaughter and the hitching of his breath effectively condemned him. She wanted to throttle him, force out of him the missing piece, what his role was in their deaths, why he had appeared yet again and ripped open the wound that would never quite heal. Surely he could see in her eyes that she knew?
He disappeared as quickly as he came, leaving with them nothing more than a name and an invitation meant for the boy who still lay unconscious and bleeding through his bandages.
She'd prayed that she was wrong, that she was jumping to conclusions, but next morning in the cemetery, sodden from the storm, lay the declaration of his transgression: two matching bouquets of hyacinth, yew, and tamarix.