Anthology - A Collection of Fanfic One-Shots

The Red Scarf

He'd come for his mother's sake, never having been particularly close to her uncle Edward, though he did carry a few childhood memories of visits to the lakeside house when he and his sisters would run, screaming and laughing, into the cold water. But he was on a break from filming and commitments for a few months, grateful for the chance to stop and recharge, to become reacquainted with his own home and catch up with friends he'd spoken to only by phone for what seemed like years, and had offered to accompany her. He didn't get nearly enough time with his family and missed them severely when he was away working – which was happening more and more often these days. So here he was, clad as was customary in a dark suit and tie, suitably sombre and serious-faced, shaking hands with relatives long forgotten and complete strangers who had formed part of his great-uncle's life.

"Tom, you remember my cousin Ambrose," his mother introduced him and he put a warm smile on his face and told the lie.

"Of course. Nice to see you again."

They shook hands and he listened to their conversation for a while before his attention wandered again. Looking around the crowd he noticed a predominance of men and tried to remember if Uncle Edward had ever been married and had children; certainly there had been no playmates for them in his recollections of their visits, but it could well have happened later in life, he supposed; many do these days.

Suddenly his attention was caught by a flash of bright colour, incongruous amongst the dark tonality of mourning black, but even as he leaned and twisted to see more, it disappeared into the sea of bodies, gone as quickly as it had come. Intrigued, he excused himself and hovered around the edge of the throng, searching this way and that for another glimpse, determined to prove to himself he hadn't been imagining it. Red, at a funeral? Who did that?

"Thomas."

It was his mum, indicating it was time to enter the chapel. They found space on the left of the aisle, beside a beautiful stained glass window with a country scene, other mourners piling in beside them even as they settled onto the upholstered bench and glanced at the memorial booklet, a colour photo of Edward on the front. "He loved wearing pink," Diana murmured softly, smiling with fondness at the likeness; Tom took her hand and squeezed it and she turned her smile on him, her other hand patting his arm. "Thank you for coming with me, love."

"You're welcome mum," he replied simply as music sounded and the service began. Another great-uncle – Leonard, called Len by family – spoke of Edward's life and achievements and various friends gave bible readings and quoted poems. Tom kept one watchful eye on his mum in case she became upset and needed comforting, but otherwise zoned out a little, still curious about that elusive flash of red. Imagine his surprise when he saw it again, this time moving past him towards the lectern at the front of the chapel. Gasping, he saw now that it was a long red scarf – a bright, fire-engine red – that was draped decorously around the neck of a woman roughly his own age, perhaps a little younger, who otherwise wore a neat black suit and white blouse. Her brown hair held glints of auburn under the lights, her face not that of a classic beauty but pretty nonetheless – but it was her eyes that caught attention. They were the most astonishing blue eyes he'd ever seen, the colour of the Mediterranean as it shimmered under a summer sun, and they shone now beneath long dark lashes and looked out over the assembled crowd.

"Red was Eddie's favourite colour," she pronounced in a smoky, softly spoken voice, "though he seldom wore it as he thought it made his face look florid and mottled." She smiled and there was a low murmur of amusement. "So he watered it down and wore pink instead, almost every day of his adult life." He heard a hastily stifled sob and took his mother's hand again; she squeezed it thankfully and his heart hammered. "Today, in his honour, I ask you all to wear a touch of red." People were walking down the aisles handing out scraps of red fabric that unfolded to become scarves similar to the one worn by the woman speaking. Tom looped one around his mother's neck and put on his own then scoured the memorial booklet looking for a name – her name. "He loved whiskey too – especially Glenfiddich – so he would be ecstatic if you would have a dram later." A lot of the older men mumbled amused assent and she went on to speak at quiet length of other things beloved by Edward – Eddie – from childhood right through to his final months and weeks. "One thing about which Eddie was quite adamant – and would fight over vociferously if you dared to disagree – was that there is no room in our lives for fear. If there is one legacy he could leave to those of us left to mourn his loss, it's this: never be afraid to be thought silly or childish for enjoying simple pleasures; never fear the scorn of others for doing what your moral compass tells you is right; never fear adversity, for it only makes you stronger and wiser; and never let a day go by without telling people you love them." Tom saw moisture glistening in those incredible blue eyes before she looked down briefly and took a deep breath. "Eddie was my friend and I loved him; I feel blessed to have had him in my life, even for a short time."