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Empty Chairs
at Empty Tables

     
Disclaimer:
I do not own neither the song, nor the characters for which the story is based upon. They are the thoughts and imaginings of James E. Reilly. PASSIONS belongs to James E. Reilly, Out Post Farm, and NBC, as well as their affiliates. Les Miserables does not belong to me either, but I am unsure of the exact origin of the play.
     

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Empty Chairs at Empty Tables
by GIA

Summary: Based on the song, "Empty Chairs at Empty Tables" from the musical Les Miserables. It looks into a past life of some of the characters in PASSIONS, though the narration is of only one character. I hope you enjoy reading this, and I hope it isn’t too confusing.

Sarah swept the floors of the now barren tavern. The cold Paris night breeze, tousling her fallen tendrils, as the wind made its way from outside, through the window, to her. The nights had been long and trying, and though she kept herself busy by cleaning up the leftover messes from the regular crowd, those who often came to the tavern to escape the wretched world they chose to live in, she missed the solemn promise of a better life.

Paris was her home, and in it she had laid a foundation to establish the life she dreamed of, but circumstances had intervened and she had been left alone, the cold reminder of the revolution that had passed. Her family and friends, or what she had made of them, had long since left. Sara Lecrane was finally to her own devices, and she did not enjoy the silence at all.

Her gazed wondered from the concentration of sweeping the dirty floor, to the darkened corner of the tavern where she and her friends had once met, chatting amongst themselves as the rest of the world sped on. Her heart darkened at the reminder of what was to never come, an absolution of her life here in Paris.

She had cried for so many nights, after receiving the news, but chose to keep her emotions safely guarded until which time she could be sure their would be no vulnerability lapse. He had died, and for what, she was sure he had not known. His sacrifice so that the war could progress on to the finish, was not for the great of the country’s people, but for the selfishness of the country’s people. He had died, and all Sarah could do was think of him in his great duty. She was sure he had loved her, for her love for him was more powerful then anything she had felt previously, but Louis was not here to confirm her suspicions on his feelings.

As her eyes adjusted to the darkness in the corner, she swore she could still here the faint rhythm of conversation. She saw the shadowed faces of the people who had grown dear to her, and she felt the presence of her love. If she concentrated hard enough, she could almost feel his arms encircling her as the desperation and longing became too fierce to ward off. It was those moments she cherished the most. But in so many ways, she thought, perhaps it was my fault he had died. Perhaps my lust and longing had killed him. If I hadn’t had gone to him the night before, and he hadn’t lost his strength, maybe he would still be here. She shook her head, ridding herself of such morbid wonderings. It was best to leave the ‘what ifs’ behind. She couldn’t concentrate on living if she wondered about the unknown all the time.

The sweeping long forgotten, Sarah made her way over to the black corner, and sat in the chair as the bittersweet memories flooded her senses once again. She could feel her friends surround her, and was not surprised, when she looked across the table, to see the face of her love. His military apparel was strikingly handsome and it made the tight knot in her stomach tighten further.

"Well monsieur, I must say, that the faster the revolution comes, the faster I can get back to the lovely ladies. It’s a lot less vile when you pay for it, and the repercussions are minimal." Spoke a French gentleman, who Sarah knew to be called Julian. He was not of the elite at the table, but held in high regard nevertheless. She often wondered where he acquired the francs to pay for all the women who grace his bedchambers. She knew he was not rich by any means, but still they came to him and he paid willingly.

"I don’t suppose I could persuade you to stay another round- my bitch will certainly fetch more ale for you. Won’t you?" asked Samson. His wife, Greta, nodded gladly and she hurried off to get another round from the bartender. Sarah hated how Samson spoke of Greta, and how she would do anything for him though everyone knew he had a mistress. Sarah was glad that Louis did not say such atrocious things of her, or to her for that matter, and she was glad for the time when he would take her home.

He smiled at her, and his eyes held the promise of passionate nights and unfulfilled longing. She dropped her gaze to her hands, and the kneaded the cotton of her clothing with enthusiasm. When she brought her eyes back up to give him a sign of her obvious arousal, she saw nothing but darkness and withered trees tapping insistently, on the window, outside.

Her expression changed from exultant pleasure, to unfathomable pain. Her tears well over her eyes and she could not help the heave of her breasts as her breath came in short, shallow, gasps. She was filled with a pain she had not felt since the arrival of his body to Paris, and she knew she had but one thing left to keep her sane.

The promise of his child growing inside her.
     

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