i.
She sits perfectly still on the cold plastic seat, watching the scenery fly by as if put on fast-forward. She is young and alone, and occasionally the man across the aisle glances at her searchingly. Perhaps he's checking to make sure she is still alive. She is so, so still, she could be a dead body, rigor mortis setting in.
But there is fire in her big, brown eyes, which are framed by long, thick lashes. She has high cheekbones, a shadow of a bruise under her left eye, and big, pouty lips. She has no gil and carries just a simple black duffel bag, filled with clothing and her toothbrush and sheet music and her dreams, but she is hopeful that if she can just get away she can change everything. Who cared if she was only sixteen? Who cared if she had no one in this big, dangerous city she was travelling to? She didn't have anyone in Timber either, except for John and his alcohol-tainted breath and bloody hands. She'd become someone new and make them love her.
Her eyes burned brighter.
"Next stop, Deling City."
ii.
She works as a maid by day in the hotel but by night she is a sensual pianist, her fingers gliding gracefully and expertly across the keys. It takes ten thousand hours of practice to be an expert at something, according to research – at least, it's what she's read somewhere – but despite not having yet clocked those ten thousand hours, her skill could fool anyone. It took her four years to convince the bar owner to just give her a shot – that she didn't even care if she was paid at first, it could be a trial run – and here she was.
The ivory was soft and natural under her fingertips. She played a melody she had composed herself, the only melody she had written so far. It was a work in progress. No matter how many times she tweaked it or adjusted it, something was missing. It needed something.
Before she knows it, she is finished, and the crowd gives a quiet round of applause. There's very few people here tonight, just a handful of soldiers and an old man downing drinks at the bar like it was his last night on Earth.
As she steps down from the stage, she sees him for the first time. The deep navy blue of the uniform is flattering against his dark brown hair and pale skin, yet it doesn't suit him. He wears it out of compliance to the rules, not out of love of duty. He fidgets, ill at ease. But then their eyes meet – his, a deep, tranquil blue; hers, an inviting, warm chocolate brown.
Suddenly, her entire being is on fire.
iii.
She knows its forward to invite someone you only just met to your room – but she has an inescapable desire to know him…to hear his fears, share hers, to just…talk.
"Can we meet again?"
"Of course! I have to come hear you sing!"
iv.
She smiles to herself. The lyrics come easily now.
She's finished her masterpiece, but she's saving it for when he finally gets back. She wants him to be the first one to hear her song.
Someone knocks at the door and she puts down her pen.
"Good evening, Julia."
"Fury! I'm so happy to see you – come in," she exclaims, pushing the door open wider.
He isn't happy, though. His stern face is nervous and his palms are sweaty. He takes a deep breath. "Julia, there's something I need you to know – and I think it's better it comes from me."
Before he's even finished, her screams reverberate off the walls.
v.
Sometimes she cries in the middle of the night. She wakes up drowsy and disorientated and the quiet, crushing grief slowly washes over her. The tears fall down her face until she's exhausted herself and she falls back into an uneasy rest.
Her song is topping the charts. She is Deling's sultry songstress, the new rock poetess of Galbadia. All that which should bring her joy is eclipsed by the grief of knowing the one it was for would never hear it.
Fury comes to check on her often, and takes care of her – he makes sure that she eats, and sleeps when she's particularly tired, and he gets rid of annoying reporters and paparazzi that try to snap her photo when she does something as simple as taking a cigarette break.
"I don't know what I'd do without you," she says one evening. They are both struck by the truth of her words.
vi.
The wedding is simple – he is busy, being a General in the middle of a war, and she has no family anyway. The ring glitters beautifully on her fragile finger. She kisses him deeply, her heart swelling. When they part, her cheeks are flushed beautifully and her eyes are shining with elusive happiness. His gloved hand grasps hers. He pulls her into his embrace, and they stay like that for a long, long time.
vii.
"She's perfect," he cooed. "Aren't you, my little angel?"
Julia smiled. Their newborn daughter certainly was perfect. She had inherited Fury's beautiful dark hair, but when she opened her eyes, it was Julia's expressive and warm eyes staring back at them.
Julia moved aside, making room for her new family on the sterile white hospital bed. Fury lay down next to her, their precious cargo in their laps, one of his arms draped around Julia's shoulder.
"What shall we name her?" Julia whispered.
"I was thinking…" he hesitated.
"Tell me," she said gently, gazing into his eyes.
"Rinoa," he relinquished, unable to keep anything from her.
She smiled. "Rinoa…I like it." She brushed her fingers lightly against her baby angel's face, before looking back up at Fury. "I love you."
He kissed her forehead, and she fell asleep.
viii.
Rinoa was playing with her dolls upstairs.
He sat there, frozen – turned from man to ice in about ten seconds flat. The tears were streaming down his face, and he felt constriction in his chest. He couldn't breathe. He couldn't think. The agony ran unfettered through his veins. The despair fell upon him in a torrential downpour.
He left the phone off the hook as he went up the stairs.