She had come, drawn by duty and by love, to offer help if she could. She wasn't

supposed to be drawn in any further. But the aftermath – of the chaos of war, of the purest passion found in a most unlikely place-would impact on her, and on those she cared about, as her presence, too, would impact. And the result would be tragedy. These things we already know. We are told little else, and left to guess what has led her to this point, and how her future will unfold. So here is one possibility. The story of a woman who must test her strength against the world over and over before she can lay claim to happiness and the life she'd dreamed could be hers.

Disclaimer: "Miss Saigon" is the work of Alain Boubil and Claude-Michel Schomberg.

PG-13 rating is just a precaution.

Please enjoy! Wren.

Prologue

Bangkok: October, 1978.

She can feel the sweat trickling between her shoulder blades and down to the small of her

back. The weight of the humidity in the air –even this far into fall-presses down on her

chest. But it isn't just the heat, she knows. It is what awaits them, when they arrive at

their destination. And what has taken place leading up to this moment. The hotel room.

Every second of that swift encounter is engraved on her being. Some things you can

never forget. Never.

The scenes of the city race by from the taxi window, oddly parallel to her whirling

mind. And yet also mocking her. Reminding her of her foreigner status. Her outsider

status, in more ways than one.

I wasn't there three years ago. I haven't been in the midst of war, and I have no idea of how much she struggled or suffered.. But that doesn't mean I don't understand. It doesn't mean that I have miraculously escaped my own share of pain. She storms silently-always silently.

The voice in her head is relentless:

So you claim that which is the birthright of every living thing. As if it should give you a special claim, an entitlement, here?

Oh God. True. Except she was invested, dammit. And if anyone thought that she would stand back and watch, and allow herself to be powerless..

That's just it, though, isn't it? The taunting whisper takes up again. How much of what you've done is for the good of all involved, and how much because you just can't bear-

Stop it. There's no other choice. Not for me, granted, but not for anyone else concerned as well, okay?

A horn blares in the traffic nearby, jolting her back to the present. Outside, on the road, bicycles, rickshaws, and cars jostle one another. They move slowly now, closer, closer. To her apartment.

The sun continues to beat down, making the cab nearly unbearable.

She turns, and glances over at the man beside her. He is looking out the window, too, lost in his own thoughts. She can see the nape of his neck with that familiar, touching vulnerability. Her heart, as ever, reaches out to him. She takes his hand in her own, and squeezes lightly. His gaze meets hers. Her throat burns, and her eyes sting with unshed tears. Her stomach roils in a terrible uncertainty. For at that moment she isn't at all convinced that all of their lives will be spared from ruin. Or that anything anyone could do would make any difference, would make this mess turn out right. If it came down to it, she was not even sure she could swear to keep the promises she'd made – the ones that came with marriage, right up to the ones she'd made just hours ago. Still, she has learned a long time ago how to hold on when the anchor is lost, and the wind rages.

And so, Ellen looks into her husband's eyes, and she smiles reassuringly.