Disclaimer: I wish I owned Final Fantasy VIII, but I don't. D: SquareEnix owns my precious.

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The Wake of War

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- prologue: epistle -

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Feebly and breathlessly, she held the yellow-tinted envelope between her trembling fingers. The thought of it; merely weeks earlier, the reigns of life were grasped in the fashion, and now, it seemed as though the letter had captured the controls. In those weeks, possibly even years, leading up to this instant, she had never conceived in the slightest that the last few events in his life would now resonant endlessly, echo eternally, through hers.

'Why did I trust …Why did I listen?'

The steps of the Deling City Hospital on that frigid November evening were, to say the least, cold. To begin with Galbadia was not exactly the most tepid place this time of year. Along with the icy stare from the note, the chilling aspects of the situation, and the incessant memories of her coolness, those steps were possibly made out of frost.

Despite this, she sat unmoved for the last few hours, absently gaping at the casement of her future, pondering everything in existence and absolutely nothing all at once. She could catch her thoughts just as well as she could catch her breath—and that was not to say much. Unless that letter held an immense amount of cursing of her soul, or a spell to take her life, she did not deserve it. Yet, the epistle beckoned to be opened. The strength for this, though, was scarce.

'A promise is a two way street.'

"Rinoa."

A voice called the raven-haired women from behind. She was shocked to even think after it all, he would be in the same room with her by his own power. Inexplicably, even though he could speak to her, she was not so strong. Rinoa could not even bring herself to drawing her russet eyes to his figure. It was not his fault, surely it was hers. But she was angry with him, nonetheless.

"Are you ready to come inside?" His voice was distant; soft. The man was very aware he would not be the one to reach her. "…They're beginning to discuss funeral arrangements…" Rinoa's body noticeably shuddered with the mention of a funeral.

"…They want you there. He'd want you there. Come inside, please…?" He was always so polite, that man who, regardless of everything, was being respectful.

He watched as her black tresses shook back and forth in a wordless, negative way. At least it's some response, he thought. The young man was content enough with the answer, and wandered back inside. Denial is not healthy, but I have to give her time. I have no place to comfort her here. He was being sensible, or, in the least, more sensible then Rinoa.

'I'm never going to learn am I! Am I?'

Rinoa jerked her coat tautly around shoulders, and momentarily shut her windows to all she was unworthy of around her. He'd still be here if…

She stomped the ground futilely, infuriated by her stupidity, her Achilles' heel. She couldn't open the letter. She couldn't talk to anyone. She couldn't complete her thoughts, or look up at the expansive night sky, or get up. She couldn't do anything but say sorry. That wasn't enough, though. He deserved far more then that.

In her pocket were memories: old papers, scrawled with utter devotion. Things she was certain that she never warranted, and yet, they were there. In was unfair to him that she could not reread them

It was even more unfair that she could not shed an honest tear.

'I'll never learn how to stop… I'll never learn how to stop lo…- Dammit! See? …Hyne, I'm such an idiot!'

Rinoa slammed her head between crossed arms atop her knees. She wanted to cry, but she was aware that those would be just childish, salty crocodile tears. Why am I so sorry for myself? She spat in disgust of her own feelings.

It's your fault he's dead, you murderer! Now, make it up to him! Do something for him, damn you!

The young women searched within her self for what she could do, and only one thing turned up after a long while: To remember; recall so many years ago, when things were full and clear, when things were loving and simple, when they together and happy, before it was all ripped to shreds in the wake of war.

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A/N: Well, that's the end of the prologue. I hope I didn't make it too obvious about who is who, but I've never been good with secrets. This is the first serious love story fan fiction that I'm actually getting down on paper, and I'm happy with it so far. Also, I think I could use some Beta Readers, if anyone is interested.

Read and review, please! Your input is golden. :D

- Pink Moogle