Author's Note: This was actually a dream I had, so it has some personal semblance to me. I was thinking of writing it involving someone else, but I think this turned out well enough. Rated G, no spoilers or anything.

Disclaimer: Tetsuya Nomura, Square-Enix, and Disney.


It was a simple song on a simple scale. He'd only twice heard her hum it and had never heard her vocalize. He knew it must've been a forbidden fruit far to sweet for her to divulge in, wisteria in her lungs as she failed to realize the austere keys churned in her clenched throat.

He wanted to know this song. It was a hymn for a God, he swore. It was so easy and beautiful and he knew it had something tragic, because it was her. She was singing about herself.

He spent days asking every member but her where this song may've come from. Few knew the exact world the witch had been conceived upon and even fewer knew its lore. No comrade's mind was unravished in searches for the delicate tune he had memorized from her—the way he memorized her body.

Not even the member so proud of his music knew this one.

Research. Pages of it, littering his desk as its scent changed from dragon's blood to sterile, decomposed oak. He tried to find those magical notes. Keys of pianos and strums of sitars and tender tweets of flues all seemed wrong, wrong, wrong.

A more hands-on approach was needed. He scowered worlds, walking in fallen black feathers and greeted Hati and Skoll on his voyage, scuffing in brimstone and all thirty-four cantos.

And then he found her: a girl in white that was too ethereal to be tangible, chestnut brown hair curling in her face with eyes downcast and unreadable.

Such a charming, alive little girl shouldn't have been in a dingy, monocrome world. It was black and white, dreary and on the edge of crumbling into darkness. He could see the world's axes crumbling and feel its core tremble with anticipation for the end.

She was real. She was the anomally, the spot of wrong.

Just like a nymph. And she sang like a siren.

"London bridge is falling down,

Falling down,

Falling down."

He needn't hear any more of the sick rhyme.

He went to her, pulled her small frame to him and almost cried to the secret curve of her bare shoulder.

"Marluxia?"

"My fair lady," He sang back.

Let London Burn.