Disclaimer: I don't own it.
In front of an ordinary house, a girl is laughing happily, her head tilted as her hair waves gently in the breeze, her green eyes dancing as she gazes upon the boy standing beside her.
The boy watches her, his posture rigid but his eyes soft and gentle, glowing with a light of their own as he revels in his companion's happiness.
Further beyond these two is an unnoticed observer shadowed by the trees, he watches them wistfully from his hiding place, a hand on the tree trunk; the girl's name is soft upon his lips and nearly inaudible.
And he supposes he really should have expected something like this to happen sooner or later.
Neither of the two he observes notices him, so wrapped up in each other as they are. They're talking softly, the conversation occasionally interrupted with a soft giggle or laugh from the girl.
They're very happy, the watcher notices. They're different, he marvels, and yet, the same; and to anyone listening, they might have thought he was speaking of the girl and the boy, but no, he's referring to something else entirely.
And only a certain few would know what he was speaking of.
More people are arriving; a long haired girl with smiling eyes and a video camera, a little stuffed animal on her shoulder, a man with a gentle demeanor carrying a large pastry, followed by a younger man wearing a scowl on his face, a carving knife in his hand.
Father? Highness? He mumbles, startled slightly,
There's witty commentary being thrown back and forth –as well as some not so much as witty, as threatening and argumentative- the cake is set on a table that is standing in front of the little house. Continually people trickle in, some the watcher recognizes, and some he doesn't.
There's a large crowd of not-quite-children, but not-yet-adults standing in front of the modest home with it's green lawn, and the laughter is ringing throughout the street, but the loudest sound of all, is the silent communication between soft solemn brown and brilliant dancing green as she throws herself at him, laughing, trusting him to catch her.
And he catches her.
There's trust there, the watcher realizes, there's history, just like us. And he wonders, is it fate? Is it fate that these two should be together?
The soft brown eyes of the observer smile wistfully and sadly as he turns around.
"Do you sense a feather here, Mokona?"
And he hopes it is so…
Mokona shakes its head.
After all, if they turned out alright…
He rejoins his companions, leaving the laughter behind him, he'd indulged himself enough he thought to himself, he had a mission to complete.
…If these two turned out alright…
The four figures disappear in a whorl of magic and glowing ethereal white wings.
Why shouldn't they?
