Author's note: this part will cover Rinoa meeting Angelo, so it doesn't follow the previous part in a chronological sense! Sorry for everyone hoping for the meet-cute moment with Squall... that will be done soon, I promise!
PET PAL
The first time she sees the puppy it's a week after coming to Timber.
She is wandering in the streets, trying to get familiar with this city she wants to fight for, when she hears a little bark coming from the Pet Shop. The owner is leaning against the door, and he looks at her when she comes closer to look at the puppy.
Cute, isn't she? says the man, and Rinoa nods, crouching to scratch the dog behind her ears. She knows the dog probably won't be there tomorrow, because for some reason Timber really loves animals and every family has some kind of pet. Everyone but the little girl usually hanging out of the hotel to pet the cats of the bookstore owner... and herself, Rinoa thinks, and a kind of shameful pang of loneliness bits at her heart. She shouldn't feel like this, she thinks, because there is truly nothing she misses from that city; not even the memory of her father, back when they went along, is enough to cancel out the pain of the way he treated her in the last few years, the isolation she suffered. Yet, she wants what she sees through the city windows, when she sits at the pub counter to drink her coffee and milk: the warm love of a motherly figure, the awkward affection of a kind of father ruffling her hair as she eats muffins, the gentle reprimand when she tries to stay a little longer. She is grateful, and yet she feels something is missing, too.
So she scratches the dog's little ears, chatting idly with the shop owner, waiting for the pang of loneliness to drown into the gentle, keen brown eyes of the puppy. It's difficult to detach herself, when she stands up again and the puppy whines; it's difficult not to see her anymore, when the shop's owner takes the dog inside and closes the door for the evening; and her short walk back to the hotel makes her feel even more lonely.
Miss DiMarco seems to notice there's something wrong, and she's even more warm and affectionate tonight. Yet, Rinoa can't shake off the feeling of being out of place, like everyone else is on the same wavelength, and she is slower, running late, trying to catch up with something that's not meant for her at all. Miss DiMarco pushes in front of her a plate of stew, and she pokes at the meat as she ponders on the reality of what she's gotten herself into. It's ok if you're a little sad, dear, Miss DiMarco says, and she strokes her hair, gently pushing a lock behind her ear. It's been only a week. It doesn't mean that you're ungrateful. So Rinoa stops poking at the meat, seeking refuge in this kind woman's arms, and cries her heart out for what she lost, whatever that was that she had in that city, from that man, still thinking of the keen brown eyes of a dog who didn't know her, but looked at her with the kind of affection she yearns.
The next day, she takes the longer route to reach the pub, and stops by the Pet Shop to steal some more cuddles for the puppy. She's with her new family, says the owner when he sees her crestfallen face. I'm sorry dear. She finds out that the little girl hanging around the hotel to pet the cats managed to convince her mother to try with a dog, maybe she won't be allergic.
She sighs. Maybe it's for the best. She can't possibly take a dog in whatever hotel room Miss DiMarco finds for her; and she can't leave the puppy alone all day as she's working.
It's for the best.
And maybe, if she keeps repeating that, she'll start to believe it too.
The second time she sees the puppy it's a couple of days after her adoption.
Apparently, the little girl's strategy has failed, and she can have neither cats or dogs, since her mother is allergic to both; and the loving puppy with keen brown eyes is still at the pet shop, when Rinoa passes in front of it, having decided just that morning that she'll turn sixteen next year and therefore she need to act like an adult and be mature about everything. She can't help a little squeal, though, when the dog barks at her, and the shop's owner laughs, telling her she must like you, you're the only one she does that cute lil' bark for. Rinoa almost doesn't hear him; she takes the dog in her arms and laughs, too, when the puppy eagerly licks her cheek. She cuddles the dog a little more, sharing another laugh with the owner, who encourages her to stop by again come sunset so she can play a little with the puppy.
It goes on for an entire week. She knows she can't take the dog home - whatever home may be for her, now - and it's unfair to the poor puppy to stop by and steal cuddles to stifle her own loneliness, so she takes an apple with her every evening, and she sits in front of the shop, carefully cutting and peeling the apple and feeding it to the puppy, who happily munches and sometimes clumsily steps on it, just to forget for a little while how remorseful she feels. Yet, the owner always tells her to come again, and after a few days of the puppy whining when Rinoa leaves to go back to her room - wherever her room may be, now - Miss DiMarco waits for her outside of the pub. Rinoa is almost fearful; she feels like she's been doing something wrong, and doing something wrong usually meant being locked up in that home in that city, and even though there's nothing in common between Miss DiMarco and that man, she still feels a shiver creeping up her spine. But Miss DiMarco sneaks her hand under her elbow, pressing against her and whispering, somewhat conspiratorially, that she has a surprise for her. Miss DiMarco has been treating her half as a little sister, and half as a daughter, and Rinoa relaxes slightly, raising her hand to touch Miss DiMarco's fingers on her bicep. They stop just outside of the pet shop, and the owner comes out, with the puppy on a leash, and a pretty, big pink ribbon around her collar.
It's yours, dear, he says, and Rinoa looks astonished at Miss DiMarco, who hides a wonderful smile behind her hand. But listen carefully, missy: you have to take care of your dog personally! And when Rinoa fervently nods, practically bouncing on the spot as unable to stay still as she is, Miss Dimarco adds that she'll be moved to the staff area, and the dog will have a little garden to play in during the day, and she's about to add something when Rinoa knocks the breath and the words out of her and hugs her. Calm down, you're squeezing more than a frickin' Wendigo! shrieks Miss DiMarco between laughs, and the shop's owner's mild reprimand about language is drowned when Rinoa turns and takes the dog from his hands. She's already too big to be taken into her arms, and the owner warns her she'll become a big dog, but she can be trained for defense, he'll teach her if she wants, and Rinoa accepts even before realizing she probably can't afford a dog and training lessons so soon after coming to Timber.
But she shouldn't have worried, she realizes a few days later, because the hotel always has leftovers to feed her dog, and the shop's owner is happy to lend her magazines and teach her in exchange for a couple hours' help in organizing his cabinets and the items in the shop, and there's a jar, back at the pub, with a cute portrait of her dog, thanks to the little girl hanging around the hotel - because Rinoa can't draw to save her life -and the tips go in there, even though Rinoa tried to resist at first, until Vulpe said nonsense. You deserve that, and she felt such relief that she wanted to cry. This acceptance feels like a balm to her bleeding, tender heart, and she gulps down the affection like someone may gulp down water after days in the desert.
And then she comes back home, and home is her hotel room, now, her dog wagging her tail and giving her the special cute lil bark because she wants an apple, and she feels safe, and she feels happy, and she doesn't feel lonely anymore.
There was something her mother used to tell her at bedtime, something that sounded like a fairytale, and when her father was away for work and she could sleep in the comfy, big bed of her parents, Julia used to wrap her in a fleece blanket with a Chocobo motif, and she used to tell her a story about a big terrace overlooking a green and light blue city, guarded by a great angel with his wings spread, sheathing the sword he had used to bestow peace, freedom, and justice to the people. She told her all about the foundation of the city, back when scary monsters fell from the moon and people fled from the desert, finding refuge in the green forests surrounding Timber, and how they had built their life on the principles of freedom, justice, and truth. She has told her everything about a colorful and joyful summer festival to celebrate the city's foundation, in late June, and how the Angel looked almost like smiling under the lights of fireworks and sparklers. And then, the Bell would ring, and people would leave jugs of water on their windowsills, and they would interpret the intricate symbols dew had drawn in the refreshing, healing water called Owl Tears.
She remembers she would ask so many whys, and her mother would patiently recount the story, giving more and more details, and right now Rinoa can recall those stories, almost seeing behind her eyelids the Angel, with his wings spread, his sword, the Bell, and the colors in the sky during the festival.
Her mother called the Angel Sant'Angelo di Roma, and when Rinoa asked to see it she had become melancholy, almost hurt. Maybe, one day, she had said, in the way someone says one day but means never.
Rinoa wonders, because there is a kind of smuggling of little bottles called Owl Tears, and maybe, just maybe...
Ah, Sant'Angelo di Roma, says Vulpe one day, when she finds the courage to ask. It's on the other side of the city. We can't go there, dear. There are soldiers all around the perimeter.
But when Timber is free, says Rinoa, and Vulpe ruffles her hair, and spills the content of the tip jar, thrusting the loose change into Rinoa's little purse. Yes, says Vulpe. When Timber is free, we'll ring the Bell. and you'll see the fireworks and the sparklers above the Angel. Don't forget to take two apples from the basket, kiddo. One for you and one for your dog.
She thinks about the Angel the entire journey home, munching on a juicy and deliciously tart green apple, while keeping the red, sweet one for her dog. She stops by the pet shop to borrow a Pet Pal magazine, and later she lies on the bed, her back propped against some pillows that Miss Di Marco says her rooms don't need, and she tries leafing through the magazine to learn some new tricks, but she can't concentrate. She turns to look at her dog, who jumps on the bed, snuggling close to her leg and placing her muzzle on her thigh with a satisfied grunt. She sinks her hand into her fur, gently cleaning her dog's eyes with her fingers, and she finally thinks she has found a name.
You'll be Angelo, she says, and the dog gives a cute lil bark. You like your new name?
For the Angels she found in Timber, for her mother's memory, and for the Angel of Freedom, Justice, and Truth still waiting for fireworks and sparklers.
Author's note: the explanation of Angelo's full name, Sant'Angelo di Roma, comes from the official site about Castel Sant'Angelo, a museum in Rome, especially level 7 and its terrace.
We are now done with the pre-game arch: next week, our heroine will reflect upon a broody SeeD who rocks her world in unexpected ways.