A little warning in advance! The epilogue has virtually no dialogue. I only actually realized this after I was nearly done, so I apologize. It's weird, long, and completely too descriptive. But what the hey. It's done with, isn't it? Here goes.

(x) (x) (x)

My Oh My

'Epilogue: Fly By Butterfly'

For those of you interested in the matter, Mr. Tigi's funeral was a very small one. His immediate family was nowhere to speak of, really, all of them being either dead or simply misplaced somewhere on the vast face of the earth. Five individuals were clustered around the headstone, long after the words were said, long after the priest had left, wiping his brows with a kerchief and wondering what his wife was preparing for dinner that evening.

Kairi and Yuffie stood side by side, clasping hands. Yuffie was crying, but if you had asked her later why her eyes were red and puffy, she would have complained of seasonal allergies. Because Yuffie was a strong girl. And strong girls never cried.

Larxene stood alone, the bottom left corner of the grave a foot away from her toes. She fixed her gaze on that point where the grass gave way to a sharp drop of dirt and air. She kept her stare rooted to that one spot for the entire time they stood there and she stood like a statue, the angel that belonged in stone above the grave, instead living flesh and blood beside it.

Irvine held his battered old cowboy hat in his hands and he could feel his cell phone in his pocket. He missed his dottering old boss, he really did. But to make it up to the old coot, Irvine had promised himself he'd go back to college, just like Tigi had been prattling after him to do for some months anyway. Even though he was waiting for a call from the admissions office to see what strings he could pull, his phone remained off and away.

Time to bow our heads and remember an old man that no one knew anything about.

Leon... walked away.

Ten minutes after the polished coffin was set in the earth and his friends had lowered their heads to grieve, Leon had just left. He could not shake the cold sense of betrayal clenching about him, the rock hard feel of the unforgiving world around.

Perhaps he cursed the sun for shining on such a day, the birds for chirping and the children for laughing. Perhaps he cursed the dead man for giving him a taste of someone- something worth everything, only to take it away before he really could hold it all in between his own two hands.

Regardless of the reasons for his anger and his coldness, Leon left. He was well aware of the fact that any emotion, logical or no, is an emotion nonetheless, just as real and just as powerful as the next. And for Leon, there was no escaping it.

x x x

So you've come this far. Are you proud?

You have seen the cast of perfectly normal characters take their falls and skin their knees. You've seen them at their best of times and you've seen them at their worst of times. But are you proud? Are you satisfied?

Perhaps if you are reading this, you want to know more. Perhaps you actually do care about Leon and his miserable end, or perhaps you just want to know what the purpose of it all was. Why four girls could do what one man couldn't and why everything fell to pieces in one fell stroke. Pardon me, my puns are sick ones.

Well if you will, if you so desire, you're welcome to witness life as it would be two years from the day when Leon walked away and tried to forget. Two years is not a long time, despite what many people may think. The older you get, the shorter the years grow, and for four out of the five, those two years flew by in the blink of an eye.

But what about the fifth?

What about Leon? Is he really all that important? Is he growing backwards and are the years growing longer as they draw by?

Well.

See for yourself.

The day is a cool one, an early spring day, a March day, a day when Traverse Town's children tie their sweaters around their waists as they leap from one side of the creek to another, praying they won't fall in. They aren't afraid of drowning, of spraining an ankle or bruising an arm. They just don't want their mothers harping at them about their muddy and torn jeans.

The children come and go in waves, really. As the grandparents, as the elders begin to thin away with age and time, as they are shipped off to their respectful homes and care centers, the younger move in- the newlyweds, the happy couples seeking a quiet little hidey hole to start a family in. They do, and their children grown, and the whole thing moves around in a big cycle.

Some years have their peaks, some years have their declines, their rock-bottoms.

Now if you were a bug- a butterfly, for instance- and you were to follow these children on this Saturday as they went about their carefree, messy little lives, you might find something a bit curious about Traverse Town. For one, it is beautiful. The trees surrounding the place are a fresh green, buds popping up left and right, new leaves unfurling and soaking up the sun, pouring out the air, waving in the breeze.

The dirt roads are soft and slightly dusty, a fine powder that clings to these children's sneakers as they run up the hill from the creek, playing tag, probably. But remember, you're a butterfly and you don't have the slightest clue what the hell tag is. You're just watching. Sort of. Sort of not really watching, because I highly doubt that butterflies are very intense observers of human life.

But maybe they are. I really don't know all that much about anything, and the ways of butterflies? That's no exception.

So now here you are, here you would be, following these children as they come to the concrete and the asphalt, little narrow strips going this way and that, one way, then the other. And you could, perhaps, follows them further as their games stop and they cross the street with leaps and bounds and they enter a shop on the other side, eagerly talking amongst themselves and chattering at a mile a minute.

And this is where you begin to go "What the hell?"

Because the building they are prancing into once held a very debatable shop with very debatable merchandise. And by now I am most certain you all are nodding your queer little butterfly heads and thinking "Ah yes, The Emporium! Wait a moment- Oh no! The Emporium!"

Yes, and no. The Emporium.

It is no longer a place for kinky role play, for costumes and condoms and strange little knick-knacks that really are no such things. That do have a purpose, yet the purpose is possibly so vulgar and so farfetched that no one whose mind did not live in the gutter would ever think of such a thing. No, it's not a sex shop, not a toy shop in any way, shape, or form.

It is a candy store that Larxene stands in, behind the busy counter with another girl, black hair, brown eyes. Of course. Yuffie. And the two are squabbling over who was supposed to refill the jars of chocolate-covered gummy bears last and neither of them pay much attention to the children with their grubby fingers pressed against the glass, peering at the fudge, at the chocolates, at all the sweets their parents will hate them for eating.

In Larxene's defense, she will say that it's better for the children to have candy than condoms. Not because she supports the increasing teenage birth rate, but simply because without the contraceptives, no one's about to give it a whirl any time soon.

There are teenagers there, both of the heavy-metal variety and the bubble gum pop nature. They mingle and bicker over which is better- the watermelon shaped sugar covered chewy gadgets or the rows upon rows of sweet diet killing chocolates lined up one right after another.

And yet the sign still hangs in the window, "The Emporium." No frills, no decorations, and absolutely no nonsense.

"Larxene, I told you, okay? I'm in charge of the chocolate crap this week!"

"Yeah, duh. They're chocolate-covered gummi bears, dipshit."

"Hey! Don't call me a dipshit, you bitch! There are little kids in this store!"

Following the death of Mr. Tigi and Irvine's return to the fine, fine hallowed halls of learning in some distant college or another (Though Yuffie had received letters. Most of them were written when Irvine was not quite sober. And although they were amusing, Yuffie couldn't help but wonder why Irvine only ever thought to write when he wasn't in much state to do any thinking at all...), Yuffie soon found herself with no job and no income.

That was when Axel had had a bit of a run-in with an old friend who told him that sex toys were out and candy was in. "You sell chocolate- syrupy things maybe. Still kinky and sweet enough to give market to those really deranged sex addicts you've got hanging around the closet, but you also reel in the younger generation, see?" Axel had given the appropriate eager nod and clever smirk in exchange for a golden ticket of advice and a small pink flower that he absolutely forbid Larxene to ever mention to anyone in her life.

That, my fine winged buggy little friend, is how The Emporium came to be The Emporium.

And yet as you flutter around the window stupidly, thinking the glass is invisible and wondering what strange force keeps you from following the little rugrats you'd chased up from the creek, perhaps your mind begins to wander and you find yourself thinking about Naminé. You thought she was gone, disappeared from the face of the earth, never to be seen again?

We know she passed the test, whatever it was. We know she disappeared. And yet as you flit about and wonder, wonder, wonder, you see a door swing open and a girl bustle out- short, with her blond hair pulled into a tie at the nape of her neck. The children flock to her and she carries a backpack slung over one shoulder, a sketchpad cradled under one arm.

Larxene shoots Naminé a look that is almost apologetic, but not quite, seeing as whenever Larxene deals with Yuffie, her nerves are still cut far too short to have the patience for apologies. And yet Naminé shrugs it off cheerfully, one lapse in their relationship that never made a difference as she succumbs to the desperate pleas for little favors that mean so much.

"Can you draw a picture of me? Please?"

"No, no! A puppy!"

"I want Mothra"

"Eww, not Mothra! Oh, oh! Godzilla! Draw him!"

"And a city for him to destroy!"

"Nooo, why not a pony!"

She draws the pictures because she can and because she has the passion to do so. Perhaps one day that passion and whatever it is that fuels it will be gone. Dried up from years of use and abuse- just absolutely gone. But for now it is there and there's a surplus of it all rushing through her veins and roosting in her brain, prodding and poking her to create, create, create.

On the top shelf of Larxene's closet is a large folder. The folder is not very dusty for she takes it down every once in a while and opens it to peer at its contents. Sometimes she sits the folder at one end of the table and sits herself at the other and she stares at it and wills herself not to open it. But she always does and she always wonders why she does.

And always, always she comes to the same conclusion.

She opens the folder to see herself both ways, to look upon the picture and look into her own eyes, now completed and bursting forth from the sheet of old paper with so much life that when Larxene first saw the drawing, she nearly screamed. Maybe it's true when they say that the eyes are the window to the human soul. Yet no one ever said that paper eyes were a mirror into something much deeper than the soul- something that even the greatest philosophers can't debate because it is just that deep.

"So his name is So-crates?"

Naminé went back to school and there she learned how to capture those eyes. It was not something that they taught in school for it is not something that ever can be taught. It was a thing that Naminé taught herself through time, practice, and a world without real estate.

You can grow up and become something that will make you money but will not make you happy.

You can grow up and become something that will make you happy, but will not make you money.

And yet even if you have all the riches in the world, all the perfect clients at the perfect moments when real estate is the market to be involved in... Even with all that, if what you do does not fulfill you, then you're simply not fulfilled. And that is so much worse than being unhappy.

So as you fly around in stupid circles outside The Emporium and watch with giddy delight as Naminé finishes her little obligations before setting out to her studio, you come to a conclusion. Naminé is doing something that she loves, therefore she is fulfilled. Larxene is doing something she seems to get a kick out of, therefore she is fulfilled.

No, two outta three ain't bad, but what about the third involved here as your loopy loops and twisty twists begin to dizzy you and the world behind the glass spins in and out.

Yuffie... right. Yuffie. Perhaps you follow her as she leaves some time later. You have been flocking from one flowerbed to the next and it has all brought you back to the same solitary building at dusk, Yuffie waving a careless goodbye to her co-worker as she strolls down the street, hands in her pockets and a thoughtful little look on her face.

And you being you, you follow her, for you're the freakish butterfly who flies like a drunken astronaut rigged up on too much oxygen.

She leads you down the twilit streets and into a small cul-de-sac ringed with small houses and small yards. The things are not small here because they have to be small, but they are small because they do not need to be large. No one is crammed together, but no one is ridiculously spread out. Everything is spaced as it can and must be and everyone within seems content to let it be as such.

Yuffie walks up the steps of one the small little houses, a strange yet adorable blue one with an absolutely extraordinary garden. And you being the creature you are, you admire the garden- the fresh buds popping up and the hopeful daffodils, the crocuses, the tulips, the magnolias.

And the door closes in your face and perhaps you kick yourself with one of your six legs for having been so easily distracted.

And once again you must watch from behind a barrier you cannot understand is there and you must draw your own conclusions and believe what you believe.

And once again... once again the things you see puzzle you. Kairi is there, yet somehow you knew she would be. She gives Yuffie a hug and waves her over towards the couch, pushing her into the seat and running off to another room, disappearing entirely. Yuffie is clearly confused and leans back into the couch. You are clearly just as confused and persist in whacking your tiny exoskeleton-covered-head against the glass in the window pane.

Kairi returns decked out in what you suppose is a new outfit she bought. You draw your own conclusions- she bought it that afternoon and spent an hour piecing it together to make it absolutely perfect, which it most certainly is. She worked so hard at it if for no other reason than to show it to Yuffie and to gain her adoration and appreciation because she wants to be appreciated and she wants to be adored.

And with Yuffie, she is.

You don't dwindle here any longer for you know that Kairi and Yuffie have their dinner to attend to and certainly there isn't anything interesting about that. There is nothing interesting about people's happiness, for if there was then there would be no morbid fascination with the idea of tragedy. And so that is what you set out to find- someone miserable and suffering who you can watch intently and marvel at their misfortune.

Now at last, you come to a darkened alley and you drift upwards in a lazy spiral, the sun all but gone from the sky by now and your little limbs growing very, very tired. The glass is there once more, but this time you know it's there as you set upon the windowsill and peer inside, curiosity still alive, of course, but dwindling.

Butterflies do not have a very long lifespan, or so I'm told.

It takes your eyes a moment to adjust as you sit there, looking in on the human zoo and waiting, watching for the one specimen you've been hoping to see appear. And he does- a burst of light coming forth as he enters from the hallway and stands silhouetted in the door frame. Whether the light behind him is holy or whether his darkness is demonic... neither particularly moves you to be certain of one thing or another.

Yet the door swings shut slowly and you see his shadow put a briefcase on the floor, loosen a tie around his neck. You watch as he moves further into the apartment and shake his head, shaggy brown hair flying forth and around. But it's all half-hearted as he collapses onto a battered, overstuffed chair. As he slumps forward and hangs his head in absolute defeat towards his own knowledge and ignorance.

He has papers to grade and he knows it. He's hungry, yet he doesn't know how to cook. He knows he doesn't want take-out and he knows that the empty space in his stomach is not the only empty space inside him. There's something that isn't full, some things that haven't been learned, experienced, and accepted for what they are.

There is still that belief that everything is going to be all right because good always triumphs over evil and this darkness around him is so evil that it can't stand not to be triumphed over. ...Right?

And yet no matter how hard he tries, he cannot say his life is necessarily a bad one. He has had his relationships, the good and the bad. He has a stable job teaching something he adores, even if his students cannot feel that same love rushing through them like he does. Even if he cannot get them excited about it and even if he cannot get them to understand it the way he does.

There are, after all, things that he doesn't understand, too.

How the whole human race grows more complicated by the day and how it only baffles him more and more each morning in the moments before his feet touch the ground and they're just hanging there in midair, lost, confused, and with no foundation to stand on.

It is how Leon lives his life and he lives it just fine. Just as he promised he would.

And what happens next happens very slowly.

You feel something inside you begin to hurt and it swells and grows from somewhere deep within, pressing against you on all sides from the inside. It's pushing you out and making you grow in the most painful way and your head is screaming directions at your body to make it stop, make it stop. Your wings- they're still there- flap erratically and you find yourself slipping and falling backwards, off the windowsill, catching the night air and then tumbling through it, colors and darkness spinning around you as your tiny body plummets straight towards the ground.

And yet even as you fall, you think you catch a glimpse of something moving above you- below you? You can't tell. But you swear that in these last moments of your life, you see a boy hanging out the window and staring down at you with eyes brimming with so much hope that it's almost as though they're about to overflow, pouring down on your in sheets of sheer emotion.

You want so badly to have a voice and you want to scream "Don't let me fall, you idiot! There is something inside me that is just like him and it's fighting to get out! Can't you tell? Can't you please tell?"

But then it's over.

Your wings spread out in a last ditch effort your mind springs on your body and you catch an updraft that sends you rocketing back into space, up the way you came. Beneath you is Traverse Town, early evening spread out over it, light flickering in homes like little baby fireflies. Fireflies, you tell yourself. What silly bugs. And just for humor's sake we can say you have a cousin who's a firefly and he's simply the most outlandish asshole you've ever had the pleasure of meeting.

There are no stars in the sky yet as you float above the town, in some general direction, possibly, or just like another aimless drifter among a world that's just chock full of them. The draft soon leaves you and you find yourself descending once more, though it's a much slower process, a gentler thing as you come to land on something cool and solid, rough and dark beneath you.

You feel the thing inside you explode, but it's a silent explosion and it feels almost more relaxing than it does alarming. Strange, you think. But you begin to realize that it's not so strange after all. You're lying on a tombstone, clean and cared for. You can see a small fresh bouquet of four flowers in front of it, tied with a ribbon and left in dear remembrance.

For a moment you find yourself thinking that those flowers are there for you and that you were meant to die here, one little bug that is just so much more important than the rest.

But you realize two more things before you finally leave.

You realize you're not the one buried beneath the stone inside the earth. You're just another flower sitting amongst the rest, the fifth, the final, and possibly the most beautiful and different of them all. And for that reason, you are happy.

And you realize that the conclusion to your life- the final thing you learned from flying from one flower to the next, watching one life and then another... you realize that the conclusion must be to draw your own conclusion. And for that reason, perhaps, you are sad.

But it does not matter, because happy or sad, that is the moment in which you slip silently out of the world and no one, save one silly little child, even knows you're gone.

(x) (end) (x)