Maybe fate was laughing at her now.
Elira stepped out of the shower carefully and grabbed for a towel. The warm water had indeed soothed her a little, but it hadn't removed the empty feeling that had been sitting in the pit of her gut for hours. She was alone again; but she didn't feel the loneliness the way she had not long before Vincent had come. This time it was a gnawing desolation, bringing her back to the days after Eagan had died when she'd felt acutely alone in a cold, hard, ruthless world.
Still, there was Barret and there was Benita, like there had been the gunsmith before. But, she wondered if she would ever be able to let them close, the kind of closeness she'd known was possible with Vincent. Maybe eventually, but they were both so different from her. Although they were protective of her, wanting to help, their attitudes didn't allow them to be very understanding, or very good listeners. It would take a change or something just as drastic before she'd trust Barret or Benita enough to be able to share herself the way she would've with Vincent. She'd realized more and more, the longer she'd been around the detached man, just how unlike everyone else she was...
So it would take longer for her to trust everyone else...
But she would try. She wasn't going to cop out or quit the way Vincent had. She would keep trying until she found what she was looking for. Even if it took her the rest of her life. If there was such a thing as fate, Elira determined that it wouldn't have the pleasure of breaking her.
As she dried her hair thoroughly with the towel, she cringed, probably for the hundredth time, at the lingering thought of her childish tantrum during the night. The last thing she'd wanted to do was leave Vincent with the image of her screaming at him. She'd just been so hurt...like before; she'd wanted almost to hit him, to knock some sense into him. She'd wanted him to see what he risked losing forever by leaving, by hoping to avoid the risk of fate's wrath. She'd wanted him to see the risk he was taking no matter what decision he made. And she'd hoped he would understand, and would choose the risk that appealed to him most. She'd hoped, too, that the risk he chose would be the one she would've chosen...
She'd stayed in the lobby of his apartment building until sunrise, fearful of walking alone this late at night, even in the quiet sector of MiraCletus. She'd told herself that part of the reason wasn't that she was waiting for him. Waiting for him to follow her, or even waiting for him to leave. But he hadn't come. No one had come, not even a curious tenant approaching to see what the ruckus they'd undoubtedly heard had been about. Elira had wondered if the apartment building had a back door. It would've been very Vincent-ish of him to take the less obvious exit...
The train to Virna had been nearly empty. She'd chosen a car that had no one in it. And, thankful for the privacy, she'd let the gentle rocking of the train coax her into crying.
All tears and tearstains were now washed away. Elira wiped a portion of the steamed-up mirror clean and studied her face, framed by a furious mass of dark, wet, and frizzy red curls. The image wasn't of a girl. A woman stared back; a woman who knew of pain, of loss. A woman who would go back to her life and her job, and who wouldn't be so foolish the next time as to believe that she could ever completely trust anyone. Because everyone was only human, and humans often denied the things they needed because of fear. Humans often chose a familiar hell over an unknown heaven. She couldn't expect too much of humans. Never again. People were too busy with their personal problems to want to have to help another, even if helping a fellow miserable soul would ease their own misery. It was too much of a chance, of a risk, to trust. It left a person vulnerable...
But Elira would've risked vulnerability, would've risked everything. She shook her head and threw the towel over the curtain rod to dry. It didn't matter now, anyway. Vincent was long gone to wherever his fear had driven him to hide. It had been naive of her to think that Vincent would be so ready to help her when it involved a risk as considerable as the one he'd been faced with. Oh well. Maybe there really was no healing for a shattered faith in the goodness of humanity. Because there was no goodness in humanity. It was all just a mask to cover an ultimately evil face, distorted by selfishness and greed. She shuddered and shook her head, finally halting her fatalistic train of thought. She was just depressed right now, she told herself, and it was making a horrible pessimist of her. A day at work would probably help to clear that up, and she could go on as if she'd never met Vincent Valentine. As if she'd never seen the reality of her hope staring her in the face. As if she was still ignorant of the loneliness.
It was eight-thirty when she descended into her shop. Turning on the light in the forge and starting up the furnace, she prepared for the business day. She was about to leave the forge, sweeping the area with a glance to make sure everything was in order, when her eyes fell on what had been Vincent's workstation. The metal pieces for a long-barreled rifle lay at the edge of the table in neat array where he'd left them the night before they'd caught the train to Odriam. She moved slowly to the table with soft steps as if afraid of disturbing something.
She remembered approving this client's order form for a custom-made rifle assembled specifically by Vincent. Now, though, the order wouldn't be finished the way it had been requested. She would have to complete the project in the way she believed Vincent would have. She wondered with a twinge of despondency whether Vincent's sudden departure would ruin the new-found reputation of her small shop.
The metal of the forsaken barrel was cold against her fingers. She pursed her lips, imaging how beautiful the finished product would've been.
Elira sat at her desk in the front room; she didn't even see that she'd been staring out of the window until the pen in her hand slipped from her fingers and clattered suddenly to the table top. Flustered, she straightened the papers in front of her, banging them into order. She was angry at herself when she realized she'd been thinking of Vincent, remembering when she'd noticed his watch the morning after, when he'd made that pitiful attempt at humor. She'd felt so close to him in those few moments, closer than she'd ever felt to anyone. She and Eagan had never talked in bed. He'd always been up before her, talking about what a big day he had. He'd never had time for breakfast. So, she'd kissed him quickly everyday before he'd left. And she'd wondered as she'd washed the dishes, or vacuumed the carpet, or dusted the furniture who the talkative visionary she'd married was talking to now about his dreams. His confidant certainly wasn't his girlfriend; not since she'd become his wife.
And she'd yelled, and screamed, and shouted, trying to make the man she loved hear her through the wall she'd felt him build since the honeymoon. Trying to make him hear her the way he'd heard her before when they'd both been real people to each other. When they'd both had opinions and she'd been able to give him advice. She hadn't wanted him to feel that he had to make all of the decisions; she could help him. She'd wanted him to know that he didn't need to support her, as if she was a burden. She was a human being, just like him, capable of taking care of herself.
But yelling hadn't made him hear any clearer. It had deafened him.
And she'd remembered the silence in his home. His mother and father had never spoken to each other over the dinner table except to ask for the carrots, or the mustard, or the bread. But she'd made herself ignore, made herself believe that it would be different for her and Eagan because they were different than his parents. The two of them had been so close; they'd been in each other's minds, each other's souls. That couldn't just go away, could it?
No, it couldn't. People had to chase it away.
Eagan had run it off while blindfolded, never knowing what it was that he was getting rid of. He'd just known that he hadn't recognized it, and that it had scared him. The thought of having someone around who really knew him had seemed to appeal to him while they'd been dating. As soon as the word 'forever' had gotten mixed up in it, he'd simply...
...not been able to take the risk. Not with her. He'd seen her beyond her body, beyond her face, and he'd rejected it all in exchange for something fake. There had been something wrong with her...
But Vincent had seemed not to see it; maybe he'd been too busy trying to keep his own secrets. Maybe if they'd had a little more time he would've seen what Eagan had seen. Elira frowned reflexively at her thoughts. She'd been willing, though. Willing to take the risk with him because he'd been through the same thing, known the same fears. Willing to hope that history wouldn't repeat itself.
Willing to believe that there was no such thing as fate for Elira Maddison...
The bell over the door chimed. Elira looked to her clock as the first of her employees filtered through the door. It was almost nine.
At one minute to nine, Benita entered the front room, a smile on her face as she shook off the chill of the morning. Awkwardly, she removed her coat and placed it over an arm. And then she wandered up to the desk. Elira watched her, arguing within herself whether or not she wanted to talk to Benita about what the older woman probably wouldn't understand.
"Hey there, Lir! How're doin'? Everythin' was fine yesterday. Got a nice number a shotguns finished."
Elira nodded and tried to smile.
Benita's grin wavered a little. "Wha's wrong? Are you still worried about visitin' Terry? I promise I'll go with ya if ya want, okay?"
Elira nodded again. "Yeah. Thanks, Beni."
Benita nodded as well, smiling, though the smile seemed kind of forced. "That wasn't it, was it?" Without waiting for an answer, she sighed and leaned up against the desk, brushing strands of windblown hair out of her eyes. "Is it Vincent? How's he doin'? I hope that sickness of his you were talkin' 'bout over the phone wasn't anythin' serious."
Elira shook her head, lowering her eyes. "Benita...I..." She couldn't tell her, could she? At least, she couldn't tell her everything. Maybe if she just skimmed over the more painful parts, it would relieve some of this lonely misery. "Yesterday, I told you that Vincent became sick, right?"
"Right."
"So we went back to his apartment and I put him to bed. He slept so long that eventually I fell asleep beside him. But then, when I woke up..." Elira looked up from Benita's face as the bell over the door chimed once more. And then she did a double take, her jaw falling open, as the person entered, letting the bell sound again as the door closed behind them.
Vincent walked through the front room as he had every single day he'd worked at the little shop. As he passed the desk, he gave Elira a slight nod.
Without missing a stride, he stepped into the forge.
Benita shrugged. "He looks like he's feelin' better. Now, you were sayin'?"
Elira stared at Benita with her mouth open for a few moments before she was able to form words. "Um, but then, when I woke up, I...uh...I was worried because...um...he told me that he wanted to come to work today even though he'd been sick. But, I...guess I really didn't have to worry about it after all because he looks fine now." She gave a giggle that was pitched higher and shriller than she would've liked, making her sound nervous.
Benita raised a concerned eyebrow, but all she responded with was a quiet, "Oh," before wandering into the forge, shaking her head a little.
Elira spent a full two minutes just staring at the surface of her desk, her mind racing. Hadn't he essentially declared the end of it all last night? She'd recognized the whole scene; all of the feelings had been the same, as if time had turned back the clock five years. A disagreement, herself yelling into stubborn ears, and then a painful parting. But, where was the parting? He was here.
Elira frowned in confusion, feeling a balloon of happiness floating beneath the surface, but feeling also unable to pop it. There was some key here, some pin to burst the bubble. Something she had to realize. What was it? Why was he here? It had all happened before, but now the ending was different. Why? History hadn't repeated itself completely. There had been a change to the story.
Why? Why?
Because the characters were different.
Elira chewed on her bottom lip, dimly aware that she'd bumped into the reason why.
She was older now, not the little girl who'd married her childhood sweetheart. She knew of pain; she knew of life. And so did Vincent. In fact, even though he didn't look as if he could be more than five years her senior, she'd sometimes felt him to be decades older. He knew pain; he knew reality. He wasn't the dreamer Eagan had been.
He wasn't the delusional idealist Eagan had been.
This was the way the story should've gone in the beginning. If only the characters had been more than pictures in a history book...
Vincent was the reality. He was real. And he knew she was real. They were both so similar; it only made sense to think that if one was real, the other had to be. They couldn't hide from each other. They couldn't hide the 'bad' things; they either trusted each other, or left each other.
Eagan had left. The woman Vincent had loved had left.
Vincent had almost left. But, he wasn't Eagan.
And so, he had come back.
For the first time in her life, Elira felt as if perhaps there wasn't something wrong with her after all.
It took almost more strength than Elira had to prevent herself from running into the forge after Vincent, to prevent herself from dragging him with her to a place where they could talk. Where she could thank him. But it was during business hours right now, and she'd messed around with her hours enough for the time being. It would have to wait until the lunch break.
The minute hand of the clock moved as if it were made of the heaviest lead.
Though the day was actually moderately busy, Elira created reasons for entering the forge. A customer came to pick up a weapon they'd ordered the making of, so she retrieved it herself from the cabinet in the forge where they were kept. There was a little bit of dried mud on the floorboards, so she needed the broom and dust pan from the closet in the forge, and then she had to put them away when she was finished. Even when there was nothing that required that she go back, she did it to check up on her employees, or to stretch her legs. Benita began to make a little 'hmph' noise whenever Elira entered, as if laughing at some inside joke.
Elira tried her best not to look obvious about watching Vincent work. But Vincent didn't seem to notice her presence, his head bowed low over his hands so that his hair obscured his face. Elira was almost thankful for his disregard; she didn't know what she would've done had they made eye contact.
Eventually, the shop became busy enough that Elira stationed herself at her desk. The hunting season rush was starting in trickles; the customers would dribble like this through the door for another week or two before the real flow began. In a week or two, the animals that were commonly known as Kalm-fangs, wolf-like creatures with fur so purple it looked almost black, who normally stayed further north near Kalm during the warmer seasons, would be coming further south as the weather cooled. Down to Neo-Midgar into what once had been chocobo territory, where the swamp was the nearest neighbour.
Kalm-fangs were not dangerous animals when left to themselves. But, because of the price one purple pelt could fetch in Neo-Midgar, they were hunted enthusiastically.
So, weapon shops in every sector had their work cut out for them.
Elira had already decided long before to put Vincent solely on customer orders while she and the others concentrated on forging as many of the hunting models as possible. That way, they would have less of a chance of falling behind as customers made less orders, looking more for a shotgun or rifle they could buy that day so they could hunt the next day, or on the weekend.
The minute hand of the clock moved as if being blown forward by a strong wind.
Looking up to check the time as the last customer of the latest rush exited, Elira realized that it was nearly twelve. With hurried steps, she made her way to the door and changed the sign from open to closed before anyone else could enter. And then she wandered into the forge.
"Lunch time, guys!" she informed them over the noise of the running lathe. The lathe was switched off a second later and her employees began to stir from their work, stretching. Everyone except Vincent who sat at his station, carefully engraving designs into one long barrel piece of the customer-ordered rifle as if he hadn't heard Elira speak. Benita was the last of the other workers to leave, and she winked at Elira as she left. Elira began to wonder what Benita thought had gone on in Vincent's apartment during the night.
Once she and Vincent were the only ones left in the forge, Elira walked up to stand across the table from him. He didn't look at her. Elira pulled up a stool and sat. Vincent continued engraving meticulously, though Elira doubted the chore needed his full attention. She leaned her elbows on the table and rested her chin in the palms of her hands.
"I thought you were leaving, Vincent."
There was a moment's silence. "So did I."
Elira waited in vain for Vincent to explain what had changed his mind. "What happened?" she asked finally, wondering what the trouble was, wondering why he was refusing to speak. He'd come back of his own choice; she hadn't forced him. If he had a problem with it, why had he returned?
Vincent stopped engraving for an instant to allow a shrug, though he kept his eyes on the barrel. "I discovered that you were right. And so, I modified my decision."
He discovered that I was right. Though his voice betrayed nothing, Elira thought that perhaps he was upset. Leaving had seemed like the perfect course of action to him, and then she'd come along and turned it all upside down with the truth. Elira looked to the intricate design he was etching, noticing as she had many times before how lithe and steady his hands were; even the prosthetic fingers moved with a certain delicate rhythm. Elira questioned idly in her mind how long he'd had the metal arm. To have mastered it like this, it had to have been awhile, maybe a few years. "You modified it?" She smiled as he raised his eyes to look at her, hoping to coax from him a more detailed answer.
"Yes."
Elira fought a sigh of exasperation as Vincent lowered his eyes to continue his work. "So, you discovered I was right and you modified your decision."
"Yes."
Elira frowned, taking her elbows from the table as she leaned in closer. "What does that mean, Vincent? In my language."
Vincent raised his head and met her curious gaze with an unreadable one. "I spent the remainder of the night trying without success to find an error in your logic. But I came to the conclusion that you weren't wrong. I was indeed letting fate control me when I believed I was defying it. Therefore, I changed my plan of operation. In order to defy fate, I will have to...make the attempt to live."
Elira couldn't stop her grin, feeling happier than she could remember feeling in a long time. In one quick motion, she stood and slipped around the table, wanting to hug Vincent, wanting to thank him although it sounded like his decision had been made more for his own sake than hers. As she neared Vincent, though, he got to his feet also and moved hastily away. Elira stopped walking in confusion.
"Vincent? I thought you were willing to..."
"Not that." He had his back to her, letting his words drift to her from over a shoulder. "I have decided to defy fate, yes, but I am not a fool. I will allow a friendship between us and that is all."
Elira tried not to feel offended by his cold manner. "Vincent, I wasn't going to..."
"I know," he interrupted her, though his words were softer now. "But your proximity, whether you intend it or not, makes me...uncomfortable. I will have to ask you to keep your distance physically, please. I will only risk a friendship."
I will only risk a friendship...not love...not again...
Elira nodded, but then realized that Vincent couldn't see her and replied, "That's fine with me, Vincent. I'm not looking for anything more than friendship, either. It works out great this way for both of us."
Vincent stood motionless in front of her a moment before nodding. He then turned to sit again at the table. Elira noted how expressionless his features were, as if they had been discussing nothing more personal than the assembling of guns. And then she went up to her apartment for some lunch.
At the end of the day, Elira locked all of the money up in the safe behind her desk, ready to leave the shop closed the next day as the religious rule of Neo-Midgar required. She wasn't surprised when Vincent ended up being the last one to leave. Standing beside her desk as she closed the safe, he spoke.
"Tomorrow afternoon, would you like to come to the park in MiraCletus?"
Elira glanced up, a little puzzled by his choice of location considering how ardent he was about keeping their association friendship only. But Vincent looked completely serious. With a shrug, Elira said, "Sure, why not? How about around one o'clock?"
Vincent nodded once. "I will be here at one." And then he departed.
Elira stood from the safe and brushed off the knees of her pants. Tomorrow at one. She sighed and ran a hand through her curls. And then she frowned, wondering why she was feeling angry, feeling frustrated. What had she wanted? Another chance at what she'd had with Eagan?
Yes. The answer was immediate. She locked the front door and turned off the light in the front room before wandering into the forge. All right, so she wanted what she'd lost. Vincent probably did, too, somewhere inside. But he knew that neither of them were ready, as did she. Neither of them were ready emotionally, and Vincent wasn't ready to risk that particular agony if, by some cruel twist of fate, she did somehow end up dying. So it would be a friendship, and she would go with him to the park as a friend. And they would make the next dent in the lonely shells that had surrounded them both for too long.
She turned off the light in the forge and ascended the stairs to her apartment, prepared for a light supper and a good night's sleep.
She would need a good night's sleep.
She would be visiting Terry tomorrow.