Author's Notes: This is a letter (imaginary, yes, that's fan fiction for you) written by Raine for Laguna, while she was (supposedly) watching Laguna goof up during the early days of Laguna's stay in Winhill. Now, it's been a while since I've played ff8 (three years ago... ?), so I'm sorry if I get some facts wrong. -_^

Disclaimer: YES. Square owns Raine and Laguna, and all the other FFVIII pertaining facts, darn Square for not giving their relationship enough angst, though, and for letting Raine die! Bleah. Other than that, the plot, er, I meant the letter, is all mine! Ha!


Desperado Journalist

A violet by a mossy stone

Half-hidden from the eye!

- Fair as a star when only one

Is shining in the sky.

- She Dwelt Among The Untrodden Ways, William Wordsworth

My dearest Sir Knight and journalist,

There you go, again, Laguna, making pleasant talk to just about anyone who'd listen to you. And just about everyone does, you know! They all drop everything they're doing for the chance to hear your stories, told with such animated gestures, and what surprises me is that they really listen.

Yes, and that goes the same for me, too. All you really have to do is look at me and I'd be mesmerized. But you wouldn't know that, would you?

* sigh *

Laguna, Laguna. Sometimes I wish I hadn't seen you that day - that day when you were wounded and you had no one else to care for you but me. Maybe if I hadn't seen you then, then maybe I wouldn't be feeling all of these right now.

You confuse me, Laguna Loire.

But oh, what am I thinking?! You were the one who changed our lives, and I'd go through it all again just to have you here with us. Amusing us with your adventures, telling us of your friends, becoming a father for Elle, even making me like the thing I dislike the most - swashbuckling! (Though that, of course, is something I'd never tell).

It's almost funny how this town's changed so drastically when you arrived. Before you, Winhill's citizens were all a deeply mistrusting lot. Most of us cling so fiercely to old beliefs that I can't help but feel caged at times. We were quiet. Isolated from the rest of the world.

But then you came. My very own desperado, in Galbadian uniform, no less. And for the first time in my life, I'd had the pleasure of seeing a person become so vibrantly alive like you. I remember even now how I used to think to myself (I still do, actually) that you were like passion personified, especially in the way you practically exude life out of you that it'd be hard-pressed indeed not to share in your zest. Your speak with too much gusto, your eyes sparkle so much, your arm theatrics too wild, and your long hair so adorably tousled (it also tends to keep falling into your eyes, making me wonder if it's all part of your charm), for anyone not to notice you.

You're my journalist too. You are my eyes, and the world I see through yours is just nothing short of utopia. You have that rare talent of seeing everything too clearly, and yet you've still managed to retain enough of your childhood naivete to see a better everything to what we have right now. A world where there is no sorceress breathing down our necks. A world of peace.

And yes, * sigh * a world of flowers - white flowers, to be exact. And a world full of snow - our gift from the faeries.

"I'm in love with you, Laguna Loire. Who wouldn't be? Even that singer, ¦Julia Heartilly, is it? I bet she was in love with you, too. Whenever I hear her song on the radio, my eyes would go reflexively to you - and I see.

I see the way your eyes glaze over, with fond memories perhaps, and I'd give anything to have you look at me like that. To have you look at me as if I were a small miracle, but a miracle nonetheless. But I might as well wait forever, now, wouldn't I? In your eyes, I'm just and always will be the girl who saved your life. The girl who grows such beautiful white blossoms, the flowers of Winhill. Your general who orders you around, like patrolling the outskirts of town. How unromantic can you get? Now if only I was a sorceress, then you would be my knight. But that'll never happen, so it'll never be enough.

Your gratitude is welcome, but I'd take your love any day.

You see, I can never be like her. For starters, my hair is a dull brown (like a brown mouse, you used to say, until Elle pestered you day and night for calling me that, and naturally, you had to give in), not midnight black like hers. My fingers are battered, used to tending plants my whole life; while hers are delicate masterpieces meant only for the black and white keys of the piano. I have my flowers; she has her music. And her song for you. (Yes, I had always known it was for you). Unfair, really.

* sigh *

I think I'm going to end this now, Laguna. You're heading my way already, and knowing you, you'd probably regale me with more of your stories and you won't stop until I cry with laughter. But I won't let you see me cry. See, a general doesn't cry.

Well. At least, for the meantime, I'll have your eyes on me.

(But deep inside, I can only yearn, and yearn, - and yearn, for more... )


Yours forever in your journeys,

Raine