Disclaimer: Many of the characters, places, and events in this story are based on those in Chrono Trigger and Chrono Cross. They are the sole property of Square-Enix, and are being used without permission for this experiment in writing. Likenesses shared by any of the other characters, places, and events that are NOT outwardly historical or real are purely coincidental.

Chapter 1: The Grave of Christopher O'Kelly

My name is Father Paul Riley. And I hate funerals.

Perhaps hate is too strong a word. Let's just say they never got any easier. Ever. I was often told - that is, back at the seminary - by the time I reached the double digits, I'd be more steadfast than St. Agatha herself. Yet I still managed to choke up delivering a eulogy or leading the loved ones in prayers. Seeing the sadness frozen on their faces, hearing the sobs and wails from those who shall never experience the pleasant company or warm smiles of the deceased again, in this lifetime, was all it took to send me over the edge. I tried my best to avoid them, most successfully through small calendar revisions or trips to visit the family. Yes, life's little "adjustments" went a long way.

Though when Regina O'Kelly requested I lead Chris' funeral, I couldn't refuse. After watching Gina, as she was more affectionately known, cry her eyes dry in my humble Staten Island office, I only wished I could do more. The plump, Irish red-head was a regular at my parish - a gregarious, genuinely caring woman who slaved away at a hair salon to provide for her son. And to have him taken so young, barely twenty-two, a few months after his wedding, well, my heart crumbled to bits. No mother should endure the loss of her child, and I did everything in my power to ease her burden, if only a little.

The burial was unlike any other I'd lead, the hot and muggy summer day a perfect backdrop for the heated crowds that congregated at Trinity Church, on the corner of Broadway and Wall Street. Lower Manhattan's totalitarian skyscrapers completely dominated life below, congesting the flow of traffic. It was a constricted space, fueling fiery passions in a sea of angry New Yorkers, seeming to batter the good intentions of the solemn gathering with all the grace of an abusive husband. Even the church appeared spiteful, its pyre-like Gothic form providing no relief from the blazing sun overhead. Rebuilt in 1846 and standing since, Trinity and its adjacent cemetery endured the countless trials of the ages, cultural springboards to New York's rich and romantic past. No one wanted anybody to meddle with this history.

Yet Chris' widow Nadia had acquired a plot at Trinity Churchyard for her late husband. In a statement she released to the press, she claimed he deserved "a hero's burial". Don't ask me how she pulled that one off, no body or soul interred there since the 1800s, his grave a short walk from the likes of Robert Fulton and Alexander Hamilton. Of course, the press was all over the place, flocking like seagulls around the gates and police barricades.

You know, I've always seen the media as seagulls. They fly in, make a lot of noise, crap on everything, and fly away as quickly as they came, often with something I wasn't in the mood to share. The analogy never failed to bring a smile to my lips, even there, where the number of camera crews, news vans, and paparazzi bordered on ludicrous. This was a story for the tabloids - a story of a boy who kidnapped then fell in love with the heiress to the Guardia Company fortune, gunned down by some Latin American country's political insurgents caught in a stalemate with police, and buried in New York's most famous cemetery. Definitely fit for the tabloids, not CNN.

Then there were the opinionated residents and public officials, parading with signs like they had nothing better to do, protesting the defiling of historic grounds by a "common criminal". I didn't believe much of what I read in the papers, especially when it came to the boy I watched grow up. Sure, he had his faults, but no worse than the teens I counseled in my Youth Ministry department. No matter what people said, I didn't believe he brainwashed her into marriage to get at her family's wealth. The love I felt between them was pure and unadulterated. The small glances, the knowing reflected in the young couple's eyes, I'd seen like a gift. And even if that weren't the case, I still didn't believe the stories, for Gina's sake. She was stuck with a lot of the mess that went on, out of the unconditional love for her child.

The group of attendees gathered near the grave that afternoon was small, a few family members and friends. Everyone was on edge, attempting to ignore the chaos from beyond the fences that echoed off the scattered headstones and grew louder. Gina stood in the front with Nadia and her parents. Behind them were the Asian girl I met at the wedding, Lisa Chang, and her parents. I knew Lisa was one of Chris' high school friends, and her father was in R&D for Guardia Co. Some of Gina's and Chris' other friends attended, as did some Guardia officials, Trinity officials, official press. Okay, so there were more officials than family and friends. But the funeral felt like it should - a touching, poignant ceremony that left a lasting impression. As soon as I mounted the podium and welcomed everybody, the irate shouting, clicking of cameras, and general din from the city evaporated, as if the laws of the universe demanded a moment of silence for the boy's passing.

Gina was an emotional wreck. I gave her as many comforting looks as I could, holding back tears while proclaiming a solid Canticle of Luke. Fortunately, my sentimental tendencies were distracted by the widow beside her. The angelic young blonde, dressed as darkly dismal as the rest, barely flinched, her soft yet rigid countenance and icy eyes fixed upon the closed casket. She clutched at the cross she wore around her neck, the blood all but drained around her whitened knuckles and fingers.

For the life of me, I couldn't read her emotions. She didn't appear grief-stricken, but was in no way happy either. A touch of sadness, yes, maybe some anxiety, and perhaps even a glimmer of hope. To what end, I wasn't sure. But her attitude held me transfixed, to the point where I found myself staring, and despite being the center of attention, I hoped no one noticed.

I ended with a customary final prayer, the Latin rolling gracefully from my lips. "Requiem aeternam dona ei, Domine. Et lux perpetua luceat ei. Requiescat in pace. Amen." Gina was the only one who performed the Sign of the Cross with me. I assumed as much, the Van Drakes and Trinity Church itself were Episcopalian. Concluding the ceremony, I thanked everyone for coming, and gave Gina a consoling embrace as the gatherers dispersed. Nadia's father left to confront the protesters and press, sacrificing himself to the wolves so the others could make a hasty escape. Whispering in Gina's ear, I told her to depart with the others, that I'd see to everything else. She left willingly, though not without one last look at her son's final resting place.

I left soon after to clear some closing details at the church office. The process, which included a friendly chat with a Trinity pastor and a dodge-the-question session with a television crew, lasted little more than an hour. Returning to give my own final prayer of salvation for Chris, I was surprised to find Nadia there, sitting at the foot of the freshly filled grave and staring intently. I was close enough to touch her before she noticed my arrival, jumping to her feet in alarm.

"Oh, I'm sorry Father. You startled me," she said, wiping the earth off her billowing black dress.

"I didn't mean to sneak up on you. It's been awhile since I've had a chance to speak with you. I.. err.. only wish it was under different circumstances. May I join you?" She seemed not to hear, and we stood together for a long amount of time. I had to admit, I was worried about how she was handling her husband's death. Either she was stronger willed than most people, or was not yet gripping the reality of the situation. Her hand remained wrapped around the cruciform on her neck.

"That's a lovely piece of jewelry you have there," I mentioned, awkwardly breaking the silence. "I meant to say something at your wedding."

She slowly opened her hand, granting me a better view. The item was exquisitely crafted of an iridescent material, resembling glass embossed with silver in several Celtic designs, all suspended on a silver chain. A piece of the bottom segment was visibly broken off. "This? It's been in the family for generations." She closed her hand again. "I was wearing it when I met Chris. It reminds me of... a lot of things."

More silence. I supposed I was a little over-zealous in thinking she would open up to me. I met her few times, wasn't part of her religious denomination, and happened to be there solely because of Chris' mother. My eyes wandered back to the grave and the simple, bleach-white headstone that contrasted the faded, ancient grave markers around it. The inscription was in Gothic print.

Here we honor

Christopher O'Kelly

February 3, 1982 - July 17, 2004

May he remain a light for our future

Beneath were a number of symbols like nothing I'd seen before, their significance as enigmatic as when I first laid eyes on them.

Nadia turned to me. Her eyes melted before mine and seemed more like dams, supporting a flood of pent-up memories and emotions waiting to burst through. "Father, may I ask you a question?"

"Certainly."

"Well..." she said, "it's more of a philosophical question. Something that's been on my mind recently. You being a man of morals, I'm hoping you might be able to help me."

"Sure, go ahead. I'll try to answer to the best of my knowledge." I forced a reassuring smile, and she shuffled uneasily.

Pausing a moment, she took a deep breath and continued. "Let's say, hypothetically, I find myself in a position where I can save a number of people's lives. Doing so would be the right thing to do. Correct?"

"Well, yes." I wasn't sure what she was getting at.

"But let's say saving them meant other people would die, or not exist at all, and I know this. Would it still be right?"

"Err.." I was taken aback, never confronted with that kind of question before. It was theoretical musings, something to be debated by clergy analyzing passages from the scriptures. Yet her buoyant cheeks and tender lips were constricted to the point of pain, and the fist around her cross was shaking. Obviously, the strange question plagued her conscious, though what bothered me was how the question was more of a worry than the loss of her husband.

"That's quite a, umm.. unique question, Nadia," I stuttered, tumbling over words that gave me time to think. "I'd say... that the Lord only holds you accountable for your own actions. And not just the actions, but the intentions behind them. If they were done for good, to save people, as you said, then that is all that matters." Finding a sudden inspiration, I followed my train of thought. "For those who would die, it would be by the choice and free will of another, by either sin of commission or omission, but still by their own choice. Do you understand?"

"I think so," Nadia said. "But what about those who wouldn't exist, for instance, those who are never born because I intervened with the lives of one of the parents? Again, hypothetically."

I chuckled at the absurdity of the question, but when her face flushed with offense, I quickly cleared my throat and said, "It's impossible to know how your actions will impact somebody else's, though I believe that if someone were meant to exist, nothing you, I, or anyone else could do would be able to change that. God gives all his children a chance at life, it is only our actions as humans that can tend to cut it shor-" I stopped, remembering whose grave we were standing beside. "I'm.. uhh.. sorry."

Nadia smiled. "It's okay. I knew what I shared with Chris wouldn't last forever. I know Chris loves me, that he's smiling down on me now, happy to have spent his time here with me. And I'm satisfied with that knowledge." She sighed, her features focused on some distant thought. "I've been... keeping the truth a secret for a while now. The truth about our relationship..." The cemetery was empty, but she lowered her voice to barely a whisper. "Father, I'm not sure how much time I have left. Nor does Lisa. But I... have a heavy cross to bear." I listened, a deep unsettling suspicion churning in my stomach.

"Are you busy tomorrow morning?" she asked.

"No."

"Then meet me at the coffee shop at 13th and Broadway at nine, if you can." I nodded.

We spent the remainder of the time in front of the grave until the groundskeeper kicked us out. Her words circled dizzyingly through my head, conjuring up all possibilities. The unsteady wavering in her voice, the look in her eyes, all had me feeling nervous. I didn't know what I would be getting myself into. My compassionate side only wanted to help the girl, while my boyish curiosity wanted to learn more about her and her secret dilemma under the pretense of priestly aid. It felt underneath all the more wrong, but I didn't care. I was going to see her again.