His Last Letter

The quietude that descended upon the tiny fishing community was a peaceful one. The palm trees on the coast rustled gently as a light breeze wafted in from the mainland and the soft glow of the twin moons turned the vast sea of El Nido into an ocean of glittering diamonds. The placid lapping of the waves upon the shore seemed to reaffirm the serenity of the moment as the world slumbered around the little village of Arni.

Leena sighed softly as she looked out on the water's shimmering surface from her wicker chair. It never really changes at all, she mused to herself. Sixty years had passed and great transformations had taken place. Wars had been fought, kingdoms established, nations destroyed, and yet, the sea was the one great constant amid the chaos. There were numerous occasions when things had developed so rapidly around her that she too wished that her life would just remain as it were, never to change with each passing year.

Time, however, was an obstinate entity; uncompromising and unwilling to stop its flow.

She looked up at the heavens and was greeted with the splendor of a night-sky populated with millions of stars, each trying to outshine another. She smiled to herself as memories of the past gradually began to fill her mind. She had shared countless moments like these with that one, special individual. Leena suddenly became overwhelmed with grief and tears began welling up in her eyes.

"Serge," she whispered, "my dear, sweet Serge…" She sobbed quietly, glistening rivulets of tears staining her cheeks in the pale moonlight.

They had never married; one another or anyone else. A drastic turn of events had all at once changed everything in the blink of an eye. Old feelings and notions were swept away following that fateful day on Opassa Beach. And once those events had subsided, things had progressed too far for the old ways to return. Serge's homecoming from the journey to another world had had a profound effect on him and it seemed vaguely obvious to the both of them that a real relationship was never a question that begged for an answer. Serge had his interests and she had her own. There was, at the very least, a display of reluctance by both young people to establish a lasting and loving bond that would eventually flower into something greater. Leena had said many times that "they were still young" and Serge had always agreed with her, often piping in that "there's always time for us later, right?" She would concur and the matter would draw to a close. Yet the both of them harbored deep emotions for one another, but neither had the courage to express those precious feelings with words.

As the years passed by, Leena and Serge would find themselves in different relationships, with different people. There were times when they would be filled with bliss and happiness, and there were occasions where nothing but melancholy and discontent would exist. The common outcome, however, was that all of Serge's and Leena's experiences would end in them being lonely again.

But they were never truly alone. They would unfailingly devote themselves to each other in times of need and would unabashedly share their joys and sorrows. They would spend countless hours together chatting at Opassa Beach, gazing at the night sky, or simply engrossed in each other's company at Leena's home. Serge would write to Leena whenever he found himself away from Arni, be it on a lengthy fishing expedition, or on an extended trip to Viper Manor up north. And she would return the favor. Eventually a pile of letters accumulated, a testament to their devotion and a witness to their inability to express what they truly felt for each other.

The strange courtship-that-never-was continued for years onward until a time when Leena's bright vermillion hair had turned to a graceful white and Serge's youthful visage took on the appearance of a wise old gentleman. Even as they witnessed the passing of time and the effects it had upon them, they still could not say those three little words that would have served to bring forth the love that they felt. In old age, Leena and Serge would spend even more time happily immersed in mutual company. Whereas the rest of their physical appearance displayed the marks of age, their eyes still spoke of their youth; a time when a red-headed Leena and a blue-haired Serge would sit on the soft sand of Opassa to dream of a future that will never be.

The letters continued to flow and the frequency increased when one day, Leena found herself no longer able to make that previously short trip next door. Serge, however, would pay her many visits, each time bearing a small gift from the beach where they used to go to distance themselves from the world. On days when he would feel the effects of old age, Serge would write Leena a letter. Sometimes two, sometimes three a day and she would take great joy in receiving these little messages from her dear companion.

Then one day the time came when the visits and the letters stopped and the warm glow that used to permeate from the house next door on cold nights was extinguished. The village mourned for him and Leena, heartbroken, found herself alone; this time without anyone to turn to, to speak with, or to hold.

The village chief handed Leena a small wooden box three days later, saying only that it was found under Serge's bed and that she may wish to keep it. The little box contained many small mementoes: several unused Element crystals, a necklace that she recognized as the one Serge had worn in his younger days, a lump of red coral, letters that she had written to Serge, and a sealed note with "LEENA" penned neatly in the center of the yellowed parchment. She carefully broke the wax seal, read its contents, and began to cry.

"He had loved me with every ounce of his being," Leena said to herself, "And he never told me for fear that I wouldn't return his feelings." But she would have. She had yearned to hear Serge tell her that she was everything to him, that he would hold her and never let her go even as the world fell to pieces around them. There they would stand, locked in a loving embrace for eternity. "He never told me, and I, too, was afraid to let him know how much I longed for him."

The breeze picked up and Leena pulled her blanket closer, her hair shifting gently in the wind. She gradually closed her eyes, Serge's letter still clutched in her right hand. The waves continued to lap softly upon the shore, a soothing lullaby that eventually drew Leena closer and closer to sleep. "Dear, sweet Serge…how I love you so," she whispered and fell into silence.

"Leena?" A familiar voice broke the hush that surrounded her. "Leena?" She could feel the warmth of the sun on her skin and, to her surprise, of sand between her fingers. Her eyes fluttered open and immediately focused upon a familiar and comforting face looking down upon her.

"Serge?" she said. There he was, blue-haired, eyes as beautiful as she remembered; wearing that same impish grin that warmed her heart on countless occasions.

"Didn't get much sleep last night, Leena?" He laughed. She started at him briefly and also burst into laughter.

"Oh, it's nothing," she replied, "Must have dozed off." She threw him a big smile.

"Alright then!" he said, "We'd better head to Termina now if we're going to catch Glenn and the others on time." Leena nodded and he got up and extended his hand to her. She seized it and rose to her feet. Just as Serge was about to leave, she grabbed his wrist and pulled him back.

"Serge?" she began.

"Yes, Leena?"

"There's something I'd like to tell you."

And she told him.

Her brother found her the next morning as he came by to drop off some fish he had caught. She was seated in their grandmother's old wicker chair that overlooked the pier and across to the El Nido Sea. She had passed on quietly in her sleep sometime during the night, a colorful blanket still wrapped around her fragile frame. A piece of parchment was found in her right hand, yellowed with age, but its marks still plainly legible. At the very bottom of the note was a simple phrase, penned in shaky handwriting that was unmistakably her own:

"His Last Letter"