CHAPTER I

ECHO OF A LOST PAST

The vast domain of the ocean stretched as far as the eyes could see. Crimson and gold light from the setting sun danced merrily upon the surface, glittering as a sea of countless gems. Alone on this vast and tranquil expanse a lone boat swept through the water. It was a small fishing boat, in the style of a catamaran, with an offset second hull. Its single white sail fluttered in the gentle evening breeze that pushed the boat onward. At its prow stood a solitary figure, staring out aimlessly at the sea. He smiled at the world around him, and at the peace that dusk brought.

He closed his eyes, the soft sea spray washing across his face, the wind blowing merrily through his deep blue hair. He opened his eyes again. In the distance the shore of land was just visible, floating upon the horizon. It was home, for him. He turned from the prow of the boat and grasped the tiller in the rear. The small craft was nearly full with a day's catch of fish. Even so he was nearly sad to be returning home, for he loved the sea, not least for the solace it provided.

The boat glided softly across the water with hardly a sound, the distant land growing swiftly larger. The boy at the tiller put his hand in the sea, allowing the cool, rushing water to flow between his fingers. Looking to the west he saw the crimson sun falling slowly into the sea.

"Hey, Serge! You're back!"

The boy glanced up sharply. He had been too intent on staring out to sea that he had failed to realize he was nearly ashore. A small fishing village lay on the coast not a hundred feet ahead. Upon a pier a young girl stood waving. It seemed that she had been waiting for him. Returning the greeting, he expertly guided the boat to the moorings.

"Did you have a good day fishing?" the girl asked merrily as the boat glided to its place.

The boy nodded. The fishing had been very good, much better than most days. He leaped from the boat onto the solid wood of the pier, and the craft rocked backwards. He quickly grabbed a rope from inside the boat and tied it fast to the pier so that it could not return to sea of its own.

The boy, whose name was Serge, was but a few short weeks shy of eighteen and so, by the customs of his village, was very nearly held to be a man. His stature was not exceptionally great, but about what was common in that part of the world in those days. He also looked younger than he truly was, his boyish face taking some years off his age. From atop his head locks of deep blue hair cascaded down before his eyes; their hue, even as his hair, seemed to echo that of the sea itself. But hair was not naturally blue; it was certainly dyed, and this was not an uncommon thing in costal Arni, which was his village and home. The face below the hair was gentle seeming, though his two blue eyes were constantly alert as those of a relentless hunter or warrior, in strange opposition to his simple calling. And, though he for the most part disliked speaking at much length, he was as friendly as anybody might be to those that knew him well.

All told he was much like all the other youths of the village. And even so he was dressed in the customary manner for a young fisherman. On his feet were large sea boots stained through long days of use; long blue pants that fell down nearly to the mid of his shins that were traditionally embroidered; and a dark shirt with short cut sleeves. In a slight breaking of custom he wore across his chest a coat of linked iron rings that served little purpose in his daily life other than appearance sake (for in those waters, as in most, the fish were not a menace to those who hunted them, and mail has never been a fisherman's garb). But the remainder of his clothing was all very much common: a belt of black leather fastened with a silvered clasp; worn leather gloves that would not last out the year; and a faded red cloth wrapped fast about his head that kept his hair, for the most part, from his eyes.

The girl now standing upon the pier before him was also dressed in what was customary of the village tribe: a long and simple dress of deep blue, covered with elaborately embroidered overclothes in varying shades of maroon and black. Lengthy brown hair fell back unrestrained from a quiet, gentle face, with kind eyes.

"Hi Leena," Serge greeted her with a smile. "Been waiting long?"

She smiled as she replied:

"No, I just wandered out here a little while back. I was watching some of the neighbour's kids, but once they went home, I supposed I'd best wait for you."

That was Leena; she was always helping in the village in some way. Whether doing odd errands, watching children, or any other thing, she did whatever she could to ease the life of the other people of the village.

"I see fishing was pretty good today," she noted, kneeling and taking a glance into the boat that rocked gently in the evening waves.

He nodded, stealing a short look at his boat and making doubly sure there was no chance of it coming loose in the night should there be a storm.

"Really good," he said with an absent voice. "The sea was perfect..."

They strolled off the pier and continued down the sandy beachfront that ran between the village and the ocean. He spent most days so, speaking with Leena after a day of fishing. She was certainly his most dear friend, and at times, he thought, perhaps more than even a friend. Moreover, she was ever willing to listen to whatever he might say, which was always a joy to him. This especially during the past few months, ever since a disquieting experience he had had, talking to Leena on the beach in just such a way.

He had been with her, albeit in the mid-day and farther down the island, talking. Then, for no reason he could remember, he had fallen unconscious. He could recall little of those few minutes, yet he seemed to remember that he had heard a voice or some sort, or someone calling his name, even as he had passed out. Leena after told him she hadn't heard a sound but the sea.

And his memory in this matter was not something to be trusted. When he had awoken he had been very uncertain of everything. He could only remembered Leena kneeling over him, trying to revive him. Then, he couldn't recall for what reason, he had stood up and asked Leena a puzzling question. A question about fate, and a some strange thing called Terra Tower. He had no idea, neither now nor then, what it meant. However, he had the distinct impression that he had known at the instant he had uttered the question but, just as a dream fades from memory on the moment of awakening, the words ceased to have any meaning to him. He could never remember why he had spoken them. Leena had borne it with her usual grace, dismissing it as a mere dream, the product of an idle mind and too much time under the sea-sun. But Serge was not fully certain as she seemed to be. He had tried to assure himself that Leena was, in all likelihood, correct, and had succeeded for the most part. Yet still his heart had un-quelled misgivings. To that end he had inquired about the words at far flung islands when he had had the opportunity: at Guldove and Marbule, both known for wise and learned people, and even at Termina, the capital city of the region. Yet no one had given him a sure answer. And so he had been left to discover what he might on his own, and to decide whether or not it was of importance.

The greater part of him went with the reason of his mind that told him, as Leena did, to ignore what had happened. But somewhere in his heart a whisper seemed to hint otherwise, and it was a persistent whisper, moreover. He had often voiced this to Leena on their evening walks, but, as compassionate as she was, she had no answers.

He looked at Leena, walking beside him on the sand. Perhaps had the incident remained only as a single thing, he would have forgotten about in these months. But it had not ended.

To his grave disquiet the event seemed to repeat itself each and every night as he slept. His unconscious mind was haunted by mysterious images he could never fully remember when he awoke. He stared out at the departing sun, watching it set in its customary red-golden glory.

"I had another dream last night..." he muttered in a near whisper.

Leena sighed, having known by his face from the time he had come ashore that it was so.

"Forget about them, Serge," she replied, stopping and turning to face him. "You can never remember them anyway. I know you say that you think they mean something, but really, how can you know that? Dreams are just that, no matter what the old stories say."

Serge halted also and, turning his face from the sun, looked at Leena.

"Maybe. I know that Leena. I tell myself that every day. And I keep thinking that maybe each night will be better, but it never is. So, maybe there's something more to it. Maybe not, but I just don't know. And that's the problem: what if I'm wrong? What if it really means something important that I'm supposed to know about?"

Leena nodded compassionately.

"I understand that, Serge. But," she looked from him to the sun, which was now touching the sea, "What are we doing talking about this now? Whatever it is, it's probably not about today. Let's just forget about it for a while and enjoy this evening. If you watch the sun set, maybe you'll feel better."

Leena was right. What was the use of worrying about future or past? The future brings what it will, though what, none can know. One can only make the best out of what it holds. And the past no one can change, so to what avail should one worry about it? Truly, it was the present that was of greatest importance. For the manner in which he lived now would shape his past, and determine the form of his future. Leena understood that, and it brought him somewhat of a peace to think in those same terms. Whatever the future held, he would face it then, but live his life now.

"You're right Leena," he said, hoping that she was, "I shouldn't worry so much."

He smiled as the sun dipped into the vast ocean and wished all days could end so.

----

The night was falling upon his village by the time Serge made his way home. A cool sea breeze blew in from the ocean, and the first stars were now beginning to show. It was nights such as these that made life worth living, he thought, as he stepped lightly into the village. The calm of darkness had descended on the village like a solemn veil, only a soft light still lingering in the west as the last rays of the sun vanished from sight. He wished Leena a good night as they parted company, and she made her way home. Alone now with the darkness, Serge breathed deeply of the night air, relishing the twilight. Striding at a calm pace, he crossed the small courtyard that lay at the middle of the village. About this space were set most of the buildings of the village, a dozen or so houses built in the traditional style of the El Nido islands: tall, with their bases raised on stilts his height off the ground. The material of which they were made was plain, being constructed of native palm wood and roofed with the leaves. These made for thankful shelter from the infernal midday sun, and cover from the monsoon rains that came in torrents once or twice every year.

His mother, a woman like to most of the others that lived in the village, stood at the door of his house, and greeted him merrily as he strode up the tottering wooden stairs to the main floor of his house. He smiled at her, but could not fully conceal his mind, as it had become troubled with concern again. His mother frowned, seeing something amiss with his mood.

"What is it Serge, my boy?" she asked, eyeing him carefully. "You look worried again. I know I've asked you before, but is something bothering you?"

Serge did not enjoy speaking much, and did not particularly wish to mention his dreams to anyone other than Leena; she was the only one who knew.

"I'm fine. Just had a long day fishing," he stated. His mother sighed, yielding, but certainly unconvinced. The two strode indoors, leaving the door open to night air, as everyone in Arni customarily did. Being a small village, everyone in Arni knew and trusted everyone else as next of kin. Locks and bars were not usually necessary, except perhaps to ward off wild animals, but those seldom entered the village. And as for thieves...there was not much of great value in such a poor fishing hamlet.

However, on this night, unseen by all eyes, a dark figure strode boldly in the front gate of the village, and silently mingled into the shadows surrounding the buildings. The darkness veiled the figure like a cloak as it glanced about with bird-like caution, seeking the village for something. Finally, fixing it's a sharp gaze on Serge's house for a brief moment, it turned and faded completely into the night.

Serge walked into his room, exhaustion finally overcoming him. It had been a long day at sea, and the fishing had indeed been good, though more tiresome. Yet, in a way, he did not wish to sleep. His mind was troubled, and had grown ever more so as the weeks had passed, despite Leena's enthusiastic encouragement to forget about it. The elusive dreams that haunted his sleeping mind, as a ghost felt yet unseen, gnawed at his thoughts. Indeed, as he had told Leena many times, he could never remember what they were about. But this had soon begun to disquiet him. Only vague images flitted into his mind from time to time. The dreams themselves never failed to slip from memory on the moment of awakening, as if some other power was attempting to keep them from him. A strange, and utterly ridiculous thought.

He dropped down on his bed, removing his sea worn boots. It was odd, but he was certain the dreams were something more, something more important than simple stray thoughts. A warning? He contemplated this for a moment, but decided for some reason that that at least was not the case. No, they were no warning, but something else of importance to him...

Serge turned, nearly falling off his bed. He had heard a sudden noise at his window. A dull crash, as if someone had struck wood. He waited a moment that seemed to last forever, his senses heightened by momentary fear. The dark palm leaves swayed in the wind outside his window. And nothing happened. He shook his head, aggravated by his unfounded fear. In all reason, there was nothing of any danger to him, most especially not in Arni. It was late evening after a long day, and now his disquieted mind was playing tricks on him. In all likelihood it had been nothing more than a branch blown awry in the wind...

"Will you hearken to me, Chrono Trigger?"

This time Serge did indeed stumble off his bed, landing hard on the wooden floor. A voice had come from the darkness outside, whispered in unsure question. That in and of itself would have been enough to frighten him. But the words caused his mind to spin. They echoed in his head, sending images sweeping through his mind. But before he could place any meaning or importance upon them, they melted away. It was then that his momentary confusion was replaced by fear. Now he could sure something had addressed him. Summoning his courage, he stepped to the window sill and leaned out, staring out into the darkness. However nothing but shadows and darkness met his gaze. He cursed himself for his mind, so easily fooled by the noises of the night as a little child. Perhaps he had been dwelling too much on his dreams.

He shrugged with a sigh, unsure as what to think, and more than a little unsettled. He turned from the window and strode to his mirror. Absently unbinding his bandana, he flung it onto the dresser, letting his long deep blue hair fall down over his eyes. Serge ran his hand through his hair and sighed. He silently wished, prayed, every night that these elusive dreams would leave him in his peace, so that he could wake without questions about what he knew not. What had he done to be cursed with this torment? Nothing. That he knew full well. And such was the way with things. He turned from the mirror, hoping that this night would be better than the last.

But before he could take but one step forward he froze, too startled to move. A dark figure stood crouched on the sill of his window. A cloak concealed his entire body, and a hood shrouded his face in darkness. It did not say a word, but simply kneeled there, as if waiting for Serge to do or say something. For long they both stood motionless. Serge did not move, uncertain as to what he should make of this dark intruder. Likewise the figure crouched frozen, with such alert stillness that Serge could feel himself being studied keenly from beneath the shadowy hood. But as the seconds passed, and nothing happened for the worse, his fear transformed into curiosity.

He took a small step forward, unsure about what he should do. His mind told him to run, that no good ever came from such mysteries, but some part of him desired to know who, perhaps what, this visitor was. His reason still admonishing him to run, he broke the dead silence that lay between them.

"Who are you? I'll have you know that my window isn't a door. And even if it was, you could be polite enough to..."

But the stranger had raised a gloved hand and, without question, Serge stopped in the midst of his words. The cloaked phantom stood up in the sill and jumped lightly into the room, making hardly a sound as its feet hit the floor. Now in the candlelight of the room Serge could, for what it was worth, see it better. Whatever it was, it wasn't exceptionally tall; it was no more than his own height at the most. It was robed in a dark blue cloak that shimmered slightly. But Serge's heart chilled when he saw what could be nothing other than a sword hanging at the figure's side. A silvered hilt gleamed as it shifted about, glancing from side to side, still not affording Serge a sight of the features that lay concealed. But now it spoke, not evil to Serge's ears, but with a calm voice, yet deep and sure:

"Yes, I know well who you are, Serge. Verily, I know you better than even you know yourself, you who was once the second Chrono Trigger."

Once again Serge had been addressed so. And, as before, a strange sort of understanding sparked through his mind, only to fade into oblivion. The figure shook its head shortly.

"I see that you do not remember what that means. Though not unexpected, it is a pity, for it makes things difficult."

The figure spoke gently, almost in a friendly manner, though with disappointment clear in its voice. Serge found himself angrily wondering at what it was that he didn't remember about that title, for he had never heard it before.

"Have I met you before. I mean, do I know you?" Serge questioned, hoping for some answers, at least. And hoping that they would be to his liking.

To Serge's discomfort, the figure laughed. A strange laugh, as if slightly amused by the question.

"No, never, my friend. But I know much of you, and of what you did."

Serge frowned, much confused.

What had he ever done to merit attention? Surely this stranger wasn't interested in his fishing.

"You do not understand," the figure acknowledged. "Do not worry yourself, it may return to you, in the due course of time."

It paused for a moment. If Serge had seen its features, he would surely have seen a light of a sudden thought spring up in its eyes.

"Maybe it already has?" It continued. "Perhaps you simply cannot understand it for what it is..."

Serge's mind was struck dumb by this. Could it be possible that this mysterious visitor was referring to his dreams? No, that was beyond reason. He attempted to banish the thought, but the figure seemed discern his very thoughts as he had them.

"You are having dreams, then? And you cannot recall them? She said it might be so."

Serge didn't answer, but the stranger seemed to read the truth in his eyes.

"She was right then. It is returning to you after all. But you do not know it yet, and you fear it. Yes, the unknown is most always frightening, even to the boldest of men."

And mystifying, Serge added bitterly in his mind. What was this phantom talking about? These cryptic hints and suggestions of some secret were beginning to bother Serge. But the figure continued, heedless of Serge's uneasiness.

"For now all I will say is that those dreams hold the echo to a past that you have forgotten."

More cryptic hints, and his mood was hardly for riddles.

"My past? Now that I really don't understand," Serge replied, more uncertain now than ever, and with a slight anger coming over him as well. The figure laughed lightly, not easing Serge's temper in the least.

"Of course not. How could you be expected to? But you must be wondering who I am, to so boldly come to you like this..."

The figure lifted his hands and threw back his hood. For a moment Serge was prepared for the something terrible. But his fears were not founded. The figure was indeed human, and neither monster nor mystic. Serge could but guess, but it seemed that he was some thirty years old. His features were sharp and somewhat scarred, and his eyes were keen as a hawk's. From his head fell long unkempt hair, remarkably and almost unnaturally red, kept in submission by a tattered white band that held his hair from his eyes. There seemed to be an air of adventure and valour about him. And it seemed his face showed one who had seen much of the world, but had not nearly yet tired of life. He smiled kindly at Serge, as if he had long awaited this meeting.

"So, we meet at long last. Long have the threads of our fate intertwined, our stories but two chapters of a single tale, and yet have never met. This will mean nothing to you as of yet, but I am called Crono, and was, on a time, the first Chrono Trigger."

How true, thought Serge bitterly. It was meaningless to his ears, save for those two words that he had heard before: chrono trigger.

"Chrono Trigger?" questioned Serge, yearning to know the reason as to why those words seemed to harbour so much meaning. The second was plain enough, and the first seemed to be of some old language, maybe Greek. The man who called himself Crono nodded, with a reminiscing smile.

"Yes, Chrono Trigger, as some might say it, though there are other names as well. For we have both played a part in forging the history of this world that we know, challenged fate and defied ancient powers; yet in the end, we have persevered. But that all is a tale for a different time, and there is only one who can tell it to you fully, and as you should hear it."

This didn't answer his question, much to Serge's vexation. But the man continued heedless of this, saying:

"But that is not why I've come. To come in by windows is not the habit of skalds and tale-tellers. If you must know, I've come to you seeking your help..."

"Me? But why? All right, you've had your say. Who are you then? Are you some mercenary swordsman?" Serge asked, taking into account both the ragged, travel worn appearance of the man, and the sword that was fastened at his side. Then, thinking on the last words that had been said, a new question dawned upon him: "How could I help you?" Serge demanded, his impatience growing apace.

But the man shook his head, casting out all chance of answers.

"I think this is well nigh enough for our first meeting. But mark this: it won't be our last. I'll meet with you again. Farewell till then, Serge Chrono Trigger, defender of time and the world."

Serge was about to beg him to stay, but with a short bow the man darted for the window. Serge followed after, both grateful and angered by this sudden departure. But the man was too quick. In one swift movement he had leaped onto the sill and slipped out the window, blending like a shadow into the darkness before Serge's eyes. From the night a few last words reached him, saying:

"And remember the Chrono Cross!"

Now what was this? The Chrono Cross? Images swept Serge's mind, almost as of a long forgotten memory or a dream come to play on the its surface: there was a shining light, and then the face young woman arrayed in crimson. But it all too quickly they faded, leaving Serge clutching once again only at questions. His mind was uncertain and rang with disquiet, but his heart was astir: something was rising, and when it did, his questions would be answered.

Yet at that time the mystery was still heavily upon him, and it took him long to find sleep that night.

(Last Edited August 17, 2004)