Chrono Cross Second Journey

Fan Novelization

4   A Reminder of One's Self

The sun had begun to set. Its huge fireball burned a streak of red that stretched the horizon and rippled in the dense heat, as if the horizon itself were on fire. The pale blue end of the gradient was now a splash of vivid navy on the eastern skies, as night swept in to relieve the day, to relieve El Nido. Plenty more stars have emerged, dotting the clear, falling night with steady glimmers. The two full moons hung high overhead, their glows nowhere as empowering, glares nowhere as blinding as the fiery sun. The white moon, obscured by a darker, smaller red moon, emanated a halo gentle to the eyes and warm to the heart. They were the beauty of the night sky, though not the savior of the lands that were still cooking from the heat.

A lone eagle soared through the western skies, its wings spread in gentle flight, pressing ahead to its home nest. A lone Beachbum sat atop a rock, watching the sun with silent eagerness as it rolled off the edge of the world. A lone toad croaked in the undergrowth along the sand path towards Cape Howl. A lone teenager dragged his tired feet towards his own grave, towards his own past.

Serge made his way to the outcrop veiled in fiery amber of the sunset. He approached the rock protruding from the ground that stood the way he knew. After he braced himself for the worst, he walked to the protrusion and bent down to inspect the words:

Rest in Peace.

Our beloved Serge, age 7.

No one can ever take anything away from him.

No one can ever give anything to him.

What was given to us by the Sea,

Has only returned to it.

Serge read with his jaws hanging, but the earlier shell-shocking devastations reduced this one to nothing more than chills running down his spine. Ten years ago, he almost drowned, but was found washed up ashore alive. He was destined to good luck for the rest of his life, as his villagers (before the world changed) commented, after the two occasions he walked back triumphantly from the face of Death. It seemed that He who had attempted to take his soul twice had now chosen, instead, to take his life. Not the life which was defined by the beating of heart, but that which was the experience of living.

He was dead. This was a fact, but one that failed to shake his resolve. He was still determined to win the gamble against the cards of fate, for he knew that he did not live the past ten years in his dream, that they were all real. He would be able to find them back.

Somehow.

"So you must be Serge," a voice came from behind, "the ghost of the boy who died ten years ago."

Serge stood up and turned around to come face to face with the voice who spoke the painfully true reminder. Three men walked towards him until they stopped twenty feet away from him, sealing his path to freedom in the woods beyond. His back faced the edge of the outcrop, off which would lead to a shattering death on the rocky shores below.

The leader wore long blue hair and a white sleeveless kimono-styled robe over a muscular build. He stared at Serge with a frown on his face and a pair of brows furrowed in displeasure, unflinching, uncompromising, as if his expression was etched and permanent. Wielding a fearsome-looking single-bladed axe that complemented his frown, the man appeared intent and serious. Yet, the stern eyes that reflected the glare of the setting sun reflected warmth, compassion and distress from behind the front of cold.

Two guards flanked his sides, dressed in unpolished, unflattering gold-plated armor over a light-grayish kilt that reached the knees. The uniform was of some regime familiar, one he could not instantly recall. One of the guards was short, fat and held an axe smaller than the leader's. When he walked, his body swayed outrageously from side to side as his metal parts of his armor clanked noisily. The other was tall, skinny and held a longer axe that was as long as he was tall. His silly, sleepy face, coupled with his long, thin, black moustache, would have brought Serge to his knees -- laughing -- if not for the cold numbness to all emotions brought about by the shocks earlier.

Serge retreated towards the edge of the outcrop.

"Don't move!" the leader of the three demanded. "There's no escape that way. All you have to do is come with us."

"But, Sir Karsh," said the skinny guard with much excitement. "Do you think it is truly true that this chap is a ghost? He seems like a perfectly perfect young boy to me."

"That doesn't matter," replied Karsh. "We found the boy here, just as he said we would, didn't we?"

The fat and the skinny guards nodded to Karsh in unison.

"Now seize him!" Karsh ordered.

"Hold your sea horses!" shouted a girl's voice that was so boisterous, it could pass off easily for a man's.

Serge looked up to see a young, slender girl standing on a low cliff several feet above looking down at them. She rested her weight on her right, her right hand at her waist. She sported a blonde ponytail and a unique ornamental tear-shaped necklace around her neck. She was dressed in skimpy, pinkish cotton under a striking red that hugged tightly her well-blossomed assets and revealed her well-toned waist. With just as revealing a skirt that bared her lower limbs, this girl seemed proud to flaunt her feminine curves. The tough front and a boyish posture she carried complemented, rather than contradicted, her bold dressing. A dark blue scabbard, on a belt wrapped her waist, protected her exquisite, hand-crafted dagger that was demonstration this girl was no easy pushover.

The young girl smiled and nodded at Serge as if she greeted an old friend. Serge found her strangely familiar.

"Who the--"

The young girl leapt off the cliff and landed onto the sandy ground in front of Serge, swift as she was slender.

"Out of the way, missy!" demanded Karsh as he swept his left arm before himself. "You don't want to get hurt, now, do you?"

"Shut your trap!" swore the young girl arrogantly. "You're the ones who had better get out of the way." She spoke with an accent not of El Nido, and with haste that melded words into a string of mumbles.

"You have a problem!?" the fat guard said with a shaky voice. "Do you have a shaking idea who you're dealing with, missy?"

"That's enough!" roared Karsh as he shifted his gaze back to Serge. "Listen up, junior! Our orders are to take you in, and we don't want to hurt you. Just come with us. Or else, this axe of mine will have to do the talking."

"For crying out loud!" the young girl swore at the top of her voice as she slapped her palm to her forehead. "Would you just shut up and get on with it! I will kick your sorry arses so hard you'll kiss the moons!"

The young girl drew her dagger as Serge raised his swallow.

"You'll regret you ever said that, missy!" Karsh said, as he signaled his guards forward. The fat and the skinny guards looked at each other and then at Serge. They moved into their fighting stance and inched slowly towards Serge.

After an emotionally devastating day, these comedians had arrived to provide comic relief. The fat moved slowly, but his cumbersome body swayed outrageously. The thin bopped up and down with every step he took. The two danced in unison, as if to some inaudible rhythm only the two of them could hear. The fat growled and tried to frown as angrily as he could, but the more effort he put in, the more comical he looked. In face of such attackers, Serge could not help but let out a soft chuckle. The young girl turned her head to face at him, her expression cross. Serge gulped, gripped his swallow and prepared to defend himself.

"Capture him!" was the order. Karsh lifted his axe with his hands and charged at the young girl, roaring furiously. While they began to exchange blows, Karsh's guards stared at Serge, at themselves and back at Serge until they finally decided to run to Serge. When they were close enough (still about ten feet away, actually), they stopped, straightened their body, and adjusted their weapons and tried hard to look even mightier than before. Then, they started inching, again, to Serge.

Karsh swung his axe at the young girl's head. She ducked to avoid while she thrust her dagger towards Karsh. Using the momentum from his axe, Karsh turned his body sideward to dodge the incoming dagger. With a dexterous twist, the young girl pulled her dagger up towards Karsh to slash at his chest. Karsh withdrew his axe to cover his chest, his back arched in defense. Sparks flew as metals clashed.

The fat and the skinny stopped about five feet before Serge. The fat swung his axe down at Serge's head while the skinny thrust his spear at Serge's chest, both actions coordinated, as if choreographed. Serge sidestepped to his left to avoid. The guards withdrew their weapons, and continued their attack, duplicating the move of the first. Serge jumped to his right. The fat and the skinny stared at each other, as if bewildered at Serge's cleverness. After a long while of silent communication, if any, they withdrew their weapons and continued their relentless attacks. Left. Right. Left. The guards executed the same maneuver again and again, their feet planted into the ground.

The young lady remained one-on-one with Karsh. She slashed her dagger from right to left at Karsh's chest. He turned his axe head down and withdrew it to his chest for cover. The dagger struck the axe's hilt with a loud crank and yet more sparks flew. Karsh roared and swung the head of the axe up and forward into the lady's face. The young lady arched backwards, twisted swiftly to her right, reached out her right hand to the ground to support her fall. The moment her right hand touched ground, she roared as she shifted her momentum into her legs and flung them both up and into Karsh's chest. The impact from her kick and the momentum of his still swinging axe knocked a defenseless Karsh back. He fell on his back with a cry of pain, his axe slipping and crashing to the ground a few feet behind him. The young lady got to her feet, yelled, lunged at Karsh's side as her right hand gripped and drew her dagger for a slit at his throat. Karsh rolled promptly to his left leaving the dagger slashing into the ground, whipping sand into the air. He rolled back and heaved with his both hands the young lady, felling her to her left. Seizing the window of opportunity, Karsh stood up and bolted for his axe.

Serge made a final jump to his right on their next attack, as he swung his body and his swallow a full round to his right towards the fat. The swallow slashed through the fat's gold-plated armor with a huge crash, missing his chest by barely a finger. The impact refused to nudge him off his feet, however, for he was too heavy. The fat looked in horror at his damaged armor. Flustered, he began to sway his clumsy body violently from side to side. The skinny was so astonished that Serge beat his comrade that he stood rooted to the ground frozen, looking frightfully at Serge with his jaws dropped.

"S-Sir Karsh!" shrieked the fat as he continued his swaying performance. "I say we shake it on out of here, so that we can live to fight another day!"

Serge stared at the skinny guard whose eyes looked fearfully back, whose legs wobbled like jelly. Serge thrust his swallow into air and threatened another attack, at which the skinny one gulped hard.

"These are no ordinary brats we're dealing with!" the fat cried out in shameful defeat as Karsh picked up his axe and prepared for another swing at the young lady. The fat turned tail and dashed between Karsh and the young lady and then into the woods. Karsh held back, momentarily stunned by the sudden appearance of his comrade in the line of his coming swing.

Seeing his comrade run away, the skinny withdrew his spear and bolted straight for the woods. But he tripped and fell hard on his face. "Wait for me!" he cried as he struggled to his feet and bopped up and down towards escape as his voice of a clown faded into the woods.

"Damn cowards!" Karsh scorned at the two, before he turned to the lady and said sorely, "As for you, missy, we won't forget this!"

Karsh turned away from them and headed back into the woods.

"Losers!" she mocked loudly. "I'll be happy to take you on anytime!"

Serge stared at the girl who had come to his rescue. Help from a stranger was something he had almost forgotten existed in this changed world. He was appreciative, but the crude mannerisms and the way she carried herself under the skimpy outfit disgusted him. Yet, he had to admit that from behind the toughness stood out an extremely beautiful woman. And it was her toughness that made her charming just as it made her repulsive.

The girl turned to and walked towards him as she slid the dagger back into its scabbard.

"You alright, mate?" she asked bluntly with almost no hint of concern in her voice. "Serge. Your name's Serge, ain't it?"

"Y-yeah," Serge replied and swallowed hard. His heart began to pound heavily at his ears. "H-how about you?"

"Oh, me? My name's Kid," she replied, peering up to her fringe and brushing dirt and sand from it. That done, she fixed her eyes back at Serge. "Nice to meet you. I just couldn't stand by and watch those blokes gang up on you like that. They just pissed the bloody hell out of me. By the way, why was that mob after you?"

"Thank you, but I don't know either," he replied with a shrug. "I have never met them before."

"What do you mean you've never met them before?" She raised her voice as she walked forward, bent towards Serge and peered into his eyes.

Serge arched back to keep his distance from her, who was too close for his comfort. He came to realize that he was being stared upon, and that he had trouble taking his eyes off her as well. He saw her face behind the white finger-painted at the cheeks, roughened and tough, filthy but alluring. He saw through those eyes of pearl blue that stared into his own, and saw in it, himself in the warmth of her company. He felt her breath tingled at his lips and teased and toyed with his senses that made him male. His heart raced quickly, his breathing went out of rhythm, his face flushed hot as if the sun's heat still stung. Embarrassed at himself and his hormones for firing up at the wrong time, he plucked his eyes away from Kid.

"Ah, forget it!" she surrendered noisily as she straightened up.

Relieved, he stood upright comfortably.

"Hey, Serge! How about you and me team up for a while? That Karsh fellow isn't going to just leave you alone, that's for sure! And to tell you the truth, I'm new to these islands. It's pretty lonely traveling around here on me own."

He was about to say yes when he decided that words ruled by the heart should not be made in haste. He ransacked his mind for reasons to reject his own instincts, to reject her kind offer. He found one eventually and chided himself for faltering at such a task so simple. She being loud-mouthed was reason good enough, for his ears were already beginning to ring from her shouting and yelling.

"So, how about it, Serge?" Kid said as she turned around and smacked Serge hard with the back of her hand on his chest. "Perhaps it was fate that we would meet up like this."

Serge grimaced. She was the benefactor, but he was reluctant in returning the favor in the form of company and a punching bag, or that's what he forced himself to think.

"Er, no," Serge said resolutely.

"Hang on! Are you telling me that you are going refuse the company of a lonely, vulnerable, sweet little girl?" Kid strained her voice into a tone soft and gentle. She bit her lip, slouched, brushed her end of her ponytail at her cheeks, tried to act dainty but failed miserably.

Serge gaped at her in bewilderment then shook his head in disgust.

"You sure there, mate?" Kid said, back to her loud self. "You might live to regret it."

"No, thank you, man!" Serge said, complete with sarcasm.

"Well, have it your way, mate!" She walked away from Serge to the woods. "I'll be heading up north to Termina. That's where those blokes come from, in case you want to know. It'll be getting dark pretty soon. I suggest you go find a place to shack up for the night. Well, see you!"

She bolted and disappeared into the woods, her steps silent and swift.

Serge heaved a sigh of relief. After indulging in the newfound peace and quiet for a while, he turned back and walked to the stone protrusion. He bent down, gritted his teeth and read the last two lines of the inscription again.

What was given to us by the Sea has only returned to it.

North was where he would go, too. Serge had to investigate the identity of Karsh, whom Serge was convinced had knowledge of his death ten years ago. The two guards donned the uniform that spoke of some underground regime that had involved itself in this matter. He knew that there was a greater power at work than the waves that swallowed him, his life and the world around him. He knew that there was an enemy more tangible than the omnipresent Death, who must seek more than to transform the life of a lowly village peasant. He needed to know Karsh's role, and especially how the regime behind him was responsible for Serge's current plight, and where they had hidden his mother.

The sky was getting dark, reminding Serge that he had better be home soon. He realized he really had none, but at this hour, any roof would do. Without the tents and the instincts to survive in the wild, the only place he could return to was Arni, the only place that was familiar.

Serge stood up and walked slowly back to the village. He would find his way to Termina tomorrow.

Nightfall sees the parting of some. The last rays of the sun disappeared below the distant horizon and dragged along with it the cape of blue across the huge dome above. The last of the flocks had departed for the last flight to their destination.

Nightfall sees the coming of others. The silver and the red moons to which the owls woke, the wolves howled. The gentle waves of the sea became louder, clearer now, as if during the day, the sun gave light to the earth in return for the sounds of nature. This nightfall saw the coming of darkness to which Arni had fallen; fallen under the shadow of the night which Arnians strove to defeat with candles and oil lamps; fallen to some hideous, shady plot that no Arnian could defeat; a plot that turned the whole village against Serge.

Most of the villagers had retreated to their homes. Some of them would already be asleep by now, if they could tolerate the racket from the lively tavern. Those who were not asleep were in their own huts having their dinner or enjoying a family gathering. Others would be at the tavern for their version of gathering with booze and groundnuts.

From the village entrance, Serge could faintly make out the village center under the pale double moonlight and the yellow rays that streamed out of the tavern beside the village entrance. The crowd inside made racket so loud it could wake the Dragon Gods who lived on the Dragon isles, if they were still around. The din would turn down as the night went on, when the booze and fatigue finally set in. Until then, they drank, sang, played the banjo and the drums, joked, laughed and exchanged stories, news and the most absurd gossips of the current.

Serge walked and entered the tavern, and was greeted with an elliptical wooden signboard that wrote 'Cafe Fleur,' pinned up near the counter. Oil lamps painted the tavern's wooden interiors and its customers a dull ambient of yellow. Dry, withered vines of roses of blue, lavenders of dull purple and ferns of green drooped from a fishing net under the straw ceiling. Potted plants flourished at every corner of the tavern. Cloth posters of food, promotions, advertisements, announcements of major events around the El Nido archipelago hung on all walls. A short flight of steps led from the back of the tavern to the small, cramped inn rooms.

Serge's presence silenced the din and invited attention from the tavern crowd, Arnians and non-Arnians. Most of them stared at him; others, at his double-bladed swallow. All kept a straight face. Their grim eyes were the archer's bow, from which arrows of the arctic cold fired and pierced into his heart and his flesh. He quivered with fright, cold and a pain that had no language to describe. He found his breathing quickened and his heart pounding, as if he were struggling for air to make up that which he lost to the mortal wounds.

Plucking courage and his foot off the floor, he inched slowly towards the counter, where a waitress, youthful, dressed in a white dress and a brown apron stood.

"Room for you, sir?" she asked politely.

"Y-Yes," Serge replied, his voice trembling. "A r-room, p-please."

"Anything else, sir?"

Serge felt his trembling hand to his pouch of cash. "I'd have the least expensive s-set dinner, p-p-please."

"Take a seat, sir. It'll be ready in a moment."

The crowd talked among their own selves as Serge took his seat at an empty table. He was at the center of attention, the central theme of their discussion that was being passed on from one table to another in silent whispers. He felt the oil lamps in the room focused on him, and the rest of the tavern slowly shrouded itself in darkness. The faces that seemed displeased and wary of his presence faded from his view. He heard only the whispers thundering unintelligibly at his ears, and the sounds of the crashing of pan and ladle and of his meal being prepared. He tried to pull himself together, to lift his head confidently for he did no wrong. But he found that the muscles in his neck failed him and let his head fall and hang loosely, as if it were axed by an executioner, but axed poorly. He tried to find composure amidst the unwanted attention. But he found that it had departed, like his mother, his childhood friend, and everything he held dearly to his heart.

"Can I?" asked politely a familiar voice.

The daydream -- the nightmare -- burst like a bubble and gave him air to breathe. The cold faces that had stared through Serge now smiled amongst their beer-buddies. Toasts were raised, nuts were tossed and mugs were overturned and proudly slammed onto the fragile wooden table top. The crowd had decided that Serge posed no threat, conveniently forgotten him and was now drowned in its own racket. There were others, though, a minority of them, who were lone travelers, who stared and cast suspicious glances while they sipped at their mug.

Serge turned to Leena, who had already assumed the given permission and taken her seat beside him. She was just out of the bath for her red hair was wet and glimmering and her fragrant jasmine refreshingly sweet. She appeared uncomfortable. Her eyes were focused intently on an oil lamp at the center of the round table, her hands tucked into the skirt between her legs, her body shifting restlessly about on the wooden stool.

The waitress arrived with the set meal that was a mug of water, a huge bowl of barbecued chicken and baked potatoes that simmered and smelled delicious.

"Enjoy!" the waitress said with a smile. She cast a cheeky glance and a wink at Leena who managed to slap the waitress on her arm before she left the table and returned to her work.

A sudden growl from his tummy reminded Serge that he hadn't eaten for the day. For the moment, he cast the feelings of many ills behind, and dug hungrily into his meat and potatoes when he heard a soft, sweet giggle to his side. He turned to Leena and caught her giggling before she realized Serge was looking and stopped. She bit her lip tight and turned back to the oil lamp, controlling her laughter.

"Is something wrong?" he mumbled with a mouth full.

"Don't talk with food in your mouth," she reprimanded with a straight face that was trying hard not to giggle.

Serge nodded and went back to his food to finish the onslaught. The meal was satisfying, for it not only satiated his hunger, it took his mind off the day's events for that moment. It also made him burp boorishly.

"Why, you look like a pig!" Leena joked.

He burped again.

"Was that enough for you?" she asked.

"Yes. More than enough."

He took a deep breathe and heaved a long, quiet sigh. He took a sip of water from the mug and then drifted to his thoughts and the memories that had taken ten whole years to accrue, ten real years to experience. He recollected the days that brought smiles to everyone's faces and tears to everyone's eyes. He understood and could still feel the emotions he shared with the villagers and those he kept to himself. He recalled the birth of newborns and the passing of the elderly that surely must have happened.

The contradiction seemed like a huge cloak pulled over his villagers' eyes, blinding them from the truth. He wondered which person would have that a great power of magic in this day who could orchestrate such a massive feat. Real magic, he heard, had been lost since the ancient kingdom of Zeal, which was rumored to have existed some twelve thousand years ago but later mysteriously vanished from the face of the earth. The only real magic that existed today was that of the Elements, the very essence of the earth, which he assumed was incapable of such unearthly transformation.

"Serge, right? It feels kind of odd calling you that," said Leena. "You look glum. Care to share?"

"I don't know. I really don't know what's going on."

Leena remained silent, her eyes fixed on Serge as if waiting for him to continue. Serge ran through in his heavy, burdened mind the long and shocking day, and each new event that was a bigger surprise than the last.

"Leena?" he said, gazing into the lamplight. While everyone else in the tavern continued their chattering and laughing, he fell into a world that belonged to no one except to two of them. He listened and spoke only to her.

"Yes?" said Leena. The giggles were gone. Her expression was serious.

"I don't know how to put it," he said slowly, his tone heavy and monotonous.

"Take your time."

"I lost everything today."

Leena nodded.

"I... used to... I live in Arni village."

"What?"

Leena's persistent doubt came as no surprise, but it came as a disappointment, too.

"Just this morning, I woke up in my room. My room was in the house beside yours."

"What?" she almost shrieked.

"We made plans for our summer program. No, you made plans for our summer program, don't you remember?"

"I don't think--"

"We arranged to go down to the Lizard Rock, to collect Komodo Lizard scales for your necklace. But I woke up late, and for that I apologize. I overslept because I was up late cleaning my room last night."

"You don't have to apologize--"

"It was mom who woke me up. I even remember she told me not to make you wait."

"Your mom?" She raised an eyebrow, completely baffled.

"Yes. My mom. I went to the pier to look for you. You were there watching the kids. You said you couldn't go with me to get the scales yet, because you had to baby-sit. You told to me to go on ahead and that you would meet me later."

"Right."

"I got the scales and waited for you at Opassa. When you arrived, I gave you the scales and you commented how pretty the scales they were. Then you sat and talked about the sea, about memories and about growing up. It was then I heard a voice."

"A voice?"

"Yes. A strange voice. It seemed I was the only one who heard it. You didn't."

"Go on."

"Then a huge wave crawled up to me. Before I knew, I blacked out. When I came to, everything changed."

"What changed?"

"The village looks different now. I discovered I died ten years ago. You told me mom passed away, too. And you... don't even recognize me."

"But--"

"I went to Cape Howl. Visited the grave -- my grave. Three men came up to me. Their leader was Karsh and the other two his guards. They seemed to know something, and were expecting me. They called me a- a-" -- Serge struggled for the difficult word -- "ghost of the boy who died ten years ago."

"A ghost?" Leena asked slowly, disbelievingly.

"You don't believe me?" asked Serge.

"I..." Leena hesitated.

"Go ahead, Leena. Just tell me what you think."

"I am not really sure. It seems to me you hit your head or something."

Her reply was as straight as it was hurtful.

"No!" she quickly corrected. "What I meant to say was: I think it seems like you had some kind of accident and hurt yourself. You're really someone else, but you think you're the Serge who died ten years ago."

"I don't blame you," he said sadly, still staring into the lamplight.

"I'm sorry!" Leena sounded both apologetic and guilty. "I didn't mean--"

"I want my Arni back, Leena. I want my mother, you and my family of Arni back!" he said firmly. "I must get to the bottom of this. I think I will head north to Termina tomorrow, where I heard this Karsh can be found. There should be leads there, I'm sure."

Serge finished his mug of water.

He had spoken his heart and shared his troubles. He had never spoken so much in so little time, not even to his mother before everything changed, before she was taken away. He never understood how troubles could be poured out like water could. He never realized how they could flush the anxiety, the depression and the despondence like water flushed dust and dirt. The dust would return, and so would the ill-feelings. But at least for a short moment, one could be set free. Indeed, his heart was lighter, his mind freer.

Leena still didn't believe him. He was grateful nonetheless that she would even listen.

"Thank you, Leena," Serge said gratefully. "Thank you very much."