Disclaimer: I do not own ANYTHING, it's all the property of either Square Enix or my twisted imagination.
A/N; Wow! My first non-Harry Potter fic up here! Three cheers! Yeah. Sorry. This is basically one of those stupid angsty tear-jerker things. I think it's better, but I just had to write it. Bye. Review.
I live for him.
That's all I do.
I don't want to commit suicide, per say, but I definitely won't be disappointed if some fiend is a little too powerful for me…if I can't be brought around with phoenix down…
I wouldn't be sad.
Then I'd join him.
But every night, I do anyway. In my dreams.
He's a dream: he can play with mine. He comes to me, in my dreams. In those dreams, I do what I want, he does what he wants. It's as if I'm living another life, at night, when I'm asleep. Our relationship progresses as any other couple's does. We fight. We kiss. We make up.
The dreams may not be what I live for, but I live for him. Him and all the other people of Spira. They need me. They need me to be their leader, and however much I secretly want only to be with him in my heart or hearts, I am their leader. During the light, I am good. But I live in the moment. I do not think of the past. I try not to think of him. Those thoughts are reserved for our time together.
Wakka doesn't understand me. He tells me that I must get over Tidus, Tidus is gone, Tidus was a dream, Tidus thus could not have really loved you.
Dreams can feel. Dreams are not dreams in another world.
I know this.
Wakka tries to get me to fool around with other boys. He tells me that I should have some fun, get an heir. Lose my virginity—I'm no longer a summoner.
Do I tell him that that is something long gone, in another world?
Only Lulu and Rikku really get it. They look at me with empathy in their eyes—no sympathy; they've both lost a love—when I stand on the docks of Bevelle (the capital of Spira and where I live, of course) and whistle, long and loud, at sunset. Hoping somewhere subconscious that he'll hear me and come to me in the waking world. He never has.
I'm older. My hair is long, and I've long since given up looking in mirrors. Tidus always tells me I'm beautiful when I see him in his world, but Tidus loves me and would say anything to make me feel better. I'm not that old, though. Only forty years old, maybe. Maybe less.
I feel older. I feel the blood in my veins slowing down, at times. But I always shake it off. There is always something to be done. And there is really always something coming near me when I stare off to se at times like these, tugging on my skirt, wanting Great-Auntie Yunie to come play with them or whimpering pitifully.
They always snap me out of the waking dreamworld. The one that I should not be in. The daytime belongs to the world I am physically in. I cannot depart from it until it is my time. I have my duty. I have the love that is here for me—the love of Wakka and Lulu and their children and their grandchildren and Kimahri and Rikku and Gippal and their grandchildren and their children and the people of Spira. So I live—I'm cheerful and happy, wise and a good ruler, friend, aunt, and cousin. I'm not eager to die. But when I do…I don't think I'll have to be sent, to make sure that I won't stay on Spira and become a malicious fiend. I don't think so.
Only sometimes do the bitterness and the depression show themselves. They are on the anniversary of his leaving, when his face haunts me all through the day. That day was also the day that I made my speech. I have never forgotten my dream that has faded: my love.
I have written my feelings down for everyone who wants to know about the true Yuna. I may write more as I get older. As I get wiser. As I get closer to my departure.
Now, I write again as I have promised. I'm really old now. I must be—it has slipped my mind to write in this until now. Well, maybe that is not all that shows me.
When I look in the mirror I cannot see my face for the wrinkles. My hair is falling out and is wispy white. I have great-great-grand-nephews and –nieces. Everyone comes to me for advice, and talks very softly in my presence—treats me as if I will break any moment. People the age I was when I wrote the above entry look young to me.
Spira no longer needs me.
It's time—maybe that is why I was prompted to write in here. Yes. It is time. All my friends are dead. Everyone's younger than me—new ideals are brought to the front; mine are worn and ragged. My blood slows and thins. New blood must be brought in to free Spira of my old ideas. It is time.
Once I am gone, Spira will mourn. I know that. But then they will get over me. And it will be the better for it. Death is needed to keep the circle of life—there is no getting around that; and I will not say any more on that.
I still dream of Tidus. It is the same as before. But I slip into that dreamworld when I am awake, now. I cannot help it. He has made himself look the same age as I. He's waited patiently for so long. I have too. Soon I will join him.
Soon, I think, is right after I lay down the pen with my trembling hand. I just want to say one more thing—a corny one, a bit of an overused line, but nevertheless…maybe I'll be quoted around Spira.
Listen, children. Children. I have had none of my own, but all of Spira: you are my children. Listen, children. Love has bound me to this world and love has pulled me from it. I have resisted the pull of one love, and embraced the other. I go to this love I have resisted now, with no regrets. I could never regret loving. No one should ever regret loving. And, as one of Tidus' favorite quotes from yet another world goes, "For the well-organized mind, death is but the next greatest adventure."
Remember. Remember everything that you can. Remember the love. Remember me.
Goodbye.
The old woman—Yuna—lays down the pen and seals up her manuscript in an envelope. "To Spira, to be read aloud at my funeral," she inscribes. Then, sighing, she lies back in her leather chair.
"I'm ready," she murmurs, and closes her eyes. Before her appears an image of a handsome boy. He touches Yuna's brow and draws from the old woman's body a spirit: a beautiful girl with eyes of green and blue. Their hands clasp, and a radiant smile breaks out upon their faces.
"Finally," the girl whispers. She must be Yuna—a younger Yuna—one that does not have milky eyes and a hacking cough and bent, wrinkled body. The boy nods.
"Let's go, then," he says. "I have that nice house in the Farplane, waiting for us." Yuna smiles—beams—at the boy—who must be Tidus—and they disappear.
Yuna's empty shell has a smile and a rare look of total peace on its face.