Author's notes: I finished Tales of Symphonia: Dawn of the New World just this weekend, and though I loved the game, I was disturbed by the "good" ending in a lot of ways. On the surface, it seems decent enough. But if you think about it for more than five minutes, it really isn't terribly happy.

I thought I'd put my thoughts as to what bothered me about it down in fic form. I have a tentative section planned for Ratatosk and Richter, and then another for Marta. We'll see if I get them done, or if this remains a one-parter. ^^

Unhappy Endings

Emil has never noticed the wind before. Not really.

He has taken it for granted a long time, the way it ruffles his hair, the way it cools his skin, the way it turns biting when the clouds in the sky hint at snow. Until that frantic, bittersweet day when he traveled the world to try and cram in last impressions, he has ignored it along with a hundred other everyday wonders.

Now, he knows better. He closes his eyes when the wind blows and lets it wash over him, thinks of a place far away, where there is no wind, where the sunlight warm on his eyelids is replaced only by a sick, red glow.

He wonders whether Richter took the time to say goodbye to the world, the way he had. He wonders whether the man granted himself that last, final day to feel the wind against his face. He does not think so. He can not quite imagine Richter giving in to anything so impulsive.

And as for the other side of him, the abrasive part that came to his aid when he needed it despite hard words and harder actions- Emil knows that he, at least, never said any goodbyes. Sealed away with Verius' power, he had not had the time.

Ratatosk had not been able to eat the things he liked best for lunch, or take his shoes off and walk bare-footed through the grass, or stand with Marta beneath the moon and feel her lips, warm and inviting, against his own. Emil does not entirely understand that part of himself, even now. But he thinks he knows enough to suspect that the last one, at least, is something Ratatosk will regret not having done.

"Emil?" The sound of Marta's voice draws him back from his thoughts. He opens his eyes, turns in time to see the girl round the corner onto the sun-bleached pier. A few steps more and her hand is in his, fingers familiarly casual. Although he can not quite stop the heat that still rises to his cheeks at her displays of affection, cannot stop the thrill at it, a small part of him draws away, closes in on itself, and whispers quietly: 'It shouldn't be me.'

And why should it?

It was nobody's plan but his own. He made the decision by himself, said his farewells, forced his heart to come to terms with all that he expected to leave behind. And yet, he is the one who stands here, beneath the open sky dotted with clouds, the sound of the waves steady and soothing.

"Emil?" Marta's voice is concerned this time, perhaps because she has leaned nearer and is examining his face, his expression. "Is something the matter?"

He shakes his head and feels his lips form a smile to reassure her. "O-on a day like this?" If he falters slightly on the first word, it is a common enough occurrence that he trusts she won't see the lie for what it is. "Everything's perfect."

Except, of course, that sometimes it's not.

Sometimes he wants to charge to the bottom of the world where the sun never reaches, wants to bang on a door he knows is sealed until they find some way to let him in. Sometimes he wants to fall down on his knees and confess that it should be him locked away, that nothing about this is fair. Sometimes he wants to protest that it was not his decision at all. That he would take their places if he could. That this is not his choice.

But of course it is.

For if Emil is truly Ratatosk, both this part and the other, then the combination should be more distinctly him than anything before or since. He cannot disown or deny it, no matter how much he wants to. He cannot take it back.

He has sent himself out into the world and left them there. He has abandoned the man who was the first person to show him kindness and the other half of himself, the half whose unfailing strength had supported him when he'd had none of his own. He has provided only for his own happiness and left them consigned to the darkness and isolation.

And however much he wishes it not to be, the fault is his. The blame is his. The plan and the decision both were his.

Emil turns away from the ocean, giving Marta's hand a gentle squeeze in his own. "Let's go inside," he suggests. "I'll start dinner early."

She offers back a few bright words of agreement, and he marvels at the way his life has become something so simple, so peaceful, so good. He marvels at how lucky he is.

He remembers a time, not very long ago, when the only hands that touched him were raised in anger, when the man who is not his uncle wielded words like weapons- worthless, selfish, ungrateful.

As they turn away from the sea, Emil thinks that perhaps his uncle knew best, all along.