With the barkeep asleep at his post, Arlene Jones, at a tavern in Paris, of all places, drinking whisky, of all things, felt for all the world like the last woman on earth. Bored wasn't the word to describe what she was feeling, but nothing else really was either; it only seemed to make sense in words and even then, not really. So, she found herself talking, unaware of the man in blue, who fell through the door and forced it shut behind him, with his full wait against the wind.
"This whole world is crying and no one listens... I can hear it, though, and it breaks my heart... but no one asks me, no one ever asks me... 'cause my son's a fuck up who made everyone think I don't know jack shit about this! ...And it's my fault, oh, god... it's all my fault," She cried, her voice shaking at the realisation.
"Arlene... what do mean? What's wrong?" Francis Bonnefoy, the man it blue, asked, with a tone of worry in his voice, as he approached his old friend.
She jolted, not quiet having the energy jump at the shiver that ran down her spine, and turned to see an almost familiar face. He had scars now, deep and old, though they were new to her... but they weren't what truly shocked her.
"What happened to your head?" Asked a worried friend, not meaning the flinch but unable to conceal it; not meaning to stare but unable to take her eyes off of the fresh and bloody bandages across his forehead.
Francis smiled, in a vain attempt to calm her concerns and took his seat next to her.
"Answering questions with more questions," he chuckled, brushing of her concerns like the sleat from his cloak "Now I know where he gets it from."
"It was the hail stones, wasn't it?" Arlene pressed on.
"How did you-?"
"Alfred wouldn't say but in your line of work, you'd have other injuries if it was anything else," she explained, flatly.
Her companion faltered, not quite readjusted to the erie sense of intuition which all the elementals seemed to possess. No matter hoe mysterious he tried to be, she knew him.
"Okay... you're right, but you can't control the weather," he said, sure she felt some sense guilt over his injury.
"Yes, I can... but so can Alfred. He's more powerful than I am but he doesn't understand... this planet is a living thing... how bitter it can be when you push it... it's gotten to the point now that even he can't control it... and that's where I failed... failed my kids, failed Terra... failed everyone."
Weather control. Said Francis' inner voice, beginning to wonder, as she spoke, at the seemingly endless extent of her power, only to be drawn back to reality by her despair.
"So, when you said the world was crying..?"
"I meant it. Literally."
Now she can talk to the planet, marveled the inner voice.
"But it's still not your fault! It's Alfred's," he tried to assure her.
Everyone he knew, including himself, loved that kid... but hated him too. Right now, Francis hated him more than ever. In part, it was for the sake Arlene, largely, it was for his reckless disregard for consequence but at it's core, it was a selfish hate, for his own pain. Taking a ice-spear to the head was worse than any hex he knew.
"He's my son, Francis!" Arlene snapped, a sudden fire like harshness in her throat and her heart, for the sake of her son; her old friend Francis didn't seem to falter.
"He's his father's too, you know..." Said the hunter, with a softness in his eyes that couldn't heal her guilt, as she could tell he meant it to.
"Don't remind me..." She sighed.
Francis laid a hand on her shoulder. Then, they didn't say anything, just sat there in the warmth of the fire and the sound of the rain, for more time than either could name.
"He's his father's son," the man in blue sighed, when it seemed his companion had calmed down, "with your abilities, that's a dangerous combination."
"You're not saying what I think you're saying, are you?" Arlene asked, her eyes suddenly wide with worry and soundlessly pleading.
"Of corse not!" He assured, in harsh but hushed whisper, so as not to disturb the barkeep when they were speaking of something so... Sensitive.
"I love that kid, Arlene, we're not monsters,"
"What about the other hunters?" She breathed, head and heart heavy with a sobering worry.
It was bad news, she knew, before he could even speak, by the hitch in his breath and the way his gaze fell, her own heart sinking to the floor with it. All of a sudden, it seemed that he couldn't even bare to meet her eyes.
"We don't always have to kill," was his quiet promise.
That's what made her break. It hurt to see her weep like she did... but her tears were justified and words couldn't heal them. Words weren't needed and so, wordlessly, he got to his feet, left the money for her tab and lead her to the door, with an arm over her shoulder.
As they stepped out into the strange, stormy dark, braced against the wind, his inner monologue finished what he'd started.
But that doesn't mean the others won't.