inspired by a conversation I had with a friend while on Skype. She hadn't played Lightning Returns. I explained what happened to Noel. She theorized this to happen.
So I had to write it.
Leave a review on the way out, should you so desire.
- Muse.
.::[::]::.
she's not there
There was fire in her eyes.
It was much better than the lifeless ones that had haunted his dreams.
He's shaking – God damn it, he's shaking – and he could barely hold his own against her. Her, the Savior, the one who sent him to her in the first place, her sister.
But if he squints, if he let the tears he was desperately trying to blink back blind his eyes, her face would change. It would become less angular – more round, like the youthful face she had. Her eyes wouldn't be so cold, but instead be filled with warmth, the same look she had when she regarded him, or Mog, or anything in general. The bulk of her muscles would smoothen into a slender frame, like hers; lithe and petite, not built for being a soldier, but rather, a scholar.
The life that he had robbed from her.
He blocks the hit, his muscles sore and her face too close. Their hair is the exact same shade of pink, he notes, as strands of it fall out of place and into his eyes, and even though it was rough from travel and battle, it was still somehow beautiful.
Every time she struck, every time he feels pain blossom from each hit, there was something pacifying. It is like she was healing him – like getting revenge was some sick form of recovery. But maybe this was what he needed, he realizes, as he feels the wind fly out of his lungs as she kicks him, powerfully, sending him crashing into the wall behind him.
I'm sorry, he thinks, deluding himself into believing that if he thought it loud enough, hard enough, it would reach her. He barely rolls to the side as the blade crashes against brick, the sound grating at his ears. I'm sorry, he thinks, as he leans the other way as she lunges again, this time catching a piece of fabric. I'm sorry, he thinks, as he loses any agility he once possessed and it pierces his flesh, his side now warm and wet with blood but he doesn't feel it: he feels nothing.
Her voice is loud, rough, but also holds the same musical notes that her voice had, and though he can hear the scratchiness of overuse, if he closes his eyes he can hear her, yelling at him that he's useless and he has to give up. But no, this feels good. This is what he needs.
This is what he deserves.
She all but drops her weapon now, instead he watches as her fists curl – her hands are rough, yet if he could touch them, perhaps soft, like the ways hers were – and she pulls back. He closes his eyes, each hit stinging yet feeling like she's trying to talk to him. Like she's telling him that she's so mad, so angry, so distraught, but she forgives him. She forgives him.
She forgives him for letting her die.
She forgives him for forgetting what each vision took from her.
She forgives him for everything he's done, for dragging her through the mud, throwing her aside, watching the life drain from her eyes as he can do nothing, absolutely nothing, but clutch her rapidly-cooling body in arms, unable to stop his own broken sobs.
He collapses; his nose is bleeding and his cheek feels swollen. He can barely register his own gasps as he tries to regain some air, a cut by his ribcage not stinging because instead he feels hollow and numb. She stands over him, her eyes cold, unforgiving, stoic. She raises something in her hands – he can only see light shine off the blade – as she poises to strike.
He closes his eyes.