Disclaimer: But of course, FFXIII-2 isn't mine.
A/N: *stumbles into the fandom* How tf did I get here? *looks around* Hello? Anyone? WELL, I hope you're here. This is just a wee drabble based on the Lightning Coliseum battle, and how I thought it terribly unfair that we didn't get a sister moment, despite everything. And I only am doing this now because I fell down a rabbit hole on YouTube and revived my love for the tragedy of the Farron sisters. *sniff*
Read and enjoy, and reviews are always, always love.
stolen seconds
Serah's heart flip-flops when the challenger appears from on high, somersaulting into the arena only to strike the ground with absolute precision.
Of course, she thinks. Lightning is nothing if not precise.
In her periphery (because she can't tear her eyes away from the soldier), Noel raises a cautionary hand. "Serah, don't get caught up. You know that's not your sister."
The younger Farron surveys the elder sadly—or at least, she surveys the image of her. Because it's true. This isn't Lightning. The Arbiter told them beforehand, almost apologetically, that this was but an illusion and not the soldier in spirit. For Lightning's lost to the end of time, trapped on eternity's precipice and locked in unrelenting combat with Caius to decide the fate of the world. She's not going to show up here for a paltry little duel, much less a chat.
Serah knows that. But still. But still.
There are tears in her eyes all the same.
She dashes them aside when the soldier saunters closer, gunblade confidently cocked and lips curved in an all-too-familiar smirk. She has to be strong here—even if this isn't her sister, she can still prove her strength. And maybe somehow, Lightning will recognize it.
The soldier chuckles, and taunts, "Do you think the two of you can really defeat me?"
To be honest, Serah's not sure. Lightning is…well, Lightning. Larger than life, a bona fide hero. Champion of Cocoon, Guardian of the Goddess, and more than even that, Serah's big sister. The one who chased all the monsters away, until that tragic day when Serah realized even Lightning couldn't fix everything, or save everyone.
Noel's waiting on her. Serah can feel the weight of his gaze.
Swallowing, she steadies herself. Readies herself. Her elaborate bow rises, and she whispers a prayer of gratitude to Etro, for it's not shaking. Her hands aren't shaking.
"I've come a long way, Light," Serah says, and it's a little thin, but it's not shaking, either. "Don't count me out yet."
The soldier's smirk settles into more of a subtle smile, and she dips her head in acknowledgment of that. A moment later, she flourishes her gunblade, slipping into a warrior's stance.
Serah mimics her, sees Noel drawing his weapon from the corner of her eye. This is just a challenge, just a game. She can't hurt Lightning, and Lightning can't hurt her. It'll be fine. It's not even Lightning.
The clock counts down, and the battle begins. The soldier leaps towards her, an aggressive charge, and Serah's not ready—oh, she's nowhere near ready. She stumbles backwards, her ribs flexing in anguish at this assault, and Noel has to throw himself into the line of fire. The two opponents clash, sparks flying as weapons strike and spells exchange, and Noel's yelling as he tears himself away.
"Serah! Is your head in this or not? Tell me now!"
Lightning's cape swirls around her, only accentuating the grace that mixes with her ferocity and makes her such a terrifying warrior. Her eyes lock on Serah's, but there's nothing there. The color is accurate—even the expression, grim and focused, is one the younger Farron recognizes—but the Arbiter was not wrong: this is an illusion without spirit.
Even with eyes tinted like ice, the real Lightning's burn with a banked inner flame. Serah's always admired that contradiction. It's not present now; there's just cold refraction, brightness without a source.
Suddenly, the lead falls from her limbs, and strength pulses with adrenaline. She can fight. She can do this.
"Follow my lead!" she yells to Noel, and she dives into the battle.
Somehow, even despite Lieutenant Amodar's assistance, Serah and Noel triumph. Lightning is defeated. The younger Farron can hardly believe it; it's as if the sun and moon suddenly switched places. She looks blankly at the elder, who's on one knee, head bowed and gunblade pressed flat to the arena floor beneath one hand.
Noel's crowing their victory, and he bounds over to Serah and hefts her in a giddy hug, twirling her once around before he sets her down. "Haha, take that, ya smug loser!" he laughs at Lightning, who takes it all in stride and simply rolls her eyes and exhales through her teeth—tch.
The soldier straightens then, stowing her weapon away. "You proved yourself worthy opponents," she says, and this grace derives from looking at Serah (and maybe, she thinks, there's more of Light here than I thought).
And maybe that's what prompts Serah to step forward and raise her hand, curtailing the soldier's retreat. "Wait," she adds for good measure, and Lightning pauses expectantly, fixing her now with a curious look.
Serah falters. Even without her sister's soul, the resemblance is striking. And Serah aches for any scrap of connection, any whisper of the bond she knows they still share, even though it's been stretched to the breaking point and subjected to the strongest winds. It remains unbroken—fragile, yes, but buried so deep it cannot be uprooted.
"I know you're not my sister," Serah says, and oh, Etro, her throat's thickening. She strives past the sudden emotion. "I know you're not. But…but maybe that's okay. I don't know if I could ask the real Lightning this, anyway. I'd be too scared. Of what she'd say—of what she wouldn't say."
The soldier's brow furrows a touch more, radiating concern more than curiosity.
Serah returns her bow to its holster and closes the distance between them until they're only at arm's length. And how ironic that is, she notes, rueful, because that's exactly where Light always kept me. She hesitates, on the cusp but not ready to freefall.
"Light." She shakes her head, humming a denial, and corrects, "Claire. Could you—would it be alright if I—" Her eyes shut, tight enough that the tears she didn't even realize have gathered tumble free down her cheeks. "Look, just don't push me away, alright?"
And she bulls forward those last few paces—or staggers; somehow, it's strong and weak, composed and clumsy, all at once—and wraps her arms around the soldier, tucks her head beneath the sharp-boned chin. She's blushing; she feels the heat of embarrassment and uncertainty burning hot in her cheeks, and it prickles across her shoulders, down her spine.
Lightning's stiff in this embrace, arms held out somewhat from her sides. And Serah regrets this, regrets it and curses inwardly and begins to pull away, but then she can't.
For Lightning's arms have folded in, curved around, and anchored her in place. They're gentle, as light as if she had hollow bird's bones; she's hesitant to intensify the hold, caught somewhere between a cradle and a caress. Even so, she's hugging Serah back.
Serah closes her eyes, but now it's from the comfort and safety of her sister's sheltering form. The tears still trickle free, but they're absorbed in the fabric of the soldier's sweater, and there's no tension left in her limbs. She just holds on and listens to a heartbeat that tells her only lies, only what she wants to hear: that Lightning is alive, wherever she may be—whenever she may be.
At length, the soldier says, "I'm sorry I'm not really her."
Serah's hands fist, snarling sharp furrows in the uniform. She can't loosen them again. She doesn't know how.
"It's okay," she dismisses instead, raw but somehow buoyant. "It's okay. It's enough. For now, it's enough."
The soldier nods, accepting this. Her arms weigh heavier, and she tilts her head, resting a cheek against Serah's hair. The younger Farron's tears fall a little harder.
It's a long, long time before Serah finds the strength to let go. Fortunately for her, she has—in theory—all the time in the world.
She can afford to spend some of it here.