A/N: Thank Truth for rewarding patience with double-updates. :D


8

Dawn watered down the night sky to cerulean ripples, ebbing at the strength with which the stars shone in warning of the day that would melt them from sight. Lightning leant against the frame of the living room window, abandoning her observation of the fading stars and directing her waking eyes to the stubborn shadows cloaking the far-off mountains. Flocks of Svarog glided in patrol of their nesting grounds, the waning silver light lining their steady wings.

She revisited the weathered slopes whenever memories bled into dreams; mottled lichen carpeted the roots of swaying broadleaf trees, crawling out of the shade to drape over sheer drops in interwoven layers. Before the crevasses housing the broods were broken slopes, serving as natural steps for the yearling Wyverns to stumble into their first flight.

Some nights were clearer than others, yet more often than not nuances of the mountain range would blur in and out of focus. Twice now she debated the presence of civilization's corroding monuments; both times she scorned such contemplation. Admitting to a lapse in memory was out of the question. She had ventured to the grounds only once before; even then, the bulk of her attention lay with the goals of protecting her comrades, fighting her Focus and keeping track of the brand. No physical force prevented her from setting forth on a week's excursion, to plunge headfirst into the maze of danger and brilliance and clarify what her mind threatened to discard.

Inevitably, Lightning refrained from retracing the path to the grounds, by her own accord. Sensibility supported this lack of action, for she was without an ally who that was familiar with the diverse terrain, someone who could ascend the perilous ridge with brazen stride, who could take approach and leave of the Wyverns with near intuitive alertness.

All the same, solace prompted her to remember.

For years she judged her actions in accordance to how relevant they were to the mission facing her at the time. Maybe at some point before they scaled the mountainside, she started to stop herself from tacking on excuses to every little thought, every little thing that was not directly influenced by her goal. 'Live a little', she was told, as they crept closer to the Svarog's nests. Had the headstrong Oerban said such a thing earlier, Lightning would have surely cast it to disregard. Time was of the essence; survival was their sole motivation.

That the parents of the hatchlings were out hunting or slumbering under the sun provided little relief. They would have to return or wake eventually. By Fang's lead they pressed on to an alcove partially shielded by a curtain of lichen, leaving it undisturbed as they stole into the shadows of the nest, away from the eyes of a sentry Wyvern.

During their trek Lightning remained guarded whereas it took mere minutes for her ally to make light of the fact they were trespassing in the den of a feral beast. There had been five or four hatchlings, no taller than the idle sheep inhabiting the Steppe. Clumsily the creatures waddled towards Fang, who crouched down and allowed them to determine her a harmless visitor. By all accounts the former soldier found it surreal to see the vulnerable beginnings of these airborne reapers; more so that the headstrong Oerban treated them as though they were oversized, yet to be weaned, pups.

Lightning followed in suit, a bemused smile at the hatchling's antics gradually taking the place of her initial frown. There they remained until midday, when Fang deemed the parents would make an appearance. In the nesting cleft, with piebald gums gnawing at her shoulder guard, the former soldier felt at ease. Very nearly did she label this peace of mind as a means of slowing down the brand's progression, but the truth of the matter won out then as it did in the present. She trusted Fang with her welfare, much to the relief of her tensed nerves.

Pulling her coat tighter around her shoulders she strained to see the handful of stars attempting to linger in spite of the growing sunlight. With the hollow greeting of a new dawn, she dipped her chin away from the window.

"Hang in there, you hear me?"

The words came in a whisper, strong and certain even in the knowledge that they would go unheard and without response. Her allies, though slumbering, were still among the living. To insult them with doubt was unthinkable.

Falling into her morning pattern Lightning relocated the mail from the doormat to the kitchen counter, a quick scan revealing nothing worth noting. She went about preparing tea for herself and Serah, ignoring a slight, raw ache that followed any reflection of the recalled dreams and revived memories. A gentle creak sounded from the floorboards, announcing that the rest of the household was beginning to wake as she set the kettle to boil.

Engaged in a leisurely yawn Snow greeted her with a lazy wave. His habit of going shirtless for the duration of the night and early morning did not present itself as a problem. If anything, Snow took Lightning's tolerance in good jest, wondering aloud that had he visited the sister's home in this state, all those months ago, how many seconds would pass before he was thrown out the door.

Prior to rummaging through the fridge the burly man procured a glass from the cupboard, aware of the look the former soldier sent his way while she set out a pair of mugs for the tea. The trend of drinking milk from the carton was met with uniform disapproval, leading to swift reform. In a similar vein, the exaggeration of Lightning's war with culinary endeavours was addressed; as evidenced with the kettle, there were a few exceptions that did not result in burnt water.

Snow knocked back the contents of the glass in one gulp, the light from the interior of the fridge washing over his torso. The silver scars of Palumpolum marked the right side of his ribcage, though he remained unfazed by this, proudly advertising the 'wounds of war' at any given opportunity.

Folding her arms over her chest Lightning tilted her head towards him, "Late night?"

The burly man shook his head, recalling the previous night of escorting Hope and the Katzroy family to their homes, "Old man Estheim got talking to Sazh about that Massif excavation. Could've sworn the kids were sleeping on their feet by the time they were done."

"You walked?" she chuckled.

Setting the glass in the sink Snow grinned, "I keep telling you -Mr. E thinks I'm giving off this 'vehicle theft' vibe or something."

Lightning shrugged, "I can't imagine where he'd get an idea like that, what with you being the positive role model."

"Search me," he said, fending off his sister's good-natured sarcasm.

They lapsed into a comfortable silence; across the ceiling stretched a square of sunlight, gilding the window frame and cabinet handles. Washing off the glass in his possession, Snow placed it aside to dry and leafed through the mail, though a separate collection of papers on the counter summoned his interest.

Frustration flashed across the burly man's face, preceding the departure of humour from his eyes as he regarded the Pulsian runes. "We could head back to Oerba," he thought aloud, "It's bound to have something about reversing the stasis, even if it isn't not much."

A fervent, almost excitable determination rose with his voice as he turned to Lightning, "We've kept them waiting long enough. For all we know, those villages could have all the answer -even if it means we have to haul them out of there-"

"They have the weight of a world on their shoulders," Lightning countered, shifting her weight from one foot to the other, "This isn't a situation where we can charge in without a plan and pray for victory. Who knows? We might end up making it worse for them."

"Can it get any worse?" Snow argued, "If Dajh is right about that fal'Cie-"

She pinned him with flinty ferocity, "As if it would get the chance."

The kettle gurgled softly, as though quailed by the air of its surroundings. Turning her back on the burly man Lightning tended to the mugs, unaware of the quiet concern that fell heavy on his heart. He was far too familiar with that particular glare, one that permitted no indecision on her part or intervention of any who tried to convince her out of the oath accompanying those frigid eyes.

Some days Snow wished for simplicity, to adopt Serah's habit of sleeping well into dawn, rest his chin atop her head and just forget the world. Always he would cast the vain wish aside, for he knew that he needed to be there for his entire family, more so when the act of shutting others out took a stab at returning. Walking to the hall, Snow paused and, over his shoulder, called to her in earnest.

"Sis, don't forget who's got your back."

Once his footsteps wandered out of her hearing range Lightning breathed a ghost of a sigh. The love she held for her family was undisputed as the speed with which they would rush to her aid at the drop of a hat; willing to follow any path she cut into and square off with struggles therein until the bitter end. With the blessing of loved ones came responsibility for their safety and happiness, for the sake of which she would not allow her battles to risk tearing them apart.

While the Svarog hatchlings of this year were grown and their nesting grounds turning with the seasons, Lightning's dreams finished on the same, jarring memory; in the vile Cradle, where scarlet shackles suspended her ally by the wrists, slipping in and out of consciousness as her limp body convulsed with each timed, hellish electrocution.

Swallowing back the bile in her throat, the former soldier bit hard into her lower lip, her nails biting her palm as she clenched a fist at her side.

So long as she lived, no Maker-born entity would ever again bring Fang so close to an audience with death.