The night winds down without any further incident, and that night, for the first time in a long time, she falls asleep as soon as her head hits the couch. Goodnight, the Lumina in her head mumbles sleepily, somehow too worn out to be caustic or playful, goodnight, and sleep tight. Soul of child and woman alike intertwine in their makeshift cocoon in a foreign land. For once, the descent into the darkness is gentle, controlled – a deliberate meditative slumber instead of an unwilling restless dive.

When she lands – for she always lands, bruised and screaming or no – her senses tell her that her dream landscape has transformed as well. Gone are Valhalla's suffocating air and ghostly lights; gone also are the brilliant burning fires of Cosmogenesis, the wailing sirens of Geneva on the day of the attack. No; once again her dreams have returned to revolve around marble statues, time and God, and as she wades cautiously through this new dream world, sword in hand, the world seems to shimmer and transform around her, everything a vague and pleasantly colored blur. Above her hangs a curtain of stars and northern lights. Beneath her are sweet-smelling winter grass, frost and snowmelt and –

Things are going to be alright. I'm just passing by.

The words float to her lips, waiting to be felt, to be said. She can taste them on her tongue. They are soft and malleable, delicate as the snowy skins of the strawberry daifukus she had been craving for days on end. Hope, of course, had gotten her addicted to them; at this point, are there even any confections left that he can't create and perfect?

(She consumes the sweets like a child too often denied them in her own time, having always stashed the bounty and bestowed them upon the younger sister instead)

The path is clear; the heart and soul, fulfilled and content. A calm envelops her, a quiet peace and gratitude; the manna-granting God, resplendent in his wings and light, only watches her solemnly from the stillness of his stone bust, seemingly having forgotten his primal duties to move and command. An unspoken understanding binds them, a trust lingering in fragile suspense; slowly, carefully, she leans in to rest beneath his solid form, basking in the tranquility of the divine.

She's mumbling something unintelligible when someone taps her shoulders gently, murmurs a few words about opening her eyes to greet the sun. There's certainly plenty of radiance just beyond her field of view. The winged God of her repose delicately shrugs into life before nimbly disappearing into the light. Has she slept through the entire night?

"Come on, Light." An amused pause. Is that a human voice? It's too visceral, too close, to be God. "It's not like you to sleep like this."

"… Nnf."

In one abrupt moment, she throws off the blanket and rises. It is still a little dark – the sun hasn't completely risen – but she can already spot all the tiny golden pockets of dust in the air, sense a snowy day to come from the air pressure. Slowly, as her power pulses through her and burns away the last remnants of coldness sticking to her skin, the scene in front of her comes into hazy focus. There's the digital clock on the wall; all the familiar furniture of Hope's living room; and, finally, Hope himself, dressed in casual morning clothes and sitting cross legged on the floor, his back turned towards her.

He hasn't yet responded to her getting up.

She slowly turns her gaze onto him, transfixed. How is he already here?

As if on cue, a hum escapes from him, a gentle, but crystalline pure tune. In the morning silence – in this almost paranormal hush – the sound echoes across the walls, suffusing the entire space with a somewhat eerie but undeniably sweet contentedness. He has remained perfectly relaxed and still; from this angle, the only movements she can see are those of his ungloved hands weaving seamlessly between layers of velvet cloth and colored paper, crafting the most mundane materials into bows and stars.

It can't be possible – it makes absolutely no sense at all – but I swear shapes and substance just seem to miraculously emerge from between his hands. That butterfly bow has just come out of absolutely nowhere. Not to say the edges of that crystal –

Unexpectedly, something stirs within her, longing, wistfulness, and a recognition she can't explain all at once.

" – You awake?"

"Nnf."

She blinks. The moment passes. She's in Hope's apartment, in Switzerland, in a world without Gods. Her face's mildly tingling, the sensation cozy and static-warm, as if a ballistic has just barely scraped her skin again. It also occurs to her, a beat belatedly, that she can't remember where she had left her change of clothes the night prior.

Good job, Farron. Good job indeed.

The warmth that's now ascending through her chest all the way up to her face must be half adrenaline and half pure embarrassment. If you don't even remember that, you don't remember anything. Thankfully, nothing significantly terrible seems to have transpired, so the only real casualty is her dignity; however, even that is a big blow, and she has to let out a small cough as she turns away to hide her burning face. "… Sweet Etro, Hope. How long have you been up?"

Her partner considers this. There's a deliberate gentleness and sentimentality in his movements as he drops the last handful of paper stars into a small glass jar, seals the jar snugly shut, and ties a rainbow-colored ribbon bow near the top. "Just five, ten minutes, I guess? I thought all my commotion was going to wake you up, considering how lightly you usually sleep."

I suppose that means I had slept like death itself. This is only getting better and better. "What are you doing? All this stuff on the floor. Are you decorating?"

"It's nearly time – I figured I should finish up and mail these out sooner or later, if I want everyone to receive them on time." The hint of surprise is clearly discernible in his reply. He hasn't changed his tone – is still speaking all too mildly and patiently – and still hasn't looked directly at her, either, instead just leaning forward to picking up another tape roll. From her place on the couch, every finished jar and box appear picture perfect.

"These? What are 'these'?" She asks again, still perplexed, trying to guess at the answer from his form, or even just the color of the pale pink bow he is now trying to place on the top of a white-and-red box. There's a faint smell of almost floral sweetness in the air. They are not on the balcony, where the fragrant flowers and plants are, and as far as she's been able to tell, Hope doesn't really wear any kind of cologne. So, it must be…

The fingers stop moving right on top of the box. Slowly, Hope turns around to stare at her, and the expression on his face can only be described as one of incredulity. As she glares back at him, still sleepy and confused, his expression holds, falters, before finally collapsing completely in a moment of mirth. He's trying to hold back for her sake – immediately covers his mouth with his hands – yet the twitching muscles and laugh lines on his face still give him away all too easily. "Light, did you… forget to buy everyone Christmas gifts?"

Ah.

There's that uncomfortable sensation of something heavy falling into her stomach.

"You forgot, didn't you?" He presses, trying to study her eyes, to get an answer without demanding a reply. The tone is more serious now, but also filled with uncertainty; what little laughter has escaped his lips are now completely gone, replaced by sympathy and concern.

Grinding her teeth, she mentally counts the days: she must have planned to go shopping after returning from the Geneva mission. Sam's death, of course, has thrown a wrench into all her plans. It's not like she had planned out everything all that well to begin with, anyway: throughout her entire life, she has pretty much only ever bought anything for Serah. I was just going to kind of wing it. I would have put in some effort, of course – my family deserves far better than just random stuff on store shelves – but I probably wouldn't have known what everyone really wanted. Somehow, being called out like this by Hope just makes everything feel a thousand times worse. "Shut up."

Her partner hangs his head, his voice low in apology. "I'm sorry, Light.… The problem, though – thankfully, it's not a problem we can't fix. I mean, I haven't written the cards yet, so I could just add your name to mine at the sign-off. Everyone knows you're staying with me, and I bought some really nice gifts, so they'll understand. If you don't want that, though, I'm sure we can find something for everyone at the shop across the street." Hope's gesturing at the windows now, and she can see what appears to be the façade of a large gift shop at a distant street corner, the glass decorated with snowy Christmas drawings. "I have extra boxes, cards, and everything. Just take what you need, and everything will be fine."

She's sure the look in her eyes is deader than dead. "How long do I have to pick out things?"

"… You still have a few days, I'd guess. Fang and Vanille, Noel and Yeul – those four will be the difficult ones, living in the middle of nowhere and all. I wouldn't be surprised if their gifts don't arrive until early next year."

Typical, really. And speaking of that, those are the four that I know less well. In regard to what they might like in a gift, anyway. "… What did you get them?"

Hope tilts his head in a knowing smile – to her relief, he doesn't comment on her question, but simply answers. "A pair of winter boots for Fang. Some organic seeds for Vanille to plant. Noel's getting a music album on folk songs from around the world, and Yeul's getting, per her request, just a lot of chocolate and alcohol."

"She… what?" Out of all the things she'd have expected Paddra Nsu-Yeul to personally request on a holiday, those two things would have rounded off the bottom of the list.

"I presume it's because her past incarnations never got old enough to drink for pleasure, or to indulge freely in sweets. She was always the seeress, after all. Not her own person." Unperturbed, Hope has picked up another box, tying a stylish, exotic violet ribbon around this one. From the elongated shape of the box, she'd guess it's one of Yeul's wine gift boxes, containing a sample of anything from the finest German whites to the most acclaimed French reds. "In any case, everyone deserves a cup of premium Swiss hot chocolate first thing on a Christmas morning."

She recalls the hot chocolate he had made her on the night of Sam's death, shivers slightly, and realizes that she still can't quite read him beneath that faint enigmatic smile. And how long has it been since you were your own person? "I'll ask Serah, then. Get her some cool stuff for young women. I know there are some shops she's been eyeing on Etsy. I have some ideas for Fang and Noel… Vanille, though, you might have to help me with again."

"Vanille's easy. Just hand write her an extra note telling her how much you love her."

She can't help but throw him a sour look for that one. "Hope."

"You know her." He dares to wink at her – nearly gets kicked across the room for it – but then a more tender smile settles on his face, a nostalgic, contemplative thing that's somehow also… a little sad, if not guilty. But what could you even feel guilty towards Vanille for? Is it for not being able to release her from crystal during all those years? That's not your fault, surely. The only entities that had been known to release l'Cie from crystallization were the gods themselves. "She'd appreciate something that would allow her to help someone else. Or something that reminds her of us."

She almost opened her mouth to speak – the words were just on the tip of her tongue – but the words just did not quite come out, and he's also got a point, so she simply nods with somewhat pursed lips and swallows the words instead. …Or a reminder that other people still care about her, don't want her to be lonely. Lumina had feared dying alone; Vanille had basically embraced the idea of dying alone. I wish I had helped more than I did. I hope she at least thought of Lumina as company. In truth, I may have needed her more than she needed me. She's always been stronger than me, that way. And just as stubborn. "Mhm."

"Want me to show you the boxes? I could always get more, of course, but if you just want to use the ones I already have, it might be useful to look at the sizes."

"Wait." Her gaze has fallen upon several much bigger boxes at the corner of the room. No one would be able to fit a box that large under their Christmas tree. No one sane, anyway. "What's in those boxes?"

"Oh, those. Snow called me and wanted some of his stuff. He's ordered and commissioned a bunch of motorcycle parts from me, you see. Special direct order bits that you can't usually get your hands on. Might as well send them off now while I'm doing my mass Christmas mailing." Hope sighs, then chuckles again, lifting a completed gift box and dropping it on the tea table. "Why, did you think I was going to get him another new motorcycle?"

The dirty look that has materialized on her face has long become a force of habit. "It wouldn't surprise me."

"Come on now, give us a little more credit."

"The paper stars – I'm assuming that's not for anyone in the family, either? Unless it's for your mother or Serah?" She's seen Serah tag pictures of paper star jars under the tag #aesthetic on her various social media sites, but she doubts Hope would really send them over to her as a gift. His mother, though, for all she knows, may have always been a fan of handmade, soft things.

"Oh, no. Those are for charity. Kids' charities." Hope points towards a few boxes on the floor – a few squints are all she needs to discern that those are addressed to children's hospitals and foundations, some just a few blocks down the street, others in other European countries or across the seas. "I try to remind myself to pack cute and pretty things. Plushies. Origami cranes. Nonperishable sweets. I don't know how much it helps. I try to… do actual research to help as well, of course. That's my day job. But the kids always promise me that they love these things. And they tell me it seems to help me, too. So… let's call it reciprocal therapy."

He knew Sam for far longer than you did, you know. She had not been the one to bide the boy goodnight; she had not been the one to break the news to Sam's father, or carry what's left of the boy to his final resting place. The boy's grinning face is still all too vivid in her mind, his innocent happiness at the villa by the lake something she treasured. If there's anything she can do to remember him at all – save his soul, if just for a little while, from the ravenous ocean of chaos – she would do it. Taking a deep breath, she lets herself slide off the couch, pick up a piece of origami paper from the floor, and start – all too awkwardly – to fold. "… Can I help?"

He stares at her for a solid second with his mouth hanging open – she's almost offended again by his shock – before regaining his composure and breaking into a wide, encouraging smile, holding up a piece of origami paper of his own between them before folding it cleanly in half. "Of course. But only if you agree to write your own notes to them."

The cry escapes her lips in record time. '– No! I mean. You know I'm awful at those things."

"They are kids. They'll melt at the sight of a singular smiley face. I'll give you a template to copy, if you really can't manage it."

The thought of herself attempting to draw a singular smiley face on anything is making her skin crawl, but what of it? This is about them. And I owe it to them. "I'll figure it out."

"Here. Why don't you start with this one, to get some practice? Got some extras of this color."

Before she knew it, a slightly thicker piece of origami paper with a pale pink matte rose pattern has been carefully pressed into her hands. As she brings the piece closer to her face, squinting down at the thing in an effort to really fold it right, the whiff of scent tells her that the 2D roses on the paper smell faintly like real ones, and are probably the source of the floral smell she had noticed earlier. I suppose everyone likes printing stars and flowers onto these kinds of crafting materials. I'm sure Hope could somehow make 3D roses out of these, too, if he wanted to. Not like it'd be really appropriate for him to send those to young children, though.

"I want to make some actual ones, eventually, too. Just so you know." Gotta say that before he makes enough for everyone in the time it takes me to get the hang of this.

"Of course. Just one or two to practice and start you off." The twinkling smile in his eyes is among the most maddening things she's ever seen.

For a while, they work in silence; the only audible sounds in the room are the low noises of them shuffling to pick up something they need, or the almost comforting static of Hope's dark blue fountain pen scraping over the pages of the cards. Her first few cranes and stars are awful – the heads are deformed, the tails are not the correct lengths, and there are incorrect folding marks everywhere – but Hope's nothing if not a great critic and teacher, and by the fourth crane, even she can see that she has gotten markedly better. Hope, of course, has continued to crank them out like a machine even while talking; by the time she's made five or six satisfactory ones, he's made a whole two dozen, not to say written individualized cards to go with each one.

Paper cranes. It's easy to go into a sense of mental flow while folding, and in no time, her mind has begun to drift. Hope has described to her the significance attributed to this new world phenomenon, how the birds are said to embody freedom, hope and flight. Healing. Wishes. A girl in this world had once made a thousand of them in the hope that she would live long enough to see her wish come true. She had passed away – there's no magic in this world, after all (her fingers burn a little at the thought of that) – but then the crane had just come to symbolize remembrance and a wish for peace. We won't forget. We won't stop fighting. Like the vow she's made in front of the Calvinist cemetery, they are a commitment, a promise. Upon their fragile wings, a thousand dreams fly.

But healing.

A blink, and an involuntary gasp. It's all just one flash, one image, one second, but she doesn't have to look to know that the head of the crane she's been working on has come out misshapen.

Ah; predictable, really.

The memory of the withered little citrus tree has returned to haunt her again.

The problem, she supposes, is that it has always felt right to see Hope do it, to watch him sit there and work so intently to create wishes for life and light. His cranes are real – she's read some of his research papers, heard him describe how he's brought hardy crops to barren lands and helped introduce brand new vaccines to market. He's always had a knack for healing and creation, that one. Even the God of Light himself, his exact intentions and morals aside, had recognized and respected that.

But her

(She's taken apart the crane with the broken head and tried to make it anew. A small thing emerges, wrinkled and disproportioned, and looks like it'll fall apart if it ever tries to flap its wings. Unwilling to try to break and recreate it again - but also, for some instinctive reason, loathe to simply toss the poor, broken thing into the trash - she puts it aside, pulls out another piece of paper, and starts again.)

She hadn't gotten to Sam in time. If she hadn't received tips and help, she wouldn't have known how to put Serah, Dajh, or Hope back together. During her time as Etro's Knight and then Bhunivelze's Savior, she had been tasked with finding and administering all kinds of cures, but never to make them herself, or to directly heal any injuries, illnesses and wounds that were not her own. Even if Caius and Yeul have claimed the title of the God(s) of Death, she's still very much useless in regard to everything that's not straight up destruction, and if she wants to ever heal or help anyone or anything without just causing them to hurt and burn instead –

"… Light?"

Fuck.

The man has just finished sealing an envelope with a pokemon wax seal. The figure on the seal is a small, cute fox-like creature – it's gazing lovingly at the recipient of the letter, its fluffy head surrounded by a shower of little hearts. Hope, though, is far from smiling; he's staring at her, brows furrowed, with a curious expression, as if she's just said or done something incredibly concerning. "Light, are you okay?"

"Of course. Why wouldn't I be?"

"That, uh, crane."

For a second, she thought he must have meant the terrible, failed crane she's already abandoned and put aside, but his line of sight is falling on something else, something still within her hands. Reluctantly, dreading what she would find, she lets her gaze drift down towards her hands, and has to wince when her sight registers. What she's holding in her hands cannot even qualify as a crane, what with its lack of neck, misshapen head, and… just ever so slightly yellow-looking left wingtip? "Ah. Yikes."

"This is pretty boring and dexterity-intensive work, not gonna lie. I think we've made more than enough. Let me just finish these two final letters, and then we can just wrap it up and mail them off?" It would seem that Hope, diplomatic as ever, is giving her a handy way out of this.

Can I just keep running away from this? I don't ever want to deal with this, if I could. But I used to be able to do it, once. Even if I was never particularly gifted in the skill, back in the day, when we first started out, I could heal. Double healing had gotten Hope and I through Odin. On Gran Pulse, I had been the second go-to person after Vanille for wounds and scratches, for crying out loud. We had told Hope to reserve his own healing magic for himself, to preserve his strength after that incident with Alexander… and it had worked then, me stitching up everyone and sending them off. What had even happened between then and now that I can't even fold a crane or keep a plant alive anymore?

A steely determination creeps in, a desire to fix things. She picks up the two failed cranes by their misshapen heads and puts them squarely on the table, right under her partner's nose. "Hope?"

Her partner appears apprehensive – almost slightly taken aback. "… ?"

Let's just talk about the tree for now. At least that one can probably still be saved. One step at a time. "… Have you checked your plants recently?"

"My plants?" His face has gone completely blank, as if that's been the last thing he had expected her to say. It takes, of course, but a second for realization to wash over, although that has only apparently made him even more puzzled. "Oh… you mean the ones on my balcony, the tree and the pots? What of them?"

To be fair, he should have left them with a neighbor. In all honesty, he should have known better than to leave any living things with me. There's a reason why Serah was always the person everyone approached on any questions regarding plants and pets. We've all seen how even he himself had nearly turned out when he was placed under my care. Fucking Snow had arguably done a better job of taking care of him than me. "Yeah. I told you from day one that I'm not a plantsitter and they'd probably all be dead by the time you came back. I… don't think they are all dead yet, but you should probably take a look – salvage any that still look salvageable." It's not like I had watched them all wither and slump and tried futilely to save them with the tiniest microdoses of magic or anything.

If Hope Estheim had ever been more flabbergasted in his life, she has never seen it. It takes him a few tries to even get the words out, his usually impeccable French almost unintelligible through the amazement and the anguish. She tries to sit still and simply accept it all as her punishment. "… Gods, Light – you know all you had to do was to water them, right? What did you even do?"

Despite the promise she just made to simply keep up her poker face and accept her punishment, she can't help but feel sorely tempted to dropkick him across the room. In any case, they've both now risen, and Hope has opened the balcony door, peering down at his pots. "I watered them. Every day. You told me that citrus plants in particular like humidity and moisture, and – "

"I… see. You overwatered them. Even the succulents. I didn't know this was even possible." The edge of deep sadness in his voice has to be for dramatic effect.

"Shut. Up."

"If that was all, though, it should be simple enough to fix. Just a case of root rot – I'd just need to gently wash the diseased roots, remove the bad parts with a sterilized pair of scissors – "

"I tried that already." As soon as she had realized what was happening, she had gone on the internet and looked up ways to fix her mistake. The instructions had been simple and clear enough – wash, prune, sterilize, replant. Her pride and shame had gotten the better of her, though, and she had tried to directly and extra precisely prune and sterilize using her power, only to accidentally cauterize many plant parts she touched. It's not unlike what I did to that second crane, now that I think about it. She had been loath to cut off scorched parts once they had been torched, though – cut off too much roots and you are basically dooming a plant to die. I had hoped it wasn't as bad as it seemed. It was barely noticeable, after all. I had tried my best to be careful when I did it. When I took a picture after the fact, Serah had said everything looked fine to her. But the plants don't lie; they've been looking dead or dying ever since I really tried to touch them –

"I… see."

Somehow, the edge of sadness in his voice now somehow sounds all too genuine.

"Hope… don't tell me that you don't think you can save them?" She hadn't expected this. She has believed – probably all too naively and selfishly, in hindsight – that Hope would be able to fix any and all of her mistakes. That he would simply smile and tell her that everything is going to be okay. Of course, those are just plants, but if she can screw up even plants to a degree that he can't salvage and save –

"Oh. No. They'll be fine. I know what to do." Picking up on her distress, he immediately shakes his head and clarifies – but it hasn't escaped her notice that he sounds distant again, almost distracted. Another memory? Something's definitely on his mind. Has he noticed what I had done to the roots? I had tried to use as little of my power as I could, though. He shouldn't notice. "Just trying to calculate how long it might take… a few months?"

"A few months for what?"

"Oh, just for the citrus tree to really recover from the roots. It's the only big specimen here. It's a young specimen, as well. I had known when it was supposed to flower and then bear fruit – now I have to recalculate a bit of everything."

I suppose it is fine if he just wanted to do some math. Deflating in a mixture of relief and annoyance, she finds herself leaning against the wall in an awkward position, sandwiched between two plants she had fucked up and a partner she'd failed. All her mistakes seem to end up being like this – one mistake out of obliviousness or hubris, and a second mistake out of a botched attempt to fix the first. They always stack up. They are always somehow unexpected, even though she always tries to be resourceful. I hope he'll at least show me, later, how he's going to fix this. "Hope, I'm sorry."

He's finally turned back towards her now, and his eyes are amused, comforting, the ocean green irises gleaming with life and forgiveness. A part of her finds the energy in them profoundly disconcerting, alien even - yet another part of her yearns, almost more than anything, for a drop of it, for a breath of springtime warmth and carefree rejuvenation. That light. It's something I never quite had. "Don't worry about it. It's just some plants. And you're right – I should have known better."

I mean, perhaps that is the fate of Etro's Knight and hand-picked successor, huh, that I'd just always instinctively destroy? She had once embraced it, thought it her gift and destiny, been able to wield it past all mortality and sane believability, even - yet here, standing next to him, having had just pleaded to him to fix her mistake, it all just feels too bitter a taste. The words are out of her before she's had time to think about them, harsh and ironic and all too brightly said for their morbid meanings. "Guess I'll always have a bit of the goddess of death left in me, huh?"

An unexpected pain suddenly hits, light but palpable, the effect of a single contact radiating from her temple. She blinks, tensing, her whole body electrifying due to having been unprepared for any magnitude of impact. There's nothing suspicious in the house. She hasn't seen anything –

Ah.

The tension abruptly deflates like a popped balloon, being replaced by an almost mortifying flush instead.

Hope had flicked her on the forehead.

"Don't talk about yourself like that, okay? Sure, you wouldn't think that 'lightning' heals. But life works in strange ways – especially in this world. Did you know both our minds and our hearts in this world are powered by electric signals? Did you know defibrillators can reset and revive someone who's clinically dead? Go on. I know you. You'll be fine." The crooked smile has returned to her partner's face – it makes him look relaxed, almost as if he's just engaging in casual talk - but the words were filled with such unassuming conviction and his unique brand of gravitas that she can't help but feel something rise within her core and up to her face. The man sure knows how to make a point. The hand he has just used to flick her has somehow also just finished folding a rose-colored star – he is holding the small thing out to her with a faint smile, his eyes sparkling with a light too bright to turn down."Let's go after my last two envelopes?"

What am I now, another child that needs comfort? She takes the star and begrudgingly stuffs it in her pocket. There's still the residual trace of his warmth on it. At least this hasn't yet started to yellow at the edges. "… It was a joke, you know." … Even if it wasn't.

"Don't make that joke to Serah. As epic as the Savior was, we all much prefer to have you here, the way you are." He smiles, nods. It's almost impossible to tell if the expression he's holding is one of weariness or innocence. Somehow there seems to be lingering vestiges of both.

Perhaps it's prudent of me, after all, to not let anyone know about that little secret. Lightning Farron the Savior really shouldn't see the light again unless absolutely necessary. "... Right."

After all of that, she makes four more cranes during the time it takes for him to finish his two final letters.


A muffled voice floats slowly over the crowd, its tone thick with reluctance the color of a child being dragged to their first ever appointment with a dentist. "I can't believe you are actually making me do this."

"Why? Because you know you're going to lose?" She shouts through the gently cascading flakes, laughing as she steps into a pristine, barely ankle-deep field of snow, pivoting to pick out his form from the small crowd on the street. Behind an elderberry red and more than a few solid blacks - behind two couples and an elderly gentleman - he's there in a pastel shade of aquamarine, loading the last box onto his cart and staggering a little from the weight. While she's already pulled her hood over, secured her scarf so she's ready to simply bolt and go, his head is still exposed, large snowflakes barely visible above similarly shimmering silver hair. A part of her pauses over the curve of the neck, the sheer height and easy grace as he stands comfortably behind the tall cart, the image somehow both a striking reminder, and a resounding refutation, of a barely still cognizant yesterday.

"No. Because you know I'm going to slip and fall, and knowing me, break something. Or worse, break one of these packages we took so long to make." For the voice of a fully grown twenty-seven year old, her partner's voice is way too doleful and irreproachable. Has she not known - or seen - better, she'd never have believed for a second that this puppy-faced man in front of her had once been the leader of humanity.

"I won't let you fall. You know that." She promises and then prays with her entire being that he won't fall at all. Surely, even he can't be that clumsy.

"Always." A crooked smile thaws through slightly frozen lips. He's caught up to her, his soft exhales swirling and turning into smoke in the frigid winter air. Under the dim street lights, the pale crystalline particles and trails almost resemble souls in Eden and Luxerion at the end of the world. Peace is here, though; people, lights, and her partner on his toes just a few feet away from her, stretching to read a new road sign, waiting to ship presents to friends living all over the world. There's something like the faintly sweet smell of the citrus tree that's clinging onto him. Has he taken a look at the tree already while she was in the bathroom? "You'll catch me and everything I'm carrying?"

"Nothing's all that heavy." What little ice has formed on the ground is slippery, that's for sure, but she's never doubted her speed, power and dexterity. Even Claire Farron from her l'Cie days could handle a slip and a crash. Picking up and whisking away a terrified, 5 feet tall Hope Estheim used to be her fucking specialty.

"I'm ready to fall, then." He flashes a grin, wipes the snow from his own brow as he pulls over his hood and fastens the bird-shaped clasp at his neck. Suddenly, he doesn't quite look terrified enough. "Crash all the way down this hill."

Well, whatever is going to happen will happen. Her boots have long ground all silvery fluff beneath her feet into compact dust. Hope will fall, or he won't, and she'll be watching him and ready to catch him, every step of the way. For now, as her instinctive competitiveness kicks in, all she can see is the finish line is calling for her, all she can feel the burning desire to embrace the air and run free. She turns towards him impatiently, holding out both a mocking hand sign and a daredevil smile. "Bring it."

He offers a perfectly amiable smile in return. "Let's begin, then."

As she expected, he doesn't really burst into a run; settles more into something more like a trot, with most of his energy still focused on keeping his balance while pushing his cart forward. The speed isn't too terrible - she'd honestly expected worse - but no one could realistically call this a race. Shaking her head - is he even burning calories? - she stalls a good few paces in front of him, dropping her hands into her pockets and leaning against her cart for a more effective taunt. "Is that really the best you can do, Director Estheim?"

He hasn't stopped. He still hasn't caught up to her either, though. He's still ambling at that same maddeningly unhurried speed, his hair still styled impeccably, the look on his face utterly unperturbed. If he's noticed all the admiring looks young women have been throwing him left and right, he has decided to ignore them. All he wants to do, apparently, is to throw up his head and let out a long whine. "Light, I'm coooooooold."

Even Hope Estheim at fourteen was never this offensive. She's certain that Hope Estheim at one thousand and fourteen is only doing this because he knows that she finds this offensive. "What would Fang say if she saw you like this?"

He shakes his head dismissively. The innocent tone is truly astounding both in its apparent earnestness and its ability to infuriate her. "Fang is nice. Fang would understand."

"Uh-huh. Sure she should. Come on. You're better than this." He's finally caught up to her. They are maybe a quarter of the way there, and is he already starting to pant? There's a part of her that wants to slap him into shape and another part of her that wants to slow down and check to see if he's actually already exhausted. The memory of him looking so worn out and still in his post-train station and pre-steak nap casts a stone in favor of the latter, and she finds herself easing on her power to tap him lightly on the shoulder. "Are you still feeling unwell, Hope?"

What she doesn't expect is his answer.

The words have scarcely dropped - she's not sure he's even heard them in full - and somehow, before anything else has been said, he's already gotten too close to her, his eyes veiled behind a curtain of silver hair and his lips just inches away from her ear. An involuntary shiver goes down her spine at the warmth of his breath against sensitive, exposed skin. No one's ever been that close to her. She's never let anyone be that close to her, save Serah. She can feel static beginning to build up and prickle at those points of proximity, her heart rate picking up and her muscles overloading with energy and… what?

What?

And there's his voice, quiet and overwhelmingly sincere, but also too smooth, like butter:

"You are not really trying, are you? Sorry. I'll try a bit harder."

She gasps, recoiling away at the full speed of the savior - and somehow he's already gone, sprinted right past her into the lead, leaving her frozen in the snow with a flaming feeling by her ear and a cart that hasn't moved for half a minute.

"You - "

"Catch me if you can, Light!"

The guy's fucking whistling from a whole block and a half away and she swears she's never hated Hope Estheim more in her entire life.

I mean, if you want to be humiliated that badly...

Her power feels as if it's brimming inside of her, a vast ocean of power waiting to be called forth, to be caressed and showcased. She revs the charges inside of her and almost senses them hum and sing, as if they possess a mind of their own, a proud, bold thing, not unlike her divine steed, confident and undefeated and surging. If Hope wants to stoke fires, he better have come prepared to be burned.

(It takes a whole second for her to remember that she doesn't have to use savior speed to beat him in something like this, him "trying harder" or not.)

Okay, he has accelerated. Where he got the acceleration from she has zero clue about - for all she knows, he could have rigged something in his extremely normal looking shoes. Or his extremely normal looking winter pants. Or the slow start was just a whole play to troll her from the very beginning. It's easy to catch up, though. For all his tricks, he's still human, and she's still the savior. Just slightly less than half a minute at normal elite athlete speed and she's already right next to him again, careful to remain just one whole cart length in front of him. He's definitely actually panting now. So probably not too many rigged parts. Just one exceedingly stubborn human. Maybe she should slow down just by a hair now, lest he actually overexert himself. She turns, getting ready to put on her best smirk, the one she used to reserve for PSICOM elites and Luxerion Cathedral guards -

"Well, can't say catching up was hard. Now what were you - "

.

Did he…

Did he just hit me right on the face with a snowball?

There's snow in her eyes, nose, and mouth. Snow on her eyelashes and snow saturating her hair. There's some snow going down her neck, too. Chills on her forehead. Chills just above her breast. Her vision is blurry, and for once, she doesn't even try to clear it either with a swipe of the hand or a silent thought of magic. No, instead -

She pulls him close to her this time, her voice dangerously silky even as there's still fresh snow dripping from her rose-colored hair and they're still charging full speed ahead. The pressure in her arms forces him to bow his head, causes her face to tower just above his. He's struggling to get himself free, but she's nothing if not strong and steady, and he can only wince as snowmelt continues to descend from her head to make contact with his own flushed face. The boxes on the cart are rattling from just how fast they are both running. "Interference is against the rules."

He sticks his neck out, and there's a stubborn glint in his bright green eyes that she can't tell if she detests or feels strangely captivated by. His voice is equally smooth, the confidence in the tone one she'd only heard in this world from moguls and visionaries. "Few worlds were ever saved by playing by the rules."

But we're not world-saving here. Even then, I had won that. "Good thing I can play by my own and still win, right?"

She pulls away once more and leaves him to yelp as an entire small box's volume of snow is dumped right on top of his head.

"... Light!" She can almost hear his indignant, distant cry. But she's already a whole block and a half away. Smirking but also internally shaking her head, she stops by a tree decked out in lights and takes a deep breath, shaking the last bits of snow free from her face and hair. A few kids are giggling right next to her, no doubt having witnessed the entire thing and thought it a fun lovers' prank or quarrel.

"Are you coming? I've won." She shouts back, checking her cart to make sure that all the boxes are still intact. As much as she knows she shouldn't be petty - should check if she's gone too far, lest Hope come down with a cold again - she can't quite take out all the self-satisfaction from her voice. That part of the back of her head where he's hit her with the snowball still hurts, the dull ache pulsating with every breath. She's too offended and amused by it to simply burn the effect away. It's not every day that the ex dictator of mankind decides to hit you on the head with a snowball he's just made by hand. "Or are you surrendering? Resigning?"

"I surrender, I surrender." He's walked up a few steps to a spot under the streetlight now, and she can see his slightly frozen features again, the snow in his hair and the snow on his eyebrows and the snow clinging to the pale fabric just above his shoulders. There's amusement in those eyes, but also the slightest hint of disappointment and… a brush of some inexplicable kind of joy. "But Light, the post office is… here, you know. You've overshot the target."

"Did I? Too bad. Don't hit me with a snowball again." This time, she gets the remorseful look she wanted from him. The post office, though - despite her efforts, the door just won't quite open. "This door - "

"Try the other one."

"Thanks."

" … Light? - I'm… genuinely sorry, though. If that snowball hurt. Just haven't had a chance to have fun for a while. Got a little carried away - "

He doesn't quite get to finish. She freezes, a soundless cry in her throat as the door closes behind her in slow motion. There's that sick, invisible weight pressing down on her again, that ugly sensation rising to envelop everything in a black haze -

The world is fracturing somewhere between the sky and the earth.

A violent wave of nausea is rolling over her like an all-consuming tsunami.

No.

Whatever presence is closing in, vast and dark and menacing. There's fire in her veins and lightning on her breath but time and space are frozen and she's stuck in her place. I refuse, she tries to shout and scream. The disintegration beckons. It speaks despite not having a voice at all. It is not a question of yes or no.

No, she repeats again.

Be.

There's only one thing to do. She forces herself to push against that entire existence and turn.

The awareness shatters. She's clutching the door, sweat rolling down her face and tears barely starting to gather behind her eyes, gasping and panting heavily. Just outside the open door, Hope's still standing under the snow, under the lights of the post office facade, but there's a fuzzy quality to the world and an acute chill where the snowball had hit her and -

"... Hope."

The carts are forgotten. She's out the door, running down the avenue, and in under a minute she's hauled both of them into an abandoned alleyway, away from the sound and fury of a busy early morning winter street. He tries to resist, again - he had tried to escape her hold on the way to this alleyway, to no avail - but she simply puts more pressure on his arm, and he really yelps this time from how she's almost crushing his limb. He's nearly as pale as she is - they've nearly both fallen onto the street during her uncoordinated, almost drunk-like run - but at least, here, they are alone, and he still mostly looks like himself, if wounded and completely shaken. She peers into his eyes; ocean green, like seaglass, or his jacket's shade of aquamarine. The world is silent. They are safe.

"... Are you okay?" At least her voice still sounds like her own. Mostly.

He nods. Furtively. Shivering. Looking away.

"... Is everything else okay?" She asks, despite having no real sane way to get at the answer.

He coughs. The sound's hoarse. It's like all the energy and fight have gone out of him. "Yeah."

For some reason, she believes him. But for some other reason, she knows it isn't over. The world beneath her feet still doesn't feel the same. It's still fractured. Walking on it feels like walking on shards of shattered glass. Even if she's just seen a few people walk by in the distance. Even if for all she knows, no one else has felt whatever that was at all. But he's felt it. She knows he had. "Hope."

He doesn't answer.

"Hope. What just happened. Your 'bad feeling' just before the attacks. What you wanted to tell me at the train station. Tell me. Is something going to happen?"

Again, he jerks to try to escape, but her grasp is iron tight and after a moment, he simply gives in, his shoulders slumping as he looks down. His voice is quiet and composed, if low, a touch... angry, and a touch wistful. Everything about him screams wrong but it's also all just him and she doesn't even know where to start. "What if I told you I think something will?"

She's asking her questions desperately through dizzying spells of nausea. "How do you know?" He doesn't answer. She will throw up on him if she must to get through this conversation. There must also be a mark on his arm, now, from how much she's been holding onto him. "Is anyone else going to die? What even is it? Why didn't you tell me before? Answer me, Hope Estheim."

"... Light. Let me go." This time, it is not the world - his tone has changed. Become authoritative. Hard. Had she never dealt with Caius before - or heard Bhunivelze himself in his full arrogant divine glory - she might have flinched at her partner speaking in such a tone to her. It's as if he's someone I have to fight. Someone who I cannot trust, and someone who doesn't trust me, either. At this point, no less - "No one is going to die if I can help it."

The coldness that fills her up at the sound of that is nothing like anything she's ever experienced before. Is it Serah? Someone in her family? The world? Revolting images are forming in her mind, corpses of her loved ones, the world rotting from the inside out and turning into mush. The fact that Hope of all people is refusing to tell her everything is only making it worse. You once stood with me at the end of the world. What's happened to that bond, now? "Hope, please." I have to do something about it. I can do something about it. I've already failed once - I'm not going to fail again.

"Light - " He starts, upset, but then pauses again. The silence stretches. She hears the grinding of teeth, and a long sigh. And then, slowly, he turns towards her, stopping right next to her so that their shoulders are barely touching. There's a pain in his voice that's a thousand years old and a helplessness suddenly creeps into her being, a sinking sense that she's already long lost what she still stands to lose. "... It's not anything that bad, okay? Everything will be fine. It's not something you can help, anyway. Just - stop freaking out about it, and I promise, I'll tell you all about it sometime."

Something about that is reminding her of the Hope in the Ark burning up even as he tells her that everything will be okay. "Hope."

"Yes?"

"Look at me."

Stiffly, slowly - it feels like it's going to take a whole another one thousand years - he turns and complies. She's still holding onto his arm. His eyes, at least, are frank when they meet her own - still hurt and decidedly unhappy, true, but at least candid and unwavering. He won't let more children die. He won't let the world go to ruin. This world, after all, in a way, is as much his as it is hers; according to Sam, it's more his than anything. She'll find out what's up, even if he doesn't tell her.

Even if this silence of his hurts her more than a hundred snowballs and five thousand attempts at trolling.

"Fine." She mutters, lets go. The action's too rough - they both nearly hit opposing walls from the force of it. She should feel bad about it. Does feel bad about it. But not enough. And he hasn't moved, either. "But let's go on that hike tomorrow. You said we'll be out of time soon, didn't you?"

"Only if you promise me that we won't talk about any of this tomorrow. Can you do that?"

"What should we talk about, then?"

"The mountains. The flowers. Books. Missions. The stars. Anything."