Squall woke up groggy, a sensation he felt distinctly unfamiliar with. For the first time in a long while, he found himself unwilling to get up right away and go about his duties. He felt… indulgent, lazy, and also greatly satisfied, for reasons that evaded him. A hand was threading through his hair, stroking with just enough pressure to lightly massage his scalp and fill him with even more sensations of pleasant comfort. In his state of partial wakefulness, he did not care that he was smiling carelessly or purring in contentment.

There was a soft chuckle over his head, a voice he vaguely recognized speaking to him: "Come on, wake up." And at his unintelligible murmur of refusal, added, "I'd leave you alone, but I need a shower and my only article of modesty is not coming off short of tearing it to shreds. I'm honestly fine with that, but having me wander the corridors naked may leave those poor soldiers of yours in varying levels of shock and distress."

Grumbling low in his throat, the boy finally cracked crusty eyelids apart to stare up at the face hovering over his. His hand moved to take hold of the one still in his hair, and he pulled it lower to press knuckles to his lips. He drew in a deep breath, taking in the scent of the other indulgently. His actions earned him a more teasing laugh.

"You are such a spoiled brat," Cloud scolded lightly. "How many would be so patient and generous for a first time? You're lucky I happen to enjoy the receiving end more, otherwise you'd find yourself unable to walk for a week."

Finally, the events of the night before caught up with him. His mind focused, sharpening with alarming clarity, and the feelings of warmth and comfort he had been enjoying moments before were suddenly washed away by an icy wave of dread. His free hand reached up, managing to touch Cloud's forehead before the man understood and lowered himself a little to give access to soft blond strands.

"… Do you regret this?" he heard himself ask. He realized a second after that he was already comfortable with speaking to the other outside his armor, then surprised himself at how little he cared for that revelation. But still Squall caught it – that uncertain gleam in those blue-green eyes – before it was masked quickly, and Cloud pulled his hand free to stroke the boy's cheek.

"Do you?"

There was no answer for him to give, nothing that he could squeeze pass the sudden lump in his throat. Instead, he sighed – felt his breath shudder – as he leaned into the touch and closed his eyes once more. He wanted to forget, to simply accept the present as it was. He wanted to enjoy this fleeting moment that he might never experience again, before it would inevitably be torn from him. He heard the sheets rustle, and then the hand moved from his cheek to brush his bangs aside. A feathery light kiss was planted on his forehead. Cloud's voice was a soft whisper in his ear:

"Then there is nothing to think about."

He felt himself shiver, and he gave up. What was it that had happened, exactly, to make him so much weaker – near powerless – around this man? What had changed between them… or had things really changed at all since that first time they crossed swords?

His inner monologue was cut off by a soft slap to his upper arm and Cloud's complaining mutter, "Will you get up already? I want my shower."

He could not help but chuckle himself at that blunt statement. At last he sat upright, the duvet slipping from his bare skin as he lifted a knee to prop his elbow on and lean his chest against. Looking down pass the edge of the bed, he saw indeed the pair of rumpled breeches still bunched around the man's ankles, unable to fully slip off with the fetters in the way. Impressed with how easily the man was able to move even with such a cumbersome hobble, he scanned the floor until he found his gauntlet.

Only then did he emerge from the warmth of his bed to take it in hand, to pop free the thin key from a specialized slot. No sooner had he released the man's legs from iron and cloth when there was a careful knocking on the locked door. He did not speak, neither did he stop his actions, the clattering of metal as good an indication as any that he was awake and moving about.

"Judge Griever," a voice called uncertainly from the other side of the wooden barrier. "Your pardon, my lord, but there is an urgent message waiting for you at the command deck."

He did not answer, and eventually the messenger took the initiative to leave. As muffled, barely audible steps drifted away, he scooped up the pair of leg irons – and then the shackles that were just within reach – and set them on his desk. Cloud had already moved on ahead of him; there was the sound of running water, but the door had been left open. He stepped in, keeping his back to the other, as he used the sink.

"Not joining me?" the blond drawled under the warm spray.

Scoffing, the youth tossed a handful of cold water in the other's direction. Admittedly, just wiping clean did not have the same effect as a proper rinse would, but he had already wasted too much time in his moment of self-indulgence. He toweled dry in a few minutes before stepping out once more, and a few minutes more were spent changing into fresh attire, then replacing his armor over his body. As each piece of that iron shell was returned to its rightful place, he felt calmer, more distanced from his dilemma. A situation he could not handle as himself, he could handle as a Judge.

The helm was the last to return to its place before he crossed the room and unlocked the door. Everything was automatic from there, and he soon found himself walking down the corridor leading to the command deck. The Captain – most likely the same one who came to him earlier – looked up upon his approach, and startled immediately.

"Sir…!"

He did not give time for the other to comment on the sudden lack of Cloud following behind him, instead gesturing sharply for the man to relay the message. The man was quick to obey, knowing better than to argue. There was a brief moment of delay, and then…

"Griever."

At once the young Judge looked up, and the sinking feeling in his gut that had never truly left him reminded him of its presence.

"… Your Honor."

Acquiring a fresh towel, Cloud had dried himself off with still no sign of the young brunet's return. Comfortable in the amount of privacy presented, he seated himself once more by the desk. Immediately his hand reached out for the trinkets laid there, and he picked up a small figurine expertly shaped from wood. It had the appearance of a small lion, except that its paws were comically large and its mane took on a conical shape at the back of its head. It was posed in what seemed a dance, with only one foot on the stand. Stenciled in silver along the stand's side was the word "Moomba".

He was stroking the surprisingly realistic lines of fur when the door unlocked and swung aside. The suit of leonine armor clanked in, and the lion head stared pointedly in his direction, nothing as endearing or adorable as the tiny sculpture in his hands. He found he disliked the armor more each time he saw it – as long as he was talking to that helm, he did not know if it was Judge Griever or Squall who answered him.

"… you're still here," the lion growled.

Shrugging, he set the little Moomba figurine back on the desk. "My point about streaking in front of your troops still stands."

The door shut, the lock clicking in place once more. The young Judge crossed the distance between them, stopping before him. He was half expecting a reprimand for playing with the toys meant for a real child, but it did not come.

"… Why?" the Judge spoke quietly, his tone wavering. "Why are you still here?"

"I just said-" He was interrupted as a hand reached toward his ear. His earlobe was pinched firmly between a thumb and forefinger, not enough to hurt but enough to make a point.

"This earring…" It was definitely Squall speaking to him through that Judge's mask. "Not once have you taken it off. Every so often, all throughout your capture, you fiddle with it. When you think I'm not listening, you talk to it."

He blinked carefully, staring up into the dark depths of those black, hollow eyes in the lion's head. He did not say anything, not even an obvious "so?" for a retort; he sensed that the boy was about to continue anyway, prompting or no prompting. The thumb moved a little, brushing the underside of a ring fixed into a small silver wolf's head like a doorknocker.

"… this isn't just an earring, is it?" he queried softly. "… It's a tracer."

Cloud did not attempt to deny it, but he winced when the pinch did increase in strength to a painful level.

"When are they coming for you?" the Judge – Squall demanded urgently. More strength, more assertiveness. "Why are they not here yet?"

"Ah…" the blond cried out at last, his left eye squinting slightly from the uncomfortable pressure. "Alright, I hear you. Let go before you tear it off."

The fingers sprung apart instantly, the hand drawing away. Cloud reached up to touch his tender earlobe, lightly brushing over skin before checking the state of his earring. Finding it still intact and its signal undisturbed, he breathed a sigh of relief. "Well, someone's in a mood…"

Squall ignored the grumbled complaint. Stepping pass the blond, he yanked open the doors to his wardrobe and reached inside. Cloud barely raised his hands in time to catch the pile of folded cloth and pair of old boots tossed his way.

"Put them on."

Eying familiar threads, Cloud set the boots on the floor before he unfolded the top piece. It was a slightly worn, patched shirt; his shirt. "… You kept my clothes?" he asked aloud. He could see new stitching where he remembered a recent rip under the sleeve. "… you mended them?"

"I asked you a question," Squall spoke instead. "Will they be here, or not?"

"And you expect me to just tell you, why?"

"The message was from Judge Ghis. His request has been approved, and he's coming here."

There it was: the deadline. Everything seemed to fall apart in that one moment of truth, that realization of utter, utter futility in all he had done prior. The young Judge watched him falter, seemed to understand.

"The Atomos is already on its way," he continued flatly. "If your friends do not arrive soon enough, they won't find you here, and they won't last against the Imperial 8th Fleet."

It was obvious the youngster was vexed, struggling with conflicting emotions as he squeezed his gloved fists so tightly that the leather creaked. Cloud knew why; he knew even more clearly which side would win. The lion stared at him once more, black eyes searching him; all they found was a calm façade, and it only seemed to aggravate him more.

"This is my job," he growled, more to himself than the one listening to his words. "I have my responsibility. Lord Larsa is waiting."

"I understand," Cloud spoke to him, his tone impassive. "So this is where we part ways?"

He heard a true, rumbled growl, and then the Judge turned away. Cloud did not need a clearer answer. Silently, he started to slip his clothes on. Once he was fully clothed and each boot was tugged over each foot, he stood up and turned to the one waiting for him.

"I have one last question for you."

"… …"

"If you knew all along, why didn't you take this from me?" he asked carefully, fiddling with the earring again out of habit, "Why give me this chance of escape, useless as it is now?"

Squall had his back to him, his hands pressed against the hard wood of his desk. One moved, hovering over the trinkets before selecting one – the feather orb that should have become a Memstone.

"… why…?" he murmured, his voice more hollow than usual even with the helm. His hand returned to the desk, pushing the orb into the wood as he put his weight on it. What he said next was wavering, sounding almost like a sob:

"… how am I supposed to know…?"

Cloud realized then what had happened. He recalled a time, still so recent – too recent – when a young man in armor of black and gray who would not hesitate to point a sword at his throat had stood before him. That young man had been the Judge that he did not know, up until the point when the helm came off. That young man would not have hesitated now, would not have let things come to this.

That young man was gone. All that armor had been a physical symbol of the barriers in his vulnerable, youthful mind. Had he not been a teenager, had he not been one so socially withdrawn, Cloud did not even dare think he could have achieved so much in such a short period of time. If only the rescue he was counting on had come for him, he would have won his game.

… if only it was still a game.

He did not touch the young Judge, for fear of breaking him further. He had already reduced him to this, and he was concerned – to touch him again, he might lose his resolve. He could still speak, but the words he truly wished to say failed to leave him, not with all they implied.

Instead, "… Don't forget our rematch."

Squall choked on a bitter laugh and turned around. "What rematch?" he snapped. "Do you actually still think we c-"

"Yes," he answered evenly. "We can. I want to fight you properly, with all that I am against all that you are without that armor or the Empire to hold you back. I want to fight until we have a true better between us, and I will."

It was a dangerous oath, an impulsive promise he was making. It promised more than the words he said; it promised freedom for them both. Squall was waiting for a sign of cracking, any hint that he was not up to such a task. He did not know how, but he stood his ground and held true against the hard gaze.

"I will live to fulfill it," he continued quietly, solemnly, "I will make it more than just a dream."

He felt the anger fading, replaced by frustration. The Judge straightened, his eyes never leaving the blond before him. If he was to say anything, he seemed to decide against it; instead he held up the shackles, and Cloud extended his hands meekly in offering. Metal was cuffed over his wrists none too gently, and he winced at the familiar, uncomfortable feel of its magicite at work. He turned, eying the remaining pair of manacles sitting on the desk with a sense of dread.

When the young Judge did not reach for them, he brought himself to ask – for fear of jinxing himself – "What about those?"

Griever did not even turn around. "What about them?"

The hand encased in metal and leather was at his now clothed back, pushing him forward. At the center of that warmth was the cool touch of a crystal .

There was droning of machinery and the loud roar of wind as the platform which made up half of the floor for the Ragnarok's hangar lowered steadily. The Atomos that hailed from the Dreadnought Leviathan approached slowly, only boarding once the platform came to a grinding halt. Then, as it had been lowered, it was raised once more, no quicker or slower than it had been without a cargo. With a final loud clanking, metal met with metal, muting out the wind and calming the engine. The carrier ship lowered its boarding ramp, then, for its passengers.

Escorted by a small squad of Imperials, Judge Ghis strode grandly over the metal plates. He wore gold armor pieces over a traditional officer's attire of white and red; colors that perhaps emphasized his feeling of superiority over the other Judge Magisters in their darker color schemes. Sheathed upon his belt was a broadsword and secure in his left hand was a solid war fan, both weapons also colored in deep rich gold. Even with the hammerhead-shaped helm over his head, he came across as haughty and disdainful to whomever laid eyes on him.

Judge Griever was waiting for him. His right hand was on the prisoner Fenrir's shoulder, keeping him firmly in place. The Sky Pirate held his head high, defiantly meeting eyes with the Judge Magister in his approach. Bound hands squeezed tightly into white-knuckled fists, but he remained still as the man who would be his next jailer finally came up to him.

"So this is the man, Griever?" Judge Ghis asked, his voice thick with contempt.

"Yes, Your Honor," Judge Griever answered, his own tone respectful. His hand moved, pushing the prisoner forward. Yet the Judge Magister made no move to receive him.

"This is the infamous Sky Pirate, Fenrir?" he continued his questions. "You are certain of that?"

"I am, my lord," the younger man replied. "He matches the description detailed in all our reports. There is no doubting that he is Fenrir."

Judge Ghis took in the fearless visage of the blond man before him, and he hummed in thought. "… and what do you say, boy? Do you deny it?"

Fenrir smirked in reply, meeting the haughty front with an equal show of arrogance.

"… No? Not even a final word?" – the Judge Magister's hand moved. – "As you wish, then…"

There was a blinding crack of pain that collided with the blond man's jaw, knocking him backward with its force. As he fell to the deck, Judge Ghis' drawn sword was turned in grip. The sight of the long golden blade prompted a startled move from Judge Griever at once.

"Your Honor-!"

"If he is Fenrir, then for him to actually allow his own capture would mean he has nothing to offer us," Judge Ghis declared. "Indeed, there is nothing of worth we can gain from him, save one thing…"

The greatsword lowered, its edge drawing blood from an unguarded throat.

"… his life."

"Sir!" Griever protested at once in alarm. "Your Honor, this is not what you-"

"Are you presuming to tell me what to do now, Griever?" the Judge demanded sharply. When the younger fell silent, he returned his attention back to the fallen prisoner beneath his blade. "This is your trial, Fenrir. As Judge Magister, I hereby condemn you, sentence you… and now, I will execute you."

Fenrir did not move from where he had fallen, did not turn his head for fear of cutting his own throat, but there in his eyes was a burning blue-green flame of anger. He glared in defiance, not even flinching as the blade drew away and was instead raised over his head.

"One death is all it takes to scatter the rest," the Judge Magister stated. "Consider this your honor, 'Fenrir'."

"No, Ghis!"

Again, the boy Judge's cry fell on deaf ears. The blade came down fast and hard. Instinctively, Fenrir shut his eyes and braced for the final blow.

Then his eyes opened again at the sound of metal striking full force against metal. He looked up again, found himself staring at the now familiar sight of a single-edged blade emerging from the chambers of a revolver.

"… Griever…?!" he uttered. Then, in panic, "You idiot, what do you think you're doing?!"

Griever did not answer, only pressing harder against the blade he held at bay. His finger was quivering from where it hovered so close to the trigger, but with his loyalty torn so suddenly in two different directions, he did not pull.

"Such a disappointment," Judge Ghis spoke softly, his tone cold and dangerous. "You should never have become a Judge."

Abruptly, the metal fan clattered to the deck. A hand glowing red with energy pressed against the dark silver fauld.

"I had need of only one death…"

And then the energy erupted into blinding light and searing heat. At its center was a muffled, metallic clash of crushing impact, followed by a louder clatter of something hitting the deck. Precious seconds were wasted before the "flame" cleared, leaving those who had not turned away in time to blink through the spots in their vision. There was no soot or ash, not even the smell of smoke, and the deck was as untouched as before.

Two weapons lay over the metal plates: one was the golden war fan, just within reaching distance of the Judge Magister who had dropped it earlier. The other was the gunblade. Debris was scattered all over the floor – metal bits that were dark silver and black. More fell as Judge Ghis slowly withdrew his fingers from where they had sunk into the shattered plate of armor. Then he pulled away altogether, and the limp body collapsed to the ground at his feet amidst startled exclamations from the watching Imperials.

Fenrir was unable to move from where he lay, unable to tear his eyes away from the lifeless form before him. He could barely even breathe, and his fingers were trembling without a weapon he could hold onto. He could hear the Judge Magister retrieving his fan, acting as though he had not just mercilessly assaulted a kid with Black Magick. He could feel himself being pulled up into a kneeling position by the front of his shirt, the blade raising above his head once more.

"Tis' a pity," Judge Ghis stated coolly, "but we cannot abide traitors among us." The blade moved again. "And now, to deal with you-"

He never heard the rest of the sentence as the once clean blade suddenly sliced across his chest with pushing force. There was blood, so much blood, spraying hot from the line that had appeared on him. He felt himself crumple, watched as everything seemed to dim into a haze of red.

He vaguely registered the blurred shapes above him moving strangely, faster than usual. He heard muffled sounds - … sirens? Alarms? "What is-" "My lord, we need to-" "-the platform! H-" – and quite suddenly the shapes were gone, replaced by a shadow above him. He wondered, in his slowly fading mind, if something was finally happening in his favor…

A sudden splash of refreshing coolness hit him in the chest, and he gasped as powerful curative energy swam over him, sealing what would have been a fatal wound. His senses sharpened once more, bringing focus back to that dark blur that had been hovering over his head. It was a young man with blond hair dressed in uniquely tailored black overalls, and in his hand he was still gripping the emptied glass vial. Fenrir recognized him at once, and breathed a sigh of relief before grumbling, "You're late."

"Yeah, yeah, but honestly," the young man scolded in return, though relief shone in his eyes, "can't stay out of sight without getting yourself killed, can you Wolfie?"

He was still slow, still sore when the other pushed him to sit upright. He could see they were alone; the platform had been lowered and the Atomos with the Judge Magister long gone. Red light was flashing, sirens blaring in warning; he suspected the third member of their crew was responsible for that. As the young man produced a lock pick from one of the overalls' pockets and started fiddling with the shackles on his wrists, he delivered his report.

"One of the other ships finally picked up your signal about half an hour ago, and I'll tell you – for a big, red, drake-shaped thing just sitting in the clouds, it sure was hard to find. We managed to get in through the access panel above the airlock chamber, and the others are raising some hell to keep them distracted while we looked for you. Still, we'd better hurry back to the Highwind before they catch on to us."

"… you didn't damage my ship, did you?" He received an offended huff in response.

"There's not so much as one scratch on her – you can see for yourself later!" – Then with a telltale "click", the shackles came undone and were pulled off him. – "Come on. I wasn't kidding about the hurrying out of here."

"Wait…" He pushed pass the other, his eyes landing on Griever's unmoving form once more. All that remained of the fauld and breastplate was still warm from the blast, and he could only guess what was waiting for him beneath the extensive damage to such hard metal. He heard a sound of protest behind him, his rescuer seeing only the Judge's armor, and thought to go for the helm. It slipped off too easily… the face beneath it was too pale… He heard a stifled gasp behind him, knew that the young man finally understood.

"Damn…"

He found he did not like the pitying quality in that tone; not for the implied meaning behind it. He placed a hand on Squall's cheek, tried to convince himself that the boy had never really been warm before, that being a little cold was not as bad as he thought. He had to believe there was still time on their side.

"We can still save him," he insisted, turning back to the other. "Tell me you still have something left. I don't care if we have to use an elixir, just-!"

"Fenrir…"

He did not need to hear the words to know – there was nothing; not at the moment. They had been expecting to rescue only him, would have stocked up for only his sake with what little time they could spare. Never had he felt more frustrated, and he reached down to gather Squall in his arms; he just noticed how the combined weight of boy and armor seemed just about the same as his sword's. Something rolled to the deck, and he blindly reached under his burden to catch it. A perfect sphere trapped in the cradle of fingers…

"… I'm not leaving him here."

He was thankful that his crewman was not arguing with him, instead obliging him and leading the way, moving around the gaping hole in the floor and pointing out where the stairs to the top deck aisle were. Adjusting his grip, Fenrir rose to his feet and followed. The empty lion's head he left behind, just as he left behind his sword and Squall's.

There was a sudden lurch from the doomed ship, and the helm rolled off the deck. It hit the platform below, bounced off and disappeared into the clouds.

Back on board the very ship he had jumped out of not so long ago, Cloud stripped Squall's body of armor for the second time. Pieces came undone one by one, each set down in a small pile on the floor; a far neater sight than what had only transpired the night before. No matter how careful he was trying to be, the fauld shattered to bits the moment he pried it free, littering the floor with its broken fragments. The breastplate was barely any better, snapping perfectly down the center along a deep crack.

When he was done, he laid Squall to rest on his bunk. There was no red stickiness on the thin shirt that he opened, but mapped over the torso was ugly bruising that started at his center as a dark mass and spread out like a spider, each misshapen leg wrapping over skin in a ghostly embrace. He could not feel any movement, not even the faintest wobble to indicate that there was at least shallow breathing. The face he saw was too calm for the amount of pain ravaged internal organs had to be causing.

He could hear the cabin door pop open just off to his right, then the footsteps approaching.

"Here…"

He looked over his shoulder to find a fresh vial held out to him. He took it, emptying the contents over the exposed skin and its cruel injuries and watching the dark color slowly fade. Even with the body restored, there seemed no other sign of improvement. His hand reached out, stroking through dark hair. Beside him, the third member of his crew watched quietly.

"To think the Empire would lash out like this at their own…" the man paused, his gaze resting on the blond once more. "Fenrir-"

"Don't say it," Cloud cut him off tersely. "Don't you dare."

"But-"

"I don't want to hear it," he answered slowly, "not when we- no, not when I allowed this to happen. I failed in our promise to protect the young."

"… He was a Judge, wasn't he?" his crewmate pointed out. "He would have known what was going to happen to him."

"Yes, he did. He was going home." And when he was not interrupted, Cloud continued softly, his hand never leaving its task. "He was going to finish his business with me, and return to Archades. He was going to spend his days with the only one he could call his friend. He was going to live."

His hand moved, tracing down the line of the scar on the boy's face.

"Did you know that I gave him this?" he went on, finding his voice surprisingly calm despite the bubble of emotions he could not suppress fully. "That was my first mistake, to mark him this way. He told me to forget it happened, and damn me, I did just that. I forgot he was just a kid under all that armor. He wanted to be an adult so much, and I treated him as I would an adult in the same scenario… But an adult would have taken what he could get and just left me to die."

The crewman had not stopped watching him, and as he saw Cloud rest his hand on the boy's cheek, he noted quietly, "He is more than just a kid to you, isn't he? Something happened."

"Yeah." And the hand moved to rest on Squall's chest, over his too quiet heart. "He found a place for me in here."

Despite the laws that had bound the mature, adult mind, the child had found it in him to love, to impulsively follow that love despite the dilemmas it forced upon him. And acting upon that love, the child had disregarded everything he learned to save the one feared losing. And now he had paid for it.

He had put that child up to this. He had played his game, made the rules, and still it went out of his control. Had he won, or had he lost? One or the other, they felt the same: bitter, painful, so very empty… silent…

Silent as the chest beneath his hand. Cloud felt none of life's beat under his touch, no matter how hard he wanted to believe otherwise. The fingers curled into a fist, a sickness filled him from the inside.

"… when we reach the base," he spoke in a command, "Let the boss know to reassign the both of you."

The crewman did not startle too visibly, but his eyes narrowed all the same. "You're leaving?"

"As though a Sky Pirate could stay away from what he does," he remarked dryly, no humor in either tone or expression. "But I need time away, to think."

"You can't blame yourself for this, Fenrir," he spoke, part in protest and part in reprimand. "You told me yourself, before – 'you can't save everyone'."

"And yet if I don't figure out how I failed to save that one I missed," he answered, "then I will fail again to save another."

He could not let the other argue with him further. He drew his hand away, laid it back atop his knee to support himself. "That is all," he spoke with finality. "I'm dropping you off, and then I'm gone. The boss will just have to find another pirate to steal for him."

"Cloud…"

"Firion," he interrupted the protest gently, softening his expression, "my time with you and Tidus, I can never trade. You have become strong members of the Resistance, so keep doing me proud while I am gone."

The crewman was far from appeased, but he did not argue. With a soft, frustrated sigh, he turned to make his way back to the cockpit.

"… don't take too long," he did say before leaving. "Don't go so far into those thoughts that you forget how to come back."

The cabin door fell shut once more with another muted "pop" of the catch. Again he was left alone with the still form on his bunk, and his hand reached out to take a still hand in his. Still cold, perhaps colder; there was no longer a purpose in denying it.

Don't do this to me, he wanted to say, though his throat had run dry. I know I promised you I would live, but that did not mean you had to…

He had thought himself over loss, hardened with experience enough to know that death was inevitable, to give freely – be it in a gamble or otherwise – without holding on too tightly. As a Sky Pirate, he understood loss as a necessity. As a member of the Resistance, he had accepted loss as commonplace.

You had a future. You were supposed to succeed my dreams of freedom, not the other way around.

I wasn't worth it.

Squeezing the limp hand tightly, warming the cold flesh with his heated fingers, he pressed knuckles against his forehead as he struggled to breathe. It hurt. It had not hurt like this since so very long ago, before he became Fenrir.

The pain of another's sacrifice was strong as ever.

I'm sorry, Squall, he tried to speak, but none of the words had volume or sound.

The air remained cold and silent.

In Archades, young Larsa Solidor was surprised to find a small package delivered to him from the Skycity of Bhujerba, without any prior notice or explanation from the Marquis of Ondore. It was more a pouch without straps than a parcel, and when he popped it open, a small ball rolled out heavily upon his desk. Picking it up, he took interest in the white feather curled at its center, the sunlight catching off its surface changing colors with every turn of the crystal sphere.

Setting it down, he shook the pouch again. This time, something much smaller clattered to his desk. He inspected it as well, between his thumb and forefinger, and found it to be a Tourmaline Ring, a little worn from previous use and showing signs of reshaping from a larger circumference. He was still examining them, thinking about the significance behind such trinkets, when he was informed of messengers.

The men who appeared before him came with news about the Ragnarok.