Something Old

The old gun had seen better days. It was missing its hammer and the barrel was far from straight. Really, it would take something close to a miracle and an expert gunsmith for the thing to ever fire again, which was probably why Hope's father hadn't protested too much when the fourteen year old had asked to keep it.

"He still thinks I'm a kid," Hope muttered as he gingerly took the gun up in one hand. It was heavier than he'd thought, and the grip was a little rougher than he liked, but for now it would have to do. Despite all of his efforts, his father still refused to teach him how to use a gun even though all the other boys knew how. Supposedly it was for his own good, but Hope knew better. His father was too busy trying to become mayor of the town to bother spending any time with him.

One of these days, Hope swore, he was going to leave town and find some place of his own. He'd ride out and have adventures, do all sort of things. When he got older he wouldn't have to just sit there listening to all the stories the travellers told as they passed through town. No, he'd be the one passing through different towns, telling everyone about all the amazing things he'd seen and done.

He could just see it now, he thought, tightening his grip on the gun. He'd become a marshal and hunt down criminals. They'd write stories about him and everything. Caught up in the thought of it all, he jerked the gun to the left and squeezed the trigger. It felt good and the solid click as the chambers turned was music to his ears.

BANG – Another bandit dead!

BANG – How about a famous gunfighter beaten to the draw?

BANG – A rogue sheriff brought to justice!

BANG!

BANG!

BANG!

And then he stopped, suddenly, keenly, aware that he was no longer alone. Almost afraid of whom he would see he turned. And then he stared. It wasn't one of the local kids come to laugh at the boy whose father still wouldn't teach him how to use a gun. No, it was a woman, one he'd never seen before.

For a moment, a long moment, her eyes were the only things in the world. They were the bluest blue he'd ever seen, so intense it felt almost like he was looking into a pair of cerulean suns. It felt like she could see right into him, right into the very guts of who he was and what he would be, and for a split-second he was absurdly afraid that this stranger, this woman he didn't even know, would see something she didn't like in him, or maybe find him wanting somehow. But then she seemed to nod, almost to herself, and then she was moving toward him.

Her steps were swift and sure and each movement was executed with a sort of carefully controlled grace. It was like there was something inside her, some power, some fire like that fire he'd seen in her eyes, and if she didn't keep it under tight control it might come spilling out and burn everything around her down to ashes. It felt like at any moment she might explode into sudden deadly motion, so fast you wouldn't even see the attack coming until it killed you, yet when she spoke her voice was gentle, and so were her hands when she took the gun from him.

"You're doing it wrong."

He didn't know what to say.

"Here, I'll show you." She took a moment to get a feel for the gun's weight and he was struck by just how right the weapon looked in her hands. "You want to make the motion of aiming and firing as natural as you can." She paused and her gaze shifted to their surroundings. They were alone. "Watch."

One moment she was still and then the next she was moving. Her right arm swept out to the side and suddenly the gun was pointing straight at the top of a fence paling maybe thirty feet away. She squeezed the trigger and the chambers turned. Click. But even before the sound had faded, she was moving again, all but flowing from one movement to the next as she lined up shot after imaginary shot.

It was magic, Hope thought, absolute magic to watch every muscle in her body work in concert to deliver an almost frightening blend of speed, efficiency, and power.

And then she stopped and the energy that had made her seem almost like a force of nature seemed to sputter out. Slowly, she loosened her grip on the gun and handed it back to him. It was strange, he thought, but for a few moments, while she'd been holding it, the gun hadn't seemed old or broken to him. It had seemed alive.

"Listen," she said softly, and he did, because he had the sense, he wasn't sure how or why, that what she about to say was something very important, something that he'd remember for the rest of his life. "I saw the way you were looking at the gun before, like it was something that could make you great." Hope looked away guiltily. "A gun doesn't make a person great, it's the person who makes the gun great." Her eyes softened. "That's why your father hasn't taught you how to use a gun yet. He wants to make sure you grow up right and proper so that when the day comes that you have to use a gun, you'll use it for the right reasons."

For a moment he was silent, mulling over her words and then it hit him. "Wait!" he said. "You know who I am? I mean you know my father?"

She was about to reply when his father's voice rang out.

"Farron, is that you there? You're a day early." His father chuckled. "And I see you've met Hope."

Farron? Hope's eyes widened. "You're Sheriff Lightning Farron?"

The woman shrugged. "Yes."

"But… but you're famous and everything… they say you're the best gunfighter in the whole west and…" Hope stopped, feeling absolutely terrible at being caught playing with a broken old gun by someone like her. He stared at the ground, ashamed and waited for her to leave to go talk with his father.

Only she didn't leave, at least, not immediately. Instead she whispered, almost too softly for him to hear, "You know, the first time I ever used a gun, I was older than you are now." He looked up and saw that she was smiling, just a little, and kind of sadly too. "Remember what I said earlier." She paused and then added, "You're a boy yet, Hope Estheim, but I think you've the makings of a good man. Don't grow up too fast."

And then she was stepping away from him and talking to his father. He stayed there a long time after both of them were gone, the old gun in his hands.

X X X

Author's Notes

First of all, I neither own Final Fantasy, nor am I making any money off of this.

This chapter is loosely based on a passage from my favourite Western novel. I don't really know what else to say, other than when I was tossing around ideas in my head about Lightning in a Western setting, I couldn't help but thinking of Hope as some kid bound to a boring town but desperately wanting something more.

As always, I appreciate your feedback. Reviews and comments are welcome.