a chaotic heart
Chapter 5

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He is guilty, at first, because he knows he's scratched at her until she's bled. He's done it so many times. To his parents – and oh so many times to them. To his friends – or ex-friends now. He's succeeded in scaring them off, and all of them except Alyssa before he even turned fourteen at that. Neither of them are quite sure why she stays so long. Says she feels guilty about something, though she can't recall what. It doesn't matter, ultimately. He drives her away mostly as well. Only when he's fresh out of the hospital will she make an appearance at his house. To check if he's alive. To check if he's "okay".

By the time he turns fifteen, he knows he'll never be "okay." He remembers being torn apart, cell to cell, and remade. And he remembers fading into a white that humans should and could never fade into – and chaos was black, is black, and that's just the final proof that he's no longer human and can't die like them…even though he's been foolish enough to try.

And now it's become a weapon to push even the great Saviour away.

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She can't explain what makes her crumple inside. Not right then. Not even afterwards, when she manages to shove away the good Samaritans who've brought her to her door and stumble onto her bed and collapse on it. They leave the boxed lunches in the kitchen: Hope's untouched one, and hers half finished. They lock the door behind themselves too, and it's only several hours later that she realises she's let complete strangers into her house, and at a time she's not thinking clearly too.

She panics then, and checks every inch of the place and her keys, and thanking common-sense or lack thereof that she's only got one set of spares and they're with Serah. There's nothing out of place except the food on her counter but she berates herself anyway. She's not a soldier anymore. She knows that. But having fought for over an eternity, she simply can't allow herself to slip up like this – and yet she has.

And, by then, she's fallen asleep and woken with a scream still rammed in her throat and realises why Hope is driving her crazy like this because she'd been hacking away at a god ten times her height and there hadn't been a human soul to dig out of there.

The usual nightmare. More real now with proof floating in and out and she can't convince herself it's just the scars Bhunivelze has left on his unwilling host because it's just too much and Hope's not helping matters. He's not convinced himself. He's still trapped and that much she's sure about, even though she still can't fathom the nature of those binds and she's not the right person to, either. She knows that too, even though she doesn't want to admit it. She doesn't know whether it's selfish either, or recognising her own limitations. She's done both of those things in the past…and failed to recognise her limitations on many occasions as well.

She knows what Serah will say. She needs to talk to someone. But talk to who? The situation with Bhunivelze after the final chime is something that, aside from her, only Hope knows. And Lumina, but Lighting and Lumina are one now: Claire Farron, and that won't change again. Of course Serah will say talk to her – and yet Serah's got her own problems now, marriage problems that no-one but Claire had ever thought she'd have but here she does. And not because they're not in love anymore. They are, and she's seen time and time again how much Snow loves her but it's how long they've been apart, and how long Snow has despaired in that interim. The thing that broke the otherwise unbreakable man and their rebirth into the new world hasn't erased it.

This new world was supposed to be our paradise! She throws herself onto the bed again and digs at the quilt. She needs to see the others. Make sure they're okay, at least. But she can't. That'll just make her crumble all the more, won't it? So what's left? Nothing. Absolutely nothing.

And she doesn't seem to be capable of talking to Hope right now.

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She gets a call that evening from Bartholomew Estheim and she wonders for a fleeting moment how he's even got her landline when she'd used a pay phone to contact him, before remembering he is a well-respected government official even in this new world. It's probably an easy matter to trace her when she hasn't bothered privatising anything. The benefit of going by Lightning for all those years, she'd thought at the time. Very few people know to look for a Claire Farron, even if they're after Lightning or the Saviour.

Bartholomew Estheim is an exception, apparently. Though she's surprised. Surprised because it's an odd thing for Hope to have mentioned to his father in this life, and an odd thing for Bartholomew to have remembered from his previous one, but one of those others has happened and he's found her.

And once he's introduced himself, she knows what for.

'…did you find Hope?'

She swallows, her mouth suddenly dry. 'I did,' she admits. 'I lost him again.'

'I see.' There is a pause both before and after those words. 'I wish…' Then he sighs. 'So many chances, and still I don't know what's happened after I died to…' He trails off again, fishing for a word that doesn't exist or he wants to deny.

'I know.' Her lips move before she can quite stop herself. Perhaps it's the want to understand, or her own weakness. 'Some of it, at least.'

'You…do?' He sounds both hopeful and afraid. 'I want to help him. I want to save him. I just don't – don't know how.' The words are faster now, faster and almost tumbling over each other but still clear and ringing in his ears. Ringing with a raw honesty and why wouldn't they? He was his father. The man who was more than willing to die for harbouring l'Cie because his son had become one. The man who was more than willing to forgive the man who'd gotten his wife killed (without even knowing the bit where it had been her choice to pick up that gun and fight, or to shield Snow from the blast). The man who'd been so caught up in work that his son had felt neglected, that he'd missed the vacation that turned into a nightmare and cost him his wife but gave him back his son. But that's in the old world and Nora is still alive. There is no Pulse vestige in Bodhum anymore. There isn't even a Bodhum, or a Fal'Cie.

'Nora remembers nothing,' Bartholomew continues, when the silence stretches too long. 'And I don't know what Hope recalls. Not fully. His mother's death. Killing people. Bhunivelze.' She breaths sharply. 'Something about his heart having been cut out?'

'His soul,' she corrects, but they're sort of the same thing, aren't they? 'Bhunivelze's servants have no need for emotions…or chaos.'

'Chaos?' He repeats the word like it's a foreign thing. It is to him who dies long before such things came to light.

'It's a long tale,' she warns, 'and most of it is irrelevant.' And yet why has she told him this much? Need to talk, indeed. But this hadn't been what she'd had in mind.

'The story of the world is made up of many individual tales,' Bartholomew muses. 'I don't think it'll be as irrelevant as you say. If you could…' He trails off again. 'Perhaps face to face?'

'Now?' she wonders. It is late, yes, but in the near future she needs to find Hope again. Find and do what?

'Tomorrow?' he asks. 'Or whatever day is convenient for you. Do you have transport?'

'Yes,' she replies, before she remembers her transport is the train or, in particular emergencies, Snow and his motorcycle. Perhaps it's because her mind is occupied with other matters. In any case, claiming she has the means hands the reins over to her. Free to dawdle, or delay, or never show up at all and won't that be a cowardly door to take?

And isn't this running away, as it is? Not looking for Hope again? I should. I really should. And not throw up this time and she can barely believe she did so the first time. 'I should look for –'

'Chances are he's moved to another area.' He sighs again, a parent's weight of worry on his shoulders. 'I honestly don't know whether it's better to just give him his space at times like this, but… He slips away the harder we look, and then just…comes back.'

Her breath hitches. Comes back? On his own? She recalls the way he'd followed her to the street vendor, to the park. Just like that? Then she laughs to herself, quite forgetting she's still on the phone. 'I'm even more confused now.'

Bartholomew is silent for a moment. 'Come over,' he says, finally. 'We'll tell you the whole story. Or what we know of it. And I hope you can extend the same favour –'

'Of course.' For selfish reasons or not. Whether she's trying to save Hope or herself.

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She lies awake in bed, trying to count floaters in the darkness but failing. It's purely definitional, she knows. Floaters disappear when you look at them, and hover at the edge of vision when you don't. Like the answers to many things. Like the truth that would solidify her nightmares or banish them. Like the truth that could do the same to Hope but he's given up on the truth. Hasn't he?

She closes her eyes. The floaters are still there. She stares. They vanish and she opens her eyes again. It's surprising, sometimes, how hard it is to keep her eyes closed when she doesn't want to fall asleep. She's already slept. Already had a nightmare this day. But now she's dug a hole for herself and she wonders what she's doing, and why. Whether she's using Hope's parents as therapy or she's really going to find the answers, and is she even looking for them? And does she have the ones they want? She's got the Bhunivelze part covered – kind of. Better than anyone but Hope himself. But the stuff in between. There was Valhalla. Then crystal stasis. But everyone had gone their separate ways – except Sazh had been with Dajh, and Noel and Mog with Serah. But Hope… No-one had been with Hope by the end. No-one knew.

She feels like she's forgetting something, but she can't quite put her finger on what. Just like the floaters, slipping away before she can get a good look at them.