This man, comparable to death himself, said everything like it was a simple part of the plan. That’s what made it even more difficult to swallow, the brief, easy talking as though this was supposed to happen, even if Hope didn’t want it to be part of this. He didn’t even want to be in this situation.
Hope took sharp turns behind him, only quick enough to make sure that he was still near camp. It wasn’t suitable to run the entire way, exhausting himself would come easier than ever. He would only turn fast enough, though, to make sure he could still keep the man in his sights.
His voice was cracked, but it spoke low. For only he and the man would hear, it worked almost like a secret.
“What did I even do? Who are you?”
Hope broke the silence that the other created, frantic, simple-minded questions that the top of his mind had to offer. In the down time afterwards, he could only wonder, why he mentioned Hope’s future. What did he do? What will he do? There was no time to consider consequences, having Ragnarok pointed, tip dead precise, to his body.
Nothing, not even Lightning’s training, could prepare him for the sight of the blade, the twisted tip almost threatening the young boy. He took another step back, letting himself press against the park of a fruit tree. If he could have planned this better, Hope should have yelled, asking for Light, maybe some weary traveller, to help him. It seemed, though, that the only thig he could do was question motive, try asking as a buffer, a stall, something to deny death even for a few minutes more. The chocobo, long forgotten, had flown to higher branches, picking at a piece of fruit for itself.
It almost felt the step back was a victory for him, something to stand straighter, off of the tree, until the man’s uncertainty faltered back to a hardened state. He was ready once more, despite the young boy being the opposite.
He never asked for any of this.
“My future... What will I do?”
