He knew he was dying, and regretted only that he would never see ElfÊ again. Not her, not her father Veld, not his few remaining Hundred nor even the bloody Turk.
The pain was too great; he couldnât even open his eyes.
But the fight wasnât over.
Shears hadnât been lying when he told the Turk that before ElfĂŠ, only the pain from fighting made him feel alive.
With a bellow like a wounded ox, he surged to his feet between the Turk and the thing that had been Fuhito. Words were exchanged; he couldnât remember what they were even as he said them. And then--
The scythes that served it for arms slashed across his chest, biting through flesh and bone and tearing into his heart--
He drew back his fist and punched the Summon materia with all the rage and hate he could muster--
The materia and his hand shattered at the same time.Â
Cold swarmed him and, as everything went white, Shears grinned.
The last thing he knew was a primal satisfaction.
For a time, there was peace.
Sensation, like a hand along his jaw.
Sound:Â âShe misses you terribly.â
A womanâs voice, familiar.
It took effort to reply. âMa...?â
Now a masculine chuckle. âNot quite, boss.â
At that voice, sorrow. âHobbie? Hoped youâd made it...â
Another chuckle, sadder. âAlmost did. Almost did.â
The woman again:Â âYouâre still needed. This isnât the place for you.â
âSheâs right,â agreed Hobbie. âGo back, boy.â
Vision came to him, a stocky dark man and a woman who looked like ElfĂŠ, shrouded in pearlescent white; behind them stood several of his Hundred. âTake care of her,â the woman said, and white became blue, rushing down past him, tasting of salt.
Blue rushed past, and he rose higher, faster, until suddenly he was drenched in heat and sun and surf. He breathed in sea air and opened his eyes--