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“Steady,”
“Shut your gob, I know.”
Clicking his tongue, Squall shrugged his shoulders, but it sent his companion — A hyuran boy by the name of Olfard, bristling all the way up to his pale-green hair.
“If y’think you can do better, you do it,” he hissed through his teeth, and Squall raised his eyebrows.
“Y’were the one who insisted on usin’ the thing,” he drawled in retort, and Olfard’s cheeks flushed red with anger, grip tightening crossbow and the handful of bolts in his hand.
They were situated just outside of Limsa Lominsa proper, where a handful of lost sheep had coalesced into a flock and were grazing idly. With no shepherd in their midst, they were ripe for a group of hungry children to make good use of.
But, unlike the marmots and the ground squirrels they often caught and ate, these sheep were skittish, and would certainly be an absolute nightmare to not only catch but kill with the deckhand’s knives they used.
The crossbow, on the other hand, they had found discarded. It only barely worked-- the force it fired with seemed low, which was likely why it was thrown aside, but it gave them distance from the hunt. The bolts…well, they had been stolen, but one did not survive alone in Limsa Lominsa without a five finger discount.
If they were successful, it’d feed the lot of them full for the first time in…he couldn’t remember. Probably when he was still in the orphanage. The constant ache was enough to drive anyone to desperation, but being children did have its advantages.
This, however, was not one of them.
“If you’re so bloody smart, why ain’t we been eatin’ good ‘fore now? Bastard,” Olfard snapped, and Squall’s brow knitted, tail giving a dangerous flick.
“Shoot your shot and shut y’mouth,” he hissed back. “Else we’ll be here til the next turn at the rate you’re goin,”
“Right sack of shite you are…” Olfard muttered, but he turned back to the flock, tongue firmly between his teeth as he retrained the bolt, hands too small to comfortably hold the stock and the mechanism, but large enough to get away with it.
There was a click and a snap, and the bolt launched from its notch, flying through the air and striking true— into the eye of one of the sheep, the animal keeling over immediately as the rest of the flock panicked, sprinting off in the opposite direction from their fallen brethren.
“Yes!” Olfard said, pumping his fist. “Godsdamned showed you, didn’t I?”
“Stop makin’ out like I said y’ couldn’t,” Squall said, rolling his eyes, standing from their position and brushing grass off his clothes.
He looked back at their catch and a frown appeared, an uncomfortable feeling settling just below his ribcage.
“What?” Olfard asked, and Squall didn’t respond for moment, his ears firmly turned toward the sheep.
“…Hope ‘m wrong,” he muttered, and he started the walk toward their catch, Olfard trailing behind. He now had a nervous flick in his eyes, watching Squall’s shoulder for any signs or gestures. Despite their bickering, there was a reason Squall was trusted among their number.
Setting down the burlap bag and rope they’d brought to carry it back, Squall reached out to start tying.
A shrill scream followed, cloven feet hitting his hand as the sheep began to wriggle, blood flowing from the eye they’d hit with the bolt. The lack of power in the crossbow had meant it had not gone deep enough to kill, only maim, leaving the poor animal in a state of shock…and now petrified agony.
“W-what do we do?” Olfard stuttered out, and Squall felt panic settle into his throat.
In that moment, he wanted to freeze. His eyes burned, and his fingers shook. This wasn’t how it was supposed to be. Let alone here, tasked with this, in a rush he remembered those who could simply buy their food. He remembered now faceless hunters, adults, who brought back the kills, and the comforting sound of a lullaby by a fire.
It was this— it was this feeling of wanting, of longing for comfort— this disgusting feeling was why he was alone to begin with.
You’re here because of the way you are. What you are.
A burden.
“Grab the hind legs,” Squall said, biting down on his own lip and tasting blood as he reached for the forelegs, his brain now doing its best to drown out the animal’s panicked cries. Olfard did as he was asked, and Squall leveraged one foot to hold one of the legs so his right hand was free. Grabbing the end of the bolt, knuckles white, he forced it down with all the strength he could muster.
The sheep let out a final scream as the bolt drove in deep, before falling motionless, blood bubbling around the wound.
Squall swallowed, each breath sharp. The marmots and the squirrels didn’t scream like this. They certainly didn’t fight back, not when a knife killed so quick.
It had almost sounded human.
“Would’ve had better luck throwing a rock,” he muttered, fingers shaking as leaned back to grab the rope. Olfard, who had been sitting in a state of numb shock, nodded his head, also picking up the rope and rubbing at his eyes.
He set his mind to the task at hand. Bringing the animal back. Doing something with every part of it they could. Eating their fill and moving on to the next day.
If he didn’t, the emotion eating at his heart would swallow him alive. There was no time left for tears and he’d been left behind for that very reason.
If he was to be worthy of being loved— of Sis coming back— he had to survive on his own, no matter what the world threw at him.
And then, maybe then, it would be enough.