[They don't know he's not the miserable, embarrassed looking kid he resembles, and that he's little more than an autonomous weapon. The kindness of Folkmore's spirits has been a constant, and it always made him ache in a way he couldn't explain, their simple unquestioning protectiveness of what seems to be a child on his own.
It didn't matter to them who he was or what he was, save the enhanced reputation of being a known Legend. But the concern is waved off, however subtly, with a murmur of It's okay, he has the right to.
Showing Cloud where he lives strikes him as a terrible idea. But it was fair, wasn't it? Sephiroth knew where he lived, so he could better avoid it. He hesitates, grip briefly tightening on the locket that had been tossed back to him, briefly painfully obviously anxious at Cloud's turned back. This is a bad idea.]
... Not far.
[The locket is carefully put away once more, relic briefly taken out, but that too doesn't last long before he moves to overtake Cloud. Not far is true, it's only ten minutes or so away on foot, faster yet if he flew.
Quiet side streets, in winter. No plowing, no shoveling. Neighbors that take note and watch, but won't interrupt usually, and one more nondescript Lapine bolt-hole is apparently the one chosen. The front garden is overgrown with winter-dead flowers, but the path to it is clear.]
no subject
It didn't matter to them who he was or what he was, save the enhanced reputation of being a known Legend. But the concern is waved off, however subtly, with a murmur of It's okay, he has the right to.
Showing Cloud where he lives strikes him as a terrible idea. But it was fair, wasn't it? Sephiroth knew where he lived, so he could better avoid it. He hesitates, grip briefly tightening on the locket that had been tossed back to him, briefly painfully obviously anxious at Cloud's turned back. This is a bad idea.]
... Not far.
[The locket is carefully put away once more, relic briefly taken out, but that too doesn't last long before he moves to overtake Cloud. Not far is true, it's only ten minutes or so away on foot, faster yet if he flew.
Quiet side streets, in winter. No plowing, no shoveling. Neighbors that take note and watch, but won't interrupt usually, and one more nondescript Lapine bolt-hole is apparently the one chosen. The front garden is overgrown with winter-dead flowers, but the path to it is clear.]