Chapter Text
Deep in the cool frame of the crystal, Lucrecia’s sleep is plagued with nightmares. Distant, scratching splinters of sensation, the years melting away, the shape of life and sound reverberating through the darkened tunnels of sleep like a call from beyond the stars. Motionless, her eyelids flutter inside the frigid layer of her prison, her mouth twitching. Again. It speaks to her again, drawing her in, weaving its murky spell. Just as it has before, so, so many times before.
The world outside is little more than a memory, out of sight and mind and reach, a punishment she deserves, will always deserve. She knows that time has no meaning here. The years are the same, as are the seasons, an endless drone of glistening, gilded oblivion, far away from the agonized gnawing of her own heartbeat.
And yet, in the singular stillness of the moment, she can feel the shift, the fragile pangs of loss pattering against her. It feels like rain, though she can’t recall the last time she experienced such a sensation. It’s been a long time since she’s experienced anything. A crest of emotion, rising like the wind, breaching the clouds, floating in perfect patterns of power and yearning. And then the slow descent, the fall through the icy air, spiralling, drowning, gone.
Her hand extends in her mind's eye, reaches, clutches. A slip of something warm falling past her grip, drifting out of sight as it wisps through her ghostly fingers. She doesn't understand. She isn't sure if she even wants to. Not now.
But somehow, she has an idea. A coaxing nudge. A glimpse. Crumbs that pile together inch by inch. And it's all so heavy. Too heavy for her to bear.
The shadows lift, the icy shaft of clarity grazing her mind, centering her consciousness. Flashes dance before her eyes, frightening memories that aren’t her own. Green eyes that radiate in a sea of flame. Desperate hands that claw against the grimy walls. A dizzying rush of blood to the head. A break. A fracture. The Beginning and End. The need. The hate. The searing stirrings of wrathful, raucous vengeance.
Darkness. So, so much darkness.
She remembers the flashes from a time before he had emerged from her, from when she had once held him within her, warm and safe. And now, they return to greet her once more, more cruelly intimate than the soft skin of the infant she never got to hold, never got to touch.
Fire. Blood. Pain.
They blur together in blackened, night-soaked misery, crawling and crooning in the ruined ashes of a life destroyed, broken beyond all repair. The futility. The loss. And the baby. The child. The son.
He had been tiny. So very, very tiny.
And her lips part, a single sorrowing tear trailing down her cheek, crystalizing against her frozen skin as she softly whispers his name.
--
Hojo leans back in his seat, staring at the message on his phone in abject silence, his glasses flashing in the dimness of the room. The stillness of his surroundings lulls like a bitter cloud of hollow breath, motionless, corpse-like, pallid. Empty tanks in the corner. Cobwebs on the wall. Vacant spaces, dusty and lost. The specimen on the table lies still, ignored, lacking definition or singularity, a discarded toy yielding little interest, little drive.
For a moment, he hesitates, running scenarios in his mind, tasting the new foundations of creation that await him. And, just as quickly, he finds that there is little pleasure to be found in any of it. Not right now. Not today, at least. The sensations are muffled static in his ears. Stagnant. Drained and anemic.
Three words. Three words on a tiny screen. Three spaces. Three slots. Three.
And they are all it takes to crumble his manic delusions, the weight of hard reality hitting him. He wonders, faintly, where these words might take him, what awaits ahead in the twisted, bloodied path that cements his legacy. And for a moment, he cannot laugh, cannot sneer with contempt. Cannot fall into the fever of his own manic, ugly lusts and desires.
Because in just three short little words, he realizes that his life is partially over.
S E P H I R O T H I S D E A D.
He puts the phone down on the desk, tapping his pencil against the blank pages of his report, his jaw clenching, greasy locks of black hair spilling down his forehead. He runs a hand across his skin to remove the perspiration clinging to the oily surface, fingers twitching, nostrils flaring.
The new test subjects are soon due to be produced for inspection, promising a bright and shining future of experimentation, especially with the new plans being implemented. He will go and oversee their collection shortly, amuse himself with the faint prospect of petty distraction. But for this rare, fragile moment, testing is the farthest thing from Hojo’s mind.
Sephiroth is dead.
Foolish musings. Illusions meant to take him away from his work. Unimportant trifles. Jokes. Spoiled games.
Dead.
There's work to be done. So much work. So much toil. So much left to do, even now. Endless hours of progress. Of knowledge. Perfectly ordered and balanced and routine.
Dead.
He stares at the paper and sets the pen down with a sigh. The room around him hums, a steady, quiet vibration that murmurs through his weary mind, the unwanted pangs of nostalgia leaking into his thoughts. Slowly, he reaches over and digs into the drawer, retrieving the photograph and holding it up to the light.
A faded image, old and worn, folded and stained through the winding fabric of time. The little boy with silver hair hides behind his bangs, his chin lowered, bruises on his neck and shoulder as he stares timidly down at his feet.
Hojo studies the photo for a long moment, his thin lips quivering, eyes moist, giggling as the warm tears begin to spill down his cheeks.
“…Hmph. Disappointing.”
The photograph disappears back into the blackness of the drawer, locked away.
--
In the gentle heat of the burgeoning morning, the black-haired ex-soldier paces forward through the clearing, taking in the quiet sights and sounds of the Banora landscape.
Zack can still smell the orchard, the scent of hay and earthy, rounded buds of fruit emerging from their long hibernation, chasing the warm call of the sun. Small, buzzing insects twine around his ankles and waist, skirting through the thin wisps of grass and vanishing into the weeds. He closes his eyes and cherishes the calm breeze, the way the first early rays of sunlight peek softly from behind the darkened clouds, the sound of birdsong overhead. He can feel the pull of new life all around him, the promise of hidden, growing things just waiting beneath the surface of the soil at his feet. New trees in the spring. Flowers. The flowing rush of the river. All things waiting to return, waiting for their time.
It’s a beautiful day, despite everything.
He gathers the Dumbapples into his arms, making sure he’s selected the ripest picks of the lot, as he slowly approaches the sleeping congregation spread out before him. Three shapes nestled together, three exhausted figures that slump idly in the growing glow of the morning. He studies them for a long moment, watching in gloomy silence, his head lowered. Companions, some unwillingly so. Some fading away. Some that are his burdens to bear.
He breathes through his nose, perhaps dimly aware, in that scant minute in time, of his own untimely demise looming overhead. If not now, then soon. He knows there isn’t much time left. He can feel the spaces closing in, the sensation of pursuit even now after their long hard journey. Such is the price of freedom. And such is the path of the rogue hero who treads it.
Pausing to exhale, Zack snorts and shakes his head. No. He can’t let himself imagine such things. Not right now. Not after everything that’s happened. Not while he’s still needed.
He trots over to the auburn figure on the far end of the group, watching the crumpled man with wary, pitying eyes. The figure remains motionless, his eyes shut, his rejuvenated skin warm and tanned with health, head down, chin resting against his chest. Slowly, the dark-haired warrior leans down and places the fruit into an opened gloved palm, adjusting the man into a more comfortable sitting position and lightly patting his shoulder. He does the same for his friend in the middle, gently ruffling the blond spikes, a warm glow in his blue gaze. As for the third shape...well, he thinks that perhaps some things are best left undisturbed, best left to rest.
Standing before the sleeping trio, Zack surveys the tiny assembly in solemn contemplation, raising his eyes towards the fading outline of the moon. He can feel it all. The years. The loss. The long road ahead. Dreams. Honor. Memory.
Smiling sadly, he lifts the Banora White up in a makeshift toast, holding it out before the group.
To the end of the war.
To good company.
To friends.
“Okay,” he murmurs. “Let’s eat.” He momentarily pauses and glances back to the auburn-haired figure at the far end of the half-circle, apologetically rubbing the back of his head. “Sorry I’m not the real thing, but…”
He swallows, his heart sinking with regret, unsure exactly what to say. The words don't come, the past battering against him. Fire and rain. Cold shadows, cold eyes. Betrayal. Fear. He knows he should greet it with a sense of hate, bitterness. It would be easy, terribly easy. But he can’t. He refuses. He doesn’t have it in him. He supposes he never did, never will.
“I’m sorry I’m not the real thing,” he only repeats, his voice hushed, almost wistful. "I'm just...sorry."
The silence lengthens, vast with mourning. And Zack mourns along with it, recalling a dim sunset so many seasons ago. A low voice at his side, hovering over his shoulder. That reluctant, weary smile, so frightfully close to human. So close to being saved. And he...
Shaking his head again, Zack closes his eyes and holds the moment, letting it quietly float away. He brings the Dumbapple to his lips and crunches down, enjoying the peaceful stillness as he chews.
“Is it good?” Genesis Rhapsodos' voice is soft, weak and weary with exhaustion, his eyes opening to pale, melancholy slits. He folds his fingers in his lap, halfway between a prayer, his head leaning back, wincing in the light. He stares at Zack, the pale light in his streaming eyes darkening, the cold shimmers sliding down his cheeks. "Is it...good, Sephiroth?"
Zack watches the man, his dark brows creasing, the taste in his mouth like sand. Slowly, he nods, his shoulders lowered, his tone gentle. “Yeah. It’s good. Really good.”
“…The Gift of the Goddess.”
Puzzled, Zack blinks and holds the half-eaten fruit up to the light. “This apple?”
But Genesis simply shakes his head, shivering, the soft sunlight dappling against his ginger hair. He leans back and glances over to the third member of the group, the slumped shape that continues to sleep, silent and still. “Angeal…”
“Hm?” Zack tilts his head.
Genesis shakes his head again, teeth clenching, his voice breaking as he hides his face in his trembling hands. “The dream…came true.”
--
With the last of his effort, the last of his strength, the battered man drags himself forward across the ravaged wasteland, his teeth gritting with determination, the Buster Sword dragging against the rough terrain at his feet.
He moves with purpose, his mind a muddle, his body exhausted, his memories tangled and foggy. Sweat beads against the golden bristles on the back of his neck, his sky-blue Mako eyes half open, squinting wearily across the barren landscape. He can see the city in the far distance, its towering force hovering through the haze of heat and dust. He’ll need to find work, he thinks. Perhaps a place to stay. But Gil will come easily to an ex-soldier. And as one of Shinra's most elite former members, he should find the life of a mercenary no trouble at all, once he gets there at least.
He can't look back now. Every step dawns a new purpose, a new seed of promise in the shaky collection of his control. He can't let go. He can't give in. Not him. Not ever again.
And above all, even after all the other things he’s forgotten, he mustn’t forget the fire, the sight of his hometown aflame. It gives him the strength to keep moving, the anger still boiling hot within him even after all these years. Those eyes that had taunted him through the smoke. Those crazed, unforgiving eyes that had taken away everything he'd cherished, everything precious.
No. He’ll never forget. Never.
Midgar is getting closer, the Upper Plate exposed underneath the harsh sunlight, the stink of Mako potent in the air. A city of power and arrogance, waiting for him, mocking him with every staggered step. He'll show them all. He'll prove himself. He'll find a way to go on living. A living legacy for all to see.
Cloud Strife, Soldier First-Class.
Somewhere, a buzzard screams above him, black, circling shapes that block the sun. A dark feather brushes against his cheek, drifting lazily down the path, lost in the dry stain of gravel beyond. He hisses through his teeth, raising his eyes to the sky and sneering up at the scavengers in defiance. With a laborious grunt of exertion, he pulls the blade closer and presses forward, picking himself up when he falls, using the sword to keep himself propped up, stumbling and lurching, gasping and panting.
Not much longer now. Almost there. Just a little further. A little further. A little further now.
A little further.
--
Cloud.
The blue expanse stretched out before him, an open valley of knowledge and secrets. A twitch. A murmur. A flicker of perception. And his eyes opened through the soporific veil to regard the hazy spectacle, its languid liquid corners blanketing him, the rolling tide of his waking thoughts rising up past the fog.
Through the sharp, momentary shaft of awareness, he could feel himself descending, propelled towards the blurred outlines of distant shapes that drifted along the endless pantheon of oblivion. He drank them all with tireless curiosity, pressing himself deeper down the dark depths as he pulled and leeched and uncovered every unturned stone, every sliver of his noble heritage. The newfound acuity of his cognition was delicious, new vessels of sound and focus entering him, new climates of discovery just waiting to be uncovered.
He understood now. He understood everything.
He was no Cetra. He was better. Beyond belief. Beyond the miniscule scope of Gaia's feeble comprehension. Supreme, rising even after the fall. Death itself could not claim him. Mother had shown him the way. Mother had taught him everything he needed to know. Soon, he would see that Her needs were met, ushering forth the glorious gateway to Her new kingdom, his new kingdom.
A new dawn, a new future, bright and burning and blood-soaked. But theirs for the taking. Theirs eternally. It would take time and patience, yes, but he was amply supplied with both. And like the very best of calamities, he would wait for the perfect moment to strike.
Soon, very soon, the humans would fall.
For now, he was at rest, curled warmly in the endless womb of the Lifestream. It felt like a return somehow, though he was not entirely sure why. He only knew that he felt safe here, nestled deep, suckling against its ethereal pull. This was better. He no longer had to dwell on the worries or concerns that had once plagued him so long ago. Mother was here. Mother was with him. She would never leave. Never.
There were aspects from before that he had not yet uncovered, the phantoms of unseen faces that had flashed before him. A petite woman with long brown hair. A man with wild black hair and mahogany eyes. Them. Others. Nagging specters that tailed him, disrupting the peaceful pattern of his private thoughts. But he no longer felt the need or desire to investigate them. They were human. They didn't matter. He merely pushed them away, leaving them in the shadows as he drifted deeper and deeper into the abyss.
In truth, he no longer cared about anything from before. The memories were moving farther and farther away from him now, surrendered to the black vastness of The Void, lost to time and space, fading more and more with the passing years. Sometimes, he would try to remember their names, try to recall the faint image of a waterfall, smoky bars, a bonfire under the stars. He knew it had all been something important, something he'd once sought to reclaim. But he could no longer remember why. Their faces were blank, their words muffled, locked away. It had been the life of someone else, trickling slowly out of his consciousness like bitter tears.
But even as they floated away from him, he refused to follow, refused to give himself up to the endless mass of souls that beckoned him. It had welcomed him so many times before, asking him to join its eternal convocation, to surrender his burdens and hate. A preposterous request, or so Mother had said. He had turned away from it again and again, moving closer to the snug, welcoming darkness of Mother's cradle, cocooned, umbilical, soothed.
Cloud.
His thoughts stirred again, this time with greater vivacity. He could sense the man’s presence even now, could feel him moving closer. It sent his heart aflutter with excitement, relishing their next encounter, relishing the sensation of what was to come.
Cloud was his, belonged to him. He hungered for Cloud constantly, had graced the man as the sole recipient of his divine, brutal desire. He could feel Cloud, could sense him from his black prism of solitude. Cloud would be the key to his great machinations, the portent of his grand designs for the future, Mother’s shining beacon of glory. Cloud would serve him like the faithful puppet he was, would come to him willingly, would give him exactly what he needed. That blessed, savage invocation. That single, ruthless call. Cloud would provide all of it and more.
Reunion.
But that could wait. There was still plenty of time to convalesce, to gather his strength. He would need more time to think, to devise newer, bolder projections for the future. Half the fun was in the plan. And he was more than up for the challenge.
He could feel his mother near him now, could feel Her ghosting against him, reaching out and pulling him close, tugging him away from dark thoughts and desires. She held him like a cherished treasure, wholly belonging to Her, whispering softly into his core, promising a world of sanctified retribution. And he accepted Her contact without question, letting the lingering emotions seep away, the memories, the hesitation. She buried them all, his cheek gracing the smooth, tender outline of Her breast, his body folding, swallowed in Her arms. Presently, his mind grew drowsy as he slowly closed his eyes again, his pulse stilling, lulled and quiet.
At last.
There was no reason to hurt, to doubt, to fear, to suffer. Not ever again. The labs and tanks were gone. The sorrow had ebbed. The pain had faded like morning mist, replaced by an eternal sense of calm contentment and purpose. He was beyond them all now; the single, beautiful raven-black wing sprouting from him like a calling of righteous ascendancy, curling comfortably around him in the gloom.
He was Sephiroth. He was loved. He was eternal. He was chosen.
He was free.
And as the journey unfolded before him, the first evening stars glinting above the murky Midgar skyline, Sephiroth sank deep into the peaceful embrace of sleep, dreaming a different dream altogether.
END
