τοξότης

tonight i’ll be pulling material and info off of this blog—that’s right, folks, i’m archiving and remaking!

i don’t know what url you'll find me at yet, but hey, i hope to be around more often after this instead of fucking off for like a few months at a time, right

  She’d known from the moment Cloud had handed Sephiroth the Black Materia and attacked her that this beautiful, broken boy was compromised. As his boots crunched the path to her, she could hear the grind of heavy, cold steel scraping the leather holster of a sword that reminded her quite a bit of one she’d seen such a long time ago. Though she could nearly feel it.   The poisonous touches stretching to Cloud’s mind.   Fight her, the Cetra pleads, but still not aloud. You’re so much stronger.   If only Cloud’s heart could hear that request. Even with her eyes still closed, Aerith felt his shadow cast over the warm, reflective light of a thousand crystals. There were the subtle sounds of exertion as Zack’s Buster Sword was raised, over head and with the intention to bring it down-   Tifa’s voice rang through the cave, and the purity of Cloud’s mind returned with a shocking force, leaving the blonde rocked. The whisper slipped from his lips as he staggered back, echoing to her ears–“Ugh…What are you making me do…”–but she was so proud. He’d broken it, if just for now. Or rather, Tifa had, but it was a good sign for both of them if the brawler woman could drag him from the darkest pits of his mind. 

  Her lips curled upwards, and slowly, cinnamon lashes lifted from her cheeks, the flash of green greeting blue. Her magic had been cast, and her prayers had been placed in the cradle of the planet to rise the spirits to a battle hymn. And Cloud had done so well to rise out of Jenova’s control, surely a moment of praise would be well deserved.

The sound of Mother's screaming fills his mind, and in that moment, he knows himself damned.

She has spoken of glory and of godhood and of ascension, but with the katana in his grip and malicious knowledge of what he must do, for a split-second, a shattering second, Sephiroth knows she lies as all the rest have lied. The Cetra are crying. Cloud has resisted Jenova's cancerous touch, but he cannot. She has stolen his body and eroded his mind, and even the briefest flashes of clarity mean nothing.

The boy voices it for the both of them, as Sephiroth steps to the ledge of the crystalline terrace.

He sees it all very slowly, indistinct, like an old video with damaged tape. Film grain, things shifting, sliding out of focus. Aerith raising her head. The soft pink of the ribbon in her hair. The set of those slender shoulders as if she has all the strength in the world.

                                                                        DO IT NOW.

                    He raises Masamune, the blade downward, both of his hands on the hilt.

                                                                        DO IT NOW.

                             There is no waver in his grip, but his breath comes unsteady.

                                                    DO IT NOW.

                            One foot forward—heel still on the ledge. The cold of empty air.

                                                   DO IT NOW!

Mother's hand is around his throat, tight and unrelenting, and Sephiroth begins to choke, begins to suffocate. She smothers him. She invades him. His body is not his own, has not been his own for so long, and it is she who takes the step, and he falls, and the blade never falters. He feels the air rush past him, he can taste the fear and the dread and the madness. Masamune pierces Aerith smoothly and cleanly like it's no different than moving through water, and a resentment fills what's left of him.

She is the last of the Ancients and Jenova is a liar and a murderer, but the blood and the guilt are Sephiroth's.

The air is silent, all around him, and Mother twists his mouth into a smile as she withdraws the blade. Aerith is dying, her limp body slumping to the floor. The least of kindnesses is that it is quick. The ribbon in her hair unfurls, and the drained White Materia begins to find its way back home to the depths of the city, the clink of crystal becoming a forlorn sound, echoing throughout this small temple.

Cloud's eyes are wide and horrified.

Jenova raises his hands, triumphant.

  Even as the last of her race, there were a few things that she didn’t understand. The whispers of the Cetra still rocked through the silent vales of this forgotten land, and the spectralled hand of some long forgotten soul, trying to murmur warnings to the last Daughter of their almost forgotten race. A dark shadow that was casting itself across her future, perhaps both figuratively and literally.   She was more than aware of Sephiroth’s presence, though if he thought she had the time to pause and address him while calling for the aid to combat him, perhaps he was being a little unrealistic. Not that the mind of a lost child would know such a thing. Not that she would, out loud, tease him for such a thing, though he did seem the sort. A poor child misled by a false mother.   It mattered not if he was older than her. She wished she could fix that path of his–what had happened to the man that Zack had admired?   There was a sharp inhale, as the power of Holy reached its peak, just as the even crunch of boots eachoed through the antichamber. Cloud had found her faster than she had anticipated, though…she wished he hadn’t. There was no doubt in her mind that Sephiroth’s presence in the chamber would not end well for her or the party of friends that had come to find her, and she knew that those few, precious spare moments of solitude in which she prayed for the salvation of the planet had paid off. At what cost, however, was another question entirely.   The voices of the Cetran ancestors quelled as the heavy boots of the blonde ascended the pathway up to the platform on which she prayed. As she caught her breath, beginning to funnel the power of Holy, she could hear him approaching. Too soon.

What stresses him more is to know that they're coming—her friends, the mismatched little band of Gaians playing at warrior. Jenova's kept telling him that they're coming, and that he needs to be ready, but Sephiroth does not feel ready. He feels detached, misplaced, always so furious, furious at a world he had tried so desperately to understand and be a part of, only to be brutally cast down, to find out he had been little more than a lab experiment.

And now, much more, the urge to lash out at this world crawling under his skin, and the sound of boots on the cool marble, not his, echoes carried through space and upon the surface of the calm water. Flat anger builds in him. Cloud. Sephiroth despises him, despises his false memories, despises the man playing pretend at SOLDIER. remembers sinking into the core of the reactor because of this boy who, himself, was broken into pieces.

It was what made him so easy to control.

He draws back into the shadows even as Mother reaches forward, curls her shadowy fingers around Cloud's hands. Sephiroth draws in his breath; he remembers, remembers that sword in the grip of another, the way he had held it. Sure and confident, and unlike this boy.

Aerith prays; Cloud takes the great blade from his back. Sephiroth watches, Masamune in his own hand. It's not a question of whether or not Mother can do it—it's a question of the Nibelian boy's conviction, now, and where his loyalties truly lie.

(It’s a test. He knows this, somewhere. Mother is not trying Cloud. Mother is trying him.

If he cannot, will YOU?)

They share in this moment, the quiet– the gentle hum of Cissnei’s IV, and the nurses who dare to keep away during these moments. When Calla is lifted from her arms she is empty, she wants to cry, which she already has done, but she keeps her emotions in check this time, watching father and daughter interact. 

She knows Sephiroth never had a man he could call father, and deep down she knows his biggest insecurity is the same as hers. But just as her doubt melted away for the mere moments that Calla was in this world, she has done the same thing for her husband, who is always so consumed– just as she. And these two broken people who have had nothing in this world, now have everything in this pink and yellow girl. They have such and unclean past, and it’s a shame that they were forced to be this way, since deep down she knows they could have been so much more, and now Cissnei is that more– wife, mother and all that comes between. 

Ochre eyes watch her husband and child intently, their daughter is so small and innocent, and she’s lucky– with a SOLDIER for a father and a Turk for a mother, with extended family waiting to meet her. Waiting to keep her the perfect little flower she is. And that’s exactly what she is–

Perfect.

It takes Cissnei a moment, but she sits up to be next to her husband, to be with her child who has ensnared the General completely with just one gentle touch. Her hand goes for her husband’s back and her head finds his shoulder. He’s perfect with her– of course he is. He’s done all his reading and research, much like she had done in the beginning– with their first, but she pushes that thought to the back of her mind as she leans in and brushes her fingers over her daughter’s head again. She’s perfect– and she does it because she still can’t believe she’s real, even though her body begs to differ. When the word dad leaves Sephiroth’s mouth, Cissnei looks to the clock– and it’s a little after two. 

It’s Sunday– the third Sunday in June and this is the best gift she could have given him. Calla already has given him the greatest gift of all, but she whispers it anyway– “Happy Father’s Day.”

It should feel weak, he thinks, if he were any other military man, he'd be ashamed of himself, sitting here and crying with his newborn daughter in his arms. But he isn't—he understands it, that here's what he's been waiting for, everything he'd been deprived of. As far as he knew, no one had ever held him tenderly, when he was a baby. He didn't know who had guided his first steps, if anyone at all. He didn't even know where his name had come from.

Here in his arms in Calla, and here with him is Cissnei—not Cissnei, Eve. Here they are, husband, wife, daughter, what he thought was so unattainable, and when she leans on his shoulder he rests his head against hers, and he can feel all the fatigue in her body, all the work she did to bring this miracle into the world.

Carefully he hands their baby back to her, wrapping an arm around her, knowing she likely needs the support to sit up right now. And it is Father's Day, and there couldn't be a better gift for him on the entire planet.