#deo vindice

@hiislegacy

Genesis couldn’t tell how much time he had left. Hollander’s lead had resulted in yet another dead end and despite the scientist’s frantic assurances that they were this close to fulfilling their objective, Genesis was neither naive nor dim-witted enough to mistake mortal fear for confidence.

Granted, he would continue to pursue whatever new lead they'd discover pertaining to the final authentic S-cells that remained on the planet – cells Sephiroth had not taken with him at the moment of his untimely death.

However, Genesis could no longer afford to do so without further intensifying his efforts at deciphering the meaning behind the fourth act of Loveless, at discovering the lost conclusion of both Loveless and the arduous path of thorns his life had morphed into.

Legend shall speak Of sacrifice at world's end The wind sails over the water's surface Quietly, but surely

What did the water’s surface represent in his reality, in his present?

What was the sacrifice demanding to be made?

Over the years, Genesis had conceived and examined various theories pertaining to that very act; he had favored some and discarded others, relishing the act of pondering in its own right.

Sacrifice, water – blood. An open wound, the gradual loss of lifeblood.

Whose blood was he required to spill along with his own?

Illuminated by pale moonlight, the stains of crimson marring his handkerchief were black as tar.

Could he still depend on his mental clarity? Had his mind, too, degraded to the point his hypotheses were but reflections of his growing desperation – biased and distorted to the point of inutility.

There was only so much Genesis could hope to achieve with willpower and dogged persistence when his wretched body weighed him down at every given moment, obstructing his every effort at a cellular level.

He knew it was supposed to happen this way. Should he have ever listened to those honeyed words that hid a mise of vinegar and evil?

When Johnny comes marching home again, hurrah hurrah.

As he stood up tall, listening to every word of the President’s speech, it took everything he had to not look over at the blond brother who stood to the other side of the man. It drained him, literally. Every word, they negating what he had been promised.

We’ll give him a hearty welcome then, hurrah, hurrah.

It was much to the lad’s credit, really, that he gave no visible reaction to the crowd. Alfred had kept his eyes quite sullenly trained on him, and yet the boy, despite his every human right to, kept his eyes trained on something far in the distance, tears consistently threatening to fall. It was perhaps an evil, but Alfred wanted to laugh at his pain. That could wait.

The men will cheer and the boys will shout.

Jonathan refused to move, refused to give Alfred that satisfaction. He was all too aware of the eyes on him, awaiting that violent reaction everyone knew he was very much capable of. But, no, he simply stood strong as salty droplets stung his eyes. The only reaction Alfred was getting was the rapid blinking of protest against his own tear ducts.

The ladies, they will all turn out.

When the speech finally ended and silence drew upon the crowd, the lad wanted to bow his head and run, but for where? Nowhere in D.C. was he safe from Alfred’s finding, and the chances of himself making it to Birmingham were slim to none, if even that high. He hardly paid attention to the motions as there was a tumbling of drums, a raising of winds and there- Even with the first chords identical, he took several bars in to realise what was happening-- This wasn’t the Star Spangled.

And we’ll all feel gay when…

Dixieland was pouring soulfully from the National orchestra, and it was enough to pull Johnny’s attention from the unknown thing in the distance that had held his gaze ever since he had gotten on stage, just to stare in disbelief at what this National Orchestra was doing. Oh, and there it was-- the reaction Alfred had been waiting for.

When Johnny comes marching home.

Still unable to react to anything else, nothing stopped Alfred from gaining this sick pleasure he could from tugging off and away with that grey jacket, stand a little taller as his blue one was shrugged from his shoulders and draped neatly over Confederate.

When Johnny comes marching home.