- Odin's Legacy-
Disclaimer:
Final Fantasy VII characters, names, and indicia are copyright Square Enix & co. This is a work of fan fiction, no money is being made from the production or publishing of this work.
This story may contain mature content. If you are offended by crude language, violence, heterosexuality, or homosexuality, stop reading now. This story is not for you.
Summary:
In the small town of Nibelheim Cloud Strife chafes at his unfortunate lot in life and dreams of one day traveling to Midgar where a better life is sure to await him. But when a series of unfortunate and terrible events strike dull old Nibelheim, leaving may be the least of his worries.
That Town Called Nibelheim
It was just another day in Nibelheim.
"Mrs. Speckler?"
"Yes, dear?"
"S'it true that most Nibelheimers are no-gooders?"
"No-gooders? Why do you say that dear?"
"That's what my momma says, that everybody in Nibelheim turned into a no-gooder 'cause they don't work no more."
Cloud dragged his attention away from staring at his namesake through the half-open window and refocused on the front of the small classroom where Mrs. Speckler had been dragged off-topic again by Tess. Tattle-tail Tess, they called her. Pig-tailed little tattle-tail Tess.
The teacher—discomfited by the question—smiled hesitantly and smoothed her dress. Cloud was interested in how she would answer it, and he wasn't the only older student who had risen out of their learning stupor. Johnny, to his right, a son to one of those so-called unemployed 'no-gooders', looked like he had swallowed a pickle whole.
"Well, I don't know much about no-gooders, but your momma is right to some extent. Ever since Shinra built that big power plant up on Mt. Nibel, we've been getting free power and a monthly stipend. Most folks can survive on the stipend, it's true, but it only covers livin' costs—not much else."
"I knew it," Tess declared. "Momma's always right."
"Momma's always right," Brant mocked, a stocky boy at the other end of the classroom. His father was one of the miners who had lost their jobs when Shinra came. "Shut yer hole Tess, you and your momma don't know nothin'."
Tess turned around and glared, as only a nine year old know-it-all could glare. "Brant Forriger, don't think I ain't seen your daddy drinkin' midday for no good reason when he should be workin'."
"Yeah? And where's your daddy, huh?" Brant drawled, cracking his meaty knuckles. Everyone knew Tess was illegitimate—wasn't like she was the only bastard in Nibelheim, though. There were two ways for a single woman to get a Shinra stipend: either own property in Nibelheim, or get with child.
"That's quite enough, thank you," Mrs. Speckler finally chimed in sternly, ending the brief standoff. "There's a very good reason why there are a lot of good folk no longer employed. Does anyone know? Tifa?" She smiled down at her favourite student fondly. "How about you?"
Cloud glared at the back of Tifa's head as she answered sheepishly. "When Shinra built the power plant, they had to close the mines?"
"That's right, and does anyone know why the mines closed down and put so many people out of work?" Mrs. Speckler's eyes zeroed in on him, obviously catching him glaring balefully at the mayor's daughter. "Mr. Strife? How about you?"
Cloud flicked his eyes back to his desk, answering dutifully. "I heard that the mako that used to make materia in the mountains all dried up once the plant started. The monsters started multiplying too, and they had to close the mines because people were getting killed."
Mrs. Speckler clasped her hands patronizingly after a long, drawn-out look of warning. "That's right! In fact, the Nibelheim materia-mines used to be the second largest in the world after the cosmo-canyon mines shut down. Up in the mountains, Mako would bubble up from the ground into small pools and streams of water where it would then condense and form maturing materia. The miners used to dig into the mountain, along old mako faultlines and unearth materia that's been sitting in there for centuries." Mrs. Speckler smiled kindly at Brant and his posse at the back of the classroom. "The Shinra power plant may have given us electricity, but without mako bubbling up and making new materia, and the mountains being too dangerous with all those monsters skulking around, a lot of otherwise good folk were put out of honest work." She returned Tess' petulant glare with a patronizing waggle of her long finger. "That's why they pay each family in Nibelheim a stipend, for the lost work. Nobody's a 'no-gooder' by choice, Tess. They're just good folk who've had their livelihood taken from them."
"That's not what momma says," Tess replied stubbornly, glaring over her shoulder at the fuming boy in the back corner. "And Brant's going to be just like his daddy one day: just another no-gooder drunk."
Cloud winced. Did that girl have a death-wish? Brant tortured small animals for shits and giggles. Tess barely came up to his chest.
Brant slammed his hands on his desk and stood up so quickly he overturned his chair, face flushed and twisted with anger. "Yeah! Then you'll take after your momma then, too? As if this town needs another whore-" But his rant was forestalled when Mrs. Speckler finally lost her temper.
"That is enough!" she said, her voice a deathly quiet whisper that immediately silenced the room. "Sit down Mr. Forriger, we will not be slinging any mud today. And you," she said, turning to the white-faced little girl who now had tears in her eyes, "will keep your thoughts to yourself. This is a school, we are here to learn, not gossip and bicker like…like animals!" she finished in a deathly quiet whisper.
Cloud rolled his eyes and began staring out the window at the dark clouds ringing distant Mt. Nibel. For a moment Mrs. Speckler had been about to say 'like children' and probably realized how ridiculous that would have sounded. They were children; ignorant stupid children. And the stuff Mrs. Speckler taught in class certainly wasn't making anyone any smarter—or wiser. Especially wiser. Shinra Power Electric Company only cared if they could read and write; add, subtract, multiply, and divide. If a child could do all that by the time he or she was fourteen and list off the five previous presidents of Shinra and their most famous generals—well, that was all a kid really needed in a world where everything revolved around Shinra.
Resting his head on his hand, Cloud sunk back into a hazy stupor as Mrs. Speckler returned to droning on about the history of Shinra. Considering it was Shinra who had built the schoolhouse and Shinra who paid the teacher and Shinra who printed the textbooks they were using, her lecture contained more propaganda than real history, not like the stories his mother knew—the stories she used to tell him every night before bed about the old Gods and the Ancients who served them and his ancestors, who in turn served the Ancients: Odin's people.
Signy's stories were allegorical and couldn't possibly be true, but they all had lessons in them, at least—practical ones; wise ones. Still, if he wanted to work for Shinra one day it would help if he graduated from primary at least, even if he had no plans to apply for the Shinra University in Midgar.
"Now let's all turn to page 60 and find out just why Shinra has a 'board of directors' and how the president gets elected…"
Cloud wrinkled his nose.
Just another day in dumb, boring Nibelheim.
"Rumour is, Tess is actually Brant's half-sister," Johnny said to Cloud, after school, as they trailed after Brant and his four buddies along the thick forest path. "I heard his daddy visited her a lot in the days before she got pregnant. If you've ever seen Brant's Daddy, you would see the resemblance. She got his hair."
Cloud had to actually consider that one for a while before rejecting it. "Just because they both have brown hair doesn't mean they're related."
"Maybe, but it would explain why they hate each other. I mean, her mom is a whore, and they're always at each other's throats. It's not impossible."
"I guess…" Words his mother once told him came to mind; words that had recently developed a whole new meaning for him personally: "People don't always need a reason to hate somebody." Although a rumour like that might be enough to stir resentment between them.
Johnny winced before he caught himself. He had obviously cottoned-on to the true direction Cloud's thoughts had taken. "Y'know…they wouldn't hate you so much if you'd just stopped her instead of following her up the damn mountain…"
"Gaia's hairy tits," Cloud hissed; he was sick of hearing that! "I'd like to see you have stopped her! She was half-insane with grief. Some idiot told her a story about the land of the dead over the mountain, and she believed it. No-one believes those old stories. They're metaphorical." The only thing over the mountains was Rocket Town. And that sure wasn't no Mystical Land of the Dead. Unless 'dead' referred to 'machines', in which case it might be.
"Hey! I believe them!"
"You only do because Tifa does…did…whatever," Cloud shoved his hands into his pockets and marched on, determined not to lose sight of Brant.
"I would have stopped her…somehow…" Johnny maintained stubbornly, his cheeks painted an embarrassed rosy colour. Cloud still hadn't decided if Johnny's obvious crush on Tifa was funny or annoying. Johnny got real stupid whenever Tifa was in the mix, not that he was any different from other boys their age who were all similarly brainwashed by Tifa's mere presence.
Cloud, on the other hand, was still sore whenever Tifa's name came up. She had managed to turn him into a pariah overnight by nearly killing herself crossing the mountains in the dead of night. Cloud had saved her life, caught her hand and nearly fallen into the gorge himself when the rickety bridge crossing the gorge fell out from under her feet. She'd been knocked unconscious when she'd slammed into the cliff face, and Cloud had dutifully lugged her back into town. When she'd come to the villagers had started blaming Cloud for not stopping her in the first place—forget that he'd saved her life; forget that it was the Mayor that had lost track of his daughter in the first place: it was the little bastard Cloud's fault, they'd said, who didn't have any common sense because he didn't have a father. They were foreigners, didn't you know? Just look at their funny hair. And that name? Strife. What must their folk have done to earn a name like Strife? Poor, little Tifa—the little bastard had obviously tricked her with those old stories!
"Stay away from my daughter you little bastard," the mayor had declared to the room full of would be concerned rescuers. "If I ever see you around her again, I'll wring your little neck."
Never let it be said that Mr. Lockhart didn't think the world of his little girl.
Tifa hadn't said a word in his defense, and no-one was about to blame a little girl who was grief-stricken over her mother's death for running off and doing something stupid. Cloud's mother was always telling him grudges didn't do anyone any favours. But it was hard not to feel embittered over the whole catastrophe, especially when Tifa chose to keep her mouth shut when it really mattered.
They hadn't spoken since.
"Why're we following Brant and his pack of goons, anyway?" Johnny wondered; he picked his way along the trail with sullen steps, obviously wanting to be anywhere but here.
Cloud shrugged. Wasn't it obvious? "I heard he has a wicked punch. Apparently he knocked out Donald." Donald was sixteen and worked outside town as a farm hand. If the rumor was true it was impressive. Cloud wanted to see him in action.
"You want to fight him?" Johnny's steps came to an abrupt halt. "Oh no. Fuck no! Not this again. If I get into another fight my Dad'll stripe my hide raw. Uh-uh. Count me out."
"I never said I was going to fight him now," Cloud said irritably. "We just happen to be walking coincidentally in the same direction. And…other strange…coincidences may occur if we continue in the same direction…" Like seeing him fight someone else. Johnny was such an idiot sometimes. He wouldn't complain half so much if it were Tifa they were following.
"Yeah right. I'm getting while the going is good. I'll see you tomorrow."
Cloud wasn't too bothered when his sometimes friend turned around and beat a hasty retreat back up the path Brant was following down into the ravine. A single punch to the stomach from Marlboro a few days back had had the reedy boy on his knees sniveling—and then he hadn't stopped whining about the small bruise. Johnny's strength lay more in talking and running; his fists were knobbly and his bladder was weak, but his legs were long and his stride loping; still, hanging out with Johnny beat being lonely, even if Cloud did have to put up with a lot of nonsensical Tifa-worship.
He laced his fingers into his short silky locks behind his head and continued on down the hill. Brant and his four younger friends all lived on the outskirts; three of them were miner progeny—big, bulky, dumb-as-nails types—and every day after school was out, mid-afternoon, they always stopped by the stream down in the gorge to skip rocks or torment small animals they'd left snares for the previous day. Cloud had watched them before, but he'd always kept his distance. There was just something…creepy about them, something that drew and repulsed his curiosity at the same time.
Today they'd caught a hare—a big brown one, speckled like sand. Cloud stopped some ways back among the trees and watched, alternately fascinated and horrified. He could hear their excited cries as they mobbed the shivering creature, pulling, prodding, and pinching gleefully.
"Look at it! Dumb animal. Broke its leg trying to get loose!" Brant twisted its leg viciously. The hare shrieked. Cloud hadn't even realized those tiny critters could shriek. Apparently, neither had Brant.
"Listen to it scream! Din't know rabbits could scream." The leg was twisted again.
It shrieked. They laughed.
"Can it swim?" Red-haired Cameron wondered, pudgy face screwed up stupidly.
"'Course it can swim," Brant said, condescendingly. But even then there was some dissension among the ranks as to whether rabbits could swim. Brant solved the problem neatly: "You two, go across to the other side of the stream, don't let it up."
With his friends lining the bank on both sides of the knee-deep stream, he tossed the terrified creature end over end into the middle of the moving water. The hare took a moment to surface, lagging suspiciously as it swam a tight circle, before breaking for the bank downstream.
"It CAN swim!"
"I told you so," Brant shouted smugly.
The boys followed it, laughing, jeering it on, splashing it, shoving its head under when it got too close. The smallest of the five, James something-or-rather, nabbed it by its scruff when it got into the shallows where he was standing, barefoot, up to his knees. He tossed it back upstream giggling like a machine gun, right back into the centre and started the whole process again. It floundered, came back up, a keening wail of distress echoing off the trees.
They were going to kill it.
It was a startling revelation. Not the end, of course, but the means. This was a different sort of killing to what Cloud was accustomed. He was no stranger to hunting. He'd been into the mountains on hunts before, he'd seen animals killed for meat or furs; he'd seen beasts slaughtered because they were up to no good. But hunting for game was different than this game. This game was drawn out, meant to cause malicious suffering. Their sole purpose here was to fill the hare's last moments with terror and helplessness and dreadful inevitability. And when it cried for mercy? They laughed. That was the worst part. They laughed.
The hare never gave up. Cloud had lost track how many times Brant and his bunch had tossed the bedraggled and trembling creature back into the water. Each time he did, the hare would paddle back to shore, flagging a little more, desperately hoping to avoid cruel stubby fingers, escape that terribly playful laughter of his tormentors.
The forest, in contrast to the scene playing out by the stream, was quiet, eerily still without the wind; the oaks and the maples and the tall pines were stoic witnesses whose silence felt heavy and disapproving. Cloud found himself holding his breath with the trees, unwilling or unable to move from his position, unwilling and unable to look away, rooted half-way up the hill.
The hare struggled into the shallows, and Brant left it there a moment. It huffed and puffed, wide-eyes rolled, and its sand-speckled coat, now wet and dark and scraggly, heaved and trembled. When Brant reached for it, the hare barely so much as twitched. He dangled it by its scruff, laughing as its big hind legs flailed sluggishly.
"Dumb animal. If you didn't want to die you shouldn't have gotten caught in the first place," Brant spat.
"It's boring, B. Le's do summin else," Cameron complained.
Brant shrugged. He took the hare's thin neck in both hands and stared it in the eye. He smiled. "I always wanted a rabbit named, Tess," he said, full of malice and dark promise.
They laughed at that too. Cloud felt a bit sick to his stomach.
It ended in a flash. Brant jerked his hands and twisted. The neck cracked, loud like a gunshot through the trees, and the hare went still. Sneering as the laughter began winding down, Brant tossed it one last time into the stream. It bobbed once, twice, before the gentle current caught it and swept it downstream, vanishing beneath the surface a second later.
They seemed immune to the aura of the forest as they moved onward, forgetting their game in favour of talking loudly about what they were having for dinner, the size of Tifa's tits, the ugly wart on Cameron's thumb, the money Brant was saving up for a whore.
Cloud still hadn't moved a muscle or twitched an eyebrow. He wasn't sure if it was because he didn't want to draw their attention, didn't want to be the next rabbit in their twisted little game, or because of the terribly dark feeling he could feel thrumming through the tree his palm rested against—feelings of bitterness and hate and anger. The feelings intensified. The sun dimmed and dimmed and dimmed until it was grey like twilight and the shadows became long vicious things that smothered the ground, wrapped and twisted around his legs so he couldn't move, couldn't escape. Oh, the trees weren't silent anymore. They were all too loud. He could hear them whispering. Voices. Many voices. But he couldn't understand the words. Maybe there were no words? They didn't need words. Humans needed words. They hated humans. Despaired for humanity, which was filled with arrogant and selfish creatures. Always thinking of themselves. They were like parasites. They took and took and took until there was nothing left to take. And then they moved on and infected some other place. Then they took and took and TOOK some more, and every time a little piece of the S#FSG%DFGS withered and died. The voices cried and cried and CRIED but humans couldn't hear them! So the voices cried and cried and despaired and despaired and DESPAIRED—
He jerked his hand away from the tree, stumbling over an exposed root and crashing into the ground where he inhaled air furiously into his aching lungs. He dug his fingers into his arms—pain—he relished the pain. It grounded him to…himself? Yes, he was him. He was him, Cloud. He was Cloud. He was not a tree. People couldn't be trees. He was Cloud. Human. Male. I live with Signy. I like climbing trees. I like trees—not being one. I. AM. Cloud.
The world spun a moment longer before snapping back into place, everything right side up.
A bird warbled. The stream burbled and gulped. Grass rustled with the passing of a small animal. Leaves whispered and rubbed in the cool air off the mountain. The sky was bright, clear, with clouds in the distance. The loamy earth and fragrant sap of the forest filled his nose, his lungs. Inhale—exhale. Cloud took deep cleansing breaths, willing his heart to slow and his stomach to climb down from his esophagus. He sat upright and swiped angrily at his eyes with the sleeve of his t-shirt.
"Fuck," Cloud said, his voice cracking. "What the fuck. It was just a hare. It was just a hare," he repeated, voice stronger now, "and trees don't talk. Trees don't talk."
The fuck they didn't! because Cloud didn't believe in the old stories. The ones that talked of Gaia and the lifestream and the Ancients, who could communicate through mako with the planet itself. They were just stories. That's all they were…stories.
Urk.
Just the same…just the same, Cloud toed off his shoes, tugged off his socks, and waded into the mucky shallows downstream to retrieve the hare and buried it proper in the bowl of a tree, just in case.
He was only a stupid dumb superstitious Nibelheimer, after all. Even if he didn't believe all the old stories.
There was a red scarf tied around the doorknob. Cloud stared at it balefully for a while. He'd taken too long getting home. The sun was purple just past the distant western mountains, the shadows long. The town-square was nearly empty, just a few last minute vendors packing up their stalls with haphazard eagerness; there seemed to be quite a raucous gathering at the Inn next door—light and loud voices spilled through the open door across the street. Cloud could see the Mayor, Mr. Lockheart, standing on the bar waving his arms frantically to gain some order and getting ignored for the most part as another song started up to a ragged and drunken cheer: Nibelheimers at their finest. Drunk and stupid and happy.
Cloud refocused on the knob and the scarf. His mother was having company tonight. The scarf meant Cloud had to make himself scarce for the evening.
His stomach gurgled plaintively.
"Great. Just…great," Cloud muttered, and glared at his stomach. "I don't have any money on me," he informed it. "So there's no point whinging about it." It was a bad idea to keep gil at school. It was all too likely to get stolen. Brant and his gang weren't the only bullies in Nibelheim. Not by far.
Now he had to find some place to go to kill time until his mother was finished with her 'guest'. He sucked on his throbbing, bleeding knuckle of his index finger while he thought. There was always the top of the water-tower…but that was so lame and lonely and cold-
"Cloud! Psst! Cloud! Over here!"
That was definitely Tifa's voice.
Train of thought interrupted, Cloud looked sharply over at the entrance to the alley between his house and the Inn. He couldn't see anyone, but that didn't mean anything. It was ripe with shadows fell from the sun low in the western sky; old boxes and bagged refuse hid the rest of the alley from view. He glanced around cautiously. None of the vendors were paying him any mind—too intent on packing up their wares, eager to join their peers in the Inn.
He slipped into the alley and came face to face with the major cause of all his recent grief: Tifa Lockheart. Shoulder-length brown hair, straight, curled a little under her chin; big brown, watery eyes; biggest boobs of all of the girls that went to school; she was the subject of most wank fantasies—especially Johnny's—and the cause of more than one fist-fight; and until recently, she'd been his best friend since they were little.
Now she was just this girl who lived next-door.
"I'm not supposed to talk to you," Cloud muttered, crossing his arms.
This of course only attracted Tifa's attention to his still oozing knuckle. "Were you fighting again?"
Cloud adjusted his arms, hiding his injured hand away. "None of your business." He scowled. "What do you want Lockheart? Unless you didn't hear, I can get into a lot of trouble with your dad if he finds me near you."
"I know," Tifa said quietly. Her shoulders drew in on herself. "He's chairing a village-council meeting though so I thought—"
Cloud snorted. "Was that what that was? It looked more like they were getting together to get drunk." It was something of a local pastime. Nibelheim raw spirits were often mistaken by outsiders for motor-oil: the same notable substance doctors often mistook for a Nibelheimer liver post-autopsy.
"They'll be going all night," Tifa said, a hint of exasperation in her voice. "I wanted to talk to you…without my dad interfering."
Cloud looked at her, considering; she didn't meet his eyes, preferring to stare at the hem of her tank-top that she was picking at. He glanced back at the mouth of the alley when a shadow flitted by and pursed his lips. "You want to talk, now? After two months of nothing?"
"Cloud please," Tifa pleaded quietly, "daddy's been watching me like a hawk ever since…ever since…" she trailed off, glancing at his closed expression and winced. "I have to go straight home after school and I'm not to talk to anyone, it's not just you. It's everyone. He's even got Mrs. Speckler reporting on me. I had to sneak out my bedroom window to get even this far."
"So what?" Cloud said. "If you get caught I'll be the one in trouble. Again."
"Please, Cloud. Please." She finally met his eyes and flinched at his glare; she didn't look away though, and for that Cloud gave her some credit. Her eyes battered his resolve.
Cloud made a wordless sound of annoyance, conceding grudgingly. He hopped up and sat on a crate hidden in the shadow of a larger crate so he was mostly hidden from the mouth of the alley, away from any tattling pedestrians. "Fine. So talk."
Tifa scuffed her feet uncomfortably. "Can't we go to your room? It's safer."
"No, we can't," Cloud said shortly, unwilling to admit what his mother was using the house for while he was gone. "Here's just fine."
Tifa wrinkled her nose at the smelly refuse bags behind her, but otherwise said nothing more on the subject. Over the next minute she opened her mouth several times to start talking, and closed it just as many without saying anything at all. She wrung her hands ceaselessly before finally settling on a question.
"How…how's your mom doing?"
"Ask her, not me," Cloud snapped, irritated for a good many reasons. His mother had always treated Tifa like a second daughter. She had some nerve asking after her after what she did. His mother had had it especially rough after her son had been all but ostracized. Whatever affected him affected her.
"I tried going over today but…there was a man with her…" Tifa bit her lip, clearly uncomfortable with the subject.
"Yeah, well. You know how it is. When her seamstress business falls off, her other business usually picks up." Cloud kicked his feet idly, staring up at the darkening night sky seen through the eaves of the alley. "If I had the gil to buy good bullets I'd go hunting, but I don't, and mom doesn't want me to go up onto the mountain anymore anyway with all those monsters breeding up there nowadays…"
Tifa looked even more awkward and miserable, if that were possible.
"I'm so s-sorry, Cloud," she stuttered.
"Yeah, I'm sorry too." Cloud squinted. The first star was coming out. Odin was bright tonight. Odin was his star. "Doesn't change things though. Sorry is just a word." A word people used selfishly to make themselves feel better. Sorry never changed nothing.
"I tried – I tried telling him it was old Ms. Foster that told me that…that s-stupid story that I believed. But he won't listen! He's convinced you're responsible for…for everything!"
Memories of the incident were still fresh in his mind, and so it was easy enough to remember who first accused him of telling Tifa the old stories about the paradise beyond the mountains. "Y'know…that explains a lot," Cloud muttered. Ms. Foster had positively pounced on the very hint that it was him who had planted those stories inside Tifa's mind (it was well known that his mother told such stories often). And of course the Mayor wasn't willing to believe his little girl was anything but perfect, and so they both used Cloud for their own selfish purposes.
Humans: arrogant and selfish creatures of want want want, need need need-
That voice again! Cloud slapped his hands over his ears. It didn't help one bit! It was so freaking loud!
"Cloud? What's wrong?" Tifa innocently inquired.
The chorus of voices quieted, just like that, so quickly Cloud convinced himself he was just tired and hungry and imagining things again. He pulled his hands away from his ears cautiously, shaking his head to clear it. There weren't even any trees nearby! He took a shaky breath and shook it off. Maybe Brant's brand of psychotic was catching.
"Nothing. Just…never mind." He refocused his eyes on Tifa, who was practically covered in shadows now. "What were you saying?"
"I asked…I asked if there was anything I could do…" she shifted self-consciously.
That was a rich statement, coming from her. "You could have said something, back then, when your father was yelling at me," Cloud said, bitterly. "You just…looked at me. You didn't say anything! I almost died for you! And you just sat there, looking at me stupidly!" That hurt. That had hurt. It still hurt. Friends didn't do that to friends, that much he knew. He'd been sure Tifa was different. But in the end, she was just another Nibelheimer.
Tifa sniffled pitifully. "I know! Gaia, I know! I'm sorry. Cloud, I-I am. The doctor said I had a concussion. I didn't know what was happening. There were loud voices, yelling, it hurt my head so much, and everything was spinning and blurry. I don't…I don't really remember anything specific after I fell until I woke up three days later in bed with my head hurting…I just…you saved my life and I woke up and daddy was blaming you for everything…and he wouldn't…wouldn't" she had to stop because her voice cracked and her breathing hitched. "…wouldn't even let me see you to say thank you. And I couldn't say anything at school because he said these terrible things about what he was going to do if he saw you talking to me, or if I talked to you at school. I just…I don't know what I was supposed to do!" She broke down and began sobbing.
"…Oh." Cloud wished he could see her face. She sounded sincere, at least. And if that was true it totally stole the wind out of the sails of his grudgeboat. "Right…um…your head all right now?" he asked, sounding about as awkward as he felt: like a heel on backwards.
He could barely make out her outline as she wiped her eyes and hiccuped. "If I hadn't gone…if I hadn't gone…I'm so stupid! I just didn't know what else I was supposed to do! I wanted her back and I didn't care what you said. I should have listened. I'm…so…sorry. I've messed everything up. And your mom must…I'm so sorry."
He scratched his neck, not knowing what to say. If she hadn't believed that stupid story in the first place. If her mother hadn't died. If he had never followed her. If her dad wasn't such a pompous, ignorant, overprotective asshole. If people weren't so stupid and selfish and hateful. If. If. If!
Traveling down the 'if' road never really led anywhere productive. His mother was probably right about that. Still…knowing that much didn't really make him feel better about anything. They were still poor. Cloud was still an outcast. And his mom was short on honest work.
Life blew big fat blue loogies.
"Yeah, well…we'll survive. We always have," Cloud eventually settled on, for lack of any other helpful bits of wisdom to share. He crossed his arms and glared at the wood of the box he was sitting on.
Tifa blew her nose into what looked like a hanky. She was so old-fashioned. "I know. You're strong, Cloud. The strongest person I know. I wish…but no…that's stupid."
"…I'm the smallest boy in our class," Cloud couldn't help pointing out, "and I'm the second oldest, only Marlboro's older."
"Yeah…but you're Cloud," Tifa said, as if this self-equating identity just explained everything.
"Uh…right." He was again reminded why he avoided girls. They sometimes reverted to this foreign language called stupid.
Speaking of stupid…
"Tifa…you're friends with Tess, right?"
"Well…sort of," Tifa said hesitantly. "She's a lot younger than I am. But we talk sometimes. Why?"
"Tell her to lay-off on Brant."
"I don't know what good that's going to do, they hate each other."
His foot thudded against the box beneath him. "Brant is bad news, Tifa. He's…" Psychotic? Disturbed? Not-quite-right-in-the-head? "…trouble. Promise you'll tell her to leave off, will you? She's going to get herself hurt." Killed. He couldn't tell Tifa that though, she was already a mess emotionally. Informing her that bunnies should not be used as life preservers could wait for another day. And the talking trees? Those would just stay his own private brand of crazy.
Tifa was silent a moment. He couldn't decipher whether that silence was thoughtful, or merely confused. "I'll talk to her…but I really don't know what to say to her."
"Just tell her the reason why Marlboro still hasn't come back to school is because Brant knocked most of his teeth out after the idiot called him an inbred hick." That might scare her away. Even if it was a lie. Everyone was scared of Marlboro because he was big and he was mean.
"He wouldn't hit a girl," Tifa half-stated, sounding horrified at the very thought. She was such a sheltered little girl. Sure, he wouldn't hit Tifa. But Tess didn't have no mayor as her daddy. She didn't even have a daddy. Not one who would claim her, anyway.
"Somehow," Cloud said, thinking back to the scene he'd witnessed that afternoon, "I don't think being a girl or being nine is going to stop him if he gets it in his mind that she's just another rabbit to play with."
Cloud could feel the confusion rolling off Tifa, but was satisfied when she hesitantly agreed to talk to Tess. "I'll do it, but the only person she really listens to is her mother. You know that."
"That's fine. As long as you try." He hopped off his perch, feeling a bit better now that he'd done something to warn Tess, and stuffed his hands into his pockets. "You should get back. Your dad may check on you."
"I will, just…Cloud…we're okay, right?" Tifa asked, painfully hopeful. He could hear her feet scuffing the ground.
"You have to ask?" Cloud muttered. He was intent on walking right by her, when she waylaid him, throwing her arms around his neck and burying her face into his shoulder." She was…wet…wet and sobby and clingy.
And it really really aggravated him that she was a whole two centimetres taller than he was. Even with his spiky hair.
"I missed you…sooo much," she breathed into his shirt between silent shaky sobs.
Cloud shifted uncomfortably. Boys were so much easier to get along with. Seriously, what was an argument and a few punches between friends? The whole crying and clinging thing was uncomfortable and silly. Although, Cloud resolved, tears were easier to clean from clothing than blood…so…that was something.
"Seriously, Tifa. Go home," Cloud ordered, prying her arms off his neck. If his cheeks were red it was because he was embarrassed for her, not because of her. "I got stuff to do."
He pushed her gently towards the street, but she only took two steps before she stopped and clenched her fists miserably. "I won't…I can't talk to you at school tomorrow," Tifa said miserably. "I'm not supposed to talk to you."
"I'll survive somehow," Cloud said dryly. Johnny talked enough for at least three and a half people anyway.
She ignored his sarcasm, or didn't catch it in her state of emotional upheaval. "It won't be like this forever," Tifa determined, her natural stubborn streak showing itself once more. There was a reason why they had been friends in the first place, after all. Cloud had once admired her. A long…long time ago. Or at least, it felt like a long time ago.
"You're right." Cloud paused, unable to resist one last dig. "I'm sure he'll ease off as soon as you're married." The little bastard that would eventually court Tifa was going to be restrained in a chastity belt inside an hour of the Mayor hearing about it.
Tifa was horrified. "D-don't joke about something like that."
He just waved blithely, moving deeper into the alley. He didn't have the heart to tell her he wasn't joking. Hopefully that brand of crazy wasn't catching.
Food was on his mind when he approached the back door that led into the kitchen. The door wasn't locked, of course, no one in Nibelheim locked their doors except for the Mayor, and the only thing he locked was his cellar, where all the liquor was stored—and that was more for worry over his daughter's safety than for worry over theft. There hadn't been a crime in Nibelheim since a foreigner stole all the chocobos in the Inn's stables…and that happened when Cloud had been five. He still remembered the commotion it had caused.
Folks remembered the event perhaps more fondly than they had any right to. Although the story had changed to become progressively more absurd as time went on until the most recent version had the mayor and his three closest friends in an epic swordfight that resulted in ten of the would be bandits getting killed, or leaving them with various disfigurements as they ran like yellow cowards, and them (the heroes) at death's door where they each and every one professed true love to their…well…one true love (never mind the mayor had already married and had a five-year old child at the time and hadn't touched a sword in his life).
Visitors to the Inn could always expect to be treated to a shameless rendition of the "epic chocobo heist of '88". It was disturbing to note that the more it got told, the more people seemed to believe it—even the mayor! And he was the only one who had actually been there! Mind you he had only caught a glimpse of the (single) thief before he'd been clubbed (unceremoniously) and woken up (sheepishly) to an empty stable—but folk seemed to have forgotten all the unremarkable heroic details with a startling fervour in favour of the former tale. In fact, the more ridiculous it got, the more folks wanted to hear it.
Cloud coined the behaviour "small-town psychosis" and used it liberally whenever some quirk arose that couldn't be explained away by common sense. His mother, who preferred to think the best of folks no matter how cruel or terrible their actions, disapproved of the term, but notably never argued against it. The heist was a perfect case and point. It even proved the condition was highly infectious.
Talking trees indeed.
He snuck into the recently vacated kitchen after carefully easing the back door open. There were two half-eaten meals on the small kitchen table; a guttered candle had spilled wax all over the wooden holder and onto the polished table beneath. Cloud tip-toed over and hastily extinguished it between his spittle-soaked finger and thumb before it made a bigger mess. The pots and pans were all unwashed, and littered the counter around the stove and sink. A strange pair of work boots crusted with mud sat innocently by the front entrance.
The rest of the house was suspiciously silent, even after cocking his head and straining his ears all he could make out were vague murmurs from somewhere on the second floor.
Satisfied he wasn't about to disturb his mother, Cloud slid into her seat, picked up a fork, and dug into the remains of the lukewarm spaghetti. He avoided the bottle of red wine, even though it tempted him greatly to steal a glass. It was obviously a gift since it didn't smell like vinegar—standard fare for their budget—and he didn't want to assume it was going to be left with them. Nibelheimers were unsurprisingly cheap and possessive when it came to sharing their booze.
A thump on the floor above his head caused Cloud to pause, noodles hanging out of his mouth, and glanced upwards. Strange. He eyed the ceiling above his head and strained his ears.
He resolved a moment later when the sound didn't repeat itself that he had imagined the thump over the kitchen. Mom wouldn't have taken her guest into his room, after all. She would be in the guest room, which lay over the small sitting room.
If the thump had been hard to ignore, the very distinct creak of shifting floorboards overhead and the rising murmur of voices were impossible to ignore. There was most definitely someone or several someones in his room. Cloud's curiosity got the better of him almost immediately; he set the fork down and proceeded to tip-toe up the stairs, avoiding the crooked step halfway-up.
He poked his head over the landing. All three doors to the short hall were open. His mother's was open, the guest bedroom's was open, and so too, at the very end of the hall by the linen closet, was his bedroom door open.
Now that he was up the stairs the voices, which were definitely coming from the depths of his room, were more distinct. His mother was arguing with a very familiar voice.
"Put it on," the familiar but as yet unidentified voice urged.
"I can't," his mother said. "It's too small."
"Well…how about this one? Its baggy enough isn't it? Put it on. I'm sure it'll fit."
The distinct sound of fabric rubbing together and shifting traveled down the hall. "It's still tight."
"I should hope so, you've got breasts—he doesn't. But…hmm…something's missing," the voice mused. Footsteps preceded the shadow that stretched out of the doorway. Cloud tensed and ducked his head so he was barely peeking over the topmost stair. A strong hand came into view as it grabbed the blue ballcap from the peg just inside his room. The footsteps retreated again. "Here. Put that on your head."
"Brendan," his mother said, a bit exasperated, "I can't wear that."
Brendan? No wonder the voice had been familiar! Brendan was one of the food vendors who had a semi-permanent stall in the square. Cloud had never interacted with him personally, but that strong carrying bass was easily identifiable; he heard it every day at noon bartering loudly on his way to the schoolhouse.
"Yes, you can," Brendan insisted. "What? What's wrong?"
"That's my son's favourite cap. I got it for him last year on his birthday-"
"-because it matches his eyes," Brendan said impatiently. "I know, I've seen him wearing it most days. It's quite handsome. Put it on already and get on the bed."
His mother had obviously obeyed, because a moment later his bed creaked as it accepted new weight. At this point Cloud's eyes were so wide they had dried; he didn't think he could blink even if he wanted to.
There were more sounds of rummaging.
"What are you doing? That just has dirty clothes in it."
"You think I don't know a laundry hamper when I see one?"
His mother made a strangled noise of distress. "Brendan! Put those down!"
A short silence followed. The man sighed. "I thought we had a deal, Signy. What do you think I'm paying double for?"
"You didn't say anything about—"
"You knew what I wanted as soon as I asked to do it up here," Brendan insisted. "Now, are we doing this? Or are you about to chicken-out and return my money? It's not like he's ever going to know. Unless you changed your mind about lettin' me—"
"No," his mother said hastily. "No, just—get on with it."
"Then get on your hands and knees and put your head down," Brendan said in a patient, patronizing manner. "It's easier to pretend that way. Oh…and put the hood up."
The bed creaked again as even more weight was added to it.
Cloud was having trouble forming coherent thoughts. So when his legs started moving him down the hall, it never occurred to him that this might be a bad idea. His world degenerated into the sound of meaty thwaps of flesh and wet sucking noises and low, drawn-out moans.
Pressing himself against the wall, Cloud eased his head over until he could see into the room. His breathing hitched once, then stopped completely.
On his bed, dressed in his favourite hoody and wearing his favourite ball cap, his mother was being taken roughly by the man Cloud knew only by sight. In the man's hand, as he jerked his hips, was a pair of Cloud's underwear, which he had turned inside out and pressed to his nose. Moaning, and with obvious relish, he inhaled noisily as he did his deed.
"Odin's breath, Cloud, you smell soooo good. And you're sooo tight…"
The room spun. Cloud stumbled back down the hall and down the stairs, nearly tumbling when he missed a step, only to save himself from a broken neck by frantically grabbing onto the banister, hugging for dear life. He froze again, worried they had heard him; but the thumps were steady, the primitive noises constant; he hurried through the kitchen, ignoring his shoes, and straight out the back door. He needed away. He needed to get away.
He made a sharp right, and knocked into a small pile of wooden crates stacked in the alley, twisting him around. He stumbled awkwardly, bare feet slipping on something squishy and fell hard onto a repulsive smelling bag of refuse.
That was the last straw. The spaghetti surged back up his throat.
Cloud vomited.
It was just another fucking day in Nibelheim.
- tbc -