SEIKEN DENSETSU
Legend of the Holy Sword
A Short Story
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This story takes place approximately fifteen years before the events of Final Fantasy VII.
Estuans interius, ira vehementi…
One pace forward. Another step. Yet another foot in front of him. And another. There was no end to his journey in sight. When and where he had started out was no longer known to him.
His steps were heavy and halting. The air itself was one large gelatinous bubble trapping him, filled with impalpable phantoms that distorted his vision, disappearing whenever he tried to confront them.
He was right in the middle of a desolate expanse of black and bruised volcanic sand. The life energies of the Planet itself were being slowly depleted by monstrous machines known as Mako Reactors, taken away to benefit mankind and his artificial creations.
And as the Mako was used to power florescent lamps and motorcars, there was less and less life energy left for the flourishing of new life. The land had become coarse and grainy, disfigured by huge craters where the soil had simply given way. The peaceful creatures of the wild turned violent, developing horrible mutations no one had ever seen before. The flowers had died long ago. It was said that in the end, once all the Mako on this world was depleted, the world would fall apart completely. The entire Planet was once verdant and teeming with life, but Man had condemned it to death.
Of course, Sephiroth knew all of these things, but he did not really care what happened to this world. The Planet could go on turning, or stop moving altogether, for all he cared. That piece of rock had given him precious few blessings to count so far. It had let him down.
His whole life had consisted of nothing but a series of extremely unfortunate events. This entire world was filled with heartless, loveless things, black shadows in human shape, who seemed to follow his every step, always keeping their unholy gaze on him, always joking amongst themselves about how pitiful he was, ever willing, ever longing to inflict pain on him. No one, nothing on this entire Planet had ever been kind to him, let alone spared a thought for him. This world was too much for him.
They had mocked him. They had locked him away. They had hurt him. They had mutilated him. For every unkind word hurled at him, for every lash that tore at his flesh, for every syringe that pierced his veins, he had sworn the darkest oaths. They considered themselves superior to him today, but he would master them absolutely in time. Just as they made him grovel in his own filth, so would he make them swallow their own entrails, inch by bloody inch.
He had never surrendered to them. He had kept quiet through all of their torments. He had shed no tears. He had never once begged for mercy. He had passed their trials, survived the battle that was fought on their terms. He was now a Shinra guard, the lowliest of their foot soldiers.
But for all his defiance, he had not been strong enough to conquer those lowly people.
He might be able to hold his own now, but what would happen in the future? Just as a wave that hits a boulder every day would one day crack the giant rock to pieces, one day he too would crumple under their pressure. It was a war of attrition. He was the lone soldier whose battle cry was barely louder than a mute's whisper in the wilderness. And his enemies would keep him surrounded on all sides, never making the decisive attack that would eliminate him, but yapping and snapping at him like dogs baiting a bear, safe in the knowledge that he was but a pitiful worm that could be squashed at any time they wished.
No! This couldn't be real! This couldn't happen to him! He wouldn't let that happen! If this were truly his destiny, he would not accept it! He would fight it with every fibre of his being! The pain, the embarrassment, the heartbreak of defeat would be too great for him to bear! He absolutely had to fight back! He had to achieve victory in this unwinnable war!
But how could one man fight against an entire world?
Estuans interius ira vehementi…
It was then, in the midst of his dismal reverie, that the young soldier found an old man standing in his way.
Of course, this man was an enemy, just like everyone else, only that he was more strangely dressed than the rest.
Wearing a pair of dark glasses, a loose, sun – faded red robe, and coarse grey pants, he seemed like a peddler who had just emerged from the slums beneath the Plate, having pilfered his clothes from deserted storehouses all over the filth – ridden undercity. To complete the picture, a large bottle hung from his waist, shaped like a lantern that had been stolen from a cheap eating house deep in the hovels.
His left sleeve was empty, and for a second Sephiroth believed that he was facing a one - armed man. But then he saw a hand peeking out through the open front of his robe, resting heavily on the thick fabric like one who had broken his arm but had no sling to carry its weight. He was injured, but still he acted like one who was still whole.
The stranger came closer, and now the silver haired warrior could see that the man was reaching behind his back, taking hold of a katana with his free hand, resting the blade on his broad shoulders. He lowered his head, and the sunglasses slowly slid down the bridge of his nose.
One eye would not open, an old sword - cut having seen to it permanently. The other was narrow and flinty, unflinching and dispassionate as he stared his young opponent down. The rest of his face could not be seen, concealed by a large linen collar, attached by leather straps, to a dull breastplate, deeply pitted and heavily scored, veteran of uncountable battles.
Sephiroth knew at once that the man's appearance was anything but odd. His adversary was no clown, but a warrior monk of the old stamp, and from his empty sleeve, he was a ronin, a masterless warrior, a soldier without a cause. He was one of the last few belonging to a long - dead tradition, a fast cooling white dwarf giving out its last light, before vanishing into the realm of timeless obscurity.
But how did he know all this? His captors and slavemasters had given him only the most basic of training. From that Hojo, he had learning nothing but new definitions of pain and suffering. Knowledge was power, and they would never be so foolish as to strengthen him.
Long ago, he had read about the ronin from an old, moldering tome about the knights of yore, and their code of honour. But where had he seen it? He had no books; he had never been given any. Everything that he knew had been taught to him by word of mouth; he even had to struggle to comprehend the words printed on the front page of the daily Midgar Shinbun! Now he was contradicting himself! He could read, and at the same time he could not read!
Those strange memories… they would come back to him once in a very long while. Of halcyon days, of a world that was gentle and temperate, of light and joy…
A warm bed… hot food… a kindly man… a wonderful woman… kindness… safety… love…
Before the dark times.
These were the mysteries of Sephiroth's life, something entirely beyond his comprehension, something he could never hope to understand. These were echoes from his past, shapeless wraiths rising from the mists of a long – forgotten age, appearing at the corner of his vision, only to vanish when he tried to pursue it.
No doubt, all these strange visions must have sprung like spirits from the cracks within his mind, which longed to seek release from this mad existence. He was merely indulging himself in fruitless, counter – productive fantasising, enjoying the opium of wasteful escapism!
For all he knew, those "memories" were not even true! That Hojo must have implanted them, in order to torment him with distant visions of a utopian future that would never come to pass! That oily – haired demon must have tampered with his mind, breaking and reattaching the chain of his memories in a configuration that suited his perverse whims!
Even in the extremely unlikely event that his memories were for real… they were so uncertain and amorphous to be of little use to him. They were the last haunting vestiges from a perfect existence which slept far beyond the reach of time. They were nothing but stories now, mere fairy tales.
He had no time for these unproductive thoughts and speculations! He had to snap out of it! He had to conquer his enemies!
Sephiroth drew his sword. It was a katana, made anonymously by a machine rather than a man, one of many identical thousands coming from the foundries deep within the slums. Swordsmen called it a gunto, a modern – day blade of inferior quality.
The sword had no scabbard; perhaps it never had one in the first place. The foam rubber wrappings on the handle had fallen off, the glue long having lost its potency. Dull and chipped, the blade's edge was frequently broken by deep pits from which orange – red corrosion seeped out, eating away at the rest of the weapon. The blade itself rocked from side to side as he held it, just like a loose tooth waiting to fall from the gum.
The weapon was obviously beyond repair. It could never again be used on the field. It would harm rather than help a trainee, and certainly no child would want it as a toy. But this decrepit, rusting piece of metal was his most valuable possession; in fact, this was all he had. He had not been given the sword; to gain it, he had killed, and had almost been killed.
But even if he'd been given the gleaming, oiled and polished assault rifles all the other Shinra guards were issued with, he would still have used that corrupted strip of steel. It was not as clumsy or random as that sprayer of lead slugs. And if he were to take up that gun… wouldn't he become completely like one of them, indistinguishable from the other lowly blue shirts like one ant from another? No!
By giving him that faceless mask, they wanted to turn him into one of these pathetic lifeforms! He would become nothing more than just another one of their drones! He would not allow them to do that! He knew that he wasn't just one of them (but what exactly was he then?)! They would never dominate him! He would never remain hidden forever! He was his own master!
"Listen to my story."
So, the old man wanted to recite a poem before his death? This was rich! He was still following his precious hidebound traditions, and he would die by them! Too bad for him if he died in mid – sentence! Even before the warrior had time to finish his greeting, the young guard had leapt forward, eager to begin the combat.
Sephiroth!
The young soldier's first strike was met with a loud clang and a burst of sparks. This warrior, though aged, still had the strength of a bull, and he threw his weight behind the blade, pushing Sephiroth away.
"Hmph."
The young man stumbled, his sword arm jerking upwards, even as his opponent's blade shot towards him, pointed directly at his heart. But he saw the blade coming, and he sidestepped, avoiding the deathblow.
And as the old man overshot him, he brought down his sword, hoping to hit his enemy in between the shoulder blades. Steel and steel rang out again, as his weapon struck the tip of his foe's. Without turning back, the masterless man positioned the katana behind his back, shielding himself from Sephiroth's counterattack. This was no reflex action on his part, but a well – practiced move, perfected through years of practice and combat.
The warrior monk turned to face the young man, and a thin smile appeared above his collar, cracking his craggy face.
"I foresee no difficulty... destroying you."
More inane ramblings from that old fossil. The white – haired guard did not waste valuable breaths in responding to his soundbites, but answered by pressing forward once more, launching a quick succession of blows, hoping to throw his enemy off balance, to create an opening for him to strike.
However, the warrior was no fossil, even though he was very, very old. He spun his weapon in a circle, turning it faster and faster, until it became a whirring, flashing shield of steel, capable of deflecting every one of Sephiroth's attacks. Metal chips began to fly away, amidst a display of heat and light. Taking advantage of the distraction this provided, he raised the spinning blade, thrusting it at his opponent's head.
Once again, Sephiroth's lightning reflexes saved him. He ducked, narrowly avoiding being beheaded, and countered by slashing at the old soldier's chest. Unfortunately for him, his gunto sliced through empty air, as his foeman had turned sideways, in anticipation of this very move. Even now, he was beginning his next move.
"Hyaaggh!" The old soldier yelled, bringing his blade down, in a powerful stroke that would slice a person in two. Sand and rock flew skyward, as the sword gouged a deep furrow in the earth. The blueshirt had rolled away, escaping this deadly attack, but at the price of several of his long hairs, which were now deeply embedded in the ground, sticking out of the cracked soil, becoming tufts of silver grass. He struck at the monk's unprotected side, but once again, he was denied first blood. There had been more to the old man's move, than just that downward strike. A metal stalagmite protruded from the bad earth, knocking aside his weapon. All he had managed to do, was to scratch his opponent's plate armour.
Sephiroth bit his lip. This old man was good! He was old, but his experience made him dangerous. He would simply keep defending against every single attack, yet quick to seize whatever opportunities arose to counterattack. This was not going to be an easy battle after all.
Incredibly, the warrior monk tossed aside his weapon, casting the katana away as if it were nothing more but a ball of crumpled paper. The ground shuddered, and an inky, swirling vortex appeared, a rift between worlds, a bridge between time and space. A bony, mummified hand, with red wrappings dangling from it, catching the falling weapon before it could touch the sterile soil, spiriting it away into the black hole. The disembodied appendage retreated into the vortex, Excalipoor in its grip, and the dimensional rift sealed itself.
"This is how your story will end."
The heavens flushed an angry white, and with a roar from the clouds, two beams of glittering, prismatic light, streaked out from the man's empty hand. The rainbow columns glowed incandescent, forged by the heavens, born of the brightest star, crafted from light itself. And like a sword at the end of its forging, the brightness faded, and the shape of the blade came forth from the cooling metal.
Sephiroth found himself staring, eyes wide and mouth open, at five feet of darkened, burnished bronze, a double – edged blade ending in twin, pincer – like prongs. Yet it was much harder than bronze, even stronger than the titanium blades carried by the First Class SOLDIERs, far rarer than any metal found in this world. The two tines of the sword were perfectly symmetrical, the cutting edges of the weapon more polished than a mirror, cut beyond the precision of any machine. It was abundantly clear that no human could possibly have forged this weapon.
The Shinra guard blinked, tearing off his helmet, wishing to see this living treasure with his own eyes. What did the old tomes say about this…? This was the Masamune, the weapon of the ultimate warrior. The Masamune had many names over the ages… Oathkeeper, Lumina, the Sword of Mana... It was said that he who wielded the Holy Sword, would never be defeated in battle.
For a moment, he saw a black – cloaked man, stronger than anyone he had ever seen, staring back at him, victory writ large in his eyes, stretching out his hand to him, commanding him to come forward, to take his birthright, to lay claim to true power!
Sephiroth!
Who else had he seen in the Masamune, but himself? Not as a whining little brat, nor as a beaten, embattled slave, but as one who was ever – victorious, the wielder of immeasurable power, an entity of such glory as none had ever known. This was his destiny!
Unfortunately, there was one problem, but an insurmountable one, a raised step that kept his spirit from passing the threshold to ultimate power. That old monk was in his way! How was Sephiroth to obtain the Masamune, since its wielder was far more highly skilled and experienced than him? Would it not be a suicidal gesture? He would only be impaled by that giant blade, and all of his dreams would remain unfulfilled. What was he to do? The only way out of this nightmare was only a few feet in front of him, but an ocean away at the same time.
Sors immanis, et inanis…
"Pray… now!"
The warrior slammed the monstrous blade into the roughened talus. Sephiroth covered his ears as the shockwave drowned out all sound, crashing like a tidal wave against his eardrums, battering him into near deafness. A colossal wall of solid rock rammed headlong into him, a speeding locomotive slamming into an unsuspecting sheep on the tracks.
"Pitiful!" The old man taunted him.
The Shinra guard struggled to his feet, blinking away the floaters that blurred his vision, amazed that he was only black and blue all over, that he hadn't been smashed into goodness knows what by the monk's Dragon Fang attack. But he had little time to count his blessings, for the real battle was only just beginning. Incredibly, the ronin had taken to the skies; his enemy was actually flying towards him! There was only enough time for him to raise his weapon, and he keeled over backwards from the impact, as the Masamune crashed into his wobbly blade.
Cracks began to appear in his gunto. The old blade was never manufactured to withstand such stresses. It was clear that he could not maintain such a lock for much longer. Gathering his strength, he lashed out, with a sound kick to the groin, before rolling like a runaway barrel, hoping to avoid the deadly reach of the dread blade.
Even as he rolled away from his enemy, Sephiroth could feel his hairs standing on end, as sheets of energy sliced past him, gigantic cleavers splitting the ground over which he had passed. Then, he found himself falling, about to be swallowed by the earth, falling into a bottomless chasm. His free hand managed to latch onto an overhanging piece of rock, and he quickly raised himself over the edge, but almost found himself falling into yet another of a series of deep, man - made ravines, all of which were carved by the Masamune. This was true power indeed!
And he had to block yet another blow from that flying monk. The two – tined blade pressed hard against him, and the twin peaks that capped its gleaming brown ends, began to cut through the rusty metal of his own sword, sprinkling him with rotting brown bits. It was a miracle that his weapon hadn't fallen apart yet.
The white – haired youth put his entire weight behind his ailing blade, pushing back the old man, and with the broadest of jumps, cleared the giant parallel pits yawning before him. Once on terra firma, he turned, and held his weapon close to his chest, waiting tensely for the next devastating attack.
Sephiroth felt the sour taste of blood and the bitter sensation of grit in his mouth. But even worse than this, was the cancer that was returning from an all – too brief remission, to plague him with a vengeance. The evil ones were winning! This was a fight he could not win. Ever since that demon drew the Masamune, he hadn't even had a chance to go near him, and he could not go on dodging these attacks forever. He was bruised and bleeding, and soon his strength would give. Soon, they would cast him down, and they would sit down and watch him, like a wolf trapped in a snare, mocking his inability to escape, casting lots to see when he would finally die. And when he was dead, they would take great pleasure in throwing insults at his corpse, spitting on his remains, feeding them to the scavengers, who would snack on them with relish!
The blueshirt clutched his head, trying to shake off those self – induced delusions, those horrible catastrophes that he was inventing in his mind, those destructive fantasies that he was inviting into his mind. How could he have forgotten that he was not yet defeated? These were but flesh wounds, and his spirit was still strong. He was still able to fight, and he would do so, even if he had to strangle the old fool with his bare hands! He would overcome!
Sephiroth vaulted into the air, meeting the warrior head – on, their blades clashing in a flash of white fire and the drumroll of thunder. No sooner did his feet touch the ground, did he throw himself upwards, again and again, into the storm of steel. And the old man was forced back bit by bit, and with every inch he gave, the Shinra guard came back for more, eager to gain a yard.
The ronin withdrew, backpedaling unexpectedly, a whirlwind of dust stirring up in his wake. The white – haired soldier, unable to fly himself, ran as fast as he could, forgetting to cough as the sand blew into his lungs, not caring about the bleeding beneath his bruised skin. He wanted that sword!
Sors immanis, et inanis…
"Your pain shall be tenfold!" The monk shouldered his blade, and uncorked his jug of Nog, taking a long drink of warm sake. But he did not swallow it all. The last mouthful of wine came out in a fine mist, coating the blade, an offering to the spirit of the Masamune. He raised the blade, and the sword thrummed as festoons of black and orange fire wrapped in Ancient runes swirled around it. With one swift stroke, the warrior released the power contained within the weapon, and black smoking balls of fire streaked away in a blinding flash.
Sephiroth dodged and rolled, jumped and somersaulted, but that was not sufficient to avoid the magical projectiles, which twisted and turned, following his every move, seeking out their prey with more resolve than a hunting hound, more unerringly than the most sophisticated missiles. It was then that he decided that he was done evading those spheres of living energy, and leapt straight at the man with the dark glasses, who raised the weapon in readiness for his attack. But the silver haired youth did not attack. Darting past his enemy, he stepped on the Masamune's blade, vaulting over his enemy's head, leaving the warrior monk in harm's way. The magic missiles would now turn on their firer.
Or so he thought. But the Masamune had a life of its own, a special something that distinguished it from an inanimate object, or an animal, what someone might be tempted to call sentience. It would not be so easily fooled by a simple trick like this. And he realised that he would pay dearly for underestimating the powers of the holy sword, when the fiery balls crashed into him with the force of a champion boxer's punch, setting the frayed and threadbare blue cloth alight.
Estuans interius, ira vehementi…
Sephiroth was on fire! He felt as if several hot irons had been placed all over his body, and the torturer had walked away, leaving them there to dry out his skin, to make it shrivel away, and then melt like candle wax. The flames were sprouting from the fertile fabric, spreading all over him, deadly vines of wrath that would feed on him until he was little but cold and impotent ash. He rolled and rolled, like a barrel down a hill, feeling the rocks tear into him like knives, easily slicing away his flesh, stripped of its skin. But he heard the crackling of the flames no longer, and the stench of his burning clothes had been long left behind.
The white – haired guard got up, quickly taking stock of himself. Much of his tunic was gone, black scraps hanging loosely like ashes onto those parts that still remained. Where the fire had touched him, he had turned waxy and translucent, so destructive and voracious were those otherworldly flames. But there was little pain now, and even less bleeding. Where he had been half a minute ago, the salted soil was glowing orange – red, turning slowly into a pit of liquid fire. Of his own sword, nothing remained but a compressed lump of charred wood, crumbling as soon as he released his iron grip.
Estuans interius, ira vehementi…
He no longer had a weapon. What was he to do now? Weaponless, he was weaker than a baby! He would surely be killed! Would he be fated to die on his knees, swallowing his pride, subjecting himself forever to the whims of his enemies? No! He did not want to live forever under anyone's boot! He had to rise! He had to fight! He had to win! He had to prevail! He had to show them who was the best! He had to dominate! What need did he have for that lump of Spartan steel? He would not take what he was given! He wanted more! He would take anything he wanted, and he'd start with that old man's sword!
Sephiroth!
The young man sprang forth, his skinless, pearly – white hands clawing at the brilliant blade his adversary carried. But was the reward for his wild attack worth it? There was not a scratch on the silver bracers the warrior wore, the unrelenting metal marred only a by few weak trails of blood and plasma. He heard a wet, popping sound, and felt a jolt of pain tear open his mind. His sword arm pointed heavenwards, skewered on the Masamune like some badly barbecued chicken wing. As he crumpled to the ground, he could feel his bones snapping as the mammoth sword was withdrawn, breaking his arm in far too many places to count.
The monk's face retreated beneath his collar. He pushed the dark glasses up his nose. "You want my sword. You long for its power, and like a shoopuf driven mad, to trample everyone whom you hate. But you must live my life then. The dead will follow you always. You must end my story. Are you ready for this?"
Sephiroth!
"I am!" Sephiroth was on his feet again, lunging at the Masamune with his good arm, closing his hand around the weapon, ignoring the sight of the blade slicing through his flesh and bone, the white-hot urge to let go, jerking the weapon towards him. A bloodstained hand leapt up the hilt, the knuckles cracking, the exposed muscles straining as he sought to make his enemy release his grip on the sword.
The old soldier merely snorted in response to Sephiroth's desperate attack. The boy was promising, but he would not be the one to end his travels across the Planet. The pain could not be ended so easily. The sadness could not be lifted just like that. It was time to show him what pain really was, what sadness really entailed.
"This… is for the fallen!"
The old warrior suddenly spun around, whirling the Masamune in the air, faster and faster each time. Sephiroth was torn from the sword, thrown ten feet above the ground by a torrid gale. His hair was ripped away by the roots, the white whips slashing his face, the fragments of his broken bones turning into hundreds of tiny missiles, ravaging him further. He saw the sake bottle flying into the eye of that catastrophic storm, its contents combusting all at once, the unavoidable conflagration burning him blind, flaying every last inch of his skin, stripping the air from his lungs and filling them with flame, a colossal hand crushing whatever was left of him. He only knew that this ordeal was over when he heard the crack of his back as it met the flattened earth.
Sephiroth was now living in a world of hurt. All he saw was a haze of red and black hues burning into his brain. He could not feel anything but the pain, coming from where his arms and legs and torso once were. He could hear only the snapping, hissing and cracking of his flesh being stripped from his bones. He could taste nothing save the boiling lava of his blood. But he knew that he would rise up again. He would continue to fight, as long as a single fibre of his being remained. He would not give up, even if he had to crawl and snap at his opponent's heels. It was better for him to cease to be, rather than die another thousand deaths of dishonour.
But valour could only carry him so far. The enemy was far too strong for him. He was pinned down, even before he could even attempt to move the smallest of his muscles. Above the hurt, he could feel his liver being sliced apart, the meat exposed by the master butcher's cut, his stomach exploding like a pierced balloon, the great arteries of his heart being ripped open, his lungs sucking in not air, but a flood of brightest blood. The Masamune was now his tombstone.
"You have proven… unworthy."
Veni, veni, venias, ne me mori facias…
Sephiroth felt so thirsty, so light-headed. He didn't feel like fighting anymore. He didn't want to move another inch. He didn't care about the oppressors any more. He didn't care about seeking justice for himself any more. He just wanted to go to sleep, to forget all of this, to wake up the next morning knowing that all this was just a nightmare. He wanted his aunt and uncle to take him away from this dreadful place, to keep him safe, to hold him tight.
Look! She was coming to him now! She would protect him! He could see the young woman now, her long brown hair, her sweet smile, her angelic green eyes. Ifalna was here! He was safe now!
"Auntie...?"
Ifalna giggled suddenly, a breath of sweetest air in this living hell, a wonderful sound filled with so much amusement and surprise.
"Auntie, I wanna go home… Take me home, please…"
Oh, you're such a big baby, Sephy! But it's OK with me, I love children! Let's see… why don't I give you a little hand here?
Hearing her speak again made him feel so warm, so fuzzy, so comfortable. She had called him "Sephy"… no one else had been so kind to him… it been such a long time… far too long since he had been loved…
He saw Ifalna's eyes close, her hands clasped in prayer. She was saving him now! He felt her gentle softness on his cheeks. The sweet April rain was falling, bringing forth flowers in May! She was bathing him in a pool of holy water, cleansing his wounds, rinsing away all the violence that had begrimed him. He could feel the warmness of the Planet's presence smiling upon him, the angels calling him to rise up, calling him back to life!
Veni, veni, venias, ne me mori facias…
Sephiroth found himself on his feet, his wounds healed, his strength restored, his will redoubled. From the pool of water before him the Masamune emerged, conveyed to him by an invisible hand. His eager hands closed around the hilt. The Masamune was his! He marveled as it began to become the sword he truly wanted, a deadly blade all of eight feet long, a black and silver dragon smiting the heavens. With a triumphant cry, he held the celestial weapon aloft.
Now, the Planet would fear the name of Safer Sephiroth! He would make them suffer! They would all die!
"Come power!"
Gloriosa! Generosa! Gloriosa! Generosa!
The Masamune began to shudder slightly, as a tiny speck of light formed on the tip of the blade, turning quickly into a gigantic ball of yellow flame. He lifted the blade off the ground, and the spirit energies it had gathered flowed into the weapon, making it thrum and throb with unbelievable power, like dogs of war straining to be unleashed.
And as Sephiroth executed his Limit Break, time itself seemed to come to a halt. It seemed as if he was in two places at once; he was ten feet away from his opponent, but at the same time, he was right in front of the ronin, beginning his attack. Yet one could see his every single movement, as if they all had been captured on a film strip of animation cels, and played back in slow motion for mortal eyes to see.
His weapon came down a hundred times, each cut, each slice, every slash so swift that it could only be seen by the splitting apart of skin and the flow of fresh blood from the wound, yet slow enough to see the blade's trail colour the air as it struck again and again and again. This was worse than the chastisement of an avenging angel, more terrible than the wrath of a hundred – armed deity.
Gloriosa! Generosa! Gloriosa! Generosa!
And with his final stroke, Sephiroth expelled all of his pent – up energy in a violent conflagration that shook the earth to its bowels. The world around him was consumed utterly by this supernatural brightness, losing all of its colour, fading away from sight, until all that was to be seen, was this unending, impenetrable, all – encompassing field of whiteness.
Sephiroth!
The white – haired man floated slowly to the ground, the Masamune still thrumming with the power of the Omnislash, his arms outstretched, welcoming the glory and beauty that was his first ever Limit Break. He smiled for what seemed like the first time in eons. That was true power!
Sephiroth now faced his opponent, his smile turning into a sneer. Who was the master now?
Amazingly enough, his victim was still alive… but barely. His robes were but random ribbons of cloth, his breastplate nothing now but curled festoons of metal shavings. A thousand cuts wept at the violence of it all, exposed bones blanching at the sight of all the devastation, the now unprotected organs throbbing with fear at the terrors they had unfortunate enough to witness.
The defeated warrior was on his knees. What would he do now? He would not suffer the ignominy being captured by his opponent. He would try to regain what little honour he had left. But he had no weapon, no tanto or wakizashi to perform the deed of expiation. A victorious enemy might aid him in this task… if he chose to, that is.
Sephiroth's grin broadened. He turned, his back to the dying ronin, starting on the long trek back towards Midgar. It would be a far more fitting fate to let that fool spend his last moments regretting the day he met Sephiroth in combat. Let him lament, with the rest of his pitiful kind, the suffering and destruction that would fall upon this world from this day onwards.
Sephiroth!
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The ronin was journeying inward now, oblivious to the last drops of his life falling away from the broken vessel of his body.
He remembered that last catastrophic battle at the Knowlespole, the desperate trek by those few Cetra who remained into the Northern Crater to defeat Jenova once and for all. In the end, the evil one had been sealed away, and her legions of human minions dispersed, but at such great cost. But they had already lost the war; the devils had triumphed over the angels. Not even the vaunted Masamune had been able to save the Cetra from total destruction.
But only a poor workman blamed his tools. The brutal truth was that he had not been strong enough to win the war. He had not been able to prevent the genocidal extermination of his people from coming about. Worse still, there was Jecht, Braska, their children… he had been Guardian to them all, but he had failed to prevent their deaths. These were his sins.
He had somehow survived, but he had spent the rest of his days wandering this world as a fallen angel, cursed with this terrible burden upon his soul, every day a monument to the ignominy and despair of his defeat.
He had long abandoned all hope. No one could possibly redeem him. Worse still, he could find no one to fight the evil he had witnessed millennia ago, the horrors that would devour the Planet whole, leaving behind nothing but eternal darkness. No one to take up the holy sword.
But salvation had come at the most unlikely of times, in the most unlikely of forms. A girl had flown to him in the thick of battle. She too was a Cetra. An angel with one wing. A messenger from the Planet. She had shown him the sign.
This boy had sacrificed himself to the Masamune. His blood offering had been accepted. He had given the warrior's gift, thicker than water, sweeter than wine. It left the bronzed metal unblemished, seeping into the weapon, sealing his fate. The sword had been pulled from the stone.
He could see clearly now. His own tale had filled up far too many volumes and now it would be closed forever. But there would be another side, another story. So said the Masamune. So said the Planet. He could see clearly now what was to be, and it gladdened him no end. Twilight was barely approaching, but already he could see the road to the dawn.
The girl remained by his side, keeping him company in his last moments. She looked so much like Braska's daughter.
Why don't you go? There's nothing to forgive now, you know.
"Yes… my task is complete. And you have come... to end this longest day."
Oh yes, I have! I'll be taking it from here. Go on! They're all waiting for you.
"I am ready to end my story. Send me now."
His feet left the ground. Now he would no longer be a part of this world, but an entirely new entity altogether, partaking in a far higher and incomprehensible existence.
Many tiny pinpricks of energy begin to float away from the aged warrior, each bearing with it a tiny gem of spirit energy, each carrying away a tiny fragment of his identity. It was as peaceful a release of life, as the power that was freed by the Omnislash had been violent.
The old soldier was slowly fading away, vanishing into the ethereal realm, the world of purest energy, the place of ultimate power. He was being sent to the Lifestream… The long road for him had ended at last in a smile. He was heading to the Promised Land.
More and more of these pyreflies began to form, dissipating into the heavens. His form was becoming more and more indistinct, blurring into shades of white and prismatic brilliance. And as the sky turned dark, his bright shape dimmed, receding to a hazy outline. Every little mote of light had escaped from its temporal prison, and they had reached their destination. They were now the new stars of the night sky.
All that was left was a pair of wings, long and large like the branches of an ancient tree, floating soundlessly in the new night breeze, each feather twinkling softly and gently.
Up and up they spiraled, streaking away together from this sorrowful world, never turning back, never looking behind, never hesitating for a moment. Nothing could hold them back now. Nothing could stop them now.
And then they were gone, just like that.
----------
"Oi! Come here, girl!"
The corporal standing watch in the 40F lobby slouched against the wall, his automatic rifle lying on the floor. He took off his helmet, sneering at the newcomer, sticking out his tongue at him.
"Hey, Whitehair, the lootenant's lookin' for you real bad. Better go stat, or he'll squeeze these teeny weenie nuts of yours, queer! Or do you have any at all?" The guard snickered, entertaining himself with guessing what sort of punishment the long - haired Shinra guard would get.
His commanding officer was sitting in his room, a cigarette hanging from his mouth, the liquor bottle on his desk opened and half - empty. No sooner had Sephiroth opened the door, did a dog – end land on his shirt, leaving a small ring of ash on the cheap cloth, before it rolled around on the carpet.
"Do you know what time it is now, Private?"
Sephiroth did not bother to give a reply.
"For deserting your post I should have you shot at dawn. But count yourself lucky that "sponsor" of yours has given me a direct order not to have you killed! Next time, if you do so much as water the flowers without my signed permission, you'll be going back to that cracked - up egghead in a box! Six months of cleaning out the recruits' latrines every morning for you! Get out of my sight and get your hands on that toilet brush!"
Sephiroth smirked. It was time for him to vindicate himself, to wreak vengeance on this hateful world! And he would start his righteous crusade, by disposing of that pathetic excuse for a living thing!
The katana peeked out of its scabbard for only a second, but it was time enough to make the officer realise how wrong he'd been, just how much he'd underestimated his subordinate. Shinra Corporate Service Assistance Department Officer number RC – 1138 was more than just a sullen, effeminate trainee, another of those failed genetic enhancement experiments the Shinra Science Department constantly tossed to him. He would be the first one to realise the horrible truth about Safer Sephiroth. Tragically, he wouldn't be the last.
But for him, it was far too late for regrets. The blood streaked off the greatsword, fast as a flowing stream, leaving neither trail nor stain to show that it had ever been wielded in anger. By the time the blade returned to its bower, it was as spotless as the day the divine polisher finished his work, and with it, the crafting of this weapon.
Sephiroth pushed the former lieutenant from the chair. He sat down, savouring his first victory over the forces of evil, oblivious to the fact that he was sitting in the stink of the ex – officer's blood, which was even now starting to creep under the door, spilling out into the hallways, and from there, to cover the entire Planet.
The Masamune had broken his chains. He knew that there would be no more tears now that he held the Masamune. Great things he would do with the ancient blade. The weapon would unlock the heart of this world. There would be no place he could not go to now. No one would say no to him now. With the holy sword he would cast down his enemies, put fear into those who had doubted him. It would raise him to the light. It would deliver him from evil.
Today was the beginning of the rest of his life. The rest would be history, written by his hand alone. He would become all powerful. He now had the power to define what he would be. He would become a force of destruction, an avatar of pain, a great plague of sadness that none could hope to overcome! He would be an angel of death. This would be the end of his existence. He would do this, no matter how long it would take, no matter how many more people he would kill in the process. He would not be deterred from achieving this goal, even if he had to destroy life itself, even if he had to damn his own soul to eternal oblivion. Even if his deeds were to offend the Planet itself!
SEPHIROTH!
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"Is everything all right, Aerith? You've been staring at the window for hours!"
The little girl clasped her hands, giving her foster mother a beatific smile, brimming with wisdom and foresight far beyond her tender years.
"One of us just left for the Promised Land. He was in such great pain for so long, and now he's finally free. Oh, I'm so happy for him!"
"Well, I'm sure that's very nice, but you've got to eat your dinner, it's getting cold already!"
Had Aerith been an ordinary girl, Elmyra would have placed her on the shrink's chair the very next morning. But she wasn't ordinary at all. She had special powers. She could commune with nature itself, speak the language of the birds and beasts, cajole the sun into coming out, even in the bleakest of worlds like this one. She could see, hear and speak with friends long gone, with strangers she would never know. She existed in the spirit realm, just as she was sitting on a chair in this house.
Elmyra felt as if she was only a bare trustee, told to take care of something that did not rightfully belong to her, until the appointed time came. Aerith did not belong here. It was as if she had been given a book for safekeeping, a most ancient tome that spoke of the Planet's days, and allowed to write but a single page. One day the young Cetra would outgrow her mother. She would reclaim the book, and continue the story to who knows where.
Elmyra shook her head. It had been barely a week since she had taken Aerith in, but already she knew that this child was a mystery so profound, that a little old lady like her couldn't hope to understand, even if she tried her darndest to do so. At least she ate her vegetables (indeed, she would eat nothing else) and didn't ask for the latest dolls and dresses every few days, not like the other rascals who constantly drove their parents crazy.
She didn't have to be an Ancient to know that Aerith would one day grow up to do great things. That was what every mother secretly hoped her for her children, adopted or not, and that was good enough for her.
But what Elmyra could not have possibly known, was how her daughter would forever shine amongst the brightest stars, of the legends on legends that would be told, for hundreds upon thousands and millions of years, of the Princess and her Knight, the wielder of the Holy Sword…
– THE END –