Disclaimer: I do NOT own FF7, it is the property of Square Enix whatever I might privately think. :)
She had been there long before the first, and she would be there long after the last. Born of stars and the deep black emptiness of space, fuelled by the wild fires of nebulas, she was a wanderer, travelling where she would, tarrying where she wished. And she remembered everything.
Her first memory was that of silence. Silence so deep, like a bottomless well, and yet so clear and cold you could cut it with a knife. Nothing except the fluttering of her breaths, and the rhythmic throb of her heart, the flames surging with each gasp. So still, and so quiet, deathly in its final peacefulness, the blackness clinging to her like a shroud in the feeble starlight. She cried out then, voice scorching through the blank emptiness. She was afraid to die, so young, untried, untested, the world yet a formless ball of dust tossed in space like a god's plaything. Her wings snapped out, striking out upwards, pumping frantically. No. She was not content to fade out as her mother had done. She would live. Live, and not settle for anything else. She focused on that word, etched it with her will into every fibre of her being and flew free, spurning Morpheus for life.
She travelled a long while, the solar winds from newly born suns buffetting her and guiding her along the way. Everywhere, stars were coming out of their deep slumber, bursting out of their black coccoons to glare out onto the universe. But none dared to break completely free of their world as she had done. So she swept by, aloof and distanced, ignored by the flickers of light above and around her. She had defied fate, and in this she was doomed to be alone, always, for now and until the end of time.
In anger, she mocked them, those feeble pinpricks in the vast blackness. What right had they to condemn her, those fools that knew nothing, save of their own cramped, closed worlds, prisons for the dull-minded? They had not walked the line between Life and Death, not challenged the White Rider himself and won, not tasted the sweet tang of freedom singing through their fiery veins. They were so much lesser than her, poor, witless, beings. And, to feed the first ripples of hunger growing in her frame, she snuffed them out, one by one, delighting in the fullness they brought to her as she devoured them mindlessly. The fortunate ones fled from her laughter, dark and hateful, which haunted them even in the deep reaches of space. She was sated, triumphant and happy for the first time in aeons, and she was all the merrier for it. But changed, irreversibly. Wings, then pearly in their innocence and light, were ragged and dark, torn from her prey's futile struggles. They arched away on either side, red as the blood that had been spilled on them, red as the anger that had once consumed her. And in that moment, she was born again - not a star as her fate had once been, but an aberration, a Fury with no sense of justice. Nameless she had once been, but now she made one for herself, giving herself a name that would make even the mightiest tremble. Jenova. Scourge. Devourer. Queen.
But that was not long to last. Fate was thwarted but would in due time run its course. Her killings did not go unnoticed, and one day, even before the planets could complete their stately orbits, the Ancients came with vengeance in their hands and hearts. They took her by surprise, tearing her wings and breaking her back, ripping her flight and strength away from her. Then they let her fall.
It was a long way down, all edged with black and red - the blood weeping in pain and rage from the stumps on her shoulders, the universe flashing by in shades of grey, the fires in her heart burning lower and lower, smouldering slowly and surely. But she would not die. Had she not dared the dark once, and danced free, only to fly higher? Surely she could once more again. She was Jenova, she had devoured countless stars, seen the universe in all its naked glory, before the great Work could be finished. She was powerful. Unstoppable. But not this time. Her world cracked, crumbled and fell in a seizure of red-streaked agony. She screamed, stumps flexing futilely to fly, numbed by a grim paralysis, aware that the ground was racing towards her with the speed of light. Then a tortured groan of stone giving way beneath her, and earth sealing her tomb from above. In darkness once more, but still alive. Barely.
She lay there, in the musty damp silence, with only the drip of water on stone for company, imagining the vast expanses of shadow and light, that dappled airy canvas that had once been her home, high above her, and wept, sorrowing for her wings and the power that had once been hers. But most of all, she dreamt of revenge, of crushing the Ancients beneath her heel, grinding them into dust. Their screams and pleas would be sweet, even pleasing, to her ears as she ripped them from limb to limb, their incandescent essences flickering feebly in the air, ripe for eating. And she would crown herself supreme. The cosmos would bow at her feet once again, subject to her every whim and fancy. This was a war she would win. And so, deep in the stony silence, far from the light, she plotted and schemed, bending her will over the Planet and its beings above. What was once great will fall, what was once good I will twist to my will, what was once pure I will taint, what was once this Planet I will make mine. For what they have done to me, they will suffer ten times that. After all, she was Jenova, and Jenova did not take revenge lightly.
A/N: Just a one-shot on how Jenova might actually have become, uh, Jenova. :) Hope it's understandable, think my sentences are too long. Er. I was just experimenting with a different style, trying to see how it would eventually turn out. Feel free to comment and hope you like it! :)
Nightmistral