Warning: this story includes violence and implied male/male relationships. If this is not your thing, go read something else.

Two storm lanterns cast overlapping pools of white light on the make-shift table. They illuminated tattered pages of reports, and a map of the town the ShinRa forces were currently occupying. It had been taken earlier that day, and pockets of resistance still existed. Sephiroth contemplated the stark black lines of the paper, and mentally reorganised his numbers.

"The 16th are working on suppressing the fires in the western district. Send the 22nd to reinforce them – they can't fight fires and enemies at the same time." The regular security forces were responsible for securing the town, and establishing an official presence. While they were an intimidating presence in their platoons, the nature of their task meant they were gradually spreading out. He'd been sending a couple of SOLDIERS to accompany each unit so that if any serious combat broke out it might buy them time to regroup, and call for reinforcements if necessary. "Send Timms and Gorda with them."

The officer saluted and left. Sephiroth picked up the casualty lists and frowned. Many of the units were understrength, due to casualties. The worst hit was the 23rd, who'd been all but wiped out in a flank attack by Wutai forces. The survivors were currently in the medical tents, but only one had been seriously injured. Only six survived though, which was not enough to function as a platoon. He'd need to split them amongst the existing units. But their morale would be low enough after losing so many comrades; watching their unit 'die' as well would be devastating. He'd talk with each of them first, and offer them the chance to return when their unit was reformed. He made a note to request their personnel jackets from Midgar.

"General, it seems like things are under control here. Perhaps you could spare a moment or two for me?"

Sephiroth's head snapped up. SOLDIER's Director stood on the other side of the table, and – he looked around – there was no sign of the security forces who should be accompanying him. Lazard's urbane smile showed little concern for this fact.

"Director, where are your bodyguards?" His voice was low, even, and didn't show any sign of the anger he felt. He hoped.

"I told them they could return to their units. It's been a long day, and I am in your company, after all. Who could protect me better than SOLDIER's very own Silver General?"

The problem was that SOLDIERs were rarely found in areas that were firmly under ShinRa's control. Apart from those times they returned to Midgar, they were on the front lines – or behind them – pressing forward against Wutai's own military forces. So if the Director wished to check on his forces, then that was where he had to go. Next time, Sephiroth decided grimly, he'd assign SOLDIERs to the task of guarding him. Seconds, at the very least. He'd have words with them first, so they didn't follow any orders he wouldn't approve of – like leaving the Director alone and unguarded.

"I do have a number of other pressing duties," Sephiroth said pointedly.

"All our remaining forces have either been allocated responsibility for clearing and securing the town, or are resting in the camp so as to be ready to relieve the others. There has not been any significant resistance for several hours, and if there is, you have a PHS." Lazard's smile grew wider. "There is something I do believe you should see. If you do not wish to accompany me, I suppose I could go by myself..." His voice trailed off.

Sephiroth sighed. "Very well." He turned to one of the aides standing nearby. "Anders, you're in charge. Contact me at once if there's any trouble." His gaze returned to the director, a narrow-eyed glare that would have lesser men quailing. Lazard look unperturbed. "Well?"

"This way, General."

Lazard lead him to a temple in one of the first areas to be cleared. He paused a moment at the gate, looking up at the elegant lines. "You know, the temples here are really works of art in their own right."

"Hn."

Lazard gave him an amused look over his shoulder, and walked on in. "You've never really been one for the finer things in life, have you?"

"You enjoy them enough for both of us," Sephiroth replied. It was true. Lazard's job paid well, and the man took great pleasure in the rewards that entailed, from his finely tailored clothes and luxury apartment to the fine restaurants and theatre events he frequented. Sephiroth spent most of his own time in various forms of battle dress, and hated social events with a passion. Every now and then ShinRa would show him off at some corporate dinner. It left him feeling like some kind of prized dog.

"Perhaps."

The temple was full of elaborate cravings and sumptuous colours. Two large beasts guarded the entrance, one stone foot upraised with claws bared in a threatening manner. The walls were covered in murals, many of them depicting Wutai's serpentine guardian, Leviathan. More statues lined the halls, armoured warriors with stern expressions. Lazard turned without hesitation down one of these, and they emerged in a tree-lined courtyard. On each side, the flagstones came to a halt in front of a small, closed shrine.

Sephiroth scanned the trees, and one hand flexed as if feeling for the hilt of his sword. "You wanted to show me this?"

"Yes. I thought it might interest you." Lazard crossed to the first of the shrines, and unlatched the doors. The building was not much bigger than a large wardrobe, but it didn't need to be. Inside was a wooden dais bearing a lacquered sword-rack. A blade lay across it, and Sephiroth's gaze was drawn to it like a magnet.

"These are holy swords. They're the result of a long and arduous forging process, where the steel is folded on itself, again and again. If done correctly, the blade is incredibly strong. The process, along with certain trace elements, cause a pattern to form upon the blade. It's called the water pattern; the Wutai regard it as a blessing from Leviathan. They often honour such blades by placing them in shrines like these."

Sephiroth examined the sword, taking in the plain wooden handle – the kind mounted as a temporary measure, to test the blade. "A waste," he said shortly.

"Hmm. There's a story to this one," Lazard said, and Sephiroth gave him a suspicious look. Clearly Lazard had already visited this temple, which made him wonder on his insistence in dragging Sephiroth along with him. If he'd seen it, why come back? "It was one of two blades, made as a commission for an important lord. Two, because the smith wanted to make sure the sword he offered his lord was of the highest calibre. The lord came to collect his blade before he was ready. The other blade had an elaborate cross-guard, the grip ivory bound with silk. It was beautiful, and elaborate, but the smith felt this blade was the better work. He merely had to find the right finishing touch, something that would match the blade in its perfection."

Sephiroth found himself listening intently to Lazard's words, even though he considered the whole expedition a waste of his time. Lazard had a mellow voice, and plenty of charm; he'd managed to work his way up ShinRa's corporate ladder at a ridiculously young age, and despite the viciousness that was the company's internal politics, handled any given situation with the same unruffled air. It was a voice well-suited to giving speeches at corporate events, or telling stories.

"But the lord was impatient, and insisted on taking the sword that was already finished. On his ride home, he was attacked by bandits. He fought, but the blade shattered at the first blow, and he was killed. The smith never finished the sword; he claimed that anything he added would merely detract from blade, and that people were easily misled by fine trappings. And so it came here," Lazard tilted his head to indicate the shrine that housed it.

"And how would we know that this sword wouldn't shatter in the same way?"

Lazard shrugged. "We don't. But this blade bore the water pattern, and it's said the other didn't. Nobody has ever raised this sword in combat to find out, one way or the other. Even without the trappings, it's still beautiful, isn't it?"

Looking at it, with its plain wooden hilt, Sephiroth was tempted to lift the sword from its rack and test the blade for himself.

Lazard sighed, when Sephiroth didn't answer and moved to the next. "Perhaps this one will better suit your sensibilities."

The sword in the second shrine clearly had been used. Sephiroth could see a few minute nicks along the edge of the blade, from meeting another sword. The grip was worn, and had likely been replaced several times. The guard had a sizeable gash missing from one side. Nevertheless, it was an impressive weapon, and seemed to have survived its battles with little damage to the blade itself. "And does this one have a story as well?"

"Not really," Lazard demurred. "It was owned by a lord renowned for his fighting skills. He supposedly took it from the body of a friend killed by betrayal from within his own house, and used it to avenge him, even though it took years. He claimed the blade held the spirit of his dead friend, and that they both should rest now that his vengeance was complete."

Sephiroth's lips quirked in amusement. "I see. And are either of these stories true?"

Lazard gave him an offended look. "Are you doubting my honesty and integrity?"

"You forget, I sometimes accompany you to board meetings. I barely recognise some of the reports you give the board, and I'm the one who wrote them."

Lazard waved a hand in dismissal. "Your reports are so dry and factual. I merely embellish them a little, make the facts more palatable. You have no poetry in your soul."

"No, I killed it after listening to Genesis recite Loveless for the umpteenth time." The dry remark drew an answering smirk from Lazard as he moved to the third shrine.

Sephiroth blinked as the contents of this particular shine was revealed. The sword inside was... strange. It still held the exquisite water pattern on its blade, and was much like any other sword except for one thing: it was almost as long as he was tall.

"This sword is said to be very old," Lazard said, shooting him a sideways glance that challenged Sephiroth to interrupt his words before he could tell a story, true or not. "It's called Masamune, supposedly after the man who made it. Legend has it that it was created to fight some fierce creature from the sky – a flying monster, perhaps. The smith who forged it claimed it was a sword that could pierce the heavens. But while it was a unique and beautiful weapon, the very thing which made it different made it difficult to wield effectively, and so it ended up here, instead."

"The balance on that sword is probably terrible. The weight of the blade means any swordsman would require incredible strength in his arms and wrists to use it," Sephiroth pointed out, although he was fascinated by the idea of trying. There was a chunk of materia embedded in the collar, just below the guard.

"So practical." Lazard's lips twisted in something that wasn't really a smile.

"I have to be."

"Do you know that ShinRa is essentially looting these places as we go? The temples often have brilliant artworks, statues and paintings worthy of the finest museums. For all the contempt the mainland shows towards Wutai, it seems to crave their art. Doubtless these swords will be taken as well, to be hung on some executive's wall like a trophy. The spoils of war." The eyes behind the stylish glasses were grave.

Some sudden noise had Sephiroth's head snapping around, and he looked towards the trees where he'd seen movement earlier as a tattered group of Wutai militia tumbled into the courtyard. They screamed various war cries as they surged towards them; at least one of them was something about 'desecrating their temples', a charge Sephiroth found hard to contest in light of Lazard's most recent statement.

Reaching out, Sephiroth grabbed Lazard's arm and pushed the executive behind him, preparing to fight. Some impulse made him reach not for the blade strapped at his side, but the improbably long sword housed in the shrine. He could feel the tip of the sword pull downwards, and corrected his stance as the first of the enemy fighters came within reach.

And his reach was so much greater than normal.

The first swing easily cut through the lead fighter, and deep into the next; with a flick of his wrist, Sephiroth reversed the swing and took out a third. He could swear it felt lighter in his hands as he moved for another strike. No, lighter was the wrong word; the weight of the blade gave each swing greater momentum, sending it deep into flesh with little resistance. But his own control of its unwieldy length grew more certain with each blow, so that it almost felt like an extension of his own arm. The materia in the collar glowed faintly red. It was a colour that Sephiroth had only seen before with summons of various kinds, but no fantastical creature appeared and he could feel only the slightest draw on his own energies from it. He put the puzzle of what the stone could be aside for later, and systematically annihilated the remaining fighters.

He turned back to Lazard, determined to put an end to this little sight-seeing expedition. Clearly the area was not as secure as he'd been led to believe; worse, the only time the Director could have been here was with the unit responsible for clearing it earlier that day. The thought had Sephiroth clenching his jaw – and then his eyes settled on the man in question, and his mind went blank.

He was used to the way the Lazard always managed to appear immaculately groomed, with not a hair out of place. He wore tailored suits, with fabrics made of the finest wool and silks. He dressed as though he could be modelling for a men's fashion magazine, even while visiting a war zone.

Which made the droplets of blood splattered across one cheek a jarring note.

As Sephiroth struggled to remember what he'd been about to say, Lazard removed a handkerchief from one pocket – a pristine square of delicate white linen, pressed so that it draped in perfect folds – and patted it away.

"You don't belong here," Sephiroth said roughly, the words tumbling out before he could stop them.

It was easy to forget, sometimes, that Lazard was so much more fragile than the SOLDIERs under his command. While officially he was the General's immediate superior, that rank didn't mean much between them. Sephiroth considered him an equal, something that felt far more significant. It made him unique amongst the executives at ShinRa, and the man was certainly not at all weak. He was quick-witted and intelligent, and had the kind of strong-willed determination that was needed to make it in a rather cut-throat business atmosphere.

But the battles Lazard fought took place in a boardroom, with words and figures in lieu of weapons. They could be vicious enough that it was hard to describe them as bloodless, but they didn't rely on purely physical strength, and an executive's life was not usually at stake. Lazard belonged back in the luxuriously appointed office that was rightfully his as the civilian Director of the SOLDIER programme, not in a war zone half a world away.

Looking down, he realised that the long blade of the Masamune was between them, dividing them. It seemed oddly appropriate. Red marred the rippled pattern of its surface, blood on water. It needed to be cleaned before it was once again put away in its shrine. He stooped to wipe it on the corpse of one of their attackers as a temporary measure.

When he straightened, he carefully angled the sword to one side. There was enough between them already.

"Swords are weapons," he said abruptly. "Weapons are something that are meant to be used - to kill, to maim, to force others to give in to greater force. They're not something that should be placed in a shrine and worshipped for such an insipid reason as beauty."

Lazard laughed. "You think beauty is insipid?" Stepping closer, he raised one hand to cup Sephiroth's cheek. "Beauty is one of the most dangerous things in the world, my General. People are inspired by it, awed by it, envious of it. They fight wars over such insipid reasons as 'beauty'."

He stroked a thumb over skin, and unwillingly, Sephiroth leaned into the touch.

"Nor does the fact that something has a use beyond simple appearance - even a potentially lethal one - detract from beauty. Indeed," Lazard murmured, lips curving in a rather self-satisfied smile, "it can often add to the allure."

Neither of them were talking about swords any more.

"You should keep it. It suits you." Lazard added, stepping back.

Sephiroth looked at Lazard blankly.

"The sword," Lazard clarified. "I told you that ShinRa was removing many of the treasures from the shrines of Wutai. I think it far more fitting that it should go to you and be used, than mounted on the wall of some paper-pusher who has never even seen a sword-fight."

Sephiroth lifted the long blade, hefting it thoughtfully. It suited him? He thought of how Lazard had described it, and made a small sound of amusement. Unique, dangerous, and difficult to wield effectively. "Yet you do it so well."

"What was that?"

"Nothing," Sephiroth said with a faint smile. "Shall we go?"