Never A Memory.
A beam of light, of energy, between the gloved hands. It sharpens into a blade beneath the hilt of Cloud's sword and slowly, fearfully, he raises his eyes to meet those of Kadaj. His breath catches in his throat.
"Good to see you… Cloud."
Sephiroth, with the barest trace of a smile, with cold, pale features and fine silver hair. He flings the stunned Cloud away, to land stumbling high above. And he follows him, descending gracefully a short distance away. He is perfection with the setting sun at his back, flawless in the uniform that Cloud recalls so clearly, the black and white of the General – as if the man had never died, as if he were a SOLDIER still! Cloud can scarcely conceive of the very real apparition before him, but then his attention is drawn, momentarily, to the sword.
The Masamune is light in Sephiroth's left hand, tilted effortlessly in the air, the shining weapon of a demi-God. Clarity strikes Cloud Strife. He realises then, that he faces not the Masamune. Not the glorious blade that cut down countless monstrosities, Wutain soldiers, faceless and shapeless enemies of the Shin-Ra. Not the blade of that fateful night in Nibelheim, of blood and fire, the blade that brought first Tifa Lockheart and then Zack Fair to the brink of death in a godforsaken Mako reactor. And not the blade, certainly not the blade that impaled Cloud on that steel bridge above the lifestream, the blade he turned against its master, the blade he conquered to kill Sephiroth the first time. No, this was not the Masamune he faced now, any more than it had been the Masamune that pinned President Shinra to his desk – the climax of a trail of blood and wreckage – five years later.
Similarly, it is not Sephiroth. Not the First Class SOLDIER that he once served alongside, not the man and not the General, and not the infected, injected human being that was born to Vincent Valentine and Lucrecia Crescent. Cloud faces now the undying will of the insane Sephiroth, reborn through the power of Jenova, the calamity from the skies. And knowing this, knowing that he must fight once more this alien that seeks to dominate and destroy the Planet, he is calmed. He has no time for the ludicrously mundane words, the too, too familiar voice…
"Your Geostigma is gone? That's too bad."
"Sephiroth. What do you want?"
"The last thoughts of Geostigma's dead. Those remnants will join the lifestream and girdle the Planet, choking it, corroding it. What I want, Cloud… is to sail the darkness of the cosmos with this Planet as my vessel, just as my mother did, long ago."
Sephiroth raises his right hand. The sky darkens, and still Cloud is not afraid. It is the same story, the same conflict. The monster that the Shin-Ra scientists cut from the earth, deluded and naïve enough to believe they had uncovered an Ancient, the thing whose very cells defied life and death – Jenova – insidious and indestructible, the ultimate carrier for Sephiroth's will and catastrophic dreams.
"Then one day we'll find a new Planet and on it's soil we'll create a shining future."
Cloud has one concern, and the anger seeps into his voice.
"What about this Planet?"
"Well, that's up to you, Cloud."
Sephiroth lunges for him, but Cloud expects no less, and with the reflexes of a SOLDIER he moves forward to meet the attack. So they fight, amongst the high buildings of Midgar, in the gathering clouds and splitting lightning of Sephiroth's storm. And the demi-God is so fast, so strong. He vanishes from sight and appears from nowhere, his sword is relentless, and it is all Cloud can do to turn the weapon away. He is thrown aside and forced back, into the abandoned floors of a once-commercial building, chased by the silver-white Sephiroth with murder in his eyes.
Cloud was never a Turk, never a SOLDIER. He did not learn to rule his emotions; his power is not the icy control of Tseng, the disassociated combat of Zack, the masterful art that Sephiroth makes of a duel. He cannot scheme and plot like Rufus Shinra, has not the discipline for martial arts in the vein of Zangan's teachings or the Kisaragi line. Not empty like Vincent, not sweet and compassionate like Aeris, and obsessive beyond the reaches of anyone who has fought with or against him. Cloud Strife is his own hero, a tormented and scarred soul, striving only for one end – salvation.
Swords clash and the two separate, but this time Cloud does not step back. Defiant, face set in a resolution Sephiroth must regard as insolence, his strikes back. The blades meet and Cloud holds his position. Sephiroth is unconcerned.
"Ohh," and his voice, soft, drips with sarcastic admiration. He pushes against the crossed swords, a master with a disrespectful student, and his ecstasy offends every shard of Cloud's being. "Where did you learn this strength?"
"I'm not about to tell you!"
He throws Sephiroth back, and they resume their fight outside, once more above the streets of the capital. But now it is Cloud who forces Sephiroth to move, who dodges his attacks and meets him blow for blow. He will not be cast aside and he compels the demi-God higher and higher among the skyscrapers.
"I've thought of a wonderful present for you." Sephiroth stills fights with the certainty of one who believes he cannot lose. "Shall I give you despair?"
He lashes back at Cloud, who falls half the length of a building before catching himself with his sword. Balanced on the blade, empty-handed, he looks up at the towering figure, grey and black and rigid with his profound mixture of pride and grace. Sephiroth's right fist clenches unconsciously with the desire to conquer, the overwhelming need to subdue and defeat. He is characterised by unstinting commitment to the insane, to his conviction that humanity is a scourge, his enemy, her enemy. He still believes, beyond reason, truth or logic, that every human has wronged him, has robbed him of his rightful glory.
"On your knees. I want you to beg for forgiveness."
Arms spread, he brings the building crumbling down. For an instant Cloud is lost, watching the black coat and streaming hair vanish up through the falling debris. Then he regains composure, stepping down and splitting his sword in two. A second to arm himself, and then he is hacking through the concrete, left and right, and surging down to meet him, Sephiroth. It becomes a desperate fight, slashing through the surrounding cityscape, rending into ruins and rubble the once-imposing Midgar skyline. They clash and clash again, a lethal blur. And frustration forms on Sephiroth's face, as he finds he cannot end Cloud Strife, not in all the chaos of the storm and the crashing wreckage of the buildings.
Cloud escapes to a rooftop, half collapses in exhaustion. But Sephiroth does not tire. He reappears with a savage attack Cloud barely avoids. In the resulting skirmish he tosses Cloud to the floor with one arm, parries his every strike. And then he hurls him against a wall. The Masamune, so cold and sharp the pain is electric, pins Cloud to the brickwork at his shoulder. He grits his teeth at the confident, commanding Sephiroth, who is not finished issuing orders.
"Tell me what you cherish most-"
Cloud puts his hand on the Masamune.
"Give me the pleasure of taking it away."
Cherish. They flash before his vision; Aeris, Tifa, his friends and the children. Those he has fought for, fights for, will continue to fight for. Sephiroth seeks only destruction, of life, of the lifestream, of the Planet. Rage consumes Cloud Strife. For the second time in his life he does what no other living being has ever done; he forces the Masamune from his body, and then into the wall beside him. Sephiroth falters, but leaps back to avoid Clouds rising blade. They face off, the anger dark in Sephiroth's eyes. Cloud has reached his epiphany. He says the words he never previously dared to think –
"I pity you. You just don't get it at all."
Sephiroth would be a God. He will not take pity. A small sound of derision. He readjusts his position, and runs at Cloud, dodging the sweeping sword, once, twice, he dances through the air. They sail upwards, and ferocity crosses Cloud's face. He spits the truth at Sephiroth, the purpose of his life, the reason he is a hero.
"There's not a thing I don't cherish!"
And he draws back his sword, twists it through the air, a crescendo building in his body, in his weapon. Sephiroth finally sees beyond his own passions to register the sheer, indescribable fury of Cloud Strife. He moves to defend himself, but the attack cuts effortlessly through him. Cloud's sword splits into seven parts, and Sephiroth is crucified in the sky, a paralysed, agonised angel. Cloud gathers the components of his sword, and every strike cuts to the heart of Sephiroth, the final attack, splitting the weapon once more to pieces, tears the demi-God beyond survival.
Cloud lands on the rooftop, neatly catching the core of his sword, the components reigning down around him. He gazes up at his recurring nightmare, his truest enemy, the personification of despair.
"Stay where you belong – in my memories."
A wing – black, not as he remembers it, emerges from Sephiroth's right shoulder blade. He is incomprehensibly beautiful, suspended in the air, and there is nothing but the deadliest sincerity in his parting words to Cloud Strife.
"I will… never be a memory."