The sun is warm in the sky, but clouds have begun to drift in front of it. The sky, behind the clouds, is gray, and shadows are dark under the trees lining the battlefield. A slight breeze stirs, tugging pleadingly at blonde spikes, which fall back into place easily as the wind dies. It's almost as if nothing is wrong.
Far, far ahead of him, past seeming miles of trampled greenery, clashing weapons, and fallen soldiers, he thinks he can see the gentle, sweeping arc of Masamune as enemy warriors fall. He can almost hear the General's voice as he softly relays orders to his Second, careful not to let their enemies past the line.
Even through all the blood, and cries, and broken bones, misty eyes of the dead staring out at him, Sephiroth is the only thing that matters. Sephiroth is not here, but that cannot be. Sephiroth still fights the battle. Sephiroth fights to win.
Beyond all this, beyond the sweep of Sephiroth's blade and the and the battlefield and the cries of the dying and the trees and the continent and the mountains and the ocean, he thinks he sees the gardens. He thinks that maybe he hears harps, and maybe he can see into the blinding sunlight of the Promised Land that Zack's girlfriend goes on about. The blade wedged between his ribs doesn't bother him, and as each breath brings more blood dribbling down his chin, he doesn't notice Zack's yell as the older man sees him. He doesn't notice the way Sephiroth's breath catches, as, even over the battlefield, he sees the clouded eyes of a dying cadet. All he can see is the field of flowers.