Author's note: So this is a story I began about six years ago and never finished. Then I broke up with my ex, and in the chaos of taking my stuff and taking off, I thought I'd lost this notebook forever. Saddened, I never tried to rewrite it because I knew I couldn't recreate the beginning to my standards, and I'd all but given up on it. Wonder of wonders, I was going through my file cabinet searching for the title to my car, and I saw this beat-up, ratty notebook laying in the bottom of the drawer... *cheers wildly* So now you all have to put up with me being a devoted Sephiroth junkie as well. :) Enjoy!

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(wake up)

The whispered voice seemed to come from far away, yet at the same time it was right beside his ear. He groaned soundlessly and tried to ignore the soft words.

(it's time)

Moving. He was moving. Somehow, somewhere. Yet he was in the same place. At least, the light shining on his closed eyelids never wavered or varied in intensity.

(open your eyes)

Soft command, he tried to block it out, to refuse to listen, but he seemed to have no will, no force of his own.

Mako-green eyes snapped open to stare into unending darkness. And the world exploded around him.

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She heard the crash a scant second before the cursing and quietly retreated to the kitchen to wash dishes. It would never do to have a dirty kitchen when he came home in a bad mood. Staring out the window as she washed, her mind drifted of its own accord back to peaceful times. The beginnings of AVALANCHE, the zeal and determination to make the world a better place, away from the exploitations of Shin-ra. Tending the 7th Heaven, with its various customers and old friends. Back before...well, before they saved the world and everything changed.

Lost in her happy recollections, she didn't hear the kitchen door open, didn't realize she wasn't alone anymore until she heard his quiet growl.

"Why the hell isn't dinner ready?" The cold tone, familiar yet frightening still, made her jump and whirl, dropping the plate she'd been holding. With a loud crash it shattered, covering her feet and the floor with a sheen of sparkling glass shards and sudsy water. She winced, not so much from the loss of the plate as from what would follow.

"Clumsy bitch." The slap came out of nowhere, and even as her head spun, disoriented, she thought how odd it was that drinking could affect his mood so very drastically yet never dull those lightning-quick SOLDIER reflexes of his. Shaking her head, she knelt on the floor, using her bare hands to wipe the mess into a sharp, bubbly pile. His second blow connected with the other side of her face, knocking her sideways with such force that she smacked her head on the cupboard door. As she started fading into unconsciousness, her tear- and pain-fogged vision could dimly make out his form as he started to unbuckle his pants. Oh well, she thought absently, I'm lucky today. At least I probably won't come around until he's done with me. As she felt his fingers yank her skirt up above her waist, the comforting blackness of oblivion mercifully enfolded her.

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Cold. It was cold. He could feel it seeping into his very soul, leeching his life away like a poison spell, bit by bit. His mind struggled against it even as his body

[I have a body?]

lay still and solid. Wait!

[wait, was that...]

He felt his finger move. Just a little, barely a twitch, but it proved

[I'm not dead!]

that he could still control his muscles. The cold seemed a separate entity, sensing his small triumph and redoubling its efforts to take him

[down]

away, to take over, to keep him from becoming

[what am I?]

himself once more. He fought, mind against cold, working his body, working his strength, feeling the cold nearly overtake him as he battled to regain himself, feeling it winning

[NO!]

then losing as he fought back more. His hand...he felt each and every finger and concentrated on moving it. Next, his other hand. Time seemed to crawl for him, slower and slower, and he had no concept

[hours? days? seconds? what matter?]

of how long he lay there as he fought with everything he had to break free of

[death]

the cold. His foot. His leg. He could lift his head. Each small movement brought him closer to victory, closer to triumph, closer to

[life]

his goal. Gathering his strength, knowing it would be his only hope, he made one last stand against

[death]

the cold. With a final shove, he forced himself back to light, to warmth.

[I WILL NOT DIE!]

He opened his eyes.

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Her head hurt immensely. Eyes still shut, she reached one limp hand over to the bottom shelf where she had hidden the last of her x-potions. With trembling, weak fingers, she tipped the flour canister over...and nearly wept. The canister was empty. Almost. At the bottom was a small vial, a potion. She knew it wouldn't help much but it would ease some of the pain, make it easier to move. It was a painful struggle to lift the vial to her split lips and drink. She felt its immediate effects wipe some of the soreness from her and, after a few more minutes she managed to work herself to a kneeling position and crawl up onto a chair. Gasping for breath she took stock of her condition. Her knees were encrusted with shards and splinters of glass, the dried blood cementing them to the cuts they had caused. She could feel the sharp, stabbing pain radiate upwards to her thighs and didn't have to look to know that she'd be having problems moving for a while. He'd been rougher than usual, and she could feel the start of numerous bruises on her legs and stomach. Her head still spun, but she made herself look around at her kitchen.

Pots and pans littered the floor, her good set of china broken amongst them like pebbles around boulders. Her few plants had been dashed from their pots, scattering dirt and foliage all over the room. The table was broken in two, and she was sitting on the only remaining chair, the rest having been turned into matchsticks and twigs. All in all, she supposed it could have been worse.

She looked out the kitchen window, noting that it was quite a bit darker than it had been before she passed out. He hadn't beaten her that badly since...well, since after the AVALANCHE reunion last year. Right after she told him, cheerfully and happy, that he was going to be a father. She shuddered, recalling how her announcement was met with revulsion and rage rather than the joyful exclamations she'd expected. She remembered her shock at his asking who the bastard was that knocked her up, because he knew it wasn't him. Accusing her of cheating, of reneging on their wedding vows, he'd stormed out of the house, only to return after midnight inebriated beyond belief and telling her he'd be damned if he would raise another man's child. Where he'd gotten his opinions she did not know, even now, but she remembered with detached clarity the events that followed. By the time he was finished with her, she didn't need to worry about raising a child, because there was no longer one to raise.

Fresh wetness on her hand made her realize she was crying, and had been sitting there for who knew how long. She started to move, telling herself over and over to get up off the chair, get the mess cleaned up, before he came home. That was when she happened to glance over the door. His sword, the Ultima, was no longer hanging on its hooks above the doorframe. Her crying regained strength, only from relief this time. Whenever he took his sword he was usually away for long weeks at a time. Sinking back into the chair, she sat watching the last fading light from the winter's sun disappear, sat there long after the room had turned black. She sat, and she dreamed.