Eyes, cold and crisp and bright, stared down at her from above, taking her in, measuring her for all that she was worth and she couldn't help but wonder if he found her wanting.
A waterfall of pale rose hair was pulled into a tight ponytail but now she wished she'd left it down. She wanted something to hide her face, to hide her eyes, to lessen the impact that his gaze had on her. Instead, she received the full brunt of his icy stare and she tried to stifle the shudder that ran down her spine when she returned it.
Silver hair swirled about his waist while he circled her like a predator ready to pounce. His voice, a whisper of power that she'd never be able to grasp, teased her ears while he spoke. "It's past curfew, Miss Farron," he said, so softly that she had to lean towards him to hear more clearly. "Yet here I find you, alone, wielding weapons that are not yet permitted to you." At that a black-gloved hand slid out from the depths of his sleeve and took the gunblade from her grasp, checking the chamber to make sure it was unloaded. "Not only did you abandon the barracks, you broke into the training hall…"
He stopped in front of her, kneeling down so that his face was level with hers. Again she felt the hairs on her skin prickle, but she forced herself to meet his gaze. His features were angular, otherworldly, perfect. Large eyes that seemed to emanate their own light watched her with something that resembled amusement, but shapely lips were turned into a frown. Everything about him seemed so wonderfully alien, beautiful and terrible to behold, and the power he wielded – the power that was spoken of in awed, hushed voices – suggested to her that he was much more than the mere man he pretended to be.
"I'm sorry, sir." Her voice was stronger than she felt.
"'Sorry'?" The frown quirked into a smile. "'Sorry' doesn't explain why you'd go through so much trouble just to come in here and practice. You could hit a practice dummy at any time, although not with a weapon like that. Surely you didn't come just to get your hands on a gunblade, at the risk of suspension?"
His pacing started back up and she felt the hem of his trench coat hit her ankles. She took a deep breath and swallowed, closing her eyes briefly to try and regain some of her composure. "I came in here to practice, sir. I went into the weapons locker and saw the blade and decided to use it."
"Does your practice during the day, during regulated hours, not suit your tastes?" She could hear the laughter in his voice, the mocking tone. She was certain he'd heard the rumors that had floated around school, the rumors that painted her as an anti-social hermit that could barely tolerate the other students' existence, and now he was questioning her about it in the most indirect way possible.
A little part of her resented him for it. The greater majority admired him for the carefully calculated way he approached the subject.
"It's not much of a challenge, sir. I thought perhaps I could test myself better…" Her words trailed off when the echo of a laugh that had been in his voice finally rang out.
"There. There's the answer I've been waiting for. Not as honest as I'd hoped, but it's there nonetheless." He ducked to her level again, but this time his smile was warm and understanding. "You find the others to be boring, that their skills are subpar, that your abilities exceed theirs. You find that you're more than them, that your skills suggest a destiny greater than theirs, that your intellect demands a challenge that has yet to be presented." He gazed at her down a delicate nose. She could feel his breath hit her cheek. "Isn't this so?"
She hesitated. He'd know if she was lying, so she had no choice but to nod.
He was grinning now and he was brilliant and charismatic and wonderful and so foreign that she felt like she was in a dream. "To be honest, Farron, I've had the chance to observe some of your class practice sessions. To say that the others are less skilled than you would be a vast understatement." His hand came to rest on the sword hilt at his hips, a monster of a blade that was taller than he was. She'd done her research on it: the katana was seven-feet long, sharper than any other weapon known to the Sanctum, and the only person known to be capable of wielding it was the instructor before her. "You are a rare find for this academy, an elite amongst your peers, a student that stands out and receives nothing but ire from those that you'd otherwise consider friends."
His grip tightened on the sword: she could hear his gloves creak. She looked up: his smile sucked the breath out of her. "It's a rare day when I find someone that so strongly reminds me of myself. You," he said, his voice lowering to a low hum, "are a star within this universe, one that could shine brighter once separated from the black holes surrounding you. You are not average, and you should not be treated as such."
Lightning gave a tiny gasp of surprise. This man was a legend among soldiers, a legend among men, and he was offering her praise? The soldier who had single-handedly dismantled countless assaults that Pulse had led against Cocoon, the one who had thousands of kills in battle etched besides his name, the one who she had always strived to emulate from the moment her path had been decided…that man was telling her she was a star amid the darkness?
The only thing she knew to do in response was clench her jaw firmly shut out of fear that it'd fall open.
He stood and flicked his hair out of his face, and now that he was so close she could appreciate his height even more. Compared to most he was quite tall, but every inch was covered in the inky blackness of his clothes, from the upturned collar down to his booted feet. She watched as he moved away from her, all swishing cloaks and silent steps, and then, too fast for her eyes to register, she watched him draw his blade and round on her. "You wished for a challenge, Miss Farron," came his voice, smooth as silk, when she did naught but gape at him. "Show me what kind of challenge you can be."
He held his masamune with one hand, as if the seven feet of solid metal weighed nothing in his grip. The other tossed the gunblade back towards her, then he reset his stance into a casual but readied position; the inside arch of his right foot was lined up with the opposite heel, his shoulders were relaxed.
"Show me your worth, Farron." He wasn't smiling any longer.
Lightning, sensing a danger she couldn't even begin to fathom, snatched her own blade from the air and snapped it to the side, forgoing its gun aspect in favor of the blade that she preferred. Instinctively, her free hand curled into a fist, ready to use as a weapon just as she would use her sword, and she moved to ready herself as well.
His eyes snapped everywhere within a moment, taking in every sight he could, scanning her for weaknesses, eyeing up the room to see if there were advantages he could take hold of. Years of training had turned him into a calculated warrior, one that could use anything and everything to his advantage.
And here she was, barely even a year into her schooling, preparing to duel him at his behest.
She swallowed her nerves, narrowed her eyes, and tightened up her form. Though she knew she'd barely last ten seconds, she was still going to give this all that she had. He, of course, noted her resolve and smirked.
He smirked, and then the world shifted around him and the masamune was at her throat.
Unbelief washed over her in waves – gone was the admiration that she felt at his first appearance and instead she could do little but wonder what it was that possessed this man to make him so different. She held her breath and, against her will, their gazes met again: he was watching her closely, carefully: he was measuring her reaction with shadowed eyes and a cold, polite smile.
Something about that smile so laced with ice sent a spark into her heart, one that she hadn't felt before even though it felt so natural for it to dwell in her. Her eyes simmered and made a light all of their own and, with a snarl, she twisted her sword up in a low arc and rammed it against the lean blade of the Masamune, using all her strength to press the blade to the side.
She hadn't realized that the tip of his blade was so near to her, but she felt the impossibly sharp tip rip across the first layer of skin above her collarbone. She could feel hot liquid pooling across the span of her neck, could feel it leak downwards into her shirt and trace a path between her breasts, but she barely even registered the sensation in her brain. Her focus was entirely on the myth of a man that stood before her, the one whose eyes bore no concern when he looked at the student whose neck bled so freely.
Instead, he almost looked impressed.
A smooth movement of his arm wiped her blood from his blade onto his boot. It was then that she felt the first sting of pain: only then because her body started to become aware that the danger had passed. "Well done," he said, dipping his head slightly towards her. He righted himself and then, as suddenly as he had drawn his sword, he turned to leave.
She watched his wide shoulders grow smaller as the distance between them increased. Absently, her fingers pressed against the wound at her throat and she was surprised by the small river of blood that was seeping from it. She removed her hand and looked at bloodied fingertips blankly. "What did I do?" she asked, not sure why he had praised her a second time.
"You chose to fight, even when defeat seemed a certainty," he responded, not pausing in his steps until his body was framed by the doorway. "You swallowed your fears, picked up your sword, and tried to fight your fate. That," he continued, and though he looked over his shoulder his face was nothing but shadow, "makes us more alike than you realize." With that he made the final steps out of the door and allowed it to slam shut behind him.
She stood still for several more moments, still mindlessly dabbing at the wound that she'd given herself. Her shirt was already sticky with blood, and she knew that she needed to bandage herself up soon, but her mind kept replaying the short battle between the two. All in all it had lasted no more than thirty seconds, but she knew that it meant something, knew that it would lead to something greater, even if she didn't fully understand why she thought as much.
With a start she remembered the towel in her bag and moved to grab it to help stop the bleeding from the relatively shallow wound. The bandage was soon pressed against her neck and she used a dangling corner to wipe at the overflow that had followed gravity's path downwards. The action was thoughtless, allowing her mind to wander even while she gathered her things to return to her crammed room.
She made it to the door and did a final, glancing sweep of the practice room – the only thing that signified her presence were three small splashes of red that she'd forgotten to clean. She grunted to herself, pressed the towel tighter to her skin, and shut the door behind her.
Padded feet carried her soundlessly to her room when a sudden smirk spread across her lips.
I can't believe I crossed swords with Sephiroth.