Broken Wings - Version 4.0

Cover art by linnyxito on DeviantArt

This is a remake of a story that I first posted almost 6 years ago. Since its completion, I have been writing and rewriting. To date, it has undergone 3 full-scale revisions (hence the 4.0), with a lot of nit-picking on the side. It is still by no means perfect. It may never be. As always, constructive criticism is very much appreciated. It is very possible that it will undergo another revision soon.

When I began this project I was a sophomore in high school, with a mind full of dreams, but little knowledge of the FFVII universe. I had been introduced to the franchise a few months before, by a friend who only knew of it in connection to Kingdom Hearts. So, needless to say, my fact-base was lacking. I have since played not only the original FFVII, but several other games in the compilation. With this, it is my hope that the story has become at least closer to the canonical world. In addition, my writing voice has changed over the years. You can even see it if you compare my original post of Broken Wings with its sequel, Everglow. My purpose was to refine what I had written with my newer style, but leave enough of the voice of my younger self to be true to its original form.

Chronologically, this story takes place after Advent Children, and disregards the events of Dirge of Cerberus.

Whether you're an old reader of mine, or new to the story, welcome and enjoy!

- Flutist Girl

Chapter One: The Memorial

The night was cold, the moon was full, and the freshly fallen snow glittered like powdered diamonds. A lone pair of footprints wound its way through the skeletal trees, stopping where a young woman stood. She was in an elaborate white gown with a bodice embroidered with pearls, a flowing satin skirt, and a long veil of lace trailing behind her. Her skin was nearly as pale as the snow itself, and was marked with bruises and half-healed wounds, the more serious ones bound with strips of cloth.

She knelt down at the base of a white weeping willow, ignoring the bite of the cold, and bowed her head over her folded hands. Her hair spilled over her shoulders, made pale gold in the moonlight, veiling her face and sapphire eyes. After a hushed prayer, her fingertips reached out to stroke the monument before her. In many ways, it was a grave, though no body was buried beneath. It symbolized the same thing. There, under the shelter of that tree, he had died.

Just as she did every year, she began to timidly sing a requiem in a voice that trembled with emotion. She briefly wondered if he could hear her, or if he did, if he even cared.

She turned her gaze skyward when a lone black feather fell, brushing against her cheek before falling to the ground. "No," she whispered. "You're dead. Leave me."

He didn't respond, but she knew he was there. She could feel his eyes burning into her. Maybe his sword was drawn; perhaps he was now ready to end her life at last. "Just go," she pleaded, turning her eyes back to the frozen earth.

After an eternity's hesitation, she heard the flapping of a solitary wing, a sound that gradually faded over an insurmountable distance. She sighed heavily as he left her in her solitude, beginning to rock back and forth as she resumed her song with renewed reverence.

This was the anniversary. This was the only time she allowed herself to think of him.

She had long since stopped shivering, and she knew she should leave lest she be taken by the cold, but she found that she couldn't move. There was no pain; even the numbing cold had lost its sting. She could not feel the once cold trail of her half-frozen tears on her cheeks. The cold took not only her physical sensation, but a great deal of her consciousness. She felt as if in a dream, drifting, aimless.

She heard the clashing of swords in the distance, creating a rhythm that only the warriors could follow. Voices flew on the wind to where she sat, increasing in volume and intensity with the heightening tempo of the battle and the decreasing distance.

Soon they were close enough for her to see their silhouettes. She saw swords spark as they danced, quick as lightning, in the moonlight. She watched the men with all her energy. Her heart was in her throat; she could hear its roar in her ears.

For a moment, as if he had felt her gaze, the taller combatant paused, and glanced her way.

"Stop," she whispered. "Please….no more…."

The taller man's opponent noticed the lapse in his enemy's attention, and tried to take advantage of it. It did not matter; the assault was blocked effortlessly. No matter what he tried, the smaller man could not gain a hand over the first.

She belatedly realized that the tides were turning, whether because she was too tired to see it immediately or because the shift in tactics had been that subtle and seamless, she could not tell. Either way, the taller man was undeniably pushing the other back. The second did not seem to realize that he was losing ground and being intentionally pushed in a very specific direction: towards her.

When the two men were at the fringe of the clearing where she rested, the taller man hit his opponent squarely in the chest, sending him flying. The smaller man landed just short of the willow tree where she rested, but quickly recovered, and made as if to charge again. In the shadows, however, the shorter man's foe spread a single wing to its full length, and then was gone.

After his concentration had been removed from the skirmish, the smaller man turned to her, somewhat startled by her presence. He had spiked blonde hair, his eyes were an icy blue, and he was dressed in black with a massive sword still grasped in his hand. "What are you doing here?" he asked.

She simply gazed at the place where the winged man had disappeared with blank, emotionless eyes.

"Are you all right?" he asked again.

"No," she breathed, her voice weak airy. "No, I don't think I am."

The man recoiled as he spotted the wounds on her arms, "Did Sephiroth do this to you?"

She could give no answer but a shudder.

"Can you stand?" he asked, extending his hands down to her in an offer of support.

Only then did she turn to look at him. She held his forearms tentatively and began to stand, but found that she could not. He helped ease her back to the ground before she could fall.

"Let me carry you, then. I'll get you somewhere safe."

The woman hesitated, but nodded her head once in consent. He picked her up, and winced as he felt how cold she was. He looked around for something to wrap her in, but found nothing. He gripped her frozen fingers, warming them in his hands as he ran.

"I'm Cloud," he said.

"I know," she whispered. "He told me about you."

Cloud decided not to ask who "he" was. "What's your name?"

She hesitated, and for a while he thought that she had fallen unconscious.

"He called me Aralyn," she said softly.

She soon slipped into sleep, and Cloud picked up his pace, afraid that she would fall prey to the winter's cold. Her breathing was halting and shallow, and her lips were touched with blue. As her hand went limp, a single black feather slipped from her grip, and Cloud scowled, thinking only for a moment that, perhaps, he knew just who "he" was.

He brushed the thought aside.

It simply was not possible.