Crestfallen, a final fantasy vii fanfic

Crestfallen

Rachel "D" Winslow

Lyrics/Sounds to read by: 'Crestfallen', by Smashing Pumpkins

Shock, he supposed, was the best way to describe the feeling. Not so much shock at her reaction, but shock at himself. It wasn't until he had reached the point of no return that he realized his lack of expectation, and yet he was still left with an unsettled feeling of disappointment.

What, exactly, had he wanted from her? Surely, he should have known that she wasn't going to be able to offer him anything. Surely, he couldn't have expected that she run into his arms, in awe of his presence. Of course not. Who was he to feel that he was doing her a favor by simply being there?

No words he could have spoken had any power to change what was past. He felt an empty swell of despair as he stood before her, an odd notion in his mind that said, 'I'm here...what now?' There was nothing left to do but let each of them stare their mistakes directly in the face, and he was filled with a sense of loathing and pity for both himself, and for her.

He could perhaps, find solace in the comfort of a lie; they could carry on in conversation like no evil had ever befallen them. Yet the only things to be mentioned were their mistakes themselves, and the impending doom they had wrought together. He could easily regress to a self-pitying state in the face of the obvious tragedy, and he would gladly take it over denial, which would only be so much harder.

He'd warned her, years ago, of the grievous consequences that would no doubt follow her actions. His mere presence, combined with his ghastly, wraith-like appearance, was only a belated reminder to her of that very thing, a belated, 'I told you so'. Though it was in no way his intention to bring her to guilt, it became apparent to him that he had when she refused to let him near.

He realized then, that his presence was anything but a comfort to her.

She must have reasoned that his motivation for coming to her would be to have his words with her, words he never was able to have all those years ago. But no words ever came. He had been frozen in thought, all of him falling at that one moment, realizing that he had lost his reasons.

He hadn't come to tell her of things she already knew; she could see the blazing rock as it fell in slow motion from the heavens as well as any other. He hadn't come to seek forgiveness; even if he had, it wasn't hers to give. She'd made her decision, and he was only sorry that he hadn't had the control enough to stop her. But control over her was never his to have.

He hadn't come to point the finger, and he hadn't come to ask her for anything.

Closure is a funny thing; many desire it, but they cannot define it. They only know what they believe will make them feel better; it never is the same thing, and it never comes from anyone else. It is different for every person, and it is only whatever will help them to come to terms on their own.

All she could do for him was be there, the same way he remembered her from years ago. She'd warned him too, of what would happen if he didn't let her go. She'd known the doctor was full of madness, and it was obvious to him that she didn't pity him now, as she didn't pity him then. And yet her face spoke of regret.

When he thought about it, he didn't really want her pity. He didn't feel he deserved pity; not because of what he had failed to do, but because of who he was long before that. He had been a monster, though he longed for a single human feeling to reach out to him more than anything, he knew it shouldn't come from someone who had known him so well. He'd tried to atone for his many sins a long time ago, by reaching out to her in her time of need; because he failed, because he'd picked an unwilling savior, and tried to work through her, was no reason making him worthy of her pity.

After all, she had stood by while he'd paid dearly for the mistake he'd made in her. He couldn't blame her for it; there wasn't anything in her power that she could do then. But he'd felt resentment in that moment. No, he hadn't given her much of himself; it was one moment in debt to a lifetime of sins. And yet she hadn't even seemed understanding; he was still the monster he had always been in her eyes.

So if he didn't think he was attempting something so noble, then why did he pity himself for not succeeding? As his mind led him around in circles, he began to realize something about himself. Perhaps he didn't pity his efforts so much as he pitied his human condition. He'd learned his lesson the hard way; he'd tried to save himself through saving her, and he'd failed. Why should he berate himself for not being able to accomplish the impossible? Why should a monster be given the role of tragic hero?

He'd inflicted enough pain on himself that he'd set himself up for more; the thing that hurt the most was when he realized that he was a sham. He'd not been punishing himself for being a monster; he'd been punishing himself for failing to not be one. He'd been punishing himself for good intentions. Moreover, he'd failed because those intentions were far too little, far too late. And he'd been selfish in pitying himself for his feeble attempts.

If he must continue to punish himself, he decided then that it should be because he was a monster. Either that, or he could simply give into the fact that he had always been one, and return to living his life that way. But this tragedy was no longer on his shoulders.

Besides, he didn't have to be a monster anymore if he didn't want to. He had found another way to atone for his sins.

As he left the cave, the rushing water fell in heavy curtains behind him, and he remarked inwardly that he'd never heard the sound ring so hollow. He was aware of the presence of the wind, but he barely felt it against his skin. Rather than let it strip him of his uncleanliness, he would hold on to it for one last battle. Then he could let it all go, and he could enter into a new life with a clear conscience. Until then, he would keep his reasons; it was his way of tying his past to the absolution he sought after.

The bed he would later trudge to aboard the airship would afford him no comfort that night. The nightmares would be different, but they would still come. He had a new fear, one that he would fail again, over and over. Were his intentions as important as the fact that he'd been a failure his entire life? He'd wasted so many years...

Sunrise would bestow new gifts upon him; gifts left by his toxic obsession, small trinkets left in icy halls so empty, it only seemed fitting that he be the one to shoulder their burdens.

End