A serene mist gathered between the headstones in the period just before dawn. A grave dug the night before in preparation of the advancing frost lay open, waiting for an occupant to be given into its earthen grasp.
Vincent Valentine hated seeing these things become more and more frequent. Especially for…
Her.
Being immortal for all intents and purposes had its downsides. Yes, he was aging now. Yes, he would die eventually. However, he still was moving far slower than any of his friends. Far, far slower. Twenty years had passed since he had regained most of his humanity; some vestiges of the demons and the experiments still lasted. Life as it stood was a luxury all the same to Vincent. There was some semblance of normalcy, of life before Hojo.
He supposed that the easiest adjustment had been for Red XIII…rather, Nanaki. Having found himself a mate, he was set to work at revitalizing his homeland and seeking out more of his kind. He was not content to have his life and leave his children lonely. So he worked tirelessly for conservation. Nanaki was still the seeker of the group. His mind begged for answers that were not always easily given, but the challenge egged him on. His days as Hojo's test subject were short, and while giving him the loss of an eye and a tattoo, the young creature took comfort in the fact that the horrible circumstances within themselves were temporary; nothing lasted forever, except for the Planet, and even that was shaky at times. Vincent had a feeling that Nanaki would not retire from his work on this planet until he himself was ready to return to it.
Retired….Reeve had set himself out to pasture, both himself and Cait Sith. Cait had been relegated to a child's comfort toy many years ago. To think that perhaps that baby would never know that his stuffed cat once saved the Planet. Oh, his father would tell him he helped, a bit, but no, never the full story. Reeve's position as a double agent was awkward to explain to the press, let alone his own children.
Awkward…something that once described the grand Empress of Wutai. Vincent knew her at sixteen, a girl riding the edge of becoming a ruler all too soon. He later found out that she kept travelling so as to avoid seeing her father – the father that intended to abdicate when he saw his daughter again. Her efforts lasted from the age of 16 to the age of 22. The only thing that could explain her sudden change of heart was a regal biological clock – it was "time." Yuffie was no longer was addressed that name by anyone except AVALANCHE. Her full name was on currency: Yulenia Fimora, her nickname derived from an amalgamation of the first syllables of her two names.
Nicknames….Spike, Chocobo Head, Blondy, Foo'….Dumbass (or perhaps that was simply his own personal, mental callname for him). Cloud Strife had garnered quite a few in his journeying. He had travelled much further than many of his former compatriots. Until the Geostigma, Vincent thought that the man would become just another lost boy, another person disconnected from most of humanity. He knew how that kind of thing went. But suddenly, redemption appeared in the form of children. Many of them. So many of them that could have gone down his very scary path – they could have become puppets and part of a mindless army. That was what Cloud needed to snap himself out of it. He needed an immediate, widespread legacy – by no means was he ready to be a biological father yet, but he found himself pushed into that "head of the house" position. He did finally become a father, however, seven years after everything had been settled.
Thankfully, the child and all the ones that came after him took after their mother. Tifa had been a mother since she was 18 and had met Barret with his lonely little girl in tow. Her job expanded to fussing over the entire squad, even himself. There was a saying about how someone could have a face that only a mother could love. That was the only thing that Vincent could use to rationalize how Tifa managed to love all of them – these misfits, rejects, and pains-in-the-ass. Tifa was radiant when she did become a mother with the man she loved. It was a long hard road, but the martial artist hadn't wavered once in her convictions. She had won the day over the dead woman in pink, the consolation prize for the runner up being the fact that Tifa's first daughter bore Aerith's name. That, and being reunited with Zack… he had to search for that name. Nobody had spoken of him or her for many years – there was no need with the pink ribbons.
The pink ribbon thing had been surprising the idea of the man who had known Aerith for probably the shortest period of time. Cid Highwind was rumoured to have a soft heart – sort of like how The Swamp had the Midgar Zolom. After its first appearance after the flower girl died, it started making more and more periodic appearances. One case was the pink ribbon. After they'd staggered out of the ruins of the Highwind and were transported out back to Midgar to help with the evacuation, Cid had disappeared for a period of several hours. Tifa had been worried that he was shell-shocked from the final battle and the loss of his airship. The man had waddled back after sundown, eyes somewhat suspiciously red, an excess of pink ribbons in tow. "We used to do this in the Air Force, when some guy bit the big one. Ribbon with his call colour and number." Cid seemed oddly reverently for a second….then he reverted to his normal self. He thrust the box at Cloud. "Put it the fuck on and I don't wanna hear shit about it. That goes for you, too, Vampy. Not my fault it clashes with that shitty cape."
His cape. He still kept it. Still wore it, even. Coming on 50 years, and he was still wearing it. Too many memories to just toss it. And it was no longer the burden of his nightmares that compelled him to keep it. It was everything that came after he awoke that made him keep it – the progress and the ultimately "good life," he tentatively called it. He didn't wear it today though. Red was a colour of celebration and life. This was hardly the occasion.
No, today he dressed in his blacks. The only colour he wore was his golden gauntlet…and it was no longer for his insecurities regarding the hand beneath. Scarred and maimed, it was fully functional, just not pretty to look at. However, he was quite happy to report that arthritis had set in upon it. He now used that gauntlet as a brace for it. It was the first sign of aging he had had, and he wore it proudly.
The ground crackled beneath him as he walked across the frosted grass. It was the first big chill of the year. He'd shined his shoes to Turk-standard – he could see his reflection in them. He wore the clothes that his friends knew him best in: the black double-breasted Russian tunic, and the trousers, tucked into his boots. He'd left off the matching armour; it simply wasn't called for here. Over this he wore a military winter trench coat. He'd found it in a vintage shop…and his mind went so many years back to when it was winter in Nibelheim…he'd taken Lucrecia skating for the first time. City girl that she was, she'd hardly ever seen a lake before, let alone skate on it. He'd immediately bought it, partially out of nostalgia, partially out of simple necessity for something other than the cape. He still kept his hair long, simply for fact that it displayed his second sign of aging: his first silver streaks. It would hardly be noticeable if he had lopped it as short as it had been as a Turk, and once again, he took pride in this.
Now he stood before the door. The sign to the right of the door read simply "Funeral Home." No nice names to soften the blow, such as "Eternal Rest" or "Green Pastures." He stared at it thoughtfully before rapping his knuckles on the door. A sombre, tight lipped woman answered the door. "I'm here for the dawn burial –"
"You're almost late. Hurry in and take a seat at the back." Vincent quietly stepped past the woman and went through the only door opened to him.
The chapel service was slowly coming to an end. He'd never been a huge fan of church. Somehow, he didn't see why he was supposed to pay his respects to a god that allowed (former) monstrosities such as himself to exist, nor why such men as Hojo were created. He quietly crept forward until he was at the sixth pew back. No one seemed to notice him. Nobody ever complained when he was late – they knew he would come when needed. And that time was drawing near.
There was Tifa, Cloud and their brood; Cid, Shera, and their son (too much like daddy); Reeve and one of his sons; Yuffie and her bodyguards; some of the local townspeople; Red and his mate, and lastly…..
Her.
It had been many, many years since he had last seen her. Her surrogate father, yes; the man travelled far and wide to ensure that what happened to his hometown would not be repeated. He was always ambitious, but he'd kept his private life private for her sake. He'd never invited any of the AVALANCHE to his home; if she chose to travel with him, she would see people. If people were passing through, they would call him on a spur-of-the-moment basis. He never wanted her to be bothered by the media – "What was it like growing up with terrorists? Saviours? The mentally disturbed?" Having AVALANCHE plan to see the two of them in advance would stir up the local press, and that simply would not do. Vincent allowed himself to be sought and called upon, but he never did anything casually or unplanned. Ergo, it had been many, many years since he'd last seen her.
However, his thought process was interrupted as the organ at the back of the chapel began to play a recessional hymn. Ah, he had to wait until the third verse before he could move into position, but he shifted toward the edge of the aisle. He looked over at Cid, who managed to make eye contact with him. "How you been?" he mouthed. Vincent nodded back at him and raised his chin at Cid's boy. Vincent put his arm out about the height of his hips and then raised it to his midchest. Cid nodded; the boy had grown a lot. Cid waved his hand over his head a bit; he anticipated the boy would be taller than he was.
Just then Shera looked up from her hymnal, and Cid hastily lowered his hand to his hair, smoothing it. She smiled, pleased at her husband's appearance. Vincent took note that this was probably the third time he'd seen Cid clean-shaven. The first had been on his and Shera's wedding day. The second was for the birth of his son. "Bad enough my kid already has a rash on his ass; last thing he needs is bristleburn, poor little shit factory."
Vincent smirked at Cid's hasty reformation. He tilted his head at Shera and pulled at the spare fabric on his pants; she's still in charge, after all these years. And then Vincent, just to be an ass, did a mock curtsy directed at Cid. To anyone else, it looked like he was bending slightly to replace his hymnal, but Cid knew better. His eyes darkened, and without thinking, he flipped Vincent the bird in the middle of church. Shera's radar went off like clockwork, and she elbowed him harshly in his paunchy middle, daggers of doom directed at her husband. Little Cid, the son, started giggling – Daddy was in trouble again.
Vincent 1, Cid 0, for the day. Lifetime record: Vincent 1,246, Cid 759.
The third verse started up, and the two men went forward. At the back of the coffin were Yuffie's two body guards. Then came himself and Cid, and then at the head of the coffin was Cloud and Reeve. Six pallbearers for their friend. As he reached his position and turned to face the congregation, he suddenly realized that this would be the last time he'd actually touch the man. Though it would be through a polished casket, it still was his friend.
Vincent reached with his human hand to rest on the dark brown lid. Funny how his nerves were tingling at this touch despite the fact he lived in one of these things for thirty years. Guess it's different when it's someone else's. His thin fingers glided up and down the glossy surface.
"In Pace Requiescat," he let his voice sound.
Sleep well, Barret Wallace.
Cloud's voice counted off as the six men stooped in unison to heft up the coffin. On three, they stood, the pairs of men braced against each other so as to bear the load. Inner hands on the inner shoulder on the man across from you. He could hear Cid sniffing from the other side of the coffin, and he felt the man's iron grip on arm. He couldn't imagine that she was doing any better. He couldn't see her with the coffin in his way as well as the fact that she had moved behind the casket to walk to the gravesite.
They exited the chapel, the dawn light making the ground shine like silver. The bitter cold assailed his face immediately, and for a moment, he wished he had the cloak's high collar to hide behind. Not today, though.
The six men, led by the preacher and likely followed by her, made their way toward the hole in the ground Vincent had passed on the way in. This is where Barret, hero, father, activist, leader, and friend, was to be buried, where he was to be returned to the planet and the Lifestream. The headstone was already there, bearing the name of his late wife, Myrna. It had been a long time since anyone had been to Corel. Barret himself had not been there since their grand journey, and Vincent felt some irony in knowing that the ground from whence Barret had come from was the ground to which he returned.
The rest of the affair passed quickly. At the very end, the children one by one tossed a flower into the grave on top of the casket. Vincent didn't like that part. Many of them looked like they'd been cowed into it by their well-intending mothers…or they just didn't understand what all of this meant. Vincent was of the old mentality that children had no place at funerals or weddings unless they were the children of the principles or directly involved themselves.
The last of them was Barret's own adopted child, though she no longer was a child by any stretch of the imagination. To this, therefore, Vincent made the exception to his rule.
Marlene had come a long way from the child that hid under his cape and asked many questions about his claw hand. She'd grown tall and wispy, a far cry from the pudgy little ball of energy that ripped through the Seventh Heaven. She'd grown out her bangs and kept her hair to shoulder length. While he had not seen her in many years, they had corresponded periodically. He knew that she'd gone to school for both art and culinary studies – not surprising.
Rather than the black everyone else wore, she was in lavender. A very simple column dress with its matching shawl. She seemed serene and reserved, somewhat surprisingly so. There was no evidence of tears. He and everyone else watched as she knelt to place her small bundle of winter blooms on the coffin. Marlene's lips gently pursed d as she raised her finger tips to them, bowed those same fingers forward, and then gently blew. "Goodbye, Daddy," he heard her thin voice say as she carefully rose to her full height again.
Yes, he decided. This was the same girl he knew from all those years ago – a breath of fresh air in an otherwise stagnant, uncomfortable place. Not to knock Tifa's bar, but at times, the climate between Cloud and everyone else in the room was unbearable.
And then it was over. The gravediggers stood by as the group broke up and started back toward the funeral home for the reception. Then, once all the children's backs were turned, they hastily shovelled dirt over the box and the flowers (they apparently shared Vincent's opinion; amused, Vincent noted that these men were indeterminately yet extremely old, much like himself). Vincent turned to watch the rest of his friends herd their broods back inside. He could hear Tifa asking her eldest boy to fish a tissue out of her purse so as to take care of the youngest girl's runny nose. He heard Little Cid squawk as his mother whacked his bottom with a purse; though his hearing was no longer as acute as it had been when he had the full use of his demons, Vincent believed he had heard the youngster pass comment upon his "monkey suit."
Cloud hung back a bit, looking on the grave at a distance, looking uncertain. Once again, Cloud seemed to be torn between staying with the living and the dead. He chewed his lip slightly, staring off into the horizon, past the grave, in deep thought. Vincent was about to move toward Cloud to usher the man back to where he should have been….
…but the spell was broken at the sound of a child's shriek. The youngest boy had taken a tumble and was now caterwauling at the top of his lungs. Cloud's head had whirled around toward to where his son had fallen and had darted without a second thought to his side. Vincent put his bets on scraped knees and a dire need of a hug. Cloud was kneeling on the ground and then swept the boy into his arms. Tifa had stopped her flock to wait for the last of her sheep to rejoin them. Now Cloud and Tifa mirrored each other, each carrying one of their younger children. Vincent could see from this distance that Cloud had bent his head in close to his wife's either to whisper that the child was alright or to give her a kiss. Good for him, either way.
"Vincent."
It took him a moment to register the voice and to recognize it, but he knew who it was by the time he turned around. "Hello, Marlene."
