King Sephiroth stands in the archway to the foyer of the orphanage as he watches his beloved wife sit in the corner rocking chair and read to the children gathered at her feet. Some of them cling to the skirts of her ruby red dress as it flows out from the chair and down around the floor. Rather than participate, the king is contempt with simply standing aside and watching his wife. A guard is posted in each corner of the room, two outside by the doorway.
How she seemed to light up whenever she saw children. He would see that recognizable spark in her eyes which he feared she had lost since her third miscarriage. They had planted their third magnolia tree out in the royal garden, set with the other two who have already halfway grown, their flowers a delicate pink the fades out to white to the tip of the petals. They would've had two boys and one girl.
He'll never forget the day. Any of those days. Especially when he found his wife in the bathing chamber, blood staining the skirt of her nightgown and dribbling down her legs. She had locked the door, and in turn Sephiroth had bashed the door in; the hinges still not fixed to this day. He had found his wife in a small puddle of her blood, throwing soap containers and towels at him, yelling at him to leave. "Why is there so much blood?" she had asked through her state of hysteria. And all Sephiroth could do was let the servants pull him out of the bathroom, clean her up, and tuck her into their bed.
She now has one child on her lap, the others stare at her in awe as her long silver-green hair flows past her shoulders and spilling into her lap. Her pointed ears flick every few minutes and her exquisite features of her Elven heritage make her the prize of any man. How he had found such a beautiful woman is beyond him.
The star-shaped Thalassa shell charm around her neck glitter as the little girl on her lap take the charm in her tiny hand. Sephiroth tenses as he worries that the child could accidentally snap the chain, but his wife is already there taking the child's hand off and smiling calmly; like she knows what to do already.
King Sephiroth's heart simply hurts whenever he sees his wife interacting with children, simply because they both fear, or rather know already that they can't have one of their own yet. Ever since the second miscarriage, his beloved queen had suggested they adopt, they were plenty of children who would made a perfect heir, but the royal courts disagree, and argue that the heir must be of noble birth; this including nieces, nephews. They don't want the offspring of some bastard or bitch ruling the kingdom, disgraceful it would be. The king nearly shattered the oakwood table they were sitting at in the council room, if it weren't for his wife stopping his magic from devouring the room.
The homes they could give to the children. The hopes they can bring to many of those who suffer from hard times. Their kingdom might not be perfect, but it's clean, the guards provide safety and the citizens are loved as are the royal family loved by their citizens.
Now it would seem that the orphanage is her second home from the castle. Of course, the villagers were more than happy – jubilant, even – that the King and Queen of Ivalice themselves were taking the time to visit their little home nearly every day. Usually it was the Queen on her own, as Sephiroth had his duties to attend to; not that he minded much. Whatever his wife needed to cope and to heal, he will allow it.
Unfortunately, his presence at the castle is much more demanding than hers. King Sephiroth unfolds his arms and approaches the small group as his queen starts to read a story about a lion cub and how he befriends a meerkat and warthog. The children all stiffen as the queen looks up from the book – a colorful fairytale book – and smiles.
The King leans in and kisses his beloved's eyebrow. "I shall see you soon, my darling." He whispers.
"As to you, my pet." She replies.
The King nods to the group of children as he walks out of the door. He gives his regards to the caretakers as several of his guards stand straighter as he walks down the aisle they create. King Sephiroth gets into the gold and white carriage and lets the driver take him back to the palace.
Even with hours of scribbling papers and attending council meetings – of which he hears the same concern of Assassin Guild's traveling from city to city, fearing they'll come for the continent of Ivalice, King Sephiroth can only think and worry about his future and the future of the continent.
For the past ten years, ever since the slaughter of the Elven kind back in Kingdom Hearts, concern for the heir of the kingdom of Ivalice has always been the topic of discussion. Their attempts have resulted in heartbreak, they can't adopt according to the council, and even the siblings – of both the king and queen alike – have children already, but only to rule their kingdoms of the continent. They have attempted all over, from the coastlines of Romanda, to the neighboring kingdom of Ordallia, then further east to Galtea, south to Kerwon, and even to the mothering kingdom Valendia. Each rulers sends their condolences and regards, but they can't send their own children.
What's even more disconcerting is having that of a child that is of Elven heritage. Since the slaughter in Kingdom Hearts, most of the Elves and fairies and Fae denizens in general fled to Ivalice for sanctuary. And though the continent is fairly divided in the population of mortals and Fae, the mortals still fear the Elven inhabitants simply due to the basic knowledge of higher skill, senses and power of magic. With the kingdom so easily divided, to have a child of Elven and mortal heritage is a rarity, especially of two Elven parents.
King Sephiroth thinks back to the chaos; the smell of the fires that raged through his twelve and thirteen years; the smoke of burning books chock-full of ancient, irreplaceable knowledge, the screams of gifted seers and healers as they'd been consumed by the flames, the storefronts and sacred places shattered and desecrated and erased from history. Many of the magic-users who hadn't been burned wound up prisoners in death camps – and most didn't survive long there.
After he signs the last contract, the King dismisses himself back to his chambers, where he finds his beloved in bed and snuggled into the sheets. Over on her end table he finds arts and crafts of crayon drawings, and small origamis made from the children of the orphanage. Placing a delicate kiss on her forehead, Sephiroth saunters towards his study where he shuts the door.
There is something else that catches his attention and King Sephiroth has thought about since it had happened at least a week ago. There was a cry, a plea of some kind. He could sense the trouble on the wind, and then he felt a wave of heat wash over him. He was in the council room when is happened.
His advisor was speaking of a problematic pest situation in the middle district, and as the King was about to suggest his solution, a hot flash came over him; so much that he felt his forehead moistening with sweat. He quickly excused himself and disappeared into an empty hallway where he placed his hands flat against the wall and breathed.
The cool breeze he crafted breathed onto his forehead, he heard the crackling of ice under his palm and conducted them up his arms and enveloping his heated body. The ice of his powers cracked all the way through his body, and relief flooded Sephiroth as he shivered from the chill. And then he imagined the source of the heat. His thoughts transported him to a land far from Ivalice. He could sense the heat of the fire, and the fear of its conductor.
Just a day prior to that, there was a strange ripple in the kingdom that nearly everyone had felt.
King Sephiroth and his Queen were strolling through the marketplace of the wealthy, and while he was waiting outside for his wife to finish her shopping in the show shop, he looked up to the sky, straying from his conversation with a florist, and saw the sky had grey clouds in the distance.
And then, just from a small breeze and a kiss from the heat of the covered sun, the King began the cry. Tears streamed down his cheeks, and his ears perked as he could've sworn he heard a delicate voice singing to hi, to his kingdom. A song of loss, of mourning and of agony. Soon, the King opened his lips and began to sing too. Then the florist, then bystanders, and then the whole kingdom was singing in mourning.
Sephiroth shakes his head. He takes a book from the expansive collection he has in his study and takes a seat in the corner by the floor-to-ceiling window. It only takes the few turning of pages before he falls asleep in the plush armchair.
Sephiroth dreams. He's walking through an open hallway of his castle garden, the sky is overcast and a thin fog dwindles through the shrubs. He looks all around, the whispers of his black cloak the only other sounds other than his footsteps. He walks through the castle like he always did, but he seems to feel on edge. His Elven ears point erect as he catches the sound of the slightest movement. But admittedly even that was hard to locate as the perpetrator's feet were incredibly nimble.
And then the Elven King looks ahead, and he sees the shadow. The shadow darts down the hallway and into the stone tunnel-way deep into the castle. The king immediately bolts after the figure, his fangs baring in hatred and his feet nimble like a stag out on the plains. This idiot can't possibly think to outrun an Elven King.
Sephiroth sprints after the figure, but is disturbed to find himself having a difficult time keeping up with the figure. The tunnel seems endless as he continually chases after the figure. He doesn't bother to say anything, simply keeping his mind focused on catching the intruder. He sees a black cloak flowing behind the figure, a cowl and hood hiding his head and a mask covering his face. Sephiroth growls.
Is this what a Guild member looks like? While Sephiroth's knowledge was limited on the Guilds in Kingdom Hearts and their high influence, he knows of the different levels of the Guilds. And the most powerful Guild . . .
Sephiroth increases his speed and gain up on the figure. He begins to hear the ragged breathing of the figure as he glimpses over his shoulder and gasps, close to screaming. While it is highly cynical of him, Sephiroth sometimes enjoyed the fear and intimidation the Elves sometimes produce off to the mortals. But this . . . this, boy . . .? He is of a young age, his height that of a late adolescent. This young man keeps well away, his feet as fast as Sephiroth's. He can't possibly be totally human, and while half-elves aren't rare . . . this boy . . .
The King increase his speed and manages to gain up to the young man, but he catches the small flash of the boy's eyes and –
Sephiroth reaches out his hand as he is close enough to feel the whip of the boy's cloak. He reaches out his hand and grabs the boy's shoulder.
He turns the boy to him and –
The King awakens, jolting up from his desk. His shaking hand scatters papers, flurrying them around his desk. He breathes heavy and evenly, his heart racing. He holds his hand over his heart and simply stares at the papers. Quickly, he gets to his feet and cracks open the doors the separate his study from the rest of his chambers. His wife is still soundly asleep in bed; her silver blonde hair glinting in the moonlight.
Sephiroth closes the doors and bends down to pick up the papers. A loose page has fallen from a book, and he is too tired to organize it. He picks up the paper, setting it top the small pile he taps into place.
But he notices a poem scribbled at the top of a family tree, as though some student had dashed it down as a reminder while studying. Or perhaps words of a song, but the first word was smudged out, perhaps an accident of the writer's palm.
. . . Eyes
The fairest eyes, from legend old
Of brightest blue, ringed with gold.
Bright blue eyes, ringed with gold. He thinks nothing of it, looking up into a mirror set on the wall and sees the turquoise of his eyes. But then, for a moment, he doesn't see himself, but someone else . . .
A strangled cry comes out of him. The memory hits him like a brick to the face.
That figure . . . that boy . . .
Roxas sprints through the darkness of a secret passageway, his breathing ragged. He glances over his shoulder to find his mother grinning at him, her eyes like burning coals.
No matter how fast he runs, her stalking gait easily keeps her just behind Roxas. After her flows a wake of glowing green arcane marks, their strange shapes and symbols illuminating the ancient blocks of stone. And behind Tifa, its long nails scraping against the ground, lumbers a Heartless.
Roxas stumbles, but remains upright. Each step feels like he is wading through mud. He can't escape her. She will catch him eventually. And once the heartless gets hold of him . . . Roxas doesn't dare glace again at those too-big teeth that jut out its mouth or those fathomless eyes, gleaming with the desire to devour him bit by bit.
There's a chuckle, the sound grating on the stone walls. It's not Tifa. It's male, it's deep, and it is close now. Close enough that his fingers rake against the nape of Roxas' neck. He whispers his name, his true name, and Roxas screams as he –
Roxas awakens with a gasp, clutching the hilt of Oblivion pressed to his chest. Roxas scans the room for denser shadows, for glowing eyes, for signs that his mother or creature were not in the room. There is only the flickering of the lantern's light on the wall.
Roxas sinks back into his pillows. It was just a nightmare. Tifa and the Faceless are gone, and no weird male creature is bothering him. It is over.
Artemis, sleeping under the many layers of blankets, puts her head on Roxas' stomach. Roxas nestles down farther, wrapping his arms around the dog as he closes his eyes.
It is over.
