A/N: My turn at the helm of the good ship Cloud-Is-Immortal-And-Sephiroth-Is-Bored, in the form of five conversation-centric, ever-lengthening quasi-drabbles. Because apparently, weird introspective archnemesis bonding time is what I do best. Mild Sefikura undertones, as I have discovered it is impossible to write an in-character post-Crisis Sephiroth who isn't at least making the odd surreptitious and creepy pass in Cloud's direction, bless.


"Stay where you belong—in my memories.

"I will…never…be a memory."

It didn't take much thought to figure out what Sephiroth meant by that. He'd already come back to life twice before, and those words marked his third death at Cloud's hands. It wasn't exactly a surprise when he came back for round four…or five…or six…

'I will never be a memory,' he'd said aloud. But the words that echoed in Cloud's mind, his mental defenses weakened by their battle, were different, and far more worrying:

I am so much more than that…

And he proves it. Over, and over, and over again. Cloud sometimes wonders if he means to go on proving it forever.

He doesn't dare ask.


[ν] εγλ – 0052

They get to talking, after a while. 'A while', actually, is several decades. Mostly, they talk while Sephiroth lies dying, and over the years Cloud gets better and better at incapacitating him, because as the years go by they turn into decades and Cloud knows he will soon be all but alone.

Sephiroth is not kind, Cloud knows, not by nature or by deed, but that he fails to mention this shift in behaviour is a kindness in itself. In any case, Cloud is grateful for it. To say Sephiroth has mellowed with time would be a lie, but in those fleeting moments when Cloud has won but Sephiroth has yet to die, he seems more companion than enemy.

"How long has it been?"

Just as Sephiroth pretends not to notice Cloud's lapses, Cloud pretends he doesn't see the blood on the would-be god's lips as he speaks. It takes a little more effort to ignore the torn, shattered ruin of his legs, the bleeding stump of his sword hand, the crumpled mass of blood, bone, and feathers which was once a wing. Cloud thinks next time, he won't make so much of a mess if he can avoid it.

"Six years," Cloud replies, sounding indifferent. He holds his sword in front of him, point pressed against the ground, and every so often he finds himself absent-mindedly twirling the hilt between his fingers. Crouching on a rock like this isn't exactly comfortable, but he supposes that of the two of them, he's probably better off.

"Six years," Sephiroth echoes thoughtfully, staring up past Cloud towards the sky.

Cloud looks away as well, eyes roving over their battlefield. Decades of clean rain have finally begun to heal the cracked, ruined ground of the Midgar Wastes, little thickets of tough grass and hardy weeds springing up in the sheltered, recessed crags where the water gathers, but if there was anything trying to grow in this place, it has been thoroughly annihilated in the last few hours. He imagines Sephiroth would be amused by that, if he deigned to notice such an unimportant detail. But Sephiroth is still watching the sky.

"What're you looking for, up there?" Cloud asks finally, looking over his shoulder in an attempt to see as Sephiroth sees.

A weak chuckle is his only answer for a long moment. Then: "Impact."

"What?" He returns his gaze to Sephiroth.

"Impact," Sephiroth repeats, meeting Cloud's eyes once again. "A difference, a change, a sign, some indication that the Planet even notices anything I've done."

Cloud snorts. "The Weapons weren't enough impact for you?"

"Once, the mere threat of my resurrection was enough to make the earth scream and the skies weep. The Weapons awoke in force because the Planet couldn't imagine a single greater threat to Its survival than the one I posed. Now It is content to suffer my presence." Oddly enough, Sephiroth smiles, blinking slowly up at Cloud. "I hear only whispers, but it seems the Planet considers me to be your purpose in life. As far as It is concerned, you exist only to protect It from me. And with the responsibility in your hands, It is free to act as though I do not even exist. How pitiful…"

Cloud thinks vaguely that Sephiroth was probably hoping for more of a reaction than what he got: a shrug. "Planet's got a funny way of lookin' at things."

Their conversation subsides again, the only sounds between them the occasional ting of the Fusion Swords bouncing off of rock and Sephiroth's breathing, which is growing increasingly laboured. He's bleeding out quite slowly, Cloud notes absently, healing almost as fast as he's dying, but only almost; he must be in a great deal of pain.

When next Sephiroth speaks, Cloud can barely hear him; his voice is weak. "Will you miss me?"

"No," Cloud says. Sephiroth has taken to asking this question lately. Cloud's answer never changes, nor does his conviction ever waver.

Sephiroth smiles faintly, eyes slipping closed. "Ah well…" he breathes, and more than he sees or hears Cloud feels that this breath is his last as the terrible bond between them goes quiet. Sephiroth's heart falters, then stops; his dimming consciousness flares just once more and goes dark.

Cloud stays a little longer, watching with a kind of morbid fascination as the broken, empty thing that used to be Sephiroth disintegrates into a light that isn't quite the Lifestream colour he knows so well—the green a little too bright, too harsh, the glow edged with a sickly blackness. Then he stands, sheathing his sword, and walks away from the battlefield.

Not once does he glance back.