Redemption

. o .

...then he rose, brilliant as the moon in full, and sank in the burrows of my keep
and all my armor falling down, in a pile at my feet
and my winter giving way to warm, as I'm singing him to sleep...

. o .

This has been going on for too long now… it's been almost a year, and something tells me that you shouldn't still be here. Fate is funny that way; of all the shops in all the cities on this forsaken Planet, you had to walk into mine.

Even despite the time that had passed, I knew you at first sight. It's hard to misplace that hairstyle of yours, to be honest; that, and its trademark colour. Or the fights, the cautious alliances, the history that flew back at me as I saw you. And you, you knew me too, unnaturally bright eyes too much like my own widening in surprise. I remember that you didn't turn away; not at first, holding my gaze carefully. We were never the best of friends, which really goes without saying – you always seemed to underestimate me, and I, despite everything, respected you. Quietly. I'd never live it down if anyone else had figured that out.

I can still remember my sigh of relief as you left; for once, the jangling bells over the door a pleasant sound. In part because even after all this time, your eyes still held their unsettling, almost otherworldly lustre. What puzzled me more was that you'd left without a word… no challenge, no pithy comment.

It could always have been that you were too surprised to see me; we'd all scattered in the aftermath, heroes and monsters and those living somewhere in between. You were the first of that central core of players I had seen since, and from your reaction, I could guess that that was mutual. But you were also the second. I didn't expect that, either.

Because you returned, this time to buy books, and you kept this up… one or two small paperbacks, usually older editions, at least once a month. You were distantly cordial, those days; we weren't strangers, and neither of us pretended, but days went by when I wasn't even sure it was you. I didn't know you were much of a reader, to be honest. It didn't strike me as something you would do willingly.

So it went until the book that you brought to the desk was one of my favorites. And true to form, I couldn't keep my big mouth shut.

As things turned out, it was one of your favorites, too, and carefully we began to talk. Talk became drinks, and despite the fact that I never figured you to be one for decent conversation either, we had that too. Bikes and books and current events; you didn't mention your friends and I didn't speak of mine.

We were notably careful to never mention the past. Sure, there were moments of triumph and tenderness amidst the corruption of those bygone times – humanity's a sadistically stubborn thing. No one knows that better than you; I know that. She who should have been your own, who probably should be here instead of me was the living example of those pure traits. My hands are stained like yours, and I know that I can never live up to your green-eyed angel; I've waltzed with the devil in a white suit, and his sins became my own.

When you're awake, you don't seem to mind this, you've forgiven me in word and in the way you look at me these days.

But in this moment, as you lay on your back, my own body half-curled around you, and you kiss my cheek in clumsy half-awakening, whispering a name that isn't quite mine… it hurts. I may be forgiven, but she is not yet forgotten; your fingers tangle into my hair, and I wonder if you realize, half-asleep as you are, that it is short and blonde, not the flowing caramel locks of the girl whose name you've just murmured. Your eyes are closed, so they can't see the pain that flashes across my own.

To be fair, however, it's not as if I've forgotten him completely, either.

I can't say that I love you wholly. Maybe it will always be this way; a piece of my soul, like yours, will remain buried amidst the broken stone and spilled blood of the Ancient City. Yet you're still with me; you're still something familiar, stable, in a world that wants all too much to forget its past. We're legendary to the world, you know… you know this better than I… but here with you I don't have to be anything other than a woman. Myself. And I thank you more than you'll ever know for that.

A year later. It's hard to believe, as unexpected, as unusual as the thought of 'us' is. I'll admit I still drive you up the proverbial wall at times; in many ways, the world has changed, but we have not. I still talk too much, and you mope incessantly sometimes. You do. Especially in early spring, when the first of the flowers start to blossom.

So the past hasn't faded yet… not completely.

We're not perfect, not by any stretch, but we're something. We're not alone. And, as your arms wind around me gently, your blue, blue eyes opening and crinkling at the edges as you smile that quirky, careful half-smile of yours at me, I realize – not for the first time – that I can, most definitely, live with that.

. o .

…finis…

. o .

DISCLAIMER: None of the characters/situations that you recognize from FF7 belong to me; additionally, the line at the beginning, about "of all the shops in all the cities" is a blatant borrowing from the 'Casablanca' line that begins 'of all the gin joints…', unless my memory fails me. Additionally, the quote at the outset is from Fiona Apple's song "Pale September."

SABRIEL'S SCRIBBLES: Hmm… I guess this just proves that bittersweet is my genre of choice. It's an odd couple, yes. But thanks to the assistance from four wonderful people (you know who you are; thank you, again!), hopefully a little clearer as to exactly who is the observer and observed. And, for those of you who might care, I'm working on "Believe," I promise!

Thoughts and constructive criticism are always welcomed; in the meanwhile, Cheers, and Starry Nights.