A/N - I vowed to myself a long time ago that I would never break down and write a Sephiroth x Cloud fic (though I've been tempted for eight years now). But last semester at school the only movie anyone had in the hotel was my copy of Advent Children, so I ended up watching it a LOT. Oftentimes with people who had never played the original game, or weren't even familiar with the characters. I had to explain the plot quite a bit, and I found it was very hard to do so without slight fandom biases. I wrote this one night after one such discussion, then threw it in a folder and promptly forgot about it. I wrote it last March, and just found it again now in November (just added the last line now though, as it seemed to be needing something). I'm satisfied with it, and am over the initial embarrassment of writing a SxC, so I am posting it, though it is short. Title really refers back to the game, though this is primarily an AC fic.
Heavenward
By PikaCheeka
Morbid curiosity. I suppose that's what it could be called, what drew me into that entire mess, what prevented me from running from him the second I met him, what caused me to grow intrigued despite my better judgment. I've always been drawn to what I know is bad for me. It's part of my nature. I knew there was something wrong with him before I even knew his name. Saw that unnatural madness in his eye, that shockingly intense desire for power. And that was before he went insane. Years before. Looking back on it now I don't know how none of us saw it, how I didn't see it. I must have seen, just likely refused to believe that my idol, my savior, could be the devil himself. What else was he? The list extends to more that I care to admit, especially now. The idea that I worshipped him to the point of being his slave in every sense of the word terrifies me even now. I beg of you absolution.
I did not know.
But that is a lie. Maybe then I did not know, but I know now, and the feelings linger. I think it is over and done with, especially after the murder. But it's not. Now it is all mingled with guilt, guilt for trying to kill him. I let him go. He cannot be dead, not after all he's been through. People like him don't die. Things like him don't die. I know he's out there somewhere, biding his time, waiting for the opportune moment to return and wreck havoc on my mind again. I still dream of him, still expect, hope, that he'll come back and forgive me everything. Then I remember.
They tell me I do not need to be forgiven. Not from anyone. But none of them know it is not her I need forgiveness from. It is him. Reunion. That other man, who looked so much like him, spoke of a reunion, as screaming mad and frightening as he was. Not as beautiful. Not as intoxicating. I need reunion. I need absolution. I need his forgiveness. I have only been wracked with guilt since I attempted to kill him. It was for her. It was for the world. And yet I buried the sword in the deadlands and every night I guiltily hope he will come back. I cannot think of him without pain, and it is not because of what he did to our world.
I am going mad. I sometimes wonder if I will become what he became. If the world simply needs someone like that, and as his lover, his murderer, the task now falls to me. Lover. Was that really what I was? Was that all I was?
But heaven had no answers. And I knew it never would.