Okay, a quick note about this one: I wasn't intending to write an introspective work, that just happened. I was bored and passing some time and, somehow, this came out, so, yeah…
Disclaimer: I do not own nor claim to own anything in association with Final Fantasy sevens or its affiliations.
Hatred.
An emotion that changes so many things. It is the antithesis of love, the rawest form of anger, the greatest sign of acknowledgement. It is the begining of wars and the reason for killing. Without it, nothing would exist as it is.
Hatred fills the body, clouds a person's vision, distorts the mind, confuses the senses and augments everything to levels previously unreachable. It brings the power to live when one can no longer stand. It brings the power to defy when all else is lost. It brings the strength to stand against all that one is against and continue to face it, no matter the consequences of that person's actions.
Fire and ice, opposing elements, symbolize hate, give it physical form and tangible surface, give it power and life in a way previously unheard of.
Crimson eyes watched the hatred fuel his child's actions, his desires and dreams. He watched as that hatred turned his only son into a monster unlike any other.
Who was he to judge whether or not another was a monster?
Power that was once fueled by determination was now fueled by hatred, making it greater, stronger, more violent than previously scene. Those eyes, those glowing, acid colored eyes burned with the poison and hatred that flowed through his son's veins inspired fear and awe in most all that gazed into them. Only two, that he knew of, were able to remain unafraid when gazing upon those eyes: himself and the boy that was both a part and separate from his son.
That boy, when gazing into his son's eyes, was filled with that same type of hatred, that same type fury that was endless, incapable of being quenched by anything save the death of that which inspired such hatred.
And when he gazed at his son, all that he could feel was sorrow, this useless, powerless emotion that only succeeded in interfering with his ability to finish his work. He felt no hatred when gazing at his son; only fury at the thought at what was done to the child, done to the woman who had given him life, done to him.
When he thought of the one that had done this to them, and so many more, all he could feel that pure, inspiring hatred that drove him to unending heights, unreachable by any save those few whose rage was greater than even his.