Disclaimer: I do not own FFVII.
Nepenthe.
theme o12. hunter
Junon Tavern, midnight.
"I have a proposition for you."
Yuffie quietly looked up from her pewter stein. The ripples in the gin settled as she set it against the tavern counter. She spared the speaker a clinical once-over, but not much more. He was tall, in the way that all men were taller than her, his features obscured by the long, traveler's cloak he wore. He stood with a strange hunch that reminded her of a vulture. It only took one look to classify him. The tell-tale glimmer of spectacles beneath the hood, the superior quality of his attire: he reeked of wealth. Yuffie hid her smirk in a liberal swill of gin. Her interest was piqued. Wiping the smear of liquor on her upper lip, she said, "This better be good."
"Oh, I will most certainly make this worth your while."
She heard his lips curl into a sinister, little grin. Yuffie knew how to kill a man nineteen different ways, but there was something about hearing him grin that put her on edge. Just a bit. She gestured crudely to the empty stool beside her, flagging down the bartender for another round. When he came around with another full tankard, she jabbed a finger at her mysterious companion. "That'll be on his tab." She turned her head slightly, a quirk to her lips. "You don't mind, do you?"
"No, not at all," he replied tightly.
"I didn't think so," she mused. "So, what can I do for you?"
"I've heard a great deal about you, Huntress. Raised in the wilderness; a skilled tracker, a practiced thief, and an able assassin. You've come highly recommended."
"Is that so? Curses," Yuffie remarked with a spoonful of derision, "for I've heard absolutely nothing about you."
He seemed to take her rudeness in stride. Or else, he was smarter than she gave him credit for. Not many failed to divulge their identities after such subtle provocation. "My character is nothing you should concern yourself with, I assure you. If I'm not mistaken, you live by a single slogan. 'Money is king,' is that right?" He produced a wad of crisp, folded bills. To her practiced eye, it looked as if they had been freshly printed.
"You've got that right," said Yuffie, keeping her expression neutral. It was a considerable sum. She'd never been offered quite so much for a job before—not even the big hits. Her eyes narrowed suspiciously as she finished counting the bills—all genuine, not a single counterfeit bill. "You should know I don't do political turmoil." Yuffie was no fool. Getting involved with imperial espionage or royal hits was practically asking for a death sentence.
"No, it's nothing like that," he crooned smoothly. "I'm interested, you see, in the tracking aspects of your impressive repertoire." Yuffie pocketed the roll of money with a noncommittal grunt, which he interpreted as a sign of agreement. He laid a sheet of parchment between them, painted in coarse strokes into the likeness of a handsome, if not hauntingly handsome, man.
"Who am I looking for?" she asked, trailing a nail over the image's piercing gaze.
"Vincent Valentine is his name, an immoral degenerate from the Dukedom of Nibelheim." He paused, as if assessing her opinion on his new information. She nodded apathetically. If he was expecting sudden aversion because of the mere mention of a region, then he was sorely misinformed. She harbored no loyalties; she went wherever the job took her. Other than several thrilling thefts within its borders, she hardly knew anything about Nibelheim. Seemingly pleased by her reaction—or lack thereof—he continued. "I would like you to find him, and bring him to me." Yuffie scratched her chin. The task seemed simple enough. "To justice," he added unconvincingly.
"What did he do?" she quipped. "Steal your girlfriend?"
"He killed my wife, in cold blood," was his unperturbed rejoinder, "and stole away into the night with several heirlooms of mine. I would like to see them returned."
Yuffie scrunched up her lips in contemplation. She was dealing with another killer? That was going to make things trickier, but not impossible—not with the kind of money she'd just gotten.
"Will this be a problem?"
Yuffie smiled in reply. "Where do I deliver?"
This Vincent Valentine sure knew how to hide, thought Yuffie, as she yanked her left boot out of the swamp, shaking it out of disgust. Her sleuthing had taken her out of the bar in Junon, to another in the slums of Midgar. The barmaid there vaguely recalled serving a man fitting his description months ago, commenting that she only remembered because of how "lost" he seemed. The deliveryman beside her, a man of few words, corroborated her account, pointing her west to Gongaga. Gongaga was a dead end.
For days, she trekked through the Ancient Forest, swatting away clusters of annoying forest pixies and enduring the slanderous whispers of unseen dryads. In Cosmo Canyon, she had caught wind of his name, but the Elder Wolves, a rare and ancient breed of crimson-furred beasts, refused to divulge more. Entreating them further yielded nothing, only that she should give up her quest, for he only wished to be alone. She would have returned east for more clues, but that night as she contemplated her next move, she spotted one of the Elder Wolves slink out of the nest. The timing was too close to be a coincidence. Yuffie snuck after him, but he was a creature of the wild, and though she was no stranger to the wilderness, she was nothing compared to him; within hours, she had lost him beneath the bleak cover of nightfall.
But it was enough. She'd gotten a direction, at the very least. She continued her way north, toward Nibelheim. She was close to the border now. Yuffie blew the bangs out of her face impatiently. She hated swamps almost as much as she hated getting attacked by mountain lions—although their pelts did sell handsomely on the black market. Yuffie tried not to feel sour about the gash across her cheek as she shifted the heavy hide across her back. It slowed her down, to be sure, but not by enough for her to abandon it. She'd try doing away with it at the next town stop.
Night was falling. It was dangerous to be trapped in a swamp after dusk. Yuffie was not looking forward to encountering will-o-wisps—or, Heaven forbid, cantankerous dwarves made all the more cross by being awoken during their evening slumber. Those sick creatures liked to cast spells for the sheer fun of it. Careful not to stray too far from the border, Yuffie made her way to a nearby village twinkling over the hill.
Selling her pelt turned out be blessing in disguise. As the dealer examined it for authenticity, her eyes caught on a pocket watch, dangling from the shelf. It would have been unremarkable, except Yuffie knew just what to look for: peculiarities. Men's pocket watches weren't worth much, selling them meant selling whatever copper, silver, or gold it was plated in. This one was plated in gold, and fashioned with impeccable taste. Whoever sold it had been desperate—also, loaded.
"Anything you like?"
"That watch there—let me take a look at it."
"Sentimental or something?" he grunted gruffly, taking it down from its perch and setting it down in front of her.
As she suspected, it wasn't any old pocket watch. It had never seen a dent or tarnish in its entire life. She lifted the chain. The emblem of a three-headed hound glittered in the low light; it was the crest of the House of Nibelheim. Only citizens of Nibelheim had them. And, to her knowledge, she wasn't in Nibelheim just yet.
Yuffie's lips twisted into a triumphant grin. "Not in the slightest."
She knew he wasn't far. The pocket watch had told her that much. If he was looking to lie low, she knew just the place to search. There was woodland just northeast of the village, dangerous territory to travel through alone. As she combed the grounds, she just hoped she wouldn't find him already dead. After all, she'd been hired to bring him in alive.
Yuffie plucked a single red thread hanging off the bark of a tree, rolling it between her thumb and forefinger. Red was not a good color for camouflage. Yuffie swung her gaze around the vicinity, noting several human-sized footprints next to what appeared to be a large underground burrow. Her eyebrows went sailing up her forehead. Yuffie stood there, silently debating whether or not to follow. It was a dwarf's burrow. Most people were not stupid enough to wander willingly into a dwarf's burrow. But Yuffie had a bounty to follow—and several lethal weapons on her person.
With an inward sigh, she descended into the cavern, knife poised in her hand in case its host decided to greet her with less-than-friendly intentions.
"You're too late, Huntress."
Yuffie halted as her eyes adjusted to the beams of sunlight that spilled in from the cavern's pitted ceiling. A dwarf, stocky with a gnarled and unpleasant face, stood beside a glass coffin. Yuffie kept her expression carefully controlled, but her heart fell at the sight. She was too late. Vincent Valentine was dead. "What's this? Did you kill him for intruding?" she deadpanned.
The dwarf frowned, every winkle in his face making it ten times more disagreeable to look at. "Don't be crass. Dwarves don't kill. People do."
"You were told to stay away. His wish was to be alone."
Yuffie's eyes darted to the far corner of the cavern. An Elder Wolf sat curled beside the coffin, gazing at her with golden eyes. She tried not to feel smug, but she had been right to follow him. "I was just doing my job," she said harmlessly, slipping the knife back into its holster. "So, what? Did he drink hemlock?"
"He merely sleeps in a death-like trance, to escape mercenary hands such as yours," said the Elder Wolf.
She couldn't fault him for that. If she were ever the target of a widespread manhunt, she would fake her death, too—or put herself in a coma, in his case. It was actually kind of brilliant. No one would think to search a dwarf's burrow, and if they were brash enough to, they'd ultimately be thwarted. "He must have paid you," she told the dwarf, to which said creature grinned, displaying rows of razor-sharp teeth.
"Handsomely."
Yuffie approached the glass coffin, and would have whistled if the situation had been in any way appropriate. The painting did not do him justice. Inky black hair framed an aristocratic face. Alabaster skin contrasted almost poetically with thick, dark lashes—and lips she would think twice before splitting. His crimson coat was tailored perfectly to his frame. He was one fine specimen. She found it a little hard to think he would be a criminal or a killer. He just didn't seem like the type. Killers didn't hole themselves up in the equivalent of eternal oblivion. The guilty did. She pressed a hand on the glass, rather experimentally. Neither creature attempted to stop her. "You cast a spell on him."
"Yes," answered the Elder Wolf.
"No loop-holes in this one?" Yuffie had encountered spells before. There was always something to exploit.
"Only the traditional one, if you care to try it," gibed the dwarf.
"You dwarves are such romantics," scoffed Yuffie, popping open the lid of the coffin. She fought against the drowsy sensation that began to crawl up her eyelids.
"It won't work," chattered the dwarf, nearly dancing in his mockery. The Elder Wolf watched her, saying nothing. It was clear neither of them thought it would work. Honestly, Yuffie didn't think it would either, but she had to give it a shot. Yuffie was nothing if not stubborn. Most contracts didn't include trying to resuscitate a mark through true love's kiss, though. She was definitely asking for a bonus if this worked. She yanked him up by the collar and smashed her lips to his. Suddenly, Yuffie was filled with the strangest sensation of simultaneously falling and being pulled up from the ocean, like déjà vu, only stronger.
Vincent's eyelids flared open, revealing eyes the color of blood rubies. If she thought the rest of him was beautiful, it was nothing compared to his eyes. She didn't think to release him from the lip-lock until his eyebrows—raised first in shock then lowered in hostility—drew her notice. She dropped him unceremoniously. Vincent's head fell back onto the coffin with a muted thud.
She was not expecting that to work.
"That wasn't supposed to work!" shrieked the dwarf, positively stomping now in his tantrum.
The Elder Wolf scrutinized her. "How curious."
Yuffie quickly regained her sensibilities. "Good, you're awake," she piped. "Now, you're coming with me." She spun her dagger out with deceptive grace. "I suppose your helpers can't stop me now that I've broken the spell fair and square." As she anticipated, neither creature made a move to stop her.
Vincent gazed her coolly. He clearly considered her a threat, which was good, then. She was one. "You said this would work," said Vincent, his voice tantalizingly low and deep—all velvet and unintentional seduction, mused Yuffie.
"It did work," said the Elder Wolf, "for many months."
Vincent's gaze slowly returned to her, silently bewildered.
"What can I say? Magic lips."
He did not seem pleased by her answer. She didn't have a better one, and neither, it appeared, did he. "Did he send you?"
"Yes, he did." She placed the dagger against his skin. "Now, I wouldn't want to slice open this pretty little neck of yours, but I will if you don't cooperate. You're going to show me where you hid those heirlooms and then you're going to come with me back to Shinra Manor to face 'justice.'"
His face darkened. "You're making a mistake."
"No, I'm making money."
Yuffie cheerfully collected the last relic in the pouch she kept by her waist. Most of the "heirlooms" she'd been tasked to find were actually papers, strange alchemical papers. The only thing that seemed out of place was the string of pearls, which Vincent had kept, apparently, in his breast pocket, as if it had meant a great deal to him. She snatched it away and dropped it in with the bundle of papers.
She had his hands bound behind his back, peppering him with threats if he even thought of escaping. Not very many people enjoyed the slow torture of a knife to the stomach. His expression was cold enough to freeze her shadow to the ground. She took his animosity in stride. Not many people would be companionable when being led to the executioner's table. "What did he tell you?"
Speaking to prisoners only ended up making her job harder, but she relented. "That you murdered his wife and ran away."
"I did no such thing. He's the murderer. I could not save her. I was a coward."
Yuffie was taken aback by the anguish in his voice, but she was not to be roused by it. "Not my problem," she replied harshly.
"He is a scoundrel," Vincent said, his tone resigned as if he did not expect her to listen. "He was jealous of my engagement with the late Countess Crescent. He killed her," his voice wavered like fragments in a snowdrift, "and framed me to seize control of my estate."
"Your 'estate,'" echoed Yuffie dubiously.
A flash of understanding appeared in his eyes. "He did not tell you who I was."
"He told me." Yuffie didn't like being contradicted. "You're Vincent Valentine, scumbag extraordinaire." She was pretty sure he had used a different phrase, but the effect was the same.
He pierced her with a smoldering look; honestly, he had no idea how attractive it was. "Congratulations, you've caught Lord Valentine, the Duke of Nibelheim."
Yuffie stopped in her tracks, lips parting in speechlessness. When she had finally regained control of her vocal cords, she said falteringly, "The Duke of Nibelheim?" No, he couldn't possibly be the reigning sovereign of Nibelheim. "You're lying," she hissed. Yuffie didn't like being tricked. "You'll keep your mouth shut or I'll cut out your tongue."
"He lied to you," was Vincent's last comment.
Shinra Manor was eerily deserted for a domain of such prestige. Yuffie was led into the inner chambers by a beady-eyed butler with a crooked nose. Vincent trailed unwillingly behind her.
"So, you've come."
She recognized his voice from the tavern. Absent of his cloak, Yuffie found him much less tolerable to look at. Her suppositions had been right. He walked with an odd hunch, frighteningly keen eyes peering from behind silver spectacles. His raven-black hair was lined with gray, oiled back with austere precision. Vincent glowered at him murderously.
"I'll be wanting the rest of that money you promised."
"Yes, of course. My servants will bring it to you at the door," he assured her. "Now, those heirlooms."
Yuffie tossed the bag to him. He clutched at it like a rapacious beast. He pulled from the bag the string of pearls, his eyes filled with a disturbing mixture of lust and grief.
"Do not touch her things, Hojo," seethed Vincent. "You insult her memory."
That name sounded familiar. Yuffie's eyes narrowed as she watched Hojo clench the pearls in his hand, the force of his grip nearly snapping them apart.
"You are my captive now. You should do well to watch your tongue," said Hojo dangerously.
It came to her then. Hojo was the Earl of the North, infamous for his interest in the dark arts, fond of torturing trespassers before he set them free, without a whit of knowledge as to who they were. His methods were gruesome, but Yuffie had never gotten involved in politics and she promised herself she never would. As if aware of his increasing volatility, he ordered her to leave. Yuffie stood motionless for a moment, watching Vincent's eyes lower to the floor in defeat. This was not her fight, she reminded herself. Nevertheless, before she could help herself, she blurted, "What will you do with him?"
Hojo grinned, chilling her to the bone. Yuffie didn't fear many, but he certainly made the list. Madmen were always a force to be reckoned with. They were unpredictable, often sadistic, and horribly inventive in manners of cruelty. "What I do with him is nothing you should concern yourself with, Huntress. You have fulfilled your end of the bargain. You will be rewarded handsomely. You are dismissed," he said with a note of finality.
Yuffie was used to a feeling of self-satisfaction after a mission well-done. Only, this time, she left with a bitter taste in her mouth. The doors closed behind her with a resounding groan, shutting Vincent inside with that shadow of a man. At the end of the hall, the same hawkish butler greeted her with a sack of her earnings, and then some. Yuffie found herself far from pleased, but appeased, she strode on toward the front entrance. "I can find my own way out," she stated sharply when it appeared he would accompany her. The butler turned his nose at her and remained in the hall.
At the front door, as she turned the knob, something that resembled a slip of paper caught her eye. No one could blame her for her curiosity. She snitched the crumpled scrap from the corner where it had been dumped and smoothed it out. It was an old miniature portrait, done with masterful artisanship. A man in full Duke regalia stood tall behind a gilded chair, where an arrestingly attractive woman sat, her hands folded neatly in her lap. Matching engagement rings adorned their respective left hands. What struck her most, however, was the man. It was Vincent Valentine.
Yuffie felt her blood run to ice. She really had caught the Duke of Nibelheim. Yuffie turned half-facing the hall through which she came, her normally bright cheeks going pale. She was helping an insurrection. The butler threw a condescending look at her from his post. Biting her lip, Yuffie allowed herself a brief moment to regret what she was about to do. In the next moment, she sprinted down the hall. The butler opened his mouth to give a cry, but fell noiselessly to the floor seconds later, a blade caught in his throat. Good riddance.
Yuffie kicked down the doors. The sight that greeted her was revolting. Hojo had Vincent's skull pinned beneath his boot, pressed into the carpet. Blood oozed into the rich woven rug from a wound she couldn't see. She launched her throwing stars at the hapless bastard, knocking him away from Vincent's prone form and securing his arms to the wall.
"What are you doing?" Hojo screeched, his eyes blazing with lunacy.
Yuffie withdrew her favorite doubled-edged sword and pressed the tip of against the center of his throat, her mouth set in a grim, disgusted line. "Deal's off, Hojo. I told you I don't do royal hits."
"You wouldn't dare—"
"No one," she said, cocking her head just enough to establish the angle of her next slash, "lies to me."
Shinra Manor, midnight. One year later.
"Remember that time I saved your life?" pondered Yuffie aloud, a smirk in her voice.
Vincent returned her conceit with a critical look. "Remember that time you put my life in peril?"
Yuffie's nimble fingers danced along the scar on his forehead. "I don't know, do I? Selective memory."
Vincent caught her hand, the harsh lines of his face softening. "Do you remember," he leaned forward, a fond and treacherously titillating curve on his lips, "this?"
Yuffie licked her lips mischievously, throwing her arm around him, and pulling him down onto the bed. He kissed her long and deep. She wouldn't give him the satisfaction of moaning just yet. Before things got too risqué, she twisted the ring off her finger and flung it with unfailing accuracy onto the bedside table. She didn't want another telltale nick on his perfect skin.
When she broke for air, she smiled. "Oh, that," she mustered breathlessly, drawing him in for another. "What can I say? Magic lips."
A/N: By far, my most favorite piece to write in this entire collection. You can tell by the way it was utterly impossible to keep short. I was even thinking of keeping this as a stand-alone. I based this piece off of Snow White, starring Yuffie as the hunter, which turned out to be greatly entertaining. The spunk was all her own. Did anyone catch the reference to the "Greece" theme in all this? I apologize if you don't enjoy this as much as I do, but am shamelessly pleased with how it turned out. I'm going to force myself to shut up now. But really do hope you enjoyed this.
Thank you for reading. Feedback will be positively raved over.
