Chapter 9

Weeks passed like river water. Aerith did not mention the Tears again, although it was clear that her pain continued to bother her.

Above ground, the brief arctic summer was under way, which meant temperatures just below freezing and an abundance of game. Sephiroth hunted as often as he could, drying the extra meat in preparation for the long bitter months ahead.

He had just returned home with a brace of fat ptarmigans one afternoon when he noticed something was wrong. One of the armchairs was lying on its side, an upended plate of food beside it. There was a broken teacup on the stones of the hearth and the teapot itself was nowhere to be found. Muffled whimpering came from Aerith's room.

He called for her. She did not answer, so he stood outside her door and called again. This time she answered him weakly.

"Sephiroth?"

He brushed aside her curtain. She was lying on the floor, as white as paper. The robe wrapped around her was damp, and her forehead glistened with sweat. The teapot was on the floor of her room, drained. It looked like she had tried to chew some of the bark inside it as well, and, judging by the puddle on the floor, it had made her sick.

"I think I fainted." Aerith sobbed and turned over, panting. She pressed her forehead to the cold floor.

Sephiroth breathed a powerful healing spell over her even though he knew it would only help temporarily at best.

"Aerith. There is not much I can offer you. You know the options. Opia or the Tears."

"Opia…makes me sick… I don't think I could keep it down…it would be a waste." She panted loudly, then clenched at her belly, groaning.

"Aerith, what about the Tears?"

"No, I shouldn't…"

Sephiroth flared with anger and frustration. Even now, in agony, she refused him. "How much longer can you suffer?"

"I don't know, I don't know…" She put her head on her arm and rocked it back and forth.

"What do you want of me, then?" He got up to leave.

"Please, don't go."

"I'll be back."

He returned with a cup of water.

"Here," he said, putting it down near her head, "get the taste out of your mouth."

She took a tiny sip.

"I can't do this. I'm not strong," she said at last. She panted for a few long minutes. Sephiroth watched her.

"The Tears," she said at last, "I agree to them. Only, let me bathe. I feel disgusting."

She didn't seem able to stand, much less be able to bathe herself.

"Will you need assistance?"

The look she gave him said that she would rather die than submit to such an indignity.

"Call if you need help," Sephiroth said, looking grim. She would not call. He would find her only after she drowned.

He watched her slowly gather herself up into a ball, then ease herself up onto her knees, clinging to the bed for support.

"You are doing enough," she said, waving him off. "I will call when I am ready for you."

It had been a long hour. Aerith had finally finished bathing and was waiting for him. Sephiroth stood in front of the curtained threshold to her room, passing the small stone vessel that held the Tears of the Moon from one hand to another, back and forth, doggedly resisting the impulse to pace. Aerith's shadowed profile danced on the fabric of the curtain, wavering as the light from the fire within shifted. He could tell by the shadow that she was sitting on her bed, looking down. Only her head was clearly demarcated, the rest of her was swaddled in the coverlet and undistinct. He watched for several moments as she continued to stare, almost motionless except for the subtle movements of her breathing. Perhaps he should enter now, when she had seemed to resign herself. He took a step forward, reached his hand out to move the thick fabric of the curtain aside.

His heart was hammering wildly in his throat, his breathing speeding up to keep pace with it. This was a new thing, too, being nervous. It was extremely disagreeable. He tried to rationalize the way he felt, as if by mentally dissecting it would make it go away. What had he to feel nervous about? It was only a woman waiting for him on the other side of the curtain, only Aerith. She could do him no harm.

It was not her he was worried about, he decided, it was himself. The last time he had been in a situation like this…In his mind's eye flashed a vision of Morimoto's lover, the red layers of her slashed throat lolling open like an obscene grin, the ugly spray of arterial blood on the ceiling. There were probably more, many more, that he didn't even remember. He squeezed his eyes closed.

Oh, Aerith. He was unarmed but it would not be a difficult thing to crush the life out of her, or stop her heart with a single well placed strike to her sternum or temple. He could go mad, lose control, and then it would be too late. Sephiroth bit his tongue sharply, to stop the train of horrible images that assaulted him. No, it would not be like that. This time it was different. He was free from all of that now, truly free. He had to believe it.

Sephiroth took in a deep breath and exhaled it slowly, very slowly. He leaned forward until he felt the coarse weave of the fabric against his face. For a second he focused on only that, as if it were the only thing in the universe.

"I am here now," he said quietly, trying to ignore the tremor that had suddenly come over him, the strange buzzing in his head. Aerith's shadow jumped, but she kept her head down. He brushed the curtain aside and stepped into her room.

As he had surmised, Aerith was sitting on her bed crosslegged, the coverlet wrapped around her. She clutched the silk fiercely to her chest, her knuckles white. She had just gotten out of the bath; the copper tub was still sitting on the floor by the hearth, half full of murky, sweet smelling water. A Fire materia glowed dimly at the bottom of it, keeping the water warm.

Aerith had her eyes closed, her teeth clenched behind her lips as if preparing to bear intense pain. She was breathing deep but fast, too fast. Sephiroth carefully sat down just behind her on the edge of the bed.

"Do not breathe so quickly, you will faint."

Aerith nodded, but her breathing came even faster.

She would not heed anything he said at this point, he knew, she was trying her best to be numb, retreat into a place inside herself where he could not follow. It was miserable to see. She was preparing the place where his evil could fall and there would be no memory. He swallowed hard. He must do this quickly, before she tired herself into complete exhaustion.

Sephiroth knelt behind her. Her hair, loose and unbound, trailed down her back like a shroud, tumbling out behind her onto the bed. Little ringlets and whorls of it, still damp from her bath, clung to the back of her neck and curled behind her ears. Grateful that she had her eyes closed so that she could not see how much he was shaking, Sephiroth gathered the heavy mass of her hair in his hands and lifted it, tucking it gently over her shoulder to trail in her lap. His hands felt stiff and awkward, as if his nerves were not understanding his brains' commands.

At his first touch she stiffened and pulled away, clenching her teeth, breath coming in short silent gasps. He put one hand on the side of her head and stroked her temple gently, tentatively, as he would a nervous Chocobo, trying to calm her.

She shook him off, shuddering. "Don't. Just do what you must do," she said. Her voice was sharp but it quavered.

Scowling sadly behind her back, Sephiroth returned to his task. The coverlet was still folded tightly around her and he opened it just enough to reveal the back of her neck and shoulders. The stone box was sitting on the bed and he picked it up, separating the two halves in one smooth motion. Inside was a sticky yellowish salve whose scent reminded him of the linden blossoms that bloomed in the woodlands around Junon. Pinpoints of light danced in the salve, twinkling like a small universe of stars. He retrieved a small gob of the stuff and smoothed it over his palms in a thin layer. It felt soothing to the wound in his hand, both cool and warm at once. Aerith had her eyes squeezed tightly shut, as if she was a sacrifice waiting for the blade to fall.

Please, Sephiroth prayed to no one, let this work. He laid his hands on the back of her neck. Aerith gasped, and trembled as if she had been stuck with a red hot poker. Sephiroth felt the muscles under his hands snap taut as they contracted, as her body went as rigid and tense as a guy wire.

"I won't hurt you," he murmured, beginning to rub her shoulders in slow rhythmic circles. The path where he touched glowed faintly, making her already pale skin dance with shivery light, like the aurora. He felt the delicate tick of her pulse, as light and quick as a birds', as he circled the delicate column of her neck with his hands. He reached up into her hairline to trace the first character of the ritual at her nape with the pads of his thumbs. He concentrated intently, focusing on completing the character's last swooping line correctly. As soon as he finished and had lifted his hands away from her, the Tears of the Moon flared to life on her skin, shining brighter and brighter until it seemed alive with pale phosphorescent flame.

Aerith's head dropped forward with a sigh as the substance hit her brain. A beautiful peace swept into her like a sudden tide, her mind filling with familiar gentle voices, her body full of lushness and music.

"Are you okay?" Sephiroth asked. He felt light headed, strangely out of control. He rubbed his palms together, feeling the fluid smoothness of the salve on them. Aerith did not answer him. Her eyes were still closed but there was a peaceful expression on her pink lips and her breathing had slowed. He placed his hands on her again and began to trace the second character on her skin, over the knobby bump that was her seventh cervical vertebrae.

Aerith was relaxing now, as the magic of the Ancients enveloped her, swallowing her pain in gorgeous pools of warmth. Under his hands, Sephiroth felt her muscles open and the tension melt out of her body. He moved down her back, calling each muscle by name to himself as he touched them, recalling the pathways of the nerves as they wove and twisted through the bony cagework of her spine, still knowing which ones, if stuck correctly, could cripple or kill. That knowledge was still there but now there was no death, no pain, only healing that flowed from his hands. Gently, he dipped down into her trapezius, the soft smooth place between her shoulder blades, tracing a character over it. Caught up in the incredible relief and no longer sensible of her surroundings or who was with her, Aerith sighed in euphoria, her exhalation drawn out into a soft cry. Sephiroth froze.

Her cry. It arrested him like nothing before. He had heard other women make sounds like that but now it was him that had caused it, had called it out of her. It was the most beautiful thing he had ever heard. His mind reeled, drunk on the sensation and the warm glow of his newfound power. Scene after scene, the kind that were not in any way appropriate for him to be dwelling on, flashed in his minds' eye. Yes, it was wrong, and he was evil for even thinking it, but he wanted to give her more, to hear her call his name that way, to give to her until he could hear her calling it in delicious ecstasy. The last thought almost made him swoon. The space between them, the air in the room, seemed as if it were alive, singing with light and heat.

It was getting dangerous, much too dangerous, to be here with her, with the unknown power of the Tears addling his brain, amplifying his senses and who knew what else. He could not get out of control. He needed just to write the words, to complete the ritual, then run, hide, somewhere, anywhere, before this thing, this repulsive depraved hunger of his, won him beyond all chance of redemption. Sephiroth pulled open the coverlet without mercy, using a little more force than he had wanted to, exposing her entire back at once. Aerith gasped, more at the sudden change in temperature than at the exposure.

It was then that he saw it. The scar was the color of dried cherries, a wicked gash originating just to the left of her tenth thoracic vertebrae. Even in the rapidly extinguishing light of the dying fire he could see that there were other fainter scars that furled out from it in a star of knotted white whorls paler than her skin. They were old magic burns. Sephiroth ran his hands over them, reading them like Braille.

"Masamune," he whispered in horror. He didn't have to look to know that the scar had a partner on the other side of her, blossoming its own brutal flower just under her ribs. She had been skewered through the renal artery just as he had been taught to do, and consigned to a painful and certain death by internal hemorrhage. It was a brutal technique. Had she once been so dangerous, so despised, that she had warranted that sort of death? He stroked the scar, hating, hating himself for having put it there. He looked at the smooth curve of her waist, its gorgeous violin symmetry ruined. Death and pain, carven into her, irreparable. He put his hand over the scar, just to have it out of his sight. He breathed a healing spell into it. It faded into her and was gone, with no effect. He tried again and again, feverishly, trying more and more powerful spells with each attempt.

"Sephiroth…" Aerith said his name as if in her sleep. She attempted to look at him, forgetting to cover herself, and the crest of one smooth white breast began to rise over the horizon of the coverlet as she turned.

"No, don't look." He seized her shoulders and held her still, facing forward. He put his head down and swallowed. His eyes burned fiercely. If she looked at him now, it would be his undoing. He took a few heavy breaths.

Aerith squirmed. "You're hurting me."

Sephiroth looked at his hands as they gripped her naked shoulders and released her, leaving glowing prints on her pale skin. "I'm…I'm sorry. Don't look at me. I am almost done."

No matter what he felt, he must continue, he reminded himself. He focused on the task at hand, moving faster than he had before, tracing the words, the endless river of words that ran down her back. By the time he had finished the last sinuous character, its tail resting between the dimples of her sacrum, Aerith had fallen into a deep sleep.

Sephiroth watched her back rise and fall with her gentle breathing, just barely visible in the light of the guttering fire. The scar rose and fell as well, looking like a slash of black oil against her pale skin. He forced himself to examine it in all its awful sharpness.

Look, he told himself. Go ahead, you rotten bastard, look. It is the only thing you can do, what you were made for, to scar and wound and kill. Pain and death are the the only gifts you can ever bring to anybody. It is your birthright, after all, don't think you will ever completely escape it.

In her sleep Aerith shivered, goosebumps transiently forming on her skin. Sephiroth folded the coverlet back over her. Grasping her thickly swaddled body, he eased her back and then onto her side, trying to ignore the intensely unnerving sensation when the hot skin of her bare shoulder pressed against his jaw as he turned her. He sat beside her and watched her sleep, cradled softly in the eiderdown, her hair spilling out over the bed like a river of fire. There was nothing else to do now. His task had been completed. He wanted nothing more than to flee from her, and nothing more than to stay.

For a long long while he sat on the edge of the bed. Slowly the one feeble flame in the firegrate flickered and finally was snuffed out into red glowing ember. The room around him dissolved into a dim sweep of dark and light. He rubbed his fingers together, the sticky texture of the Tears melting in his body heat, and brought his hands up to his face. He inhaled deeply, smelling lindens and the wonderful familiar essence of Aerith's skin. Then he opened his eyes and looked again at where she lay. The characters and wherever he had touched were still glowing, they trailed up the dark curve of her back, then up to the place where the coverlet peeled back to reveal the first character shining at her nape like the moon behind a cloud.

The impulse seized him to touch her again, as if only by touching her could he know for certain that all that had transpired had been real. Absurd as the idea was, it needled at him and would not rest. Finally he considered it, his heart beginning to hammer again anew. What would it hurt, his mind raced feverishly, what would one little thing like that hurt? She wouldn't even remember it… His fingers crept out across the coverlet and found the glorious wash of her hair. He felt it, slowly, carefully, feeling its weight, the smoothness of its texture like rich cloth between his finger and thumb. Leaning over, he carefully brought a swath of it up to his face, breathing in its wondrous fragrance, feeling its silkiness on his nose, on his lips. Suddenly Aerith stirred, murmuring in her sleep.

Sephiroth pulled back, burning with shame and loathing. He turned away from her and sat on the edge of the bed. He hunched over as if he was in pain and clenched his knees with his hands, digging in with his nails to prevent them from wandering.

It was sickening. He could not control himself, how his body responded to her, the things he was feeling. Truly, he was no better than Hojo, than any depraved animal only acting out of its instincts. Sephiroth got up from the bed, burning and heady. He had to get out of here, away from this place. He threw an armload of wood on the struggling fire, much more than was necessary, then fled to the safety of his room.