Oblivion
Chapter 10
A lone squat shack of wind-battered clapboards sat perched on an outcropping of white limestone. Sephiroth scanned the windows for any sign of light or life. He shuffled the burden in his arms, peering down momentarily at the unconscious woman who he half-cradled. Her dark curtain of hair wagged in the predawn breeze. He watched her chest rise and fall slowly with every deep, dreaming breath she took. Tifa's brows were perpetually furrowed with a silent anger, but she wouldn't be waking up anytime soon. He'd cast the most potent sleeping spell on her that he could muster after he'd first managed to knock her out.
Now what? The answer yawned into a multitude of possibilities. He could dump her here, make his way for freedom, but he — Sephiroth dared a look down at Tifa's sleeping face again as he walked up a sand dune with some difficulty toward the house — needed her. Nearly strangling the woman wasn't going to win him her cooperation, and he needed that modicum of trust. His gaze bore down on the red imprint of his hands against her throat. A small tickle of a feeling danced in his stomach whenever he chanced a glance at the bruises that he left her. Shame? No. Certainly not. She would have done her best to kill him. He silenced his thoughts, peering into the shack's large rectangular window.
A quick assessment: no curtains, a possible sign of vacancy…and the few pieces of furniture he could make out seemed more functional than personal. Several boxes were piled into a corner in the salon along with an unopened tin of paint. Perhaps, this was or would be someone's vacation bungalow. He readjusted Tifa in his arms to wrestle with the lock. No, there's a faster way, he thought. Be strategic. He sifted through Tifa's materia, feeling out their purposes with a sort of preternatural sense that all magic users learned through time and practice. Perfect, an ice materia. He seized the orb in his left hand. A sudden whispering chatter flooded his mind, and the sphere began to glow a deep azure. He focused intently, targeting the lock. The metal frosted underneath his gaze, radiating a chill that reached his face. Shuffling Tifa again, Sephiroth struck the lock with his blade's hilt. It fractured then shattered, falling with a thunk as shards of lock and doorknob scattered across the porch. The door opened creakingly inward, and he walked inside the foyer…no that was a bit grand, he thought. This little ramshackle summer shack was little more than several rooms on one level. A combined kitchen and living room bled into a short hallway, leading into a smallish bedroom that he could see from where he stood. He strained to listen for anything…anyone, praising the return of his superior senses after having worn those manacles for so long. Nothing. Sound's confirmation alone was hardly satisfactory.
Sephiroth stepped down the hall lightly, almost mocking himself for the ginger approach after bashing the front door's lock off its frame. Wind whistled behind him as the door waved back and forth. He walked into the bedroom, which was bare save a metal bedframe and mattress. In the corner of his eye, he spied an open linen closet with a lone sheet set.
"That could be useful," he murmured aloud, starved for the lack of sound. He laid Tifa on the bed. There was barely anything to the slip of the woman, surprising that so frail a form could strike him with such fierce blows. His face throbbed dully where she'd struck him. Anyone else would've been downed by her blows, and after months of his incarceration, Sephiroth had to admit that he too had been somewhat dazed. Such a strange feeling. He stood there torn somewhere between admiration and enmity for the formidable warrior. Let it be said that he always admired strength, but he couldn't allow that strength to overwhelm him. He reached for the sheets, winding a set of two as tightly as he could muster before he bound her wrists and ankles up to the elbows and knees. That would buy a few hours of free time to wander, formulate his approach, and attend to other needs. Readjusted, Tifa barely stirred though a small grimace of obvious discomfort manifested against her features. There was the feeling again. Why should he feel like he'd done something…wrong? He'd done worse to enemy combatants in Wutai to extract intel before handing them off to the Turks, and he'd scarcely cared a fig about anything he'd done once Jenova needled her…its way into his affection.
He left the room and the source of his discomfort behind him, exploring the kitchen cabinets and humming with pleasure to himself once he found several citronella candle canisters. The sky beyond the windows that yawned out above the cliff house was black and cloudless. He estimated another four hours until daybreak, reading the position of the phoenix constellation in the sky. Sephiroth summoned up several small flames to light each of the candles, their citrus-infused floral scent filling the room. He hated wasting magic so frivolously. He placed two on the floor, in corners away from windows, and one in the bathroom. A more organized sweep of the shack revealed canned rations, his stomach growled at that discovery, men's grooming supplies, a basic first aid kit, and a half-used bottle of all-purpose body cleanser and shampoo.
He undressed quickly and stepped into the small shower, thankful that it was connected to whatever main water line lay beneath the region. The cold water stung like needles, but it felt...Ah, the sensation was indescribable. Pleasure and pain intermingled, and the temperature transitioned into a brief soothing warmth. Sephiroth lathered his hair and his body, watching rivulets of dirt stream down his legs into the drain underneath the yellow, candlelit glow. He could scarcely recall the last time that he had been clean. It felt like a blessing to run the damp, warm cloth against his face, down his arms, and along the length of his body. After drying himself, he shaved, flicking stubble into the porcelain sink, and watched the fine hairs and foam drain. He raised a hand to his cheek and examined himself. A small shame arose within the comfort he felt as he studied his bare body. His form was considerably leaner but no less toned. Yet, it was somehow lesser.
"What a stupid thought," Sephiroth said, dismissing the matter almost as quickly as it arose. He peered out of the doorway into the bedroom where Tifa lay prone and sighed. He hadn't yet rummaged in the lone dresser in the room. He was loath to dress himself again in those threadbare prison rags. There were women's things. Another drawer revealed men's underclothes, a bit too short and tight for his tall frame. There were pants as well and a form-fitting tee-shirt. First matter resolved, his stomach stirred again. His mind turned to the rations in the kitchen. A can of peas, pumpkin puree, and white fish. The peas were acceptable, but he was undecided on the matter of fish mush and formless squash. He turned back to the room where Tifa lay before making up his mind and wandering out of the house with his sword in hand. So far up the coast and away from the city, rocky tide pools lay pristine. The sky had taken on a deep violet tinge, and he made out several small fish wriggling in the clear water just above the sand. It surprised him to see no monsters, but it only spoke to the efficiency of Cloud's army, which made Sephiroth hesitant to tarry here for too much longer. One matter at a time, he thought, turning his focus once again to the fish. He spotted a few sand gobies, ambling lethargically against a brilliant blue coral. He inhaled for an instant, before striking out and seizing his prey. Its speckled brown body flailed in his hand. That method wouldn't work again. If he had a lightning materia, he might have been able to stun another. Sephiroth scanned the tide pool again, his eyes falling on five large mussels. Perfect.
Returning to the house, he prepped his meal in silence over a materia heated stove. He found a teaspoon of cooking oil in a canister, an iron saucepan, and several utensils. No seasoning, it didn't matter. Simple tasks pleased him. Neither unpleasant memories nor indecision and shame could touch him here. He removed the pan from the heat, waiting with strained patience, and plated his meal. Perhaps, he could entice Tifa with food. When he'd happened upon her, she seemed shaken and perhaps a little injured or fatigued. He neared the room and sighed.
Tifa wasn't on the bed. A sudden slam into his shin revealed the woman who now crouched alongside the bedframe, her body half-obscured. Her crimson gaze blazed.
"I don't know what the hell you're playing at, but I'm not biting," She spat.
Her recovery time was remarkable, he marveled as he struggled to remain on his feet. Relieved that he hadn't dropped the dish, he leapt out of her range and set the plate carefully in the center of the bed. Even bound, she was a challenge. She'd angled her legs carefully underneath herself and sprung upwards, using the momentum to swing her arms like a hammer towards his face. He caught her with ease and held her.
"Stop," Sephiroth commanded, his tone remaining even with some strain as Tifa flailed out of his grasp.
"Like hell!" She shouted.
"Calm down." He pressed again, holding her by her biceps. He pinned her legs between his, wary that she might try a different avenue of attack. She snarled wildly at him and thrashed.
"I am not going to harm you." He murmured.
Tifa chuckled and flashed him a wry little smile, "And, why should I believe you?"
She really didn't have any reasons. Remember, psychological tactics, Sephiroth thought, schooling his features into a blank expression, "You're bound but alive. If I had wanted to merely escape, then I could have broken your neck in the alley. I…apologize too for the way that I subdued you, but we have to talk. Are you hungry?"
Tifa thrashed in his arms again before she spoke, "What do you want? What could you want that I or anyone else would possibly give you?" The woman sighed deeply now, her rage and adrenaline giving way to fear of whatever grim fate she imagined he had in store for her, "Are you going to kill me?"
He observed her for a long moment. There was no malice in the act. She'd seemed calm, rather numb, but he recognized the panic lying just beneath the surface. It stirred something within him, a memory perhaps. Hojo's lab. Bubbling, boiling flesh. Caustic injections. Sephiroth cleared his mind and spoke, "No, I already told you I wouldn't."
"What do you want?" She fell boneless into his grasp and he sat her down onto the bed.
"Just to talk."
"Then talk." She said, her gaze averted. She'd begun to tremble.
"You said that she was alive."
"You'll have to be more specific."
"Lucrecia…the woman, the woman who carried me," Sephiroth couldn't quite bring himself to call the woman his mother again.
"In a sense, yes, but mostly no." Tifa's voice had firmed up, and she continued, "She was like you…encased in a mako crystal."
"You'll take me to her." Sephiroth stated matter-of-factly, and she suddenly shifted in his arms, her eyes catching his hotly. The fear had quickly faded.
"Are you insane?" She asked before laughing humorlessly to herself, "My home was just attacked. My husband is god knows where, and the last fucking thing I am going to do is gallivant across Gaia for the likes of you."
A genuine smile tugged at Sephiroth's lips, even the fear of death couldn't keep the woman's true thoughts and feelings from arising unbidden, "I thought as much. I volunteer an exchange. Your assistance for information. Are you hungry?" he gestured toward the plate, mindful that his hard-earned catch was quickly cooling.
"Hardly," She said, her gaze withering, "If you want my full attention, then untie me."
He shook his head, "Now, Ms. Lockheart."
"Strife." she corrected.
"Tifa." he supplied instead, "I wasn't born yesterday. You're a handful tied, and you haven't even heard what I am going to say. I'll keep it simple. You have turncoats in your army."
"Bullshit." She shook her head fiercely, "If you're just going to sit here and lie to me, then you're wasting your time."
Sephiroth sighed, his appraisal of her intellect and instinct suddenly feeling somewhat overblown, "Think critically, Tifa. All of your major facilities were compromised, strategic points in the town were overwhelmed. Moreover, someone knew the architecture of the prison well enough to disable several series of encrypted locks and a backup generator, and none of that surprises you?"
"How the hell did you…?" Tifa began before Sephiroth cut her off.
"I observe and listen. I watch, and what I've learned between here and Costa del Sol in less than twenty-four hours says a lot."
"Well, let's say that I'm listening." Tifa said, "So far you've only told me that there is one traitor or more in the PF. That's nothing of value, and I'm still seeing nothing to this exchange. You kill me, you don't see Lucrecia. I don't help you, we're stuck here. Cloud will find me eventually."
"Do not think that the matter of your little war has been so readily resolved, and besides if anything, Cloud will think you've been kidnapped by the enemy and pursue them before sweeping beach cabins."
She'd had a retort, but her mouth quickly snapped shut with that thought, and she seemed stricken. He allowed his grasp to slacken — a gamble but one that he would wager and placed his palm over hers. Her brows furrowed, but she didn't pull away. A positive sign. Perhaps, she'd relent.
Sephiroth continued, "I fought one of your ringleaders. I recognized several of my old men in unaffiliated fatigues with a scarred brunet man who the others called Drew. He hadn't been one of mine. The name on his uniform read Humboldt. Does the name ring a bell? I took out one of his conspirators before he ran off screaming another name into a radio emblazoned with your people's sigil."
"Drew Humboldt," Tifa began, exhaling a shaking breath. Sephiroth may as well have faded from the room when he saw how her gaze glazed before taking on a renewed fire, "I don't…I can't believe you. How do I know that you aren't just stringing me along with some stupid scenario that you conjured up? Drew is one of the most dedicated men under Cloud's command."
"Would you want to take that risk?" Sephiroth stroked her hand more firmly now, slowly relaxing his grasp on her.
"If this holds any water, then that's more reason for me to be back in Costa del Sol. Untie me." Tifa shifted, weakly attempting to swat his larger hand.
Sephiroth shook his head, "That isn't the bargain."
"Who said I ever agreed to anything? You talked. I listened. Let me go."
"Lucrecia…"
"Not my problem." She huffed.
Sephiroth sighed, "There is the matter of the second name…perhaps more important than the first, perhaps not. I would give it to you if you lead me to Lucrecia."
"No dice." Tifa retorted, and then she sighed. A wave of emotions flashed within her eyes, tinges of anger, fear, disgust, and something else that made Sephiroth even more uncomfortable than any of the former, more obvious feelings. She licked her lips to question him, "Why is this so important to you?"
That caught him off caught, and he drew a breath, chancing a glance out of the window. Violet hues had given way to a sickly red in the sky, and the sea roared, battering the cliff's side. Sephiroth returned her intense, bright gaze, the narrow slits of his pupils dilating, "I've been fed lies from the day I was born about who and what I am. Presumably Hojo is dead, and as far as I know so are all of the others affiliated with Project S. I want to see her face. I want her to know what has been done to me, and I want her to know what I've done…"
His voice fell away suddenly. He hadn't been prepared to say that. He hadn't even thought about what he might say should he confront her. He released Tifa entirely, drawing a hand to his face. She fell backwards against the wire headboard, squeaking out a soft oof. His shoulders heaved. He panted. His pulse quickened. Her eyes on his…that familiar emotion, that hatred for her pity. He wanted to stop her from looking at him with those wide wet eyes.
Tears fell. Hers, not his. She whispered, "Damn this. I can't do this. Damn you, Sephiroth, damn you. I shouldn't be feeling this way for you, especially you."
He steadied his breath, schooling his features into their usual mask of aristocratic superiority, "Are you hungry?" he gestured toward the plate a few feet away from them. He had to regain control of the situation, steer the conversation. He reached for the plate, cutting white fish flesh into smaller bite-size pieces.
"No," she answered. He shrugged and ate quickly. They sat in silence for ten minutes, before she spoke again, "Untie me. Look, against my better judgement I feel for you. Yes, even you." She said and nodded as he quirked a brow, "I can't begin to grasp the hell you've gone through fully, but I can't even begin to consider this. I'm not even sure what happened to you, but the Sephiroth that I thought I knew would not be begging me to do anything for him at all, but I just, I just can't do…"
"It's a choice, Tifa. Your choice," Sephiroth replied flatly, seizing her bound wrists. He began to untie the knots, feeling a greater sense of futility. Her eyes fell on his hands, studying the length of his arms. Faded injection sights and old scars felt more apparent. Some things never healed even upon returning from marks were a part of him, etched into his body's most perfect memory of itself.
Now unbound, she massaged her forearms, which had grown red under pressure, "My home, my husband….the city," Tifa murmured, "You can't begin to understand."
"I suppose I can't," Sephiroth said looking away.
"No threats?" Tifa began to work at the knots binding her legs, haltingly as if she expected the situation to change any moment. It might have had several months earlier when he still strained for Jenova's phantom call, before he read the documents, and mulled over them endlessly in his mind.
"What good would it do me?" Sephiroth shrugged, tracing his scars with light fingertips. He longed for his old gloves and coat that he'd worn to cover his unsightly flesh. Thinner, his blue veins seemed closer to the surface.
"Apologize to me," Tifa said suddenly, studying him and his furtive movements.
"What?" his voice caught in his throat.
Tifa pressed again, more firmly, "You heard me, Sephiroth. Apologize to me."
"I," Sephiroth paused. Why was this so difficult? He fiddled with the hem of his too tight shirt sleeve, picturing the ghastly charred bodies of people still screaming, their throats too burned to emit sound. He saw himself wielding his katana, saw it impact Tifa's father as the smaller, older man released an inhuman squeal. Lastly, he saw her, more girlish, racing toward him with his own blade. He wrest it from her and without a second thought. He slashed the woman across her front, watching her abdominal cavity split open and ruby drops of blood sprinkle onto the earth with a growing speed. He opened his eyes, hadn't been aware of shutting them and felt shame fully invade his being.
It had been like being back in the white sterile room having to kill his first man.
Sephiroth's hands shook. Nausea overtook him. At least then, torture steered him on to commit that horrible act, but this, this had been nearly entirely self-directed with just the minutest amount of urging from Jenova. He knew right from wrong — knew it abstractly, knew it intimately, knew how it felt when he betrayed Zack, his only friend, on that same day. Sephiroth bit his lower lip and attempted to speak once more, "I…that wasn't. What I mean is…I apologize, Tifa." A shudder wracked his body. He touched his face and stared down at his dampened fingertips in amazement. What was this?
Tifa stood from the bed, backing away from him. The moment had shifted. She shook her head, "I accept your apology, but I can't forgive you. You haven't seen it, the sheer scale of the devastation that you've wrought, but I will help you on three conditions."
"Name them," Sephiroth replied.
"I contact the PF, inform them of the situation. You return my materia and gloves. I will not allow you to make me vulnerable. Traveling to the cavern means traveling through unsecured land. This isn't just for you. Something has been kept from me, and I need to see the frontier myself," Tifa folded her arms and shifted her feet. To him, she seemed as unsure as she was fatigued. He couldn't fathom what she might tell them. That was an unknown to him.
Sephiroth raked through his hair before standing to match her. He held an outstretched hand, "Very well. I accept."
A/N: Thank you for the reviews. I am always happy to read the responses that you give me, and thank you for sticking with me despite my rather erratic updating schedule. This was a doozy of a chapter to write. I'd rewritten the end to this chapter maybe several times. Sephiroth showed signs of breaking in the previous chapters, and this is the start of his redemption. Though this doesn't follow any of the wider FFVII material beyond the base game as it's AU, my characterization of him will more closely align with the one depicted in Crisis Core. Even then, he's only really observed from a distance as being somewhat stoic and dryly humorous at times. A second thought – it's refreshing and challenging to write in a very restricted point of view rather than as the all-seeing narrator. Though the point of view shifts between chapters, Tifa's real thoughts and feelings are never known in this chapter. Though a sense of pity and benevolence may be steering her actions to an extent in this chapter, I can assure you that she and Sephiroth aren't going to be on precisely neutral terms for several chapters, and they'll be far from affectionate though this story's direction is SephTi. The next chapter will be narrated from Tifa's perspective.