The sky that greets him is streaked with red.
He squints. Is the sky red, or is it something else smeared across his eyes that's red? No, he thinks, it must be the sky. Clouds hang against a red-gold backdrop in streaks that catch purple and blue shadows. It's a gorgeous sight.
Unfortunately, it's not the only thing he wakes up to.
This fact flashes to the forefront of his addled mind in the form of pain. A sharp lance of it, right in his chest - between his ribs. It whips clarity back to his senses. His clothes cling to him, water laps at his back. Everything is cold. Except for that brilliant prick of pain in his chest - that one burns, heat leaking down, soaking into his drenched clothing and radiating outwards.
Kind of like how the sun's rays stretch out from behind the tree tops that line his vision. Shafts of light catching on streaky clouds.
Cloud blinks, but finds that he can't lift his lids again.
All he has is the sound of the river. The chill soaks deeper into his bones. Everything else spills from his chest.
He thinks he's starting to forget how to hear things when the crunch of pebbles pulls at the last vestiges of his mind. Cloud doesn't move. He can't, even if he wanted to. He just listens. The crunching is closer. Louder. He focuses on it like he's clinging to the last threads of something. He listens until the scrape of rock on rock starts to grate on his ears.
When it stops, Cloud tries to open his eyes.
The sky is metal now. White, incandescent lights flare at the corners of his vision. Is he still laying down? Sitting up? His head is heavy. He hears the hiss of something behind him, it's a sound that he doesn't recognize. Metal grinding on metal, somewhere in the distance. The smell of smoke and coal. Mostly, his attention is focused on the woman bent over him. Her brows are furrowed with worry, lips pressed into a slight frown. She's wearing a white tank top, dark hair flowing over exposed shoulders, a gloved hand reaching out to him.
She's saying something. He picks up the ghost of an 'are you alright?'. A dog barks.
His vision shifts like sand slipping through a crack. Suddenly, the woman's hand is no longer gloved. Suddenly, she's wrapped in a dark cloak, the hood pulled over her head. There's no longer glaring white light blinding the corners of his eyes. No metal sky. Instead, what's above is lit only by a crescent moon that dangles in its inky depths.
There is one constant, however.
Eyes like a hearth. Steady even as his mind swirls. He isn't sure where he is anymore - washed up on the pebbled shores of a river? Or slumped against a grimy brick wall on a dusty stone floor? Is the sky steel or moonlit black? He's met this woman. He's never seen her in his life.
But as her fingers - warm and sweet - cradle his cheek, a word slips from his blood stained lips.
"...Tifa…"
Cloud thinks he's dead.
Then he realizes he can't think that he's dead, if he's actually dead.
But consciousness evades him like a fish in his hands. When it slithers in, he finds himself some place that fills his blurry vision with a warm orange glow. He scents spices in the air - something sticky on his chest, something soft beneath his head. And then it slips away again, and he's dragged back into the dark.
The next time Cloud claws his way back to the world, he hears voices beside him.
"Tifa, I think he's awake." A girl who sounds quite young. Something damp and cool that rubs gingerly over his forehead.
"Don't wake him up, Marlene." This one has a voice like honey. It's not one he's heard before, but it's one that strikes something deep and familiar. "He needs to rest; just finish up now."
"Okay." The cold rag drags down his temple and over his cheek. Small fingertips brush hair off his slick forehead. "Get better soon, mister stranger." These words are whispered like a secret - so soft he isn't sure if he heard it, or dreamt it.
Either way, he's gone again.
It's pain that finally slaps him fully awake.
He hisses, instinctively swatting away the source of the pain - whatever it is, he doesn't care. It's like someone is driving something into his chest, singing nerves he didn't know he had. He shoots up in bed, but doesn't make it very far before something firm catches his shoulders. Cloud opens his eyes but his world spins with pain and confusion. He looks up, his gaze snapping to carmine eyes and, suddenly, things steady.
"Woah, woah," she's speaking with that same voice he recognizes dimly. "You need to stay down." Her hands are warm against his shoulders. He's not wearing a shirt. They're in someone's home. He can see a kitchen with brick walls tucked in the back, a smouldering fire, pots and pans hanging from hooks. Beside the fireplace, there's a wall of wooden shelves that's filled with glass containers and small boxes - colourful and wholly unrecognizable to him. A wooden dining table sits beside that - not very big, adorned with a small clay vase that's near overfilled with flowers. Dried plants of all sorts, bundled in neat bunches, hang from string that stretches in front of the kitchen. Wooden beams prop up the ceiling, with arcs overhead, dull clay between each slat.
Cloud lets himself be pushed back down, "Who...are you?" His voice is barely more than a husk. He tries to clear his throat, but the motion sends fire exploding out his chest.
The woman gives him a look, "You don't know?"
"Why would I?" He croaks.
"You said my name when I found you," she explains, turning to pick up a heavy looking stone bowl off the wooden table beside her. There's a rag there too, dirtied with something dark and green. The woman picks up a spoon from inside the stone bowl, scooping up a heaping bunch of some pale green paste. "Don't move." She says, reaching over and gently dolloping the bitter smelling concoction onto his chest.
He grits his teeth through a pierce of pain, eyes slamming shut. He tries to ball up his fists, but the most he manages is a weak twitch of his fingers. Through the pain pounding in his head, he realizes that the rest of him feels heavy and limp. He can feel every push and prod of the sticky substance the woman is applying to his wound.
Instead of focusing on that, he closes his eyes - tries to get his thoughts in order.
Except he can't. He remembers reading a posting tipping off a witch living in some quiet village in the country. He'd gone there to take care of it - to rid the village of this menace. But things start to blur from there on. There'd been fire and shouting. Running through a dark wood, heart screaming in his ears. And then...he'd woken up to a red streaked sky, and a woman with eyes like a hearth, who he knew and didn't know.
He cracks his eyes open, and sees the same woman leaned over him, lips set in concentration.
"Y...Your name's Tifa," he says, and is too delirious with pain and exhaustion to see the way her movements pause, or the way her shoulders tense.
"How did you know?" She asks, hand hovering over him, unmoving. But Cloud's head is starting to spin harder and harder. His eyes roll back, lids falling shut. He thinks he can hear distant voices, the sound of music playing, glasses clinking - the familiar cadence of an alehouse. But it's muffled, like he hears it through several walls.
"A feeling," he murmurs.
She brushes hair off his forehead, then lays a palm across it. He sinks into her touch, which soothes an ache he didn't know he had. The darkness that envelops him next is softer.
"Rest," she says.
Cloud. His name, still muffled, in that achingly familiar voice.
Tifa watches the strange man drop back into unconsciousness. She pulls her hand back and sighs. It'd been nearly a week since she'd found him, washed up like an abandoned doll on the river bank. His clothing had been singed, a hole punched through the oily black leather armour he wore. Prone on his back, bleeding out and burning up at the same time. She'd been wondering if she needed to consider giving the poor sap some sort of a funeral when he'd opened his eyes.
There were very few people in her life who Tifa would consider close enough to be familiar. But she'd met his gaze and something about it had sunk into her core and strummed something deep. Before she could make sense of it all, he'd spoken her name and suddenly she wasn't standing by the river side anymore.
In his voice, she'd heard her name called, cried, murmured, and whispered - all at once. A place with metal buildings that towered overhead and covered the skies. An eerie green glow that filled the nights. Bustling streets and people in unfamiliar clothing. A creaking tavern with hot lights and soft music.
Linen blond hair and eyes like a starlit night.
Tifa had ended up hauling the dying man home. Together with Marlene, they'd fashioned an old bench into a makeshift bed beneath the windows of the front hall. Tifa had loaned the man her pillow while Marlene dug up an old, patchy blanket from the boxes beneath their bed. Then, while Marlene slept, Tifa had worked to remove the man's armour to assess the damage.
It looked like he'd been pierced in the chest by a sword. The wound was clean - deep enough to be worrying, but not deep enough to have killed him right away. But he'd have died from blood loss if she hadn't found him though.
Over the next few days, Tifa tended to the man. She brewed and fed him potions to keep his energy up. She stitched up his wound, and put together a paste to speed the recovery. She cleaned the dirt and grime and dried blood off his skin. Why? It was hard to say. It would have been easier to let him die. It probably would have been safer too. Cheaper.
As Tifa straightens up after watching the man pass out again, her eyes slide over to the pile of gear set off to the side. His sword is propped against the wall beside the front door, black armour in a pile, a small pouch of belongings on top of that. There'd been a metal badge amongst his belongings. The Kingdom of Shinra's coat of arms had been engraved on it. Beside that, a simple symbol: a pair of crossed swords surrounded by a ring of fire depicted by flourishes that flare and coil around the blades. The mark of a witch hunter.
Beneath that: Cloud Strife.
She still hasn't made sense of that strange vision she'd had on the river bank. Frankly, she's too afraid to try and understand it. Even as someone who deals with magic, there are some things that she would rather not know about. Things that are beyond time and comprehension are better left untouched.
Gathering up her things, Tifa glances at the sleeping man again. It's a risk to keep him here. Even if her home may pass as a regular apothecary, and even if she's careful about when she uses her magic, she's sure that a witch hunter would have a sharp enough eye to notice things. But as much as she wants to let fate have its way with him, she can't bring herself to throw him out.
She can handle herself. She just has to make sure to protect Marlene too.
Turning, she sees the young girl peeking in through the backdoor. Their cottage in the woods isn't very big. It's mainly one big room, with a front door, a back door, and one more door leading to the bathroom that's attached to the side of the building. There aren't many places to hide.
Tifa smiles, "All done picking?" She asks, toting the stone bowl and dirtied rag over towards the sink by the kitchen, which is really just a tall bucket tucked beneath a metal hand pump.
"Mhm," Marlene wanders into the cottage, eyeing the sleeping man for a bit, before turning back to Tifa. She's dressed in a blue pinstripe dress and an off-white apron up front (which, presently, is stained with dirt and purplish smears). Her dark hair is tied into twin braids that rest against her collar, bangs sweeping her forehead. Tucked in the crook of her elbow in an old reed basket that's halfway full of blackberries. "I only got scratched a little bit this time," she says, stepping over to the kitchen area to show Tifa her right hand.
Setting everything into the sink, Tifa wipes her hands off on her own apron before turning to consider the young girl's wounds. She frowns, dropping down to a crouch as she takes Marlene's hand. Scratches speckle the backs of her hand, her wrists, and down her forearm. Thankfully, at least, the scratches are as superficial as they come.
"Marlene, I thought I told you to only pick the ones on the outside?" Tifa scolds gently, "Blackberry bushes have lots of thorns - you could have hurt yourself really badly."
"But the good ones were all inside," Marlene protests, watching as Tifa lifts her hand up and kisses each one of the scratches. By time she's gone through it all, the scratches have all closed up, and her arm is back to normal. "Besides, you'll always fix me up!"
Tifa meets Marlene's smile with a raised brow. "Yes, but that doesn't mean you should be careless," she says, but before she can say much else, Tifa's expression flickers when Marlene starts to cough. It's the kind that shakes through the girl's body and sounds as painful as it feels. Tifa can do little more than take the basket for blackberries from Marlene, so that the girl can reach both hands up to cup over her mouth.
Each cough makes Tifa's chest wrench. It takes a minute before it starts to slow. Beside them, the basket of blackberries moves on its own. Slipping out of Tifa's hand, it drifts up and sets itself down on the counter. Meanwhile, a glass of water that had been sitting on the counter floats down towards the young girl. Marlene takes the glass out of the air without looking, and takes a careful sip.
Tifa watches warily. Suddenly, the young girl looks years older than she'd been when she stepped in through the door. The coughing always saps so much of her energy.
"Doing okay?" Tifa asks, taking the emptied glass from Marlene with her hand. Of course, Marlene nods, and wipes her mouth on the back of her hand. "Why don't you get cleaned up? I'll get dinner started, and then it'll be time for your medicine. Sounds good?"
"Sounds good," Marlene replies, then coughs again. She swallows, taking a careful breath as her eyes flicker behind Tifa, to the man stretched out on the bench by the front door. "Did you fix up your friend too?"
Tifa blinks, "My friend?"
"Isn't he your friend?" Marlene looks back at Tifa, confusion shining in doe-brown eyes. "I heard him say your name. And you called him something too, right? Um-" she furrows her brow, coughs a bit, "-Cloud, or something? So I thought you must have known each other."
Tifa isn't sure what to tell the girl. Mostly because she didn't really know what was going on herself. "He isn't a friend," she tries for a smile, "Just because we know each other's names doesn't mean we're friends."
Regret pangs Tifa's chest as she sees Marlene's expression drop. "Oh," she says, glancing over at Cloud again, before looking down at the ground. "This 'friends' stuff is hard, huh?"
Tifa feels her heart crack a little more, but she manages a smile, "Oh, it's not so bad, Marlene. As soon as you get better, I'm sure you'll make lots of friends," she says as lightly as she can. Reaching up, she cradles Marlene's cheek, gently tilting the girl's head up to face her. "For now, you should go get washed up. The blackberries you picked look so juicy, how does a cobbler for dessert sound?"
Marlene hesitates a second, but eventually nods and smiles, "Can I help?"
"When you're not so stinky." Tifa says, crinkling a nose and feeling her chest warm when Marlene giggles. She gives the girl a gentle pat on the cheek, "Alright, let's go now. I've already warmed some water for you."
Marlene whirls around, and Tifa watches as the young girl heads over to grab her pyjamas from the drawer beside the bed, before heading over to the bathroom. Tifa waits for the bathroom door to close before she sighs. There will come a day where the prospect of blackberry cobbler alone won't be enough to lift Marlene's spirits. Hopefully, Tifa will have found a cure before then.
Pushing back up, Tifa glances back at Cloud, who is still unconscious on the bench. She leaves him be, and sets about preparing dinner.
The rest of the afternoon passes almost as if there isn't an unconscious witch hunter in the front hall. Tifa prepares a simple dinner of a vegetable and mushroom stew, along with bread. Marlene helps with the blackberry cobbler, giggling when Tifa smudges her cheek with flour and chides her for eating the blackberries. But it isn't long before the cobbler is done, and the pair settles down for the night.
As usual, dinner is a quiet, but no less cheery, affair. Tifa is glad to see that Marlene's appetite is still strong. The girl finishes her stew, and her bread, and finally gets a generous helping of their blackberry cobbler - still warm from the oven. When all is said as done, Marlene helps to tote the dishes into the sink while Tifa prepares a mug of the young girl's medication.
It consists of a mug of boiling water, with a few drops of a pale white potion she'd made earlier in the week, along with some herbs that steep in the steaming liquid. It's been a month since she's come up with this particular concoction and, so far, it seems to be helping. Marlene's more energetic this time, compared to the last. She doesn't cough and hack through the night as much, and seems to be sleeping better.
Of course, Tifa also knows that this only alleviates the poor girls' symptoms. It's still far, far from a cure.
For now, Marlene takes her medicine and it isn't long after that for the sleep inducing effects to take hold. They step over to the bed in the corner of the room opposite from the front hall. There's only one bed that they share. Marlene curls up under the covers. Tifa stays on top of it, hand resting on the girl's side.
"G'night, Tifa…" Marlene murmurs, words sticky with sleep, "I love you."
"I love you too," Tifa rubs her hand down over Marlene's back, then back up to her side. "Tomorrow will be better."
Marlene gives a single, small cough, "T'morrow'll be better."
Tifa waits until Marlene is properly asleep, the cadence of her breath blessedly even and steady. Once she's satisfied with that, Tifa pushes up and heads off to get washed up herself. She's wary of leaving Marlene alone with the unconscious man, so Tifa doesn't take long. Once she's done, she steps out in only a long, white chemise. It's a hot summer night, so she's grateful for the thin fabric and the breeze that skims exposed shoulders and shins.
Returning to the sink, she finishes with cleaning up. By the time she's done, it's dark enough that she has to light a candle or two. She does this without looking - simply wills the few candles situated around the kitchen and dining area to flare up with light. The cottage is awash in a quiet glow as Tifa dries her hands.
There's still the matter of the man on the bench. It's been some time since she's fed him an elixir to keep his energy up, and seeing as he isn't conscious enough for food, he's going to need the boost soon. Glancing back over towards the man in question, Tifa watches him a moment. He hasn't moved. It doesn't look like he's going to move either.
Tifa grabs her mortar and pestle, setting it down on the dining table gently to avoid making too much noise. She turns after that, stepping over towards the wall beside the kitchen that's just a wooden shelf stocked full of various vials and jars. At the bottom of it, a long series of leather bound books stand, their covers and spine worn from use. She picks one out and flips it open.
Tifa doesn't usually brew elixirs for energy.
The village folk don't need to know about it. She's happy to provide simple medicines and cures, but anything beyond that risks outing herself as a witch. Tifa's content being the recluse apothecary whose medicines work wonders - she doesn't need to give them any reasons to suspect otherwise.
Even if she knows something like this will earn her a lot of money, Marlene's safety comes first. There's not telling what would happen if anyone in town finds out about her capabilities, no matter how kind they might seem.
For a second, she can feel a furious heat licking at her face. A fire that sets the night aglow. Screams and metal screech.
The candles around her flicker.
Tifa forces herself to focus on the task at hand. The recipe is laid out in worn, yellowed pages. It's not her handwriting, but it's one that she knows as well as her own. She lifts a hand, finger tracing the ink as she lists the ingredients in a whisper under her breath.
Around her, the jars start to shift. Glass scrapes murmurs against wood as they move out of the way, and then drop off the shelf entirely. They plummet only for a beat, before an unseen force pushes them up again. Riding an invisible wind, they float through the air, carrying themselves over to the wooden dining table. Cork lids uncap with a soft pop, metal lids unscrew. The ingredients pour free into the mortar, or lift up from inside the jar and gently set themselves back down into the bowl.
The whole time, Tifa doesn't lift her eyes off the page. The various vials and jars drift past her on their way over to the table, and then back on the shelf. The whole scene takes only a minute or two, her attention focused entirely on the book in her hands. When it's finally done, Tifa closes the book shut with a soft thump. All that's left is to actually grind everything together and leave it out to soak up the dawn.
She's about to turn when she feels the cold tip of steel press into the valley of her back.
Tifa freezes, breath snagging painfully in her throat.
"You're…" The voice is a weak rasp, but dripping with the kind of determination that makes ice crawl down her spine. "You're a witch."
Tifa swallows, hazards a glance backwards. Cloud is standing, holding his sword up to her, one hand curled into a fist at his side. His eyes, catching the candle light, glows like azure stones. "I saved you."
His expression is hard. "Thanks," he says, "And now I get to kill you."