Sleep never came easy to Sephiroth. His heart hurt, as did his mind and soul. He could not stop thinking about Costa Del Sol… or the girl. His mind raced over the facts that he had gained in the last twenty-four hours. None of it seemed to fit together. Attacked… screams of agony… a charred face…….."No!" he cried.
"Seph?" the boy muttered in his sleep. His eyelids fluttered and then closed again, too weary to awaken.
Sephiroth brought the boy closer to his body, stroking the man-child's raven locks as he did so. "Sleep well," he whispered, "Weep well." He bent over to kiss the boy, but decided against it, preferring not to awaken his sleeping angel. It was well after midnight, and Sunday was already looking beautiful. All seemed peaceful enough. Suddenly, there was a slight rapping at the door.
After settling the boy's head on the pillow, the great Sephiroth stepped out of bed. He was naked besides a pair of plain boxers and a loose white tee shirt. He pulled on a pair of jeans that had been hanging over the chair, and proceeded to open the door. In the doorway stood a man of tall stature. His dark brown hair came to his shoulders and was arranged in no particular order. Bright, emerald eyes shone out in the darkness. His face was thin and almost paper white. The rest of the man was covered in a dark, velvet cape that touched the floor.
"Hello?" Sephiroth asked, trying to keep his cool. The man had, after all, disturbed him in the middle of the night.
"I'm looking for a man known as Sephiroth. Do you know where I can find him?" the stranger asked.
"I am he. What do you need to see me for?"
"I come an account of your creator, Mr. Hojo. I have been given permission by him and other authorities to let you see the paperwork on how and why you were created."
"Hojo? Created? What?" Sephiroth's face displayed a look of bewilderment of fear. …I don't understand…
"Please gather your things as you will not be back for several nights. Oh yes, and please bring your sword. I am eager to see you in action." Sephiroth turned around to grab his masunume, and as he did so, felt a fist connect with the back of his lower neck. The floor raced up at him. "Be still," the man said, "it will only hurt for a moment." A stabbing pain rocketed through his body, and then located itself in the side of his neck. The feeling was both new and disturbingly familiar. Attempting to move his body, two more sharp pangs, located beneath his shoulder blades, attacked him. Sephiroth was pinned down under the man's weight. Darkness enfolded him.
"Sleep well," he whispered.
"Weep well." the stranger finished. The great warrior's body lay limp in the center of a cheap hotel room. The man stood up, grabbed the masunume, and turned to the desk. After locating a pen and paper, he wrote a Stan Rice poem on the sheet. He focused his attention on the boy, then on the man, both of whom were in a dreamless sleep. The strange man left the room, carrying the warrior in his arms like a child, and the sword tucked into his belt. The hotel room was once again a peaceful refuge from the night.
"Seph?" the boy muttered in his sleep. His eyelids fluttered and then closed again, too weary to awaken.
Sephiroth brought the boy closer to his body, stroking the man-child's raven locks as he did so. "Sleep well," he whispered, "Weep well." He bent over to kiss the boy, but decided against it, preferring not to awaken his sleeping angel. It was well after midnight, and Sunday was already looking beautiful. All seemed peaceful enough. Suddenly, there was a slight rapping at the door.
After settling the boy's head on the pillow, the great Sephiroth stepped out of bed. He was naked besides a pair of plain boxers and a loose white tee shirt. He pulled on a pair of jeans that had been hanging over the chair, and proceeded to open the door. In the doorway stood a man of tall stature. His dark brown hair came to his shoulders and was arranged in no particular order. Bright, emerald eyes shone out in the darkness. His face was thin and almost paper white. The rest of the man was covered in a dark, velvet cape that touched the floor.
"Hello?" Sephiroth asked, trying to keep his cool. The man had, after all, disturbed him in the middle of the night.
"I'm looking for a man known as Sephiroth. Do you know where I can find him?" the stranger asked.
"I am he. What do you need to see me for?"
"I come an account of your creator, Mr. Hojo. I have been given permission by him and other authorities to let you see the paperwork on how and why you were created."
"Hojo? Created? What?" Sephiroth's face displayed a look of bewilderment of fear. …I don't understand…
"Please gather your things as you will not be back for several nights. Oh yes, and please bring your sword. I am eager to see you in action." Sephiroth turned around to grab his masunume, and as he did so, felt a fist connect with the back of his lower neck. The floor raced up at him. "Be still," the man said, "it will only hurt for a moment." A stabbing pain rocketed through his body, and then located itself in the side of his neck. The feeling was both new and disturbingly familiar. Attempting to move his body, two more sharp pangs, located beneath his shoulder blades, attacked him. Sephiroth was pinned down under the man's weight. Darkness enfolded him.
"Sleep well," he whispered.
"Weep well." the stranger finished. The great warrior's body lay limp in the center of a cheap hotel room. The man stood up, grabbed the masunume, and turned to the desk. After locating a pen and paper, he wrote a Stan Rice poem on the sheet. He focused his attention on the boy, then on the man, both of whom were in a dreamless sleep. The strange man left the room, carrying the warrior in his arms like a child, and the sword tucked into his belt. The hotel room was once again a peaceful refuge from the night.
