It's still going, sorry. I should probably not leave months between each update, but, hell, I can't think of a feasible excuse just yet.

Chapter VII

An educt's wedding at death's right hand, pierced by a lance of light. People are graceful ghosts, skipping through the annals of time until they find a more desirable era. All of us breathe in different times and yet are the same. My, no, Garnet's king, stalks the halls of his demented basilica, his feet alight with suspicious flame, for his is a strangely pleasant torture, forbidden to witness the advent of a new and innocent deity. She is mine, Zidane, as much as you are. Burning for all the things I never did, I reached out to him, inviting him to witness the absolute idolatry truth would instill in both of us. I saw it all and closed my eyes, never to be opened again. New eyes grew, torn into my heart by my mother's cries of anguish.

I can't tell who I am any more, I love those I have loved since I came to Alexandria, and yet that name sounds unfamiliar, its enceinte edifices not suited to their title. I will call it Midgar, as I feel I always have. Above the city gates a plaque proclaims the notion, "I am the reincarnation and the life". I will kill their God, for It is the bringer of death, the only reason for reincarnation. Peddle your shameless philosophies to one who will die some distant day, not my dear royal court and I.

* * * * *

It hurt, like she knew it would. It smelled of chlorine and ammonia, it looked like a Cloudless sky at six a.m, and it hurt like hell. It's the time for pain, and it's accepted before it comes and yet it will gnaw with every ounce of its bedraggled might all the same. Don't die, Garnet. Don't kill my baby.

The child's name, a neophyte ball of energy and curiously violent love. Kuja. My name. Sephiroth.'s alias; sandalwood and stolen zephyr, safe in another's arms. Another Garnet. With longer hair and fists of hot sinewed steel.. A beautiful guerilla, pretender to the throne of her dead mother, her and all our bastard children. She did not push our daughter into this arrogant reflection of a discordant world, more the future forced herself past her mother. She's the queen now, Tifa.

* * * * *

Fantasy is blind men's utopia, this I know, the place where adrenaline flows as wine and magic soars with the rising wind. And maybe the fantasy we create ourselves is the only real magic left.

* * * * *

Coronis

"What's coming through is a lie

What's holding up is a mirror

And what's singing songs is a snake

Looking to turn my piss to wine

They're both totally void of hate

Killing me just the same

The snake behind me hisses

What my damage could have been

My blood before me begs me

Open up my heart again"

Tool, "H".