Faded Dreams, Falling Like Rain

A Final Fantasy VII Fan Fiction by Sarah Digna Yudlowitz

Dream . . .

Dream of death . . .

Dream of moonlight . . .

Legal Disclaimer: Final Fantasy VII and all of its characters belong to the company of Squaresoft. I do not claim these characters or the concept of the game for my own. This work is not to be distributed, sold, or posted anywhere without the consent of its author. Comments and encouragements are always welcomed, as they are a part of the enjoyment of writing Fan fiction. Please take this into consideration while you read the following fiction.



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Chapter Twenty







Vincent was stunned, to say the least. His usually narrowed, and concentrated brooding face was full of life, displaying a look of some heartbreaking memory. Vincent stumbled back and gripped the side of the boat, retreating into the closet once more, his breath coming out in gasps. When he closed his eyes, he saw himself cradling Lucrecia in his arms. It was after they had first made love, and they had both professed their love to one another previously over dinner. Horror overtook him when she became rigid and limp, and her eyes were blank, open and seeing nothing but the hereafter. Vincent had cradled her body then too. Eventually, the anger overtook him.

What irony. Lucrecia had died giving birth to his childe.

What a cruel fate. He wanted to feel anger toward the man that had first raped his love, his seed making her pregnant, demanding of her the life for science. Hojo's threats kept her silent, and she returned to Vincent, but . . . she was so much more different. Hojo's violation of her had made her cold and untrusting, and even though she trusted Vincent and loved him dearly, she even flinched to be touched by him.





"Don't touch me," Lucrecia had said, shying away from Vincent's hands caressing her face, holding her near. It crushed him to see her like this. "I'm not pure . . . I let him do this to me."





"I don't understand, Lucrecia. Did he not violate you?" he held his hand out to cradle her face again, and she shied away yet again. She looked so frail in the sterile white room. She saw tears form in Vincent's eyes, and she looked away, closing her eyes tightly, as if wounded.





"At first . . . he did. But . . . the way he talked of Science . . ."





"Science?!" Vincent whispered hoarsely, out of surprise. "This man speaks lunacy, Lucrecia. Look what . . . he's done to you." The Turk's hand entwined with hers and she fought back tears.





"Whatever was inside me . . . it isn't merely human. It ate my strength so much . . . it talked to me in ways I never knew one could talk."





"Lucrecia . . ." Her spout of what seemed like nonsense concerned Vincent.





"Won't you make the hurting stop?" Her frail body was wracking with sobs. It was a miracle she had survived pregnancy. And she had let Hojo have the baby, knowing she would never be able to take care of a childe born out of wedlock.





"Shh," Vincent said, sitting next to her, and taking up his violin."You should sleep now." Beginning to play a tune of infinite sadness and an undying love, Vincent guided her into that uneasy slumber that he would know soon for decades . . .







***







"Are you ready for the cryostasis period?" Hojo asked. Vincent had been averse to suicide, so left his body for the Science department. He hadn't even blinked when he had heard that Hojo would be the one experimenting on him. He was so numb . . . so terribly numb.

He still felt Lucrecia's body in his arms. He still saw the nurse taking away the childe. He still remembered years later when he had gone through the functions of living . . . of taking care of Sephiroth and Lilith. He had been letting Hojo experiment on him for the years that he watched Sephiroth and Lilith grow up. Lilith clung to him, while Sephiroth was indifferent to everything and everyone, and he included. He told him things, however.

He wished he could just say something, but he never did. Hojo had . . . "advised" him not to. And finally, when Gast went away, Hojo seemed to push the experiments much more forward. Vincent was aware that Hojo didn't particularly care what happened to him, or if what he was doing benefitted science. In fact, when Hojo had told him that he would sleep for twenty-five years, he was sure that Hojo wanted him out of the way for something. Vincent had stared into his own eyes in the window of a Slum store for an hour this morning, thinking about Lucrecia, and the fact that the experimentations had made his eyes red. Hojo had ranted about something he said he liked to term the Chaos Theory. Vincent had listened half aware when Hojo had spoken of the changes that Vincent's body had been put through. He simply didn't care. All he wanted was for it to be painful. And it was, but not enough so that it drowned out his mental pain. In a way, the long slumber would give him peace. Or so he thought. His nightmares had been Hell since Lucrecia died. He thought that would end, so he somberly agreed to what Hojo had in store for him.





" . . . Yes," was his one word reply. It was the first time he'd said something, anything, in days . . . and it would be the last thing he said.







" . . .Vincent?" his name was uttered cautiously. Vincent tried not to snap. He forced the tears from his eyes and regained his composure. He had gotten so good at doing that when he became a Turk. It came in handy more often then naught, Vincent had to realize. This made him sigh. He had not enjoyed the business of Snipering, but . . . he was good at it. And he had become the head Turk quite effortlessly. His comrades understood he was a man of few words, and they understood why. He had risen so high in the Turk field because he did what he had to do without objecting, and he formed no lasting relationships. Until Lucrecia, of course.

He had lived a lot longer than most Turks. He would live a lot longer than most humans . . . perhaps that was why he felt a certain affinity for Nanaki, the wise nonhuman companion that had originated from Cosmo Canyon, holding a great honor above his head with a great pride and respect. He was Seto's son. This would mean little to Vincent, if it was not for the story that came behind it. He wished he had a little pride. But . . . all that had vanished. All he felt was remorse and coldness. He was doomed with it.

Again, the cautious voice. "Vincent, please come out? We want to talk to you." Sighing, Vincent obliged, creaking open the door. He noticed the tremor in his good arm. He was shaking from the effort not to show emotion, and he mentally cursed himself as Cloud drew him out by the arm and apologized profusely. Vincent absently wondered if Cloud got the wrong idea for him . . . running like that, but Cloud was more perceptive than he had thought. He heard a string of words tied together by the name Lucrecia and Vincent blinked his blood red eyes. They had become a dull burgundy, his anger drowning from his body, dissolving into the air with his trembling. Cloud sensed something was wrong. Lilith was standing in front of the door to the small room, staring blankly off into space, her hands at her sides, curled slightly. It reminded Vincent so much of himself, the way she was withdrawing into herself.





"Cloud . . . do you love her?" Vincent asked quietly.





"Vincent," Cloud whispered, silently, "I don't know . . . I . . . I'm so confused. This is all too much." Cloud shook his head and let his bangs obscure his eyes. He took in a great big gulp of air and felt his chest constrict with his uneasy mood. Sephiroth . . . Vincent . . . Lilith . . . the crisis for the Planet avoided . . . his life's aftermath screwing with him . . . Cloud almost wished he was dead. Almost. But Sephiroth had told him that he should collect some wisdom, and he wanted to, above all else. He sighed.





"I understand, Cloud. Forgive me." And Vincent took Lilith into his embrace. He hated to see her looking forlorn, because he hated to see Lucrecia like that. And he knew he could do little to stop the hurting for Lucrecia, but for Lilith . . . he could at least try, couldn't he? He had been trying to help Cloud, after all, hadn't he? For the most part, Cloud seemed less withdrawn and moody, but there was a sadness there that dripped of the loss of love. That was what had drawn him to Cloud. Vincent was perceptive to emotion when he wanted to be. He didn't want to be wrapped up in what he felt all of the time. It was what had made him so lonely as a childe, and as an adult. And he understood that in age, he was now an older man . . . a half century year old. His ageless beauty sometimes threw him, making him think that he was so much younger, so much more naive. But he had learned a few things, being the way he was. And now that he no longer shared a body with Chaos, or was a Turk, he felt less like a soulless Murderer, and more like someone to be paid attention to. In ways, that made him feel more guilty for what happened to Lucrecia, and so his curse would never be lifted. He understood this. One day, Vincent prayed that when he had seen enough, that he could be able to bring himself to taking his own life. Without something vital to live on, he was almost sure he would live no more.





"Vincent, I still feel like a childe," Lilith said.





"You are a childe," Vincent laughed, the sound still seeming alien to him. Humor had always been so out of reach for him. He had no sense for it for the longest time.





"Hey, guys! It's about ten minutes 'til we arrive at North Corel," the heavyset man who had been steering the boat shouted. He had stomped a heavy boot onto the first step to the lower level of the boat for attention. "Get all your shit together and then I can find a suitable place to dock." With that, his puffy bloated face was removed from the staircase, and Lilith was the first to retreat into the room, grabbing her things. Cloud took his bag next, slinging it over his shoulder, taking Vincent's as well, chucking it to him. Vincent caught it and attached it to his waist. It wasn't that big. It was a pouch really. There were little things Vincent carried with him. His gun was strapped to arms in its holster, visible for a threat. Normally, he'd have his cloak concealing it, but these were quite hectic times. He realized that especially when he saw the condition in which North Corel was in.