DL Noleek
Sonata of Ages
Overture: Movement III
"Fool, your mother is dead, do you understand? She is not coming back, Tifa! They buried her in a hole in the ground, under the dirt! By now she has already returned to the Planet!"
-Alex
11 years ago…
He should have never been invited—it was a situation that had bent itself out of proportion and into his favor. They had finally spotted him staring through her window, his hands on the dusty frame, nose almost touching the glass. It hadn't been the first time he had lingered at that doorway into her world; in fact, it was something he did quite frequently.
They all hung out in there, three boys and the one girl: Alex, Rin, Escot, and Tifa. He had observed them with critical, envious eyes, wishing she would allow him in, the little queen with her dark forest brown hair and equally dark fawn eyes. He could not count the many times he had dreamed of those slim fingers beckoning to him, or those full lips, red as ripe strawberries, calling his name.
Dreams, however, always shattered and then reality would always make the executive decision to settle in. The boys would always catch him and chase him away, often forcefully. He had the cuts and bruises to prove it, though nothing had scarred as of yet (much to everyone's surprise). Yes, he could remember with little fondness the hair pulling, kicking, punching, knife wounds, and taunting.
After awhile, he had gotten used to it.
Then they had invited him on their adventure and despite his better judgment, he had accepted their offer. The Nibel Mountains, however, were dangerous, especially in the dead of winter. Perhaps what they needed was his help, someone who wouldn't squeal when all was said and done. No one was to know about this hazardous trek.
When they had started out early that morning, Escot harping about the enormity of their dare, all had seemed well; it had even been somewhat exhilarating. Now, however, a cold sweat had begun to break upon his brow and he couldn't keep his breathing calm and even. The hair on the back of his neck raised a fraction and he shivered at every slight gust of wind. There was something wrong. Holy knew he couldn't quite put his finger on it, but he could swear that this was a bad idea. He was constantly glancing behind him toward Rin, who pinned him with a glare from his vibrant hazel eyes.
"What are you looking at Strife?" he jeered after a while, his mouth curled up in a sinister smile. "One would think you were afraid. " He was very calm for someone who was walking up a mountain thousands of feet in the air, his rich voice a liquid iron tinged with a slight accent from the Gongaga Region.
Cloud shrugged and turned his gaze on the powerful mountain top above him—now was not the time to start a fight. Not only would an all out war on the narrow paths be an act of sheer stupidity, but it would probably attract the unwanted attention of several Nibel wolves that he was not in the mood to deal with.
It irked him that he couldn't pinpoint the cause of his unease. There was something about the mountains that just wasn't right and it made him want to flee in fear—and Cloud Strife was rarely afraid.
"Look!" Cloud raised his head to follow Tifa's outstretched finger. "It's the bridge, we made it!" Tifa turned back to them and grinned in triumph and Cloud inwardly groaned. She had no clue about the fight about to break out behind her or the force Cloud could feel working against them.
Well, at least she's happy. Maybe he could just ignore the instinct to run and revel in her happiness. He would never admit it, but just seeing her smile put butterflies in his stomach. Cloud also had a feeling that if she were to aim that smile at him, he would be redder that the sky at sunset.
"Okay, so we made it, now what?" Rim moved up beside him and stared at the bridge, frowning. "That bridge doesn't look so sturdy."
Cloud had to agree. That structure had to be several decades old and he was sure that at least some of those planks were rotting.
"We have to go across!" Tifa stated in earnest.
"Why? I thought you said we would just come here and then go back. What's with this going across idea?" Alex asked.
"My Dad said that my mother went into these mountains. I want to find her. I thought that she hadn't gone far. I didn't think she'd want to be too far away from Dad and me, but I guess I was wrong." Tifa moved toward Alex and looked up at him with tears in her eyes.
Cloud's eyes narrowed, glaring at the older boy, but he kept his mouth shut. He'd watch and see how things played out first. Now was not the time to cause a commotion. Alex was closer to Tifa; he would have better luck at talking her out of going further—he hoped.
"Alex, please! I need to see her, we have to go across!" Tifa's eyes were brimming with unshed tears, but still Cloud remained motionless.
Alex suddenly jerked forward, grabbing Tifa's arm and pulling her back. Rage mixed with fear marred his young face and he pushed her against the wall of the cliff, forcefully holding her in place.
"Fool, your mother is dead, do you understand?" Alex screamed, inching closer to her face with each word. "She is not coming back, Tifa! They buried her in a hole in the ground, under the dirt! By now she has already returned to the Planet!"
Not exactly the way Cloud had hoped Alex would handle the situation.
Tifa's silent tears had turned into wracking sobs and with one final burst of energy, she pulled away from her well-meaning captor, shoved him to the side, and made a break for the bridge.
Cloud didn't hesitate this time, moving his small legs as fast as he could to reach the bridge before Tifa made it. Alex and Escot jumped away as Cloud ran past, too surprised to stop the bundle of speed as he passed.
He made a dive for her just as she took her fist step onto the planks, but only came up with empty air. Cloud felt himself fall and rolled forward, using his momentum to carry him closer, only a few steps behind the tearful girl. He cursed under his breath; Holy, but time was starting to come up short. A few more strides and she would be at the center of the structure.
Before he even made it halfway across, he felt what he had innately dreaded—the sound of boards splitting. The left side of the bridge began to tilt dangerously upward and Cloud could almost see the frayed rope at the end of the bridge behind him being torn apart.
Cloud mentally scolded himself for not acting sooner as he made one final dive for Tifa, this time catching her securely around the waist and holding her taller frame tightly to his chest. He felt more than heard the scream escape her body as the ground beneath them disappeared. Wind whipped against his face as he plummeted, his stomach rising to meet his throat as gravity brought them closer to the earth. Tifa was no longer a burden in his arms; her body was falling weightlessly along with his own.
It was a fraction of a second that seemed to last forever, and then there was a loud crack and an instant of pain before the world faded into darkness.
So light; that was the only way he could describe the feeling. He could feel that there was some kind of liquid filling his mouth, but it didn't seem to clog his breathing—was he breathing? His heart had stopped awhile ago, the sound of its steady rhythm no longer pounded in his ears. In some part of his consciousness, he knew that there was something wrong with his limbs, but he had given up trying to move them—at least the pain had stopped. Until a few moments ago, he had been able to feel Tifa's weight atop him, the beating of her heart, but that too had left. Whether it was from the dulling of his own senses or from her weight being removed, however, he couldn't tell. All he could do now was float.
He had never really dwelt much on death in his young life, despite his troubles, but he had always thought that it would be something agonizing and painful—and of course he was dying, how could he not be? This was nothing like his perception; it was just like that heady feeling between waking and sleep. If this was all death was, it may not be a bad idea. No one except his mother would miss him anyway—the spot Cloud Strife had taken up in the world was so small, surely no one would notice its absence. Yes, sleep…
No.
Cloud stirred slightly at the forceful voice, full of conviction and certainty. He rose up to a level in consciousness and tried to discern whether or not the intrusion was real of just the fantasy of a dying soul. What remained of his rational mind was telling him that it was nothing, but then again, if his mind was going to slip in his final moments he really had no choice but to listen, right?
His question was answered with the touch of a gentle, icy hand upon his face. It was only the barest of brushes along his left cheekbone, but the lifeless shell that used to be Cloud shivered with the contact. Okay, now it was time to come up with an explanation for that! Shiva, it was cold! Why could he feel that touch when everything else had ceased to alert his senses?
There was another soft caress placed upon his brow; the hand, or whatever it was, remained there this time. The gentle voice came again—murmuring, soothing. The words were almost incomprehensible; there was some kind of accent in that voice that Cloud could not decipher. It was strange though, he felt he should recognize that lilt.
Suddenly, Cloud felt his hand grasped tightly by another colder, larger, grip. Long and graceful fingers curled around his, strong despite their small shape and size. If he wasn't mistaken, he could also feel some calluses on those fingers but despite that, the grip was secure more than rough.
The voice became clear again and Cloud suddenly realized why the words—no music, for that voice was singing!—had been indiscernible at first. They were not being spoken in the common tongue introduced by the Shinra after the take over of his mountain home, but in Nibiel, the area's indigenous language.
And it was beautiful.
The words washed over and around him like breaking waves wrapping him in their melody. Suddenly the melody split, the former notes retaining their echo and forming a chord—a melodic triad. The voice rose and fell, going up an octave only to descend again before breaching the next. The complex weaving of alternating melodies and harmonies was enchanting and somehow Cloud knew that if he had had enough air in his body to do so, he would have joined in and added his own voice to that woven tapestry of sound.
Cloud was so caught up in the music, he never noticed that his heart had begun to beat again. He did not notice that particular change in his body until the pain hit. His body wretched when the first wave of shock rolled over him and the hand holding his squeezed tighter, as if it could erase all the damage to his broken form. Bones grinded together while splinters and joints were snapped back into place with agonizing speed. His heartbeat, which he had though gone, began to beat again and started to send blood rushing through his body in a torrent. He could feel the blood soaking his body now—he could feel as it dried up and wounds closed.
Then his lungs kicked in, begging for air—which Cloud gratefully took. The hand holding his released him and Cloud rolled over, spitting out blood in an effort t to clear his air passage. His eyes opened to darkness, but not of the eternal kind. Night had settled over the Nibel Mountains, a pale moon illuminating the broken bridge above him. How long have I been lying here for? Better question: How did I survive that?
He could see the dangling pieces of the bridge, there was just no way—
Cloud whirled around, belatedly remembering his recent encounter and his clear blue eyes barely caught their match before they faded. Breathing became difficult again—the person who had saved him could have been himself ten years in the future except with straighter hair that reached to his mid-back and archaic, robe-like, clothing. His twin offered him a slight smile and then with a quick nod of the head in acknowledgement, he disappeared.
It took a moment for everything to register, but once it did, Cloud jumped to his feet and glanced around the area in panic. His mind just would not accept what it had seen, it couldn't—but then how could it explain the healing?
A glint of light caught his eye, like light reflecting off a mirror. Slowly, he raised his hand to look down at his right ring finger. Wrapped tightly around the appendage was a thin band made out of some kind of dark metal—obsidian perhaps? Whatever it was, it was etched with odd symbols that encircled the circumference of the ring, serif twining in and amongst serif.
Reaching down, he tried to pull it off, but to no avail. The piece of jewelry seemed to have molded itself to his skin and for better of for worse, was not coming off any time soon.
Cloud sighed, looking once again at the broken bridge above him. Somehow, he didn't want to know why he was still standing where he had fallen, alive and well. His mother was probably worried about him by now anyway; it had to be hours after sundown.
With that, Cloud Strife turned away and began his trek down the mountains.