... A Ghost Story ...
"There are so many ghosts that failed to disappear," he said, his voice wry and dried out in the cold winter air. She stopped in her tracks, crinkling the paper bag in her arms.
"And so many that did," she whispered, her eyes on the ground. He stepped out from the shadow of the city building, and she remained transfixed in her position, eyes focused on nothing.
"Have you found your survivors?" she asked, her tone flat. He smirked.
"In a manner," he replied, moving again to stand in her path. She looked up.
"Why is it always the wicked?" she pleaded, her eyes brimming with tears, and her knuckles white as she gripped the side of the bag. He frowned.
"Wicked? I suppose so," he whispered, tilting his head to the side, "Then again, aren't the innocents the first to suffer?" She averted her eyes again.
"Aeris told me about you," she muttered, a hint of steel edged in her voice, "I know what you are. Even more than you'd like." His frown deepened.
"As my student I would expect nothing less from her," he replied smoothly, accentuating each word with a foreign grace, "Legacies are often hard to forget." She sniffed.
"I suppose so," she stammered, and flicked a hand across her face, "But...I...I..."
"Hate me?" he interrupted, placing a finger on his temple, "I can understand that." She looked up and glared at him.
"You can understand that?!" she replied with annoyance, and found her feet, trying to trudge away, "Why didn't you understand earlier? When you hunted her down like an animal?!"
"I didn't come here for accusations," he stated firmly, blocking her path again, "I've had enough of those for three lifetimes, Ms. Lockhart." He took a gamble with the surname; women were often so hard to keep up with, after time. Elena had proven that.
"Do you know how long it's been?" she continued, her tone near delirium, "How many years we've lived, as survivors? How many of us have passed on?" He shook his head.
"How selfish we all are, with our loss," he muttered to himself, and then continued louder, "I am well aware. Why else would I find you?" Her throat made a choking sound, and she settled her weight.
"Seems like only the wicked remain," she whispered, and looked straight at him, "There are no children..." A tear trickled down her cheek, and she swatted it away.
"I am sorry," he said, clear and crisp and cold, "But will you come with me? It will only take a few moments." She nodded, and he indicated the path with a graceful gesture, as she turned to follow.
A Little Later...
As the Planet slowly healed, certain things were coming back into being. Snow had finally appeared amongst the ruins of Midgar, and unlike previous eras, maintained most of its whiteness. But it was a bittersweet purity; cold and sterile like a vestal virgin. The Planet's smile was cold as the air around them, and unrelenting like the flurry of flakes around them. Tifa would have shivered, but she was already numb. She was always numb.
They were standing in the ruin of a playground, one that had been created after life had been saved. Before life had proven to be far less forgiving.
"Why here?" she sobbed, looking around at the slides and swings, "Haven't you done enough?" He shook his head, and gestured for her to sit on a bench nearby.
"Don't tell me you're broken already," he whispered, oddly soothing, "You of all people." She lowered herself onto the bench, and set the bag down on the ground.
"It's been twenty years," she said, fiddling with her hands in her lap, "If anyone is left unscathed... I'd be surprised." He settled down next to her, tilting his head up so the snowflakes gathered on his dark lashes.
"I always knew you'd remain," he muttered to the sky, "You are quite a reminder. Carrying all those memories with you." She sniffed again, and fiddled with a lock of her graying hair.
"So you're here to tell me your story," she sighed, creating icy plumes in the air, "You want to leave it with me. Just like everyone." He chuckled, an odd sound to her ears.
"Quite the contrary," he said, lowering his dark eyes to her, "I'd rather not anyone know of my life. I only seek forgiveness, Tifa." She startled at the mention of her first name, and nervously twiddled her hair again.
"For her? Is that why you sought me?" she whispered, her brow furrowed with a lifetime of sorrow. He nodded.
"And for you. I think we knew her best, more than anyone else dared," he whispered, looking up again, "You are also the last I found. It's so hard to find those who cling to life as much as you do." She smiled slightly, unable to figure out why she reacted that way.
"So you know Elena got married then?" she spoke with care, leaving him to his own reactions. He cleared his throat.
"For fifteen years now," he replied, without bitterness, but not without regret, "But I understand. About the time she stopped seeking approval." Tifa nodded, her face looking a little less drawn.
"Would you like me to tell you a story?" she asked in a voice that craved for children, but found only adults. He nodded.
"I'll make it a happier one," she whispered, her eyes lingering on a swing that moved silently in the wind. He closed his eyes.
"That would be nice," he breathed, invisible and tinged in soundlessness.
"There was once a small boy, with a quite and gentle soul, who lived in a cottage at the edge of a meadow."
Metal, long in need of oil and attention, groaned with a gust of wind.
"One day, while wandering around searching for flowers, he became lost. The landscape was foreign, full of rocks and clouded skies."
A lantern flickered, its naphtha all but choked with snow.
"He began to cry, for his mother, for anyone to find him in this strange place. And soon enough, he heard a voice."
A ruffle of feathers indicated the disturbed sleep of a crow.
"A lady, clad like the palest petal of a flower appeared before him. 'Fear not, child,' she spoke, with gentle and musical tones. The boy smiled, knowing she was good."
A man staggered through the streets, clinging to a piece of bread.
"He smiled at her. 'Lady? Are you here to take me home?' he asked with his childishly warm voice. The lady laughed, like fine crystal when struck. 'No, dear,' she answered."
A snowflake melted in her hair, leaving behind an icy teardrop.
"He frowned and she laughed again, bringing back his smile. 'You do not need saving. You are strong and gentle, child. What you seek will be found.' He crinkled his nose at her words, but nodded despite."
He tapped a finger on the bench, without tune.
"And he continued walking, after she disappeared, and soon saw the anxious face of his mother. He ran into her waiting arms, smiling with glee. He never forgot the lady, and when he was grown, wandered the woods, hoping to catch a glimpse of her."
"Did he?" Tseng asked, brushing aside his hair. She smiled.
"That's up to you," she replied, her face showing its lingering shadow of youth. He leaned over and placed a hand on top of hers. She only felt air.
"Zangan would be proud, Tifa," he whispered, and she looked down, too tired to cry, "I thank you."
"Goodbye, Tseng," she murmured, alone on the bench of an abandoned playground, "I hoped you would have been the last."
She reached over and grabbed her groceries, with a little of the lost grace her years had chipped away. She huddled further in her coat, walking against the wind. She quietly made her way through the shattered husks of buildings, determinedly making her way home.
For a moment, she thought she saw a child, darting amongst the ruins. It was a dark haired little boy, who looked small for the amount of grace he had. She smiled.
"Fear not, child," she whispered, making her way towards him.
AN: For Sabriel, for Christmas. Hope the strange regions of my mind don't offend.