AN: Ugh, I'm sick. So blame any weirdness on that. Also, I love bold italics. Sorry. Anway, anytime you see bold italics it's the voice of something inside someone's head. Not their own thoughts. Trippy? Yes, but if you've read Obsession, I do that quite a lot. I think I've held back pretty well in this story so far...

Stole the line "Did we lose to the memories?" from the Advent Children trailer. Evil, I know.

Chapter 6 – Sonata Demi-Voix

He only saw the world as specters; faint photographs and tissue paper tracings. He felt hapless in its flow, simply watching as the world went by. Sometimes he could see faces; bold in one instant, silent and staring with brilliant clear eyes, and then they too faded.

Did we lose to the memories?

She was sitting at a desk, carefully writing in the pages of a book, occasionally dipping her pen into an inkwell. Soft brown hair tumbled in waves down her back, secured in a high ponytail. She turned around, as if feeling his intrusion.

What if I forgot you too?

Her face shifted, green eyes remained as the face became younger; smiling. The hair was still back, but two curls had loosed themselves, hanging delicately near her ears. He looked down towards her hands, which were shaking uncontrollably. The pen dropped slowly from her fingers, lengthening and sharpening, becoming a wickedly curved blade...

Catalysts of his unlocked psyche, they were; beautiful faces of women. When he had nightmares, or when he had dreams, he could see them. Cloud never had an easy sleep, nor a completely unsettling one. He never saw violence, and he never directly saw pain. But he saw them, and in their eyes he knew what was happening, if only briefly.

Are they memories? Of what?

It was midnight, on a day when Yuffie failed to convince him to go anywhere. He always came out of sleep slowly, so when the dream ended, he lay in bed for awhile. The musical tones of the nightly serenade crept into his sensitive hearing, giving him cause to leave the comfort of his sheets. He moved carefully, cat-like, covering his trail with the vacuum of a silent and empty room.

Outside, there were no stars, only the ice-clouds of late October, painting the cathedral sky. The lights of the city gave little warmth, only furthering the opaque and unyeilding dominion the clouds held. He relaxed, feeling comfortable that the heavens were not looking down on him, but covering their eyes with a thick veil.

I feel like a rock in a stream... the world is water, rushing past me. The only thing that happens to me is that I stay and am worn down...

He shook his head violently, splaying his mussed spikes out like a dancer's skirt. When he finally regained his stillness, his blue eyes glowed, the heat of the mako pulsing with his mood. Anger. Frustration. These were things that he knew well.

But did he know redemption?

Isn't the hero supposed to feel something, after it's all over?

For the briefest moment, the clouds parted, revealing the sliver of a moon, like a bow poised to strike. It was a violent moon, slightly red tinged from the heat of the city below. He stared at it, even when the sky claimed it again, so opaque that the red suffered under its painful grasp, not even a dull pink to signify its presence. He knew it was there, it burned in the backs of his retinas.

He felt it, that dormant part of his personality, soothing him as his blood pressure rose. He vision was so clear it almost hurt, the outlines of everything taking on such a sharp contrast.

He was tired of being a failure.

His own weakness sickened him, and cradled him. He wanted to destroy himself, destroy this planet... He had wandered, and found that the world have moved on without him. There were children, and there were homes. So many flowers... the planet was fluorishing. And he saw himself, standing before them all, sword brandished, covered with crimson stains...

Cloud gasped, trying to feel his hands, trying to feel anything of his physical form.

No! I can't feel that... I'd be no better than...

He wanted to feel real. That awful hiss in the back of his mind, he knew it well, and he desperately wished for it to be gone. There was no room for it, not if he were to join that planet that had so easily forgotten him.

Then forget it, as well. Why do you crawl back to that which has forsaken you?

He gritted his teeth. That voice, so close to his own, had torn from him the last chance for his happy ending. And as sure as he was breathing, he had been the event that had created it. He clutched his hands tightly and wrapped his arms around his form, holding onto physicality like a raft.

No, Surrender. I will not be broken by you.

Incomplete. Grasping. Those were words he knew well, but for all his defeats and failures, it was what had made him the better one. It was that stubborn little part of his mind that would not go away, and now he held onto it, knowing finally what it was.

"I may not know what I am," he said quietly, weaving the tune with the tip of his breath, "But I am."

A cricket chirped, scraping the bow across his body's violin, harsh and lovely folk music. He heard it, making sure not to move, to keep from breaking the feel the nighttime enclosed him in.

She did not make a sound when she heard him speak. High up in a tree, Yuffie unwittingly become his audience. Her stealth hid her, as she watched with a look of horror and something else, something she had forgotten somewhere along the way...

Elsewhere...

For all its splendor and purpose, the daytime never suited him much, especially when it came to reading.

Vincent furrowed his eyebrows, hunched over the kitchen table, papers and books scattered haphazardly about. He was in a stalemate, his mind willing him to probe further, while his body craved sleep, if only a little.

He forced himself to write a little more, the pencil making quick precise noises as it hit the paper.

What does it all mean? Why Tiveph? Why?

He knew that the past was somewhere a person could not live. He'd already learned his lesson tenfold. Still, when Tifa handed him the journal, something sparked inside of him, a curiousity that he thought he had long forgotten. If he wasn't careful, it would consume him. He'd been working on the translation for quite a time now, and had come to something familiar.

"I've decided to track down the scattered members of the other half of Lucrecia's line, now that she is in stasis. Most of them turned into harlots, gamblers, and other such unsavory characters. One, a certain woman named Rose, seemed fitting, but she became sick when I tried to introduce an Emotive to her, and has passed away. She did leave a daughter, however, and I am looking into that possibility..."

He read the lines over again, making sure that he got the inflection and tone properly down. Rubbing the sleep from his face, he continued.

"She lives in Nibelhiem, where the old labs are located. I was never one to believe in Fate, but there is a certain beauty in how things are coming together... The girl is still young, but promising. There is a odd little boy that seems attached to her, with a wonderful set of emotions. Perhaps the time is near for the Exulted to return to his origins..."

Tifa.

Most of Tiveph's notes were filled with half-baked musings and careful observation. Vincent had gotten through a good portion of the book, and was frustrated when he discovered that parts were missing. He had learned that Lucrecia had been aware, if not directly involved with the actions of Tiveph. That had stung for a moment, nearly causing him to fling the book out the nearest window.

But now, he was on the thresold of matters which effected the present.

He felt almost voyeuristic, delving into their past. They; his comrades, and in some cases, his friends. Especially... her. He told himself that he was doing this to give her peace, to right the wrongs that had been done in her life. Even he couldn't keep up the illusion for long.

Tifa.

Dreams could lie, he knew, but they only came from the dreamer's mind. And he never could forget dreams, after a couple decades of nightmares, he was all too aware of the dream world. Especially dreams of beauty, of moments he had never had the priviledge to live. Dreams that he felt for days after, a slow ache in his old tired bones...

He laid his head on the table, knowing that he could will his mind to remain awake, but at least his body needed a rest. Sometimes he dared to wonder if he was getting older, perhaps, maybe he would finally age. Usually he dismissed such hopes. Too much hope never did him any good.

"Are you still awake?" a cautious voice asked, causing him to lift his head from the table. The figure stepped out of the shadow of the stairwell timidly.

"You should be sleeping," he whispered, regarding her with tired eyes. She shrugged.

"I couldn't help it," she said softly, "Mother's instinct. I saw the small light and wondered what was happening." He gave her a twitch of a smile.

"You don't have to look out for me, Shera," he lightly scolded, with a sleepless enthuisiasm. She averted her eyes.

"You still have nightmares, don't you?" she asked, shuffling over in her slippers towards the stove. He cringed a little.

"Yes," he answered, and then admitted, "and no." She hid a small smile as she rummaged through a cabinet.

"She was a pretty thing wasn't she?" she asked, shy and knowing, carefully using the past tense. He nodded, she didn't have to turn around to see that.

"Yes she is," he breathed and tensed upon saying it. Shera gave a small chuckle, filling the teapot with water.

"You know, Cid isn't my first husband," she whispered setting down the teapot and shuffling over to another cabinet, "...Samiel isn't even my first child." He fiddling with his pencil, trying not to interrupt her. She smiled nostalgiacally.

"I suppose that everyone has lost something," she continued, voice gaining more steadiness, "...Especially in those days. I can still see their faces, in my dreams." She took a deep breath, collecting the last of her calm.

"I'm older than most people would guess," she whispered, slow and unassuming, "My son would be around Yuffie's age now, I would think. Dark haired...brooding...you remind me of him, you know." He inhaled stiffly, gripping the edge of the table.

So that is why. I can see why you need to help so much...

"I am always thankful for your kindness," he breathed, releasing the table, "And I am sorry for your loss."

"I'm not," she sobbed, "...not anymore. I have a wonderful husband and a beautiful son. Not that I love them any less...but..." She reached up into the cupboard and grabbed a small container from one of the shelves.

"Absolution," he whispered, turning to her, "Have you found it?" She choked a small sob.

"Hell, Vincent," she replied, grinning through her reddened and wet face, "Nobody ever really finds it. Sometimes you can get close, though. And then, you can live." She struggled with the container, her hands shaking. He stood up slowly, and approached her.

"Need some help?" he asked, indicating towards the container. She nodded, chuckling a little.

"See?" she said, falling back into her usual vocal patterns, "Then you live."

Then you live. I think I understand.

Theme Songs for this Chapter: Jenova for Classical Piano Noir (absolutely gorgeous re-mix of the song, find it and download it if you can) and Christophori's Dream David Lanz

AN: More action with the ladies later. I find that monologuing and such was necessary...