Book 2
Wrath of a god
Chapter 7
The Heir to the Planet
Darkness claimed him.
Within him. Without. It consumed, like the night encroaches upon a pleasant evening or as the winter upon a fair fall. No ceiling. No floor. No walls around. No concept of dimension or existence. When the darkness is complete there can be nothing else.
But the darkness was not complete.
Thoughts sprang from the nothingness. A consciousness separated from the darkness. This consciousness was aware of vast time passing. Weeks. Months. Years. Like the tiniest bits of a dying star, the consciousness pieced together, forming thoughts.
What is this place?
Who am I?
What has happened?
As beautiful as a chorus of angels, voices rushed into the dead silence. Men. Women. Children. A sound of such heartbreaking loveliness that a mortal must die once it ceased. The consciousness listened, barely acknowledging its own existence. And though it knew naught how it knew, it remembered the words from another time, another life...
Estuanus Interius
Ira Vehementi
Sephiroth
Where am I?
From the darkness the answer came.
You are within the vaults of your own mind. After your trauma it collapsed in upon itself. Unable to repair itself from the extensive damage inflicted your consciousness shut down, sealing you within the darkness. Only recently has it healed enough to revoke the mental exile and restore you to partial consciousness.
I lost my mind?
No, say rather that you gained so much of it that it could not handle the strain. That, and the ordeal you suffered at the hands of your enemies. It grieves me that so many ills have been visited upon you. But now you have recovered. I am overjoyed. The sound you hear is the angels ecstatic at your resurrection.
The more the voice spoke, the more the consciousness grew. Grew aware, of its own body and image. He, a man of silver-shaded hair and mako-green eyes. Tall and imposing, a man to be feared. A man with a mission. A holy war to be waged. Yet the details of that war eluded him.
I know, my beloved son. They took that from you. Your true identity, your legacy. You came to me, came to free me. They feared you. They feared you so much they tried to kill you. But you are one of us, one of the Cetra. They could not kill you, any more than an insect can slay a god.
Who are they?
The humans. They sought to hold you down, to deny you the crown of the Cetra. Like raw, hard ore you must be cast into the fire to emerge as a sword, strong and proud. But first comes the pain, the remembrance. It will be another ordeal for you, I fear. You must not despair. Be strong for what must come...
For what must come...
Yes, my son, you will remember...
And so he did. Like running water, images flooded the darkness before his eyes. Hojo. Gast. Zack. Cloud. Tifa. Michael. Terrence. Lanine. Scenery sprang to life. Midgar. Junon Harbor. Nibelhiem. Moments swiftly followed. Of his childhood. Of the war with Wutai. Emotions stormed him. Anger. Anger at the human's cruelty. Sorrow. Sorrow at the mistreatment of his mother. Insanity. Insanity at the fate thrust upon him.
Him. Sephiroth.
Crushed under the weight of the awful memories, Sephiroth sank to his knees and into despair. He failed her. He failed his mother. There, him, the Great General Sephiroth reduced to ashes by a mere human. Not that he cared. Let him fall back into the dark unawareness. Let even his voice fade from memory for his words alone sounded harsh in this silence like swords clashing in a chapel hall...
No! You and I have struggled too hard and sacrificed too much to allow petty emotion hold us down. For four years I have nurtured you throughout your illness. I have given so much for your success...The voice raged in his head, invective, several octaves above anything remotely human. But then, his mother was no lowly weak human. She was Cetra. Wise and omnipotent. Her voice intensified as she continued.
Do not be afraid. Mother loves you. Mother is not angry with you. Mother is angry with those who did this to you. Even now, there is one who would stand in your righteous path...
Who, who is he!?
Say, rather, who is she?
The darkness swirled in the space before Sephiroth and he recoiled as if fearing retaliation. He need not have worried, though. Merely colors spilled into the darkness, not a phantom. It took shape, form. Within the span of two heartbeats, the image materialized revealing a young, picturesque girl of wavy brown curls. She sat amid flowers in a run-down church. Like a butterfly she scurried among them, unaware of the eyes upon her.
Aerith Gainsborough. She is the bane of the Cetra. The Crisis from the Skies. She came to our world many years ago. You know the story; you read it. How she deceived our people, infected them, drove them mad. You are the last. She will kill you—if you don't slay her first.
Transfixed, Sephiroth stroked the image. Like touching water, the image scattered, though memory itself engraved the sight in his mind. She was without a doubt the loveliest girl he'd ever laid eyes on. No mar on her face; not an imperfection to her frame. Nor did she seem capable of murder or even the slightest infraction. As the ex-General watched, the girl tended her flowers with the greatest care.
A girl? How can something so...innocent...be capable of so much suffering?
Do not be deceived, Sephiroth. She takes that form to blind the humans and our beloved kin from her true task. Some of the darkest angels are the most beautiful.
Sephiroth conceded that. It made sense. Of course, she would appear to be harmless. Then she may proceed with her evil mission undisturbed. If the girl looked innocent people would naturally assume it to be so. But not he. No, he would atone for his failure. I shall not fall under her spell. Your will shall be carried out and I will kill the 'girl'. I hope—no, I will prove worthy of your faith. Show me this vision of yours. Of the Cetra and their, our, ascension.
Beneath his knees images slowly came to life, spreading out until it encircled the ex-General like a prismatic dome. Sudden wind swept up Sephiroth's midnight cloak and shining silver hair. He rocked back on his heels, stunned. Light blazed, forcing him to shield his eyes with an arm. At its dissipation, he lowered it, glancing around.
Gone was the unending night, the limitless blackness. He genuflected in a pool of pristine water that gave way to marble steps in a sanctum of some higher being. To the pool's left stood a cascading crystalline staircase that dozens of men and women ascended. Wreathed in ethereal iridescence, their footsteps produced little sound, their flowing silk garments whispering. Up and up they marched, voices rising in cadence Sephiroth knew like the air in his lungs.
Estuanus Interius
Ira Vehementi
Sephiroth
Climbing to his feet, Sephiroth's mind reeled. Who? Who are these people?
Your people. The Cetra. You are the heir to the Planet. They await their heir, their leader. Take your place upon the Throne of Cetra and feel what it is to be one of us!
At that moment, nothing could describe the ex-General's sheer, unadulterated joy. Him, the heir to the Planet. A leader of the great Cetra people. A shining sliver of light to vanquish the evil, lowly humans. Whipping his head back and forth, Sephiroth banished the water like falling teardrops and started his trek up the crystalline stair.
For years the young native of Midgar knew naught his purpose or his legacy.
The Heir knew now.
So surreal. The stuff of dreams. All around the radiant Cetras dropped to their knees, their multi-colored capes and skirts pooling beneath them. Their voices fluttered in the air, as birdsong and chimes of bells, their tone of reverence and worship. Each time his booted foot landed on a step their crescendo peaked, stirring him on.
At last, his mouth dry, the materia warrior knelt by the throne. A stunning structure, of glass and marble, it radiated exotic power. His gloved hand slid over the intricate insignias and patterned glyphs. For the span of a heartbeat, Sephiroth's gaze remained downcast. Then, slowly, it traveled the length of the chair up to the golden-dome ceiling. In one decisive moment, he swept up and sat down at the same instant their voices harmonized.
Sephiroth!
My son, are you ready for the tests? Are you worthy to be one of us, worthy of the throne of the Promised Land?
His words were barely more than a whisper...Yes, I am.
In a sharp flash of light, everything evaporated.
Darkness claimed him.
Cold. Hard. Flat.
A moan escaped his cracked lips. Ice slashed at his eyelids, preventing Sephiroth from opening them. Like a newly-birthed infant, he huddled against the nearest object—that being a snow-covered boulder. His gloved hands clawed into the rough surface as he formed a fetal position, his back to the wind.
And still it came. Snow. More snow. If he tarried, the former SOLDIER could easily be buried. Despite this grim knowledge, his body resisted, clinging to the cold stone. After a long time, Sephiroth rolled to his knees. He opened his eyes and almost immediately regretted it. Wherever in the Planet he'd ended up on, it was in the throes of a most magnificent, and vicious, maelstrom he'd ever encountered.
Shuffling on his hands and knees, head bent low against the cutting wind, the Heir crossed the distance to the nearest shelter, that of a cavern. An agonizingly slow trek to be sure. Not a moment passed that the materia warrior didn't long to crumple into the snowdrifts and burrow in like the various rodents native to this harsh terrain.
Sephiroth purposefully deluded himself into believing that the Promised Land lay within the cavern. That chased away the darkness his mind threatened to tunnel into. Once at the threshold, the former SOLDIER scurried in. The wind howled behind him, as if disappointed at his escape.
The thought that the cave was otherwise occupied never entered his mind. Some sixth sense, perhaps Cetra-born, confirmed its vacancy. Crouching in the farthermost corner of the cave, the ex-General shook his weary head, crystalline flakes wafting like stardust. Then he lowered it, silver-shaded hair falling over his facial features like a curtain. He tugged the ebony trench coat about his person, chilled by the stone floor.
Look at me, the great General Sephiroth taking refuge in a cave animals themselves abandoned. Still, 'twas shelter, and, for now, that would have to suffice.
Rocking back and forth, Sephiroth muttered to himself with bleeding lips. Lips that bled no longer, rather. Such was the extreme low temperature that liquid instantly solidified. His vision dimmed and it felt so natural to close his eyes...
No!
Sephiroth started, shocked at how easily the slumber seduced him. Not such a surprising slip-up, he supposed, though it irked him nonetheless. Profound cold tended to lull victims into sleep, slaying them in their rest. How often had the former leader of Shin-ra's Military warned Third-Class SOLDIERs against even momentary lapses into unconsciousness?
He wasn't dead, though not so far off from that. Most of his body trembled violently and, what didn't, refused to move at all. What was previously an effortless task, activating an emerald materia orb, became a lengthy, cumbersome process. Sephiroth licked his lips, tasting cooper. The orb teetered in his unsteady hand, so he clamped his other hand to prevent it from slipping through his fingers. Should it do so, he might never find something so tiny in the mounds of snow.
"Fire..." he choked, lungs locking up. Sephiroth coughed hard. Then, with a measure of strength, he mumbled, "Fire."
A crimson beam shot from between his tightly clasped fingers, striking the clump of stones. A spark sprang to life. Fire. Light. Warmth. Sighing, the ex-General hovered by the flames, so near it initially singed wisps of his hair. He didn't back off though. He was warm and that was all that mattered. Firelight danced across his face, highlighting his porcelain, near-perfect features.
Estuanus Interius
Ira Vehementi
Sephiroth
"Who..." The Cetra? His mother? Some other alien for good or for ill? Though its source bewildered the materia warrior he took solace in it. Like a baby cradled in a mother's embrace, he curled into a ball. Content with the world...or oblivious to it. Neither mattered. He drifted off to sweet sleep, never realizing that, of course, the words came from his own lips.
Upon awaking the first thing Sephiroth did was vomit. He bent over and emptied the contents, what little remained anyway, of his stomach. Once finished, the ex-General crawled to the cavern wall and sat up against it, pulling his knees under his chin. Sephiroth lowered his face and wrapped both arms tightly around his legs.
Then it began.
Like a cancer, convulsions seized his body, starting at the extremities and spreading to every system. His teeth chattered. His shoulders shook. His legs darted in every conceivable direction. His carefully crafted stance shattered as the neurological disorder held the materia warrior prisoner within his own body.
Mother! Am I being attacked? What is happening to me? Please, help me!
Only the wicked wind answered him.
Maybe Jenova couldn't aid her child, or maybe she didn't really bother. Sephiroth reminded himself, that, despite the pain dancing along his limbs, his mother did care. What faith had he, that he should question the affection of one so dear? She didn't respond not because she would not, but rather could not. Perhaps the humans prevented her? Was she weakened from the ordeal of returning him to the Planet?
As if someone drilled a knife in the space between his eyes, the former SOLDIER screamed at the pain that burst in his skull. Such was the pain he feared he might die from it. Burying his face into his hands, Sephiroth drove his fingers into his temples, hoping to stem the awful tide. Of no use. It stretched across his skin like someone fighting to cover a bed with too small a blanket.
Fortunately, it lasted mere minutes. After the pain vanished, another bout of nausea made Sephiroth regurgitate to the point that his insides hurt. He chuckled, almost maddeningly under the circumstances. How could one regurgitate without anything to throw-up? That defied logic. But then, hadn't he always?
Too drained even for minimal movement, the native of Midgar listened to the wind shrieking.
Thoughts spun in his head, much like the snowflakes outside. This was hardly the glorious return he'd envisioned. Eyes glazed, Sephiroth drifted in and out of consciousness. As he started to slip away again, something touched the fringes of his mind.
Hunger. Mother, please provide for me. Please help me.
Again, no help was forthcoming. Sephiroth seriously wonder if his mother tested him—some Cetra ritual, to deem his worthiness. If he could not sustain himself, how could he expect to rule over an entire race? Though the situation seemed hopeless, the Wutain war hero decided not to treat it as thus. One did not rise though the illustrious ranks of SOLDIER without the skills necessary for survival. Resorting to his Third Class SOLDIER military training actually impeded the fear suffocating his mind and partially fended off his suffering.
Shelter? The cave. Check. Water? The snow. Check. Heat? The fire. Check. Food...?
Having extensively researched the genetic manuscripts in the Nibelhiem Mansion, Sephiroth realized that, having been composed of Jenova cells and large quantities of mako, his ability to endure without nourishment extended much more than regular SOLDIERs. But how far did the limit go? The ex-General certainly had no desire to learn. The illness weakened his body and nutrients would likely speed his recovery.
Sating his thirst on mako-melted snow, the Heir crouched near the fire. Even without the winter storm tearing apart the landscape and impairing vision, Sephiroth would be hard-pressed to forage for food in his infirm condition. A vicious cycle. Beyond the ability to hunt, his strength would deplete making it increasingly more difficult to find sustenance. Without sustenance his situation would deteriorate to the point that neither fresh fruit in his lap or an abated storm would avail him.
Ah, the irony. Once a man feared by all, now reduced to death by starvation!
Not the most pleasant way to go.
Hours stretched into days. The storm refused to relinquish its grip on the crater. Sephiroth wondered if the elemental conditions stemmed from the season or were merely native to this terrain. If the latter, then that made matters even more precarious for the feeble former SOLDIER. Finding vegetation would likely be impossible and any animal indigenous to this realm could probably put up a decent struggle.
Humming to himself, Sephiroth traced letters into the cavern's snow-covered floor. Feeling the weight of the predicament, the ex-General realized a brief self pep-talk was in order. How often had he reminded his subordinates to do that for themselves? Detailing his accomplishments might help alleviate the anxiety the materia warrior felt gnawing at his soul. I am the Great General Sephiroth. I was the High Commander; the most esteemed military officer in all of Shin-ra. I lead the army at the age of eighteen. I am the wielder of the most destructive force of all, the deadly Masamune...
The list halted. He hit upon something that shattered the delicate ace cards he assembled—the loss of his beloved Masamune.
Why did that not occur to me before? Of course, survival often prompted one to forget things.
The thought depressed him. Sephiroth missed that sword more than all his subordinates and SOLDIER companions. It was the one good constant in his beleaguered life. Lowering himself so that his cheek pressed against the snow, he stopped the lettering and began tracing a crude blade. He never finished. From the tip of his finger tremors coursed up his hand, into his arm, through his shoulders and neck and finally erupting into his head.
"...Umm...Hojo...Needles...Blood..."
A shadow danced along the wall.
"...Umm...Nibelhiem...Fire...Blood..."
The shadow crept near.
"...Umm...Cetra...Mother...Blood..."
Strike my son! Strike it now!
Strike? Now? Strike what now?
Like a stone shattering a pond, the delirium vanished. Acting purely on military instinct and his mother's guidance, Sephiroth slammed his fist on the creature that approached him. A squeal, then silence. That didn't deter him. Again and again, the former SOLDIER crashed his fist into the body, never minding that it failed to move since the first hit.
Two otherworldly emerald-sapphire eyes drifted down as he removed his hand to reveal the sight of a broken body. So much blood for so small a thing. Slowly, as if in a trance, Sephiroth lifted his bloodied hand to his lips. He didn't hesitate. Gratefully, the ex-General drank, taking heart from the creature's lifefluid. Nothing like the magnificent banquets he was accustomed to, yet it was nourishment, and for him, it was the most beautiful food in the world.
Once eating his fill, Sephiroth wiped the blood off his chin. He shoved a strand of hair behind his ears, staining the lovely silver a rusty red. A faint smile took his lips as the ex-General snuggled up to the ring of stones. Like a miser hordes gold, he clutched the dead rodent to his chest. Content, Sephiroth felt sleep steal him away and this time he fell willingly, knowing his mother loved him.
The storm sang on.
The strong survive; the weak perish.
Determination kept Sephiroth from entering the ranks of the latter.
Days passed. His strength returned. Such a miserably slow process. Like the affects of the drugs Hojo had gleefully pumped into his veins, Sephiroth suffered from hallucinations, vomiting, dizziness, and delirium. At lengths, he even spoke to himself. And, truth be told, answered his own questions with responses so far off the tangent as to not even resemble the original conversation. Rodents and crushed snow sustained him.
As always, no one held his hand through the crisis.
Almost no one.
Always remember that mother loves you, Sephiroth.
Weeks passed. The affliction subsided enough for the former SOLDIER to venture onto the glacier. Why few ever explored this far north could well be understood—harsh, freezing territory inhabited by savage creatures misshapen by mako was hardly a tourist spot. Still, those creatures quickly learned to respect Sephiroth. He suffered no one, even as battered and broken-spirited as he was.
Still, his mother never let him fall back into insanity. She never let him get off the path.
Months passed. Despite his abhorrence of humans, Sephiroth tired of the snow-clad hills and monstrous mountains. His task to return the Cetras to their former glory would take some time. Naturally, it required several sub-quests to complete first—foremost, the recovery of Masamune. He would return to civilization and seek out any that knew its whereabouts. One problem did occur to him, however.
He was broke. Once the earner of a six-figure salary, Sephiroth bore not a coin to his name.
Easily remedied though. Materia fetched a fine price in the markets and here, in the 'Promised Land' existed more raw mako than anywhere else, combined, on the Planet.
Bereft of his precious Eskallanilna, Sephiroth made do with a broken stalagmite. For hundreds of feet, cavern walls gleamed with frozen mako, the green shine coloring his stature like lifestream. All, his, for the looting. And loot he did. Now immune to the negative effects of mako, he struck the wall and smiled when a piece loosened to clang on the floor with a satisfying sound.
After seven months, the ex-General deemed it time. He left the crater, climbing the hills with a fire of anticipation burning in his chest. He had failed once. Not again. Never again. He'd felt too much, fallen too fast. The humans scented his weakness, as blood on a maimed deer, and dove in, tearing apart the hopes and dreams of him, his mother and the Cetras...
Sephiroth gazed out across the glacier as he stood upon the perimeter's precipice. It shone as sunlight on still waters. A brisk wind swept up his long silver hair and trench cloak. He appeared as a demi-god observing his abode. Like a mantis trapped in amber, mako surrounded his body within the crater. Soon, he would return...but not until the reunion.
Yes, my beloved son. The reunion. Bring them here. Guide the strong, kill the weak. There will some who will resist, fight back...But we will deal with them in due time...
"Indeed," he whispered, "All in due time."
The trek to civilization was, for the most part, uneventful. Those monsters foolish enough to try their hand against the master materia-wielder die quickly enough. Touching crimson, emerald, sapphire, violet, and gold he slew a path that would make the hardiest mercenary blanch. Not such a concern for him, considering the twisted nature of the beasts.
Up and beyond the mountains, Sephiroth reached the pleasant, if dull, settlement of Icicle Town. Half a dozen wooden houses mired in snow up to their windows hunched around each other like fishermen huddled near a fire. Small human children played while their parents lay supine, chatting with one another. The appreciation of precipitation never ceased to amaze the former Head of SOLIDER, but then, he hardly ever understood anything remotely human.
Within minutes, the materia warrior stood on the threshold of Icicle Inn. Not exactly remarkable, certainly less than anything the high-classed ex-General was accustomed to. He paid that no heed. Sephiroth approached the counter, dropping a drawstring pouch on the wood. The innkeeper, a buxom woman of flame-red hair, snapped to attention. It reminded the former SOLDIER of how his old subordinates often did. Many other patrons glanced in his direction, whispers circulating like the chill air that permeated through a broken window.
He tilted his head. "I need a room."
The woman stared avariciously at the fat pouch. "A room? Is that all?"
"Yes. Your best room," Sephiroth stated coldly. He laid two hands on the counter with a deliberate slowness. "Preferably one with black curtains, a clean bed and no one to either side." As he leaned forward for emphasis, some of his lovely silver hair tumbled out of his black cowl. Irritated, Sephiroth hurried to stuff it back in.
The Innkeeper halted him though, grabbing a strand and peering at it like materia. "That's some pretty hair you got." Her hand trailed up to the ex-General's cheek. "My, aren't you a beauty. Hard up for some company...? I could change that—"
Green eyes flashing, Sephiroth knocked the hand away. The touch frightened him. Not in the tension of romance, or even mere fear of her. Rather, it unearthed the memory of a weasel-eyed man, Hojo. Restraining him. Doping him. Hitting him. Hurting him...He breathed heavily, swallowing the hatred, lest it burn out of his chest in the form of torching this town.
Burning towns. A favorite pastime of mine, he thought with a wry smile. Then that smile twisted. If I ever lay my hands on you Hojo, they'll never find your body. Leveling a stare that could cut stone, Sephiroth addressed the woman. "Do not touch me again, if you value your life."
"Alright! Alright! Here's the keys!" Like they burned her, she dropped them into his gloved hand. "Just being friendly. You just looked like someone I might know."
"Do not remember my face." Sephiroth's tone paralleled his eyes in intensity now. "It would not be of benefit to you."
With that, the ex-General quit the lobby and entered his room. It was not hard to find considering the numbers etched in the keys matched those on the wood door. He slipped inside, locked the door, and tossed his fur-lined cloak to the floor. Fur was never a favorite of his, but Sephiroth couldn't deny its heating properties and had crafted one for the journey. Sighing, he plopped onto the bed, shutting his otherworldly emerald eyes.
Why am I so adverse to human touch...? Shaking his head, Sephiroth realized the answer lay within his question. Human touch...A hand on the shoulder, holding hands, an embrace...these forms of touching carried the connotation of comfort, solace and companionship. Or at least, on the surface. The hand on the shoulder could easily become a dagger in the back. The hand that held yours could conceal a weapon. The embrace could become your last...
Ask, rather, why you worry yourself with such things, my dear Sephiroth. As a Cetra it is quite normal to loathe human contact. After all, is it not natural to be wary of the touch of one's own enemies?
A smile stole into his lips. I question yet again. Ever am I in need of your counsel.
Mother failed to answer but the former SOLDIER expected none. Yawning, Sephiroth glanced about his person. Trail-worn apparel, mud-caked boots, grimy skin, greasy hair. He drew a very logical conclusion. "I need a bath..." he muttered to the maid bent over a bucket in the hallway. She didn't dally, scurrying to fill his tub with snow steamed on a stove. As the maid hurried about her business, the ex-General contemplated the necessity for his wash.
Not a very vain person was he. Nor did he need to be. For some inexplicable reason, the Midgarian remained relatively clean despite the unforgiving terrain the army often thrust him into. While his comrades returned to the encampment steeped in mud, Sephiroth rarely came back with a hair out of place. Chalk up another reason for his companions to despise him...
However, in this case, the former SOLDIER hadn't found the means to bathe normally. He supposed it would be an awkward adjustment for him from washing in the shallow streams of the Northern Crater. A much welcome venture, stripping the stink not only of the road but of the humans themselves.
"Is that to your liking, sir?"
He dipped a finger in. Too hot...but then what did he from a human...? "It will do. Tell them to prepare a meal for me."
"Yes, sir." Like a pixie, she darted out the door.
As he settled into the bath, Sephiroth settled into the mantle of leadership. So easy to fall back into the patterns of order and obey. For more years than he cared to remember, the Wutain legend commanded the most prestigious military on the Planet. No more. Though he was too far north to produce media frenzy, Sephiroth suspected that his cover could be imperiled travelling any further south.
With a yawn, the former SOLDIER craned his neck. I shall have to take care to avoid Nibelhiem. His lips twisted at his own sick humor. Where he'd picked that up, he did not recall. Reaching for a bar of soap, Sephiroth noted the number "1" tattooed to his hand. Wearing gloves almost exclusively, he rarely saw his own flesh. What did that mean: number one? Was it evidence of his being the first of a bio-product of Gast and Hojo?
Say rather, it is a testament to your status...
Now his smile was genuine. He liked thinking of it that way.
Sighing lazily, the materia warrior sunk within the depths, water closing over his neck, cheeks, and finally his mouth and nose. His beautiful starlight-shaded hair floated to the surface. Then Sephiroth shut his eyes...Panic rushed in, suffocating him. The experience at the Nibel Reactor tore through his mind—the feeling of helpless abandon, the searing pain, the thoughts of failure. Sephiroth straightened, gasping.
"Sir?"
The serving girl spoke, carrying a tray, the smell of chicken and rice wafting through the washroom. The ex-General realized that he must seem as a madman, long hair plastered to his face, pupils dilated, mouth agape. Waving his hand in quick, cutting motion, Sephiroth muttered, "Leave my dinner downstairs. I will eat it in the common room."
Left alone to his own devices, Sephiroth fell into the vault of his mind. What had come over him? Human emotions? Human frailties? Rummaging in the room's dresser, the materia warrior found some old clothing, which he tossed on. Not exactly the best fit, nor of any desirable fashion but anything had to be better than his filthy garments. He made a mental note to ask for their cleaning at a future date.
As the ex-General prepared to leave, his eye caught on a pair of scissors casually draped on the nightstand. Distractedly, Sephiroth streamed his fingers through the silver hair. Hojo had insisted from a very early age that he not cut it. His hand dropped down to the scissors. Maybe, as a last epitaph to their association, he should slice it off, and with it, Hojo's lasting impression on him.
But things had never come easily to Sephiroth, and this was no exception.
Try as he might, the former SOLDIER found himself unable to go through with it. The steel blades strayed teasingly near his silky strands. Something ingrained in his brain cried out, halted the materia warrior. The hair, and Hojo's presence, was too much a part of him now to be rid of so simply. Sephiroth cursed under his breath and hurled the scissors far into the darkest corner of the room.
I'll eat. Think. Focus. There are more important matters demanding my attention now. Composing himself, Sephiroth swept out the door and hurried downstairs. Like a wave crashing on the shore, the stink of sweat and the sound of shattering plates assaulted his senses. Ignoring everyone completely, the former SOLDIER sought out an unoccupied table and sat at the nearest one. A snap of his fingers drew the attention of the maid. She laid out his meal and a newspaper and left. The ex-General ate and engrossed himself in the Midgar Telegram.
Down with a mouthful of rice. Uprising at Gongaga. Not uncommon. More rice. Murder in Midgar. Similarly unsurprising. He glanced up and down the paper without much interest. Some chicken. In the approximately five years since his accident at the Nibel Reactor, little had changed—except, of course, the degrading of both the ethics and the health of the Planet and that in itself could hardly be considered change.
What a miserable state of affairs—ah, I suppose there's no helping it.
"A blade you say?"
"Yeah, the most beautiful weapon I'd ever seen!"
The newspaper fell to the table, forgotten. The possibility of him hearing exactly what he needed was certainly beyond what random chance would normally permit. Still, it was an opportunity the materia warrior couldn't afford to pass up. Pushing the chair back, he rose and crossed the distance to the mercenaries.
"You mentioned a sword...pray tell, where is it?" Sephiroth was no one for wasting time on formalities or small talk.
"Aye, I did. What's it to you?"
Insolent fool. Sephiroth's right fist clenched...Normally he'd nail the man to the wall with his own ribs, choking him until the information gurgled out with his blood. That would not do now, however. Had he, Sephiroth's face would be plastered on the Midgar Telegram—not exactly the optimal manner in which to remain unseen.
The ex-General lowered his voice to its farthest depths. "Your life."
"Eh?" He stumbled back in his chair. Apparently, the man didn't know Sephiroth's predicament and naturally assumed the threat to be sincere. Inherent cowardice drove the words out of his mouth. "Alright! I meant no offense. The blade is at the bottom of the ocean near a waterfall. You best be leaving it be though."
A frown crept into the former SOLDIER's lips. "Oh, why?"
"The underwater is home to a legendary beast." Are they all not, thought Sephiroth. The man continued. "It's the size of Junon Cannon, or so I'm told. And I'm betting it wouldn't take kindly to anyone disturbing it."
"Then I shall have to take care not to wake it, then." Likely the man exaggerated so Sephiroth dismissed the warning. Even if the man did not, what did it matter? Hadn't the master materia-wielder faced graver threats...such as the demi-god Da-Chao and the Guardian? Some ocean-crawling caterpillar would hold no sway over his quest to reclaim Masamune.
"You have been to this site, I presume? Do you have a map I may purchase?" The ex-General detested conducting business with this low-life human but he conceded to the necessary evil.
Negotiating a fair price (Sephiroth narrowed his eyes to persuade the man to acquiesce) for the map, the former SOLDIER then asked about the area. After dangling a pouch of coins and the man became surprisingly compliant, even to the extent of providing some materia he claimed Sephrioth needed. Sephiroth eyed the orbs, purple Free-Motion, and a green Underwater. That seemed useful...
Since the money (or materia) was no object, the ex-General purchased both and then spoke on methods of travel. Since the distance was entirely too far to trek on foot, the man offered to rent his chocobo. More bargaining—and threatening—and the transaction ended. A most profitable effort, one that brought him that much closer to Masamune.
Excellent, child. This shall be your first true test since...Nibelhiem. Do not fail me again.
"If I fail, and I will do everything in my power not to, then I will deservedly die."
Over the mountains Sephiroth rode, making excellent time. After the trek ended at a waterfall cavern, he heaved off the bird, smiling with pleasure. Such was the speed, he'd cut off two whole days from his initial estimate. The chocobo he'd rented behaved marvelously. More accustomed to, and truth be told, preferring, non-living vehicles, still Sephiroth found this mode of transportation agreeable. The former SOLDIER never had an affinity for animals yet this one never gave him no reason for pause.
Hauling out a drawstring pouch, he selected a number of materia orbs, among them: heal, fire, restore...and lodged them in the holes of his belt. He bore no weapon. Having wielded the Wutain blade, Eskallanilna for so many years of his life, Sephiroth feared anything else would be woefully inadequate. In addition, it seemed sacrilegious somehow.
"Wark! Wark!"
A smirk spread across the pale features of Sephiroth. Picking out a merritt green, the ex-General fed it to the Chocobo. It gobbled greedily, warking again in appreciation. Then it ruffled its feather, perhaps expecting to be patted. If so, it would be disappointed. Sephiroth had never been comfortable with close contact and a disgruntled bird was not about to set his mind at ease.
Whipping his long ebony cloak behind him, the former SOLDIER climbed down the rocky incline, working his way down to the water's edge. Rapids rushed past, culminating at the base of a waterfall. A grown man could easily be submerged within a heartbeat and crushed beneath the icy depths to a watery grave.
And there he must go.
Strapping the belt on tight, Sephiroth tapped his Free-Motion Materia. Activated. Then his gloved fingers slid over the green materia, Underwater. Should it perform properly, his lungs would naturally transform the water to air, thus providing him with a means of breathing. If it did not, however, he wouldn't have long to bemoan its malfunction.
Mother, Cetras, beloved kin, pray for me...
Activated...
He shut his eyes...
He breathed in deep....
He took the plunge...
Cold. So cold. Like the depths of the Great Glacier. It burned along his nerves, setting every cell to screaming the instant his body crashed through the surface. For a moment, the ex-General maintained his balance. But that was lost a moment later as he struck the edge of the ford and swept over the waterfalls. In a fantastic display of acrobatics, Sephiroth remained upright as he smashed through the bottom.
Then, the waters closed over his head.
A most disconcerting feeling. Of pressure from all sides. Of blurry vision. Of a strange weightlessness. Gradually, Sephiroth adjusted to the environmental changes though he enjoyed them no more. The memory of his fall at the Nibelhiem reactor was still too fresh for him. The feeling of entrapment, of imminent doom.
That all vanished at the sight of one object.
Like a newly-minted star, there she shined. He dove through the waters for her.
Eskallanilna...
Closer...
Still closer...
Almost...
Almost was not enough. As if a meteor slammed into the Planet, an animalistic roar emanated from the beast. Sephiroth took that for the ill omen it was. The sound cleaved the ex-General's skull like thousands of stabbing origami and he gagged, momentarily paralyzed by the sheer force of the sonic assault. Even the waters seemed silent beneath its fury. When as last it ceased, Emerald Weapon climbed to its staggering height.
Wisdom urged Sephiroth to make hasty his retreat. He could do nothing but gasp, however, cemented to the spot. It actually hurt to gaze up at the green-skinned monstrosity. Two courses of action now lay before the materia warrior: abort his mission and leave Masamune or risk his life to retrieve it. Challenging the beast could hardly be considered an option, but neither could he abandon his directive...
Odds be damned, no sea-crawling worm would halt his mission.
Touching a green materia orb on his belt, the ex-General activated a shield about his person, its magic shimmering around his form in a dome of multi-spectrum light. Then, using every ounce of energy afforded him, Sephiroth blazed a path directly toward the blade. It gleamed in the sea-green waters like a light dropped down from the Promised Land. Some innate feeling claimed that should he grasp her shining hilt once more, Eskallanilna would not fail him in this struggle.
Such was not to be, however. Already the former SOLDIER heard the crashing of Emerald's feet on the ocean floor and felt more than saw the shadow smothering him. Numerous times Sephiroth had to sidestep a laser Emerald sent his way. Debris hurled about oddly in the water. Several pieces bounced off his shield. It would scare be long before his main line of defense shattered, rending him helpless to the Weapon's attack.
And that it did. Shatter, that is. A shrieking bolt of sapphire slammed into his left side, shocking his systems, singing his hair and filling his body with excruciating pain. Mere feet from his goal, Sephiroth staggered back. The ex-General had not contemplated the sheer power of the creature. The last mistake he'd made of this magnitude cost him his life and his mission.
No, no, no...Not again.
Blackness became his world now. Acting on primal instinct, Sephiroth hurled himself far from the spot, erecting the shield over himself once more. It became a life-saving maneuver, as the sound of crushing rock savaged his ears, nearly stealing his hearing as well. The pain sang a melody of torment in the former SOLIDER's blood. Had he trusted his shield to protect him, Sephiroth would likely be spirit energy himself. That, by no means, insured his salvation. For all he knew, the ex-General might now be in the clear like a chocobo ripe for some feast.
Not an encouraging thought.
Bereft of his vision, Sephiroth decided a moving target was likely harder to kill. He sped through the waters, the purple materia of free-motion affording him a measure of stable footing. How many fragments his shield warded the ex-General could only imagine. A dozen explosions erupted all around him: left, right, over, under...But they did not touch Sephiroth. Even his high-level force field obviously had no ability to so immaculately protect him...Perhaps some higher being, some guardian angel...
I am, my beloved son. I am.
Her voice refreshed his soul like spring mountain water, fending off his fears. What had he to worry about? He was Sephiroth, the former Head of SOLDIER. He'd faced bigger (figuratively speaking, of course) threats than this. He was the Heir, and heirs bow to no one.
Again resorting to his military training, and a few skills accumulated through some difficult social situations, the ex-General varied his movements, ensuring that Emerald could discern no pattern. Sephiroth needed time, time to locate his Heal materia. His fingers traveled across his belt, seeking the tiny orb. How many had he attached there? By the time the ex-General found the correct materia, Emerald would again disable his shield and tear him apart.
Just like the mound Sephiroth hid behind. A shriek ripped from his throat as the ex-General was flung far afield. Striking a wall, he heard a terrific crunch and slid down to the sea floor. There goes a rib...he thought morbidly. The assumption was affirmed a mere breath later as he felt it rattle in his chest. As Sephiroth spat out blood he made a snap decision—he would select the first materia his fingers reached and hope for the best.
An utterly reckless course of action and one that should have yielded results other than that which he experienced. Miraculously the ex-General's sight returned and with it, a goodly portion of his strength. Fortunate, that. Thus, when the snake-like pearl beam shot in his direction, Sephiroth could both see and dodge it. He rolled forward, barely evading the shock wave. Daring a glance back, the former SOLDIER discovered that the rock he'd previously inhabited existed no longer. No fragments, no debris of any kind.
If he didn't escape he was as good as dead.
Not without my Eskallanilna...
Pain leapt to his head, striking Sephiroth down. The stench from his left side told the story of burnt flesh and exposed muscles. Blood from his various wounds drifted upwards in a sickly pinkish display. The ex-General appeared as if he'd been half-submerged in steaming mako. He had naught time to oblige his agony, now, though. Ever on the move, Emerald tossed half-a-dozen sharp silvers of light at him. Live people move; dead, don't.
Circling the creature, Sephiroth sped past boulders, each bursting from Emerald's attack a heartbeat later. No time to worry about that. He had to focus if the former SOLDIER dared to dream of wielding Masamune again. As he closed in on the blade's position, Sephiroth cast his hand in a twirl over his head, sending spheres of flame at the Weapon. That diverted the beast long enough for him to grasp Eskallanilna and dive behind another boulder just as Emerald let a stream of ice particles at his direction.
Then, in moment of divine (or Cetra?) inspiration, Sephiroth leapt onto the beast.
'Twas a strategic maneuver and one that should have been impossible to execute. But executed it was, and to terrific result. While the ex-General 'rode' the creature, Emerald couldn't lock his lasers on him, providing Sephiroth with some cover. The former SOLDIER had no such impediment. Racing from one green-skinned shoulder to the next, Sephiroth sliced and diced, leaving a trail of blood that sent the few remaining underwater creatures aflutter.
Bizarrely, the WEAPON uttered not a sound. Bucking and rearing, it sought to dislodge the menace from its shoulders. No effect. That menace, Sephiroth, clung to the creature. At each opportunity he dug Masamune in deep, the crimson life flowing in the water and stinging his eyes. As Emerald hurled himself about, the ex-General slipped on blood and stumbled down the creature's left side. The landing would hurt, badly.
But land he did not. Strands of his long hair intertwined with the monster's claws, halting his descent. It was a not a welcome change of pace, however. The WEAPON, perhaps thinking his adversary dead, launched into the waters with all the velocity of a North Corel train. Such was the speed, that Sephiroth found it nearly impossible to breathe.
That was the least of his worries. Emerald raced through the waters, slamming against the raised ocean floor several times. Caught between, almost literally, a rock and a hard place, the ex-General's body was first crushed, then raked until he bled. Oftentimes the collisions left tatters of his trench coat and shreds of flesh.
Sephiroth shrieked—but down in the deep blue sea no one can hear you scream.
Except, of course, mother.
Tear yourself away from the creature! Chop off your hair if you must! You are the Heir!
Spinning Masamune in his hand, the ex-General cut the silver strands like thread. Oddly, the properties of the free-motion materia did not take affect and the landing still could not be considered gentle. Groaning, Sephiroth crumpled against a large coral wall. Each breath he drew was like swallowing Masamune. His vision blurred. His body ached. His heart pounded in his chest. It would avail him little to reclaim his beloved sword only to die shortly thereafter.
Then, salvation. His lifestream-green eyes locked on a tunnel barely ten feet away. Despite his lean frame, passing through would be an arduous task—but Sephiroth considered that a blessing. If he found it difficult, it would likely be impossible for the bulky WEAPON.
A shadow fell over Sephiroth, seeming to steal his breath away. No need to look up. Drawing on reserves of strength he knew naught he had, the former SOLDIER crawled, climbed, and scraped his body along the ocean floor toward the opening. Nine feet. Seven feet. Five feet. Three feet...
Then, there it stood.
Like a building spontaneously erupting into existence, Emerald blocked his path. Had Sephiroth been one given over to cursing, a number of colorful metaphors would be issuing from his lips just now. But such anger would not assist him. In the moment it took to glance up into the green-skinned 'face' of the monster, Sephiroth resolved his course of action.
He ran straight at the creature.
Lasers exploded left and right of Sephiroth, hurling debris at his unprotected back. Each fragment that struck him sent rivulets of agony through his left side. Still, Sephiroth pressed on. As he neared the opening a massive chunk of hard-packed sediment spun directly at him. Swiping out Masamune he hacked it in half, each piece falling harmlessly to either side of him.
Then the ex-General swept underneath Emerald and into the tunnel.
Like a torch thrust into a bucket, his sight vanished immediately. Though reduced to crawling again, a smile streaked across his porcelain face. For a creature that one can only describe as the tallest building in Midgar it couldn't perform the simple act of crawling. He muttered a few words to that, prayer and thanks both.
Each of which quickly conformed to a curse as Sephiroth, his hearing preternatural since conception, unpleasantly noted rock tumbling. Emerald, discontent that his quarry escaped his clutches, smashed his considerable bulk into the cavern. Several chunks impeded his progress, only lending the infuriated WEAPON just that much more time to vent, perhaps leading to the ex-General's eventual burial.
If I don't distract the beast, my life is forfeit. Oh, Cetra-angels of the higher reaches, give your Heir strength!
That they did. Not strength, per say, rather ingenuity. Bending in the close quarters, the Heir stabbed a finger at the monster while his other hand caressed a golden materia sphere. He wielded the darkest art know to the Planet: Shadow Flare. Out of the shadows of every object within a ten-foot radius a beam of ivory-ebony light sprang. Ascending to an ear-shattering silence it swirled around his fist then vaulted from it, striking Emerald Weapon.
Emerald shrieked, fury and pain in one terrible note. Pinpoints of light blinded the creature, momentarily forcing it to surrender its assault. Sephiroth's eyes gleamed in murderous thrill. He'd disabled the beast—what greater service could he do for the Planet than if he eliminated the WEAPON entirely? The thought hinged on the fringes of his mind...
"Masamune...is innocent–do not taint it!"
...but he shoved it aside. No, Sephiroth dare not risk his mission now, no matter how high the possibility of success. Besides, he did not come to destroy life but to merely recover his blade. His gaze drifted down to the Masamune sheathed at his hip. A crown of the Cetra. Perhaps that's what the Guardian meant about tainting...slaughtering a creature that merely protected its domain...
Let the weak, evil humans deal with this creature...is no more than what they've earned.
Never was there a more welcome sight for the ex-General than when he emerged from the tunnel. An extraordinary distance, one that left his lower body and hands bleeding. Light streamed from the sun high above, cutting through the waters. Here whole schools of fish swam, undisturbed. They knew naught of the dangerous creature lurking in the murky depths a few hundred feet from them.
Grateful to be away from the immediate threat, Sephiroth stumbled to his hands and knees. Exhausted, in body and soul, he lay on the ocean floor. Able to dismiss it no longer, the pain returned with a vengeance as if attempting to make up for time lost. Broken bones. Burnt flesh. Ruptured organs. Blood floated up from his many wounds, surfacing to the light. He smiled, though, in a maddened sort of way.
Reunited with his beloved Masamune at last...
His mission complete, the ex-General's mind began to haze...
No! My son! Do not escape that monster only to perish by something so stupid as drowning! Mother loves you...Mother needs you...You are the Heir...Heirs do not die...
Sleep threatened to drag him beneath the silken folds of eternity, of death. He heard the voice; understood the magnitude of the danger. Still Sephiroth smiled lazily. For some reason he couldn't parallel the two. Then, a flash of memory...of mother...of the Cetra...of his destiny. Battling fatigue, the ex-General thrust himself up through the waters. Almost nil progress due to the overloaded belt he wore. Working like an inebriated man, Sephiroth snapped loose the buckles and let the belt fall behind him.
Slowly, but surely, the former SOLDIER's body drifted heavenward. Light shined on his silver hair, affording it a celestial quality. Behind him, the materia belt descended becoming ever smaller until it vanished from sight utterly. By that time, Sephiroth broke the surface, like an angel coming home at last.
"Not really an angel, eh?" Luke asked, grinning that stupid grin that always irked Vincent.
"No, but resilient. Only a man with Sephiroth's strength would have survived both the harsh terrain of the Northern Continent and an encounter with Emerald WEAPON. I marvel at the fortitude," the former-Turk sighed as he circled the dimly lit chamber. He halted dead center. "What if that power were used for good, rather than evil? What great asset the Planet would have on her hands. Ah, but such is merely wishful thinking and hardly that productive..."
Luke scratched his chin in a manner that somehow annoyed the ex-Turk. "Hmm. But instead it is used for destructive purposes. Twisted to evil by one's own mother—"
"Lucrecia was not evil!" Like a hawk descending on prey, Vincent closed in on the reporter.
"Ugh, ah, no. I meant Jenova. The big, ugly alien. She's the mother who polluted his soul."
"She's no mother of his. Lucrecia bore Sephiroth. I saw that with my own eyes. Jenova is a parasite who latched onto him. She opened the door for his damnation. But, still, it was he who walked through it." Vincent's blood-red eyes rose to the ceiling of cobwebs. "We may point fingers in the game of life but ultimately when we stand before Judgement we shall stand alone."