ASPECTS by Kiraya
Disclaimer: I'm too poor to own the rights to Final Fantasy anything.
Warnings: Disjointed, Sephiroth-centric strangeness bordering on multiple personality disorder (as if his poor, pretty little head wasn't screwed up enough already). Gore, character death, end-of-game spoilers, a brief hint of Sephiroth/Zack.
Notes: This is my first foray into the FF7 fandom, wahey. Musing on the significance of Cloud's surname at three AM can induce very strange thoughts (and dreams, too, let me tell you).
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When Mother came to you in your mind, she brought her pet Madness with her, a dark grinning beast whose oily black coils clutched your soul like a vicious lover, filling you with unholy impulses and desires that you acted on without sparing so much as a moment for thought.
Over the years after the deliciously insensate destruction of Nibelheim, the sudden wrenching fall of Shinra's glorious and noble angel, others were born to keep you and Mother and Madness company in the long cold darkness.
First had come Rage, a terrible, snarling, blood-spattered copy of the man who had been your dearest— no, your only friend. He'd slip a carefree arm about your shoulders (like he often had in life) and, grinning, lean close, all warmth and hard muscle and reserved strength, to whisper in your ear (like you'd always, always wished he had in life, so like a lover) sweet dreams of fire and gore and death.
Close behind him always followed Grief, a slender little shadow of a thing all clad in grey, long brown hair lacking its natural lustre as it fell into her green eyes, downcast and sorrowful. None of the others ever paid her much attention, though she still remained there, right at the edge of your vision.
At some point, you noticed a great dark tear in her chest, as if she'd been run through. That was the one time you truly looked at her, and the one time her pain-filled eyes met your gaze just for an instant, bloody lips as silent as ever before she once more looked away.
Grief always hid whenever Terror dared show up, and Mother would drive him off, hissing and screeching and clawing at him as the bile rose thick in your throat and you couldn't look away from the sneering, greasy-haired thing that moulded you into the cold fallen angel Destruction was, and Rage's slow, lazy suggestions would become fierce, angry growls, urging you to take the Masamune and strike, kill him now.
But you would remain frozen until he faded away, and then you'd crumple, sobbing as Mother murmured soothingly and petted your silver-white hair with violet-clawed hands, and the strange, faceless, red-clad creature who was Chaos held you back against his chest in a warm/cold/sure/tentative/choking/tender embrace almost like real fathers (who weren't so in love with power and manipulating reality, white coats and needles and numbers and pain, such pain and the Mako would never leave your dreams as long as you lived) were supposed do, whispering unintelligible nothings in your ear, his rich, empty/full voice tinged with accusation/self-loathing/temptation/forbiddance/anguish/joy.
The last member of your little family-that-was-not was Strife, a little broken wisp of a man you couldn't recall having seen more than a few times before Nibelheim. Everywhere you went, though, Strife followed in your wake like an adoring little killer-brother. The attention was almost flattering, but you never took him very seriously… until the first time he hurt Mother.
She urged you to make her prodigal son pay for it, and so you played many a vicious, merciless game with him as he continued to trail behind you like your hair did in the wind.
When Strife slew Terror, you were filled with fierce glee, rejoicing in the passing of the one thing that ever held you back. Surely he was on your side after all, despite what Mother said…
Then he attacked Mother again, wounding her terribly, and your anger was beyond all words. As he left her dying, coming for you this time, you turned to your family-that-was-not, urging them to aid you in striking down the traitor—
Only to find yourself utterly alone.
As Strife finally appeared before you, you knew why. Rage stood tall in the depths of his eyes; there, silent beside him, stood Chaos; there, an unseen yet strong presence, stood Grief, supporting him and all his companions.
Why…?
You knew, then, before you had even drawn the Masamune, that you were dead.
In the end he still surprised you. Even as you were impaled on that monster of a sword, there were anguished tears in his blue eyes; despite everything, Strife still considered you his brother.
If there had been air in your lungs instead of blood, you might have apologised.
Beyond the waiting green oblivion, you could see clear skies and endless sunny fields, where Madness couldn't follow, where the strange and exhausting things Mother wanted didn't matter, where Grief was turned to Joy and Rage was turned to Peace and they smiled from each other's arms and beckoned for you to join them, and everything was perfect.
If your heart had still been beating, you might have thanked him.
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Fin.