He awakens with a splitting headache into a dismal fog. At first, he thinks this must be a dream because his body feels separate and distant. Surreal. Then he tastes blood in his mouth. His lip is cut. There are scrapes on his forearms and bruising along his ribs. He coughs with a pained effort and gets to his feet.

"Hello?"

The white fog shifts and plays tricks with his eyes. He sees shadows receding, like a crowd all around him.

"Aerith?"

He hears her, faint but true. A voice in a choir, mystical and fleeting. Then she's carried away.

"Wait!" He stumbles through the fog, arms outstretched, senses alert, but there is nothing around. Nothing between his fingers. Not even condensation. The mist is vast and curling as if in the wake of many hurried movements. A blanched backlight from the Lifestream lends the illusion of opacity, and he limps on, directionless, determined to find her. She is near. He can feel it.

A wall of black ice appears through the fog. Massive slats of splintered rock reach endless above and to either side, the result of an impact eons ago. The surface shimmers with a thousand tiny motes, and the translucent depths seem unreal. The material… He places one hand on the mirrored surface, watching his reflection do the same. This material is the same as the ancient temple. Voices, unintelligible, rush through his head, imparting such understanding. He focuses on them, trying to pick apart any language or useful clue without luck.

The fragments of his reflection move. A smile, none his own, flashes through the mirror, and a firework of pain crackles up his spine, along his neck and face. He falls on his palms, and the companion looks down at him. The whorls in the rock twist and captivate, locking him into an unwilling trance. The image lifts its gaze to the stars. The voices swell.

Then adrenaline hits. Someone is very near. He leaps up.

Aerith is behind him, perfectly still in the clearing mists, with hands clasped, chin angled down.

"Aerith…" he breathes out, but something is wrong. She smiles with only her lips. Dead eyes rise to him from an emaciated frame. Her hair hangs in clumps, and her dress is torn and ice-crusted.

"You…you must be freezing," he says. A second heartbeat emerges in the noise, pumping into his own.

"Oh, I'm quite fine, brother," she replies without faltering.

"Where's Zack?" he asks. The last time he saw her, that doppelganger wasn't far behind.

She trickles a laugh that mutates to a cough, and she leans over, clutching her stomach until ooze trails at her lips. She wipes it then stares back at Cloud.

"Zack is dead," she says, and the smile is gone.

"Oh." Then the manipulations must be gone, too.

The compulsion to hug her is overwhelming. He pulls her into an embrace, of which she gives no response. Her skin is hot, muscles limp, and as he presses his chin against her temple, a tremor like insects hums within her body. It harmonizes and reverberates to the barrage of voices.

"We have to go," he says, savoring the relief their physical contact brings. "Now."

He holds her hands, but she doesn't react.

"Sephiroth was right," she says. "This is the Promised Land. We cannot go. I've learned so much here."

Her eyes sweep the perimeter, at the Lifestream encased below and at the glittering celestial rock.

"This place sustains me. It is the core of the Planet, and I know what we have to do."

"No, we have to leave."

He tries to pull, but she resists.

"Sephiroth is a madman," he says. "I saw what he wants when I gave him the Black Materia."

"A cleansing."

"Annihilation. Nibelheim was only the beginning."

"He's a true herald of the coming union."

"...Union?"

Aerith smiles that peculiar way again. "Jenova is a gift. I understand that now. And we both know what's coming. The meteor. The Cetra came to this Planet eons ago, traveling the stars. Jenova… Well, it's just another word for the same thing."

Cloud pauses, unsure what he's hearing.

"Sephiroth and I are chosen by the Planet," she says. "We are to reunite with Mother and welcome our far-traveling sisters."

Coldness spreads in his ribs.

"No, Aerith," he starts slow. "No, that isn't true. Jenova is a virus. It poisons your people. We saw a recording of your mother, Ifalna, and she spoke of Jenova as an infection."

Aerith shakes her head. "Jenova are the Cetra's original form. Those that stayed behind on this Planet changed with their environment. After a millenia, they could not recognize themselves and called it a calamity when their brethren came. But history is only stories told by subjective minds. I know now that I am an evolution. It's bonded with me, allowed communion with my ancestors. It wasn't poisoning the Cetra. It was strengthening them."

This is madness. She isn't thinking straight because the cells are killing her. He sees it in her shaking form, the worms crawling under her skin, her bleeding fingernails. She retches again, coughing up sludge.

"I'm not going anywhere," she says once the sickness settles.

His stomach twists.

"Where is Sephiroth?" he asks. Because surely this is his doing.

"Oh, he told me you'd be trouble."

"Where is he?"

She stands tall and firm. "So that's what this is about. Your quest for vengeance."

"What? No."

"Yes. That's all you've cared about since we met. You learned I had a bloodline linked to Sephiroth, and that's why you helped me in the Shinra Tower."

"No! That's—"

"And now you've come to kill him. To halt his ascension. But you should join us, brother." Then she pauses, looks away. "No, that's right. You are not like Mother."

"Aerith… I came here for you."

His shoulder blade touches the wall of black rock. Somehow he's backtracked into it.

"You aren't like us," she says. "I can see you don't understand. He will bring the Promised Land after the cleansing. We can rid the Planet of those who harm it and start fresh."

The Lifestream leaks upwards in droplets from the ice, drifting around her.

"And you're here to stop us," she denounces.

"I just want us to leave together," he says. "Our friends are here—Tifa, Barret, Yuffie, and Cid. Nanaki, Vincent. Don't you miss them?"

Motes of Mako dance around her. She coughs again, wheezing until her eyes are bloodshot.

"We… aren't going anywhere," she says, black dripping from her lips.

"It's destroying you. Can't you see?" The same cells that give him life are taking hers away.

There's no sense in talking. She won't be convinced. He grabs her wrist, intent on pulling her out of this place.

A sudden shockwave pops them apart. He smashes against the black wall. Hands emerge, grabbing at his hair and shoulders from the depths. He repels, sword raised, heart racing. But the hands are gone. The surface is clean and untouched.

"Stay with us."

He spins. Aerith is right behind him. Her eyes go to the sword.

"And what are you doing with that?" she asks.

The air feels too thin. The chattering escalates in a disharmonious choir. It's impossible to think.

"I don't know!" Cloud says. "Just come with me."

Aerith holds her mythril staff, countering his stance. When did she produce that weapon? He can't remember the last few seconds. He can't remember why he's here. All that noise is insufferable. His vision blurs.

"I don't think so," she says.

She's becoming a pink blot in an unstable environment. The walls move and moan. It's very hot here, and the Mako scent is making him sick.

A shadow flickers. Long silver hair. The shine of a malignant blade. Cloud's pulse ignites.

"Aerith!"

He charges forward, broadsword poised to strike. But the General is gone. Aerith deflects his blade with her rod in a sharp metal clink.

"You're attacking me, brother?"

The broadsword lodges in the ice, and Cloud heaves it out, looking all around. No, he was right here—the real puppeteer behind Aerith's actions.

"Now you've really lost your mind," she says.

"He must be stopped," Cloud says, desperate. "Can't you see his plan is to subdue you, keep you here so you can't use the White Materia?"

He says it like he knows what he's talking about, surmised from restless dreams of primordial lakes.

"Aha! So this is about Sephiroth, after all." Aerith twirls her staff, ringlets of hair trailing her actions. "We won't let you interrupt the ascension. And if you aren't here for the reunion… then, I suppose you weren't chosen by the Planet."

Sorrow tinges her voice. She raises the staff in readied opposition. Vertigo seizes Cloud as the motes in the walls spin. The Lifestream flows fast beneath the ice at his feet, nauseating.

Aerith strikes with stabs and swings. He barely gets the blade up in time to block, but each reflex clears his dizziness. Every movement brings the flow and focus of combat. She calls upon her materia and the cavern quakes. Chunks of ice fall and shatter. He rolls away from a massive, deadly shard.

"What, are you trying to kill me?!" he shouts to her over that discordant noise—all those voices, growing louder.

The Lifestream warps the air and lifts her braid and bangs without any breeze.

"I'll defend myself against you, if I must," she says.

Energy pushes him back, kissing of paralysis. He shakes it off, and she leaps. Staff connects to blade. The edges shriek, but she holds steady, bolstered by forces unseen. She grits her teeth, bleeding dark from her tear ducts, and the walls continue to heave. Dizziness upends his senses. Patterns play beneath his eyes.

Something strange is happening. Time lapses, and Cloud is somewhere else—several paces away, sword raised, with no recollection of how or why. Aerith responds in aggression, attacking again, and the brief loss of consciousness continues in tiny waves, blacking out and bringing the voices louder, faster.

"Wait!" he says, or tries to say.

His body alerts him to various threats, a crowd all around, though he sees nothing. Aerith continues her assault. He slips in and out of this fugue state, fighting it, but his body is no longer his own. Another invades. Sephiroth—he knows because he sees that sinister sharpness of silver and black, standing behind Aerith, the flames reflecting in that pallid skin, burning while the General smiles.

Aerith slams the staff across Cloud's face. His sword is up, but he misses the deflection. Brightness pops disorientation. Pain branches white beneath his eyes. He hits the ground and sees the Lifestream just below. All that Mako, too close. Much too close. It wants to cling to his skin, fill his lungs. Suffocate and infiltrate.

She's coughing, leaning against her staff.

"Why do you attack me, brother?" she says between spasms.

"You're the one attacking me!" he counters through dull ringing and throbbing aches.

Blood muddies his tongue. The cacophony worsens.

"What is this noise?" he screams, because he cannot stand it.

Aerith holds her head to the side.

"Oh. Can't you hear them?" she asks. "It's beautiful. All this knowledge."

"We have to leave," he rasps. His body jolts alarm.

Aerith holds a hand up. Rivulets of the Lifestream produce a translucent barrier around her.

"No," she says. "If anything, you should stay with us."

He tries to move. Everything is heavy, but he lifts one knee. Then the other. Unnatural wind whips dust from the fallen rock. The barrier prevents him from getting any closer. He reaches for his Destruct, feels it activate with a surge of sickness in his Mako-soaked cells, that unpleasant tightness. The spell catalyzes, then halts. It sputters without delivery.

Aerith sets her gaze on him through a dispersion of Mako droplets that hang frozen. He is frozen, too.

"Wh-what are you—?"

He cannot move. He can hardly speak. Total paralysis consumes him. He's felt this before, aboard the cargo ship, and it cools the constriction in his cells as the materia deactivates. The orb dims in his wrist.

"N-no," he manages. "How did you—?"

She holds him helpless. The sword drops. Sweat accumulates as she concentrates. Dark splotches under her skin proliferate and spread. She trembles, focusing. His lungs compact. He can no longer speak. A sound rattles near his spine.

"No," she assesses mournfully. "No, you weren't ever like us. He was right. I…I see it now. You should go."

She releases him, and he collapses onto hard ice. She wipes sweat away, leaning on her staff from the ordeal. The black walls seem to encroach, curving onto him. Stifling. It's so damn stifling in here. The voices won't quit.

"Please…" he says, picking up the sword. "Please, come with me."

She is weak from manifesting the barrier and paralysis. He must weaken her further if there's any hope of leaving together.

"Please," he says again, stepping near while seeking his Gravity materia.

Another coughing fit seizes her, and he acts. The Gravity syncs and tightens. He draws the lowest conjuration atop her. Gravity decimates a target's stamina and can never kill, which is the only reason he uses it on her, but when the effect compounds and crushes, she does not get up. She does not even move.

"Aerith…?"

He thinks it's blood, at first, that pools around her, but it's too dark in the iridescent shadows. The staff rolls from her hands and vanishes through a crack in the ice.

"Aerith."

The barrier is gone. He stumbles towards her, still deafened by the voices singing and screaming, his nerves riotous with every step. The proximity to the Lifestream must've amplified the materia and brought unintentional consequences.

She stirs and pushes up. Sludge covers the front of her dress, drains from her mouth and eye sockets. Guilt enters Cloud's veins. The Gravity degraded her human stamina, which allows the Jenova cells to accelerate their destruction of her.

"No," he whispers. "I didn't mean to."

That doesn't matter. The outcome is clear. Without Mako to support her native cells, Jenova cannot be withstood. That is the reason the SOLDIER program was created. Somewhere, those dots connect in his past and spring from knowledge tucked in the Shinra archives. That is why Hojo killed the MP in a Mako chamber. The pain of that memory catches in his breath.

He can reach her. He can pick her up and get them both out of this forbidden place. The Planet's cries are too harsh. He pushes against disequilibrium. Almost there.

She looks up at him. He reaches out. And everything stops.

His body is held, anesthetized. The abrupt immobility is strong and unrelenting.

Through a clenched jaw, he gets the words out: "Let…me…go…"

And a separate voice responds.

"No."

There's someone behind him. Chills breathe at the base of his skull and trickle like fingernails. Aerith's eyes focus behind him. She smiles.

Instinctual fear curdles from the dead MP's memories. The Reactor burns hot, and all that anger, that bottomless hatred... All that death…

Sephiroth steps in view, calm and collected. His black general's uniform is unmarred, and the masamune hits low in its long matte sheathe. The silver hair falls to his waist. A broad chest commands authority, respect. Obedience.

"Hmm," the General murmurs, studying Cloud. "I thought you'd be more difficult to subdue."

"You," Cloud seethes. "You killed them all."

Sephiroth laughs. "Is that what this is about?" He tsks. "And here I thought you were part of our great ascension. Mother's quest."

The MP's disquiet past itches for reconciliation, but Cloud remains restrained.

"Ah, but you are," Sephiroth says, watchful. "You are very much part of Mother's journey. You brought the Black Materia. You helped me awaken."

The General spreads his arms, taking in the atmosphere with a big inhale.

"And soon this body will transform," he says. "The Promised Land will sprout from the earth and uproot the usurpers."

"You're…a madman."

Sephiroth shakes his head. "No, you didn't understand the first time. Why should I expect you to understand now?"

He looks down at Aerith. The Cetra oozes a mixture of polluted plasma. She writhes, weakening, lessening. The dizziness returns and sensations of falling overtake Cloud. Sephiroth stares at him. The emerald irises glow fierce with Mako contamination.

Then, a miracle happens.

The voices stop—all of them. The screaming, the singing. The constant whispering that's followed Cloud since the Tower. Everything, gone. There is silence. Pure and unequivocal silence.

Shock befalls him. A singular heartbeat fills the space between his breaths. He had not known such an experience could exist.

"How…did you?" He wants to know. He needs to know.

The world is sharp and clear and stable. Colors are vivid, and all that pain pounding in his body is tolerable. The dizziness, too, is gone. It is like waking up for the first time from a long, drugged state. He looks at Sephiroth. And he sees the Promised Land ahead. The roar of Mako doesn't frighten him any more. Shinra is the enemy, and there is only one path to ensure the Reactors are wiped from the Planet.

"Yes, you see now," the General says.

"How did you do it?" Cloud says. He cannot fathom returning to that noise.

Sephiroth smirks. "A child of Jenova. And Mother's made quite a mess of you. I've spent years near the Lifestream, teetering on the edge of death, to learn and hone my abilities. I was born of her, you know."

Cloud doesn't care about any of that. "I never knew…" this could be possible—this brilliant world.

"We are chosen by the Planet," Sephiroth says. Then he glances down at Aerith. "She was not."

Cloud follows. Yes, Aerith. He should help her.

"She is an imperfect union, and she is in pain."

The General is right. She struggles and chokes and bleeds.

"There is no recovery for her."

Cloud acknowledges this fact. He's known it in his core all along.

"What should we do to help her?" Sephiroth says though it isn't really a question. He takes a careful stride around Cloud, allowing unobscured access to Aerith.

The paralysis is gone, though Cloud can't tell when that occurred. He's lost track of time in this new bliss. He focuses.

"Help her?" Cloud echoes.

Aerith curls and slides her palms in the pooling mess. She looks at Cloud, pleading.

"Yes, we must help her," Cloud agrees. "But how?"

Sephiroth stands beside him. "Well, there is one way we can end her suffering."

A jolt goes to Cloud's brain. He holds the broadsword. Its edge gleams.

"A quick death. Merciful," Sephiroth says. "She is our sister, after all."

A fuzziness intervenes. Cloud shakes his head.

"There's nothing Mother can do?" he asks helplessly.

The General steps away, heels crunching on the ice, hands behind his back. Cloud approaches Aerith. Her pain is obvious and excruciating. She trembles. Tears streak her cheeks. She should never have to cry again. Or get angry or sad. She deserves to be free of this madness.

He raises the sword.

And he can help her. Yes, a swift death can cure her now. It is the only path.

Then a voice cuts through. Cloud blinks. He hears Zack, lost in a distant hiss, calling to him. Saying something, but…

"You hear him, too?" Aerith wheezes, eyes wide. She shudders.

Sephiroth is next to him. "Why did you stop?"

The tone demands acquiescence.

"I…" Then Zack's voice is gone. It was fleeting, a dead echo of the Lifestream, and that wonderful silence is back. "I don't know."

The General does not move. Aerith continues to suffer. Something tugs at Cloud's chest.

Metal flashes. Within seconds, the steel of the masamune is out and arcing. The weapon punctures Aerith through the heart, and the General stands behind her, masamune dripping after its lethal path.

A scream catches in Cloud's throat. Aerith falls into the pool of blood and gore, fresh red pumping in diminishing pulses. Sludge spreads iridescent like oil. It puddles at his boots.

"Oh," he says, witnessing the final settlement of all Mother's taken from her. It was inevitable. Her blood is droplets against the wall of dark stone.

Sephiroth cleans off the blade and sheathes it.

"Come," he says. "My new soldier."

The compulsion is there, yet Cloud doesn't want to leave Aerith. He watches the last of her muscles cease. It doesn't bring the relief he expects. It should never have happened this way. He shouldn't have let Hojo do a damn thing to her.

The White Materia dislodges from her hair ribbon and trails a pale line in the blood. It rolls into the ice and disappears. Gone, all of it. All of her. He can barely breathe.

The faint muttering returns. The voices rise to retake Cloud's mind, and he feverishly looks around for the reason. The General is several paces away, a shadow in the reconvening mist, a long black cape and a slender infamous blade.

Cloud hurries after him. He cannot go back to that insufferable noise, and somewhere he recalls another reason for following. Memories coalesce, but none of that matters. He knows his purpose now. The truth of the Promised Land is ahead, and Aerith is left behind. The pull of her cells vanishes with that extinguishment, and a greater comfort fills its place and resonates in the silence of her pain.