Relit
Death is a fickle thing.
It's not as black and white as people think. Dying doesn't mean that the world fades to black and that everything just disappears from view. He remembers hearing a joke once, that being stupid is just like being dead - it is only painful for the others.
Nothing could be further from the truth.
Death is painful - its domain is ruled by the vengeful goddess Minerva, a deity who towers in judgment over the Planet and the green lifeblood that courses through its veins. He remembers seeing her beatific statues and monuments all throughout his hometown and in the centers of Gaia's largest cities. He had been expecting to see her when he drew his last breath. But when he found his life slipping away, soulless black eyes staring down into his own, Minerva had not been there for him.
There'd been a different goddess, this one from somewhere so depraved and evil it could not have been conceived on this earth. She was all bright purple and muted silver, glowing red eyes that felt like they were draining the very blood from his body. When she wrapped her claws around his throat, he felt the theft of every synapse in his brain.
For years he has been in these green ethers, his soul trapped between the world of the living and the darkness that makes death such a solacing place. He is in a special sort of purgatory, one where he can see his failures replay on an endless loop, where he is reminded of every sin and how he has never been able to measure up. It is only fitting that he spends the rest of his existence in a space that is too unforgiving to be considered Heaven and yet too uninspired to be considered Hell.
Death, he has come to realize, is nothing but time. More time than he ever thought he'd have, time that he had so desperately needed when he'd been alive. Now, he has an endless supply of it. Hours stretch on where he has nothing to stare at but green, his thoughts replaying the same sadness.
The same death, the same burning and charred bodies that are licked by the remnants of flames. The same destruction, buildings collapsing in broken heaps of twisted wood and steel, bones crushed beneath. A mako reactor that sits on the top of a mountain and bleeds, rivers from the dead leaking out of the antechamber where his failures eclipsed.
He didn't know he'd died that night. He didn't know for hours, walking among the wreckage and the corpses, looking for any clue that someone from his hometown might still be alive. But he'd failed them all, his mother and the girl he loved, and now he was dead.
Tifa .
That is his greatest failure of all. He'd promised to protect her, and it was the one thing he should have gotten right. But he failed.
And now he is dead.
Tifa trusts Marle. She really and truly does, has for as long as she's been in this city. But as the older woman who has helped raise her ever since she woke up in this city five years ago with her chest carved open and her hair and skin singed by fire stops her in front of her apartment, thrusting an envelope into her hand, Tifa raises an eyebrow.
"What is this?" Tifa asks.
Marle taps a bony fingertip at the return address on the envelope. 811 Orchard Hill Lane, Nibelheim, Western Continent it reads.
Tifa stares at the envelope in her hand, a sense of bewilderment whirlwinding inside of her with the speed of lightning.
Nibelheim doesn't exist anymore, she knows. It burned down a long time ago.
At least, that's what she's been told. She was there when it burned down, everyone tells her, but she doesn't remember any of it.
"I got it on the authority of a very trustworthy friend who now lives in that part of the world that Nibelheim has undergone some… restoration efforts," Marle informs her. The older woman's voice is raspy and thick, and Tifa can tell by her measured tone that she is very serious about what she says. "It would appear that there is a young survivor of the fire that burned down your home living there, helping with the efforts as people repopulate the town. He's looking for an assistant, and this letter was sent to me by courier today. He was intrigued by your piano talents and wishes to discuss this proposal."
Marle holds the envelope up again, gesturing for Tifa to take it. She stares at it silently, her vision blurring when she scans over the address again, over the solicitation that is printed at the bottom in fine red ink.
Piano lessons requested.
She tears open the letter.
It is three weeks later when Tifa is in Nibelheim, standing on the front porch of a mansion, staring up at it and the tall, rusted claws of its front gates and the way the pointed spires of its ridged roof blend into the fog that hovers above the town.
Tifa isn't sure why she is here or why she accepted the offer that was etched across the parchment that Marle handed her, short of the older woman's constant nagging that it was a far better way for a penniless orphan to make ends meet than mixing drinks and serving tables at a slum dive. She isn't sure why she believed the words that were writ across the page, why she felt so compelled to act. But it had only taken a few hours of staring at the words penned there before she found herself throwing what little clothing she owned into a suitcase. There was something about the letter that threw her under a spell, and despite her best senses, she was booking a ferry to the Western Continent by the end of the week.
Nibelheim burned down five years ago, Tifa remembers. Well, she doesn't actually remember - she had been unconscious when it was reduced to ash, waking in Midgar near death with every memory before she opened her eyes to those white hospital lights wiped away. The only thing she carried with her from her life before that moment was her name, and that was only because the man who had brought her to Marle told her that she was Tifa Lockhart, one of the only survivors of the Nibelheim Massacre.
Five years ago, Tifa thinks as she twists her fingers together and stares at the gates in front of her. Five years have passed and somehow, after all of the atrocities she's looked up on the internet and asked Marle and her friends in the slums about, hoping to unclasp the hold her amnesia has on her brain, the town is rebuilt. She wonders how this could be, and then she looks back down at the letter she received, the careful print and the gentle but solicitous words.
The letter is from a wealthy man who is investing in the restoration project in Nibelheim. He runs a delivery service and needs an assistant to help him manage his books. He is fond of the piano and has learned of Tifa's skill as a pianist in Midgar. He has also learned that she is from their hometown, as well.
When she first reads the words in his fine and carefully formed penmanship, Tifa feels a stab of anxiety. How can anyone know that she is from this ill-fated town? And why does he think that she is worth hiring? Sure, she is a decent pianist and manages Seventh Heaven's ledgers rather efficiently, but that doesn't make her qualified for this type of assignment. Yet Marle, who has been looking out for her ever since she woke with metal wires holding her ribcage together, insisted that she give it a try, that not only would it help her financially but that it might give her the spark she needed to get her memory back.
So now, she is standing there in a conservative white blouse and slim black pants, a far cry from her usual battle fatigues that serve their purpose for her work in Midgar and the daily run-ins she has with slum beasts. If she is coming to some rich man's house to run his finances and teach him how to play the piano, she figures she had better look the part.
She sighs and pushes past the gate, trying to smother the chill that runs down her spine at the rusty creak it screams as it gives way. The fog surrounding the mansion grows deeper, and Tifa lets her eyes sweep from right to left, spotting the dead grass that lines the lawn and the black, twisted roots of the oaks that tower in front of the mansion. She rubs absently at her shoulder as she climbs the stone steps in front of the house, feeling the dampness from the thick air that has lined her bare skin.
Everything is showered in moonlight. It is late, Tifa's tram from the ferry bringing her across the continent well after the evening hours. Nibelheim is already quiet, with few people in the streets as she passes through the gates into town. No one pays her any mind as she makes her way along the cobblestone.
She approaches the dual front doors of the house - they are at least double her height, crafted from a heavy dark wood that is weathered and looks rough to the touch. Brass door knockers in the shape of the heads of a Cerberus are mounted to their wood, eyes that seem to come to life staring back at her as she tries to keep the breath in her lungs. Already, she is regretting coming here.
But the letter burns in her pocket.
She lifts a tiny hand, raising it to the Cerberus. She raises the ring that hangs from its center mouth, lets it fall to the door, once, twice. It thunders a sound as the metal greets the wood, and Tifa steps back, folding her hands in front of her and swallowing carefully.
Minutes pass, and Tifa wonders if this is all some sort of joke. Maybe she has the wrong house - but she doesn't see any other mansions around here. Maybe no one is home, the strange benefactor who contacted her out for the evening, even though from their correspondence, he should be expecting her. Maybe this is all just a big mistake.
She is considering turning away and heading to the inn for the night when the door is finally pulled open. The resistant sound it makes has Tifa thinking that it hasn't been opened in years. There is nothing but darkness beyond, even as Tifa tries to peer inside to see.
"Miss Lockhart?"
A man is suddenly standing there in the doorframe, peering at her with blue-green eyes that are wild. They are bright and capture the starlit depth of the night above and behind her. He is not very tall, but his build is lean and the way he stands screams silent authority. He is dressed in all black, dark slacks and a sweater that zips up his chest but falls open at the line of his clavicle.
Soft golden hair spills around his face, hanging in a messy assortment of strands that seem purposefully mussed. He is handsome - disarmingly so, soft pink lips framed by a boyish face. But while Tifa absorbs all of this, it's those eyes that she can't ignore, that remind her of a place far, far away, a place she can feel in her heart but knows isn't real and that she can never find.
It feels comforting, like home, but Tifa knows that is silly. Everything about her home was slaughtered and burned away five years ago, and she remembers nothing and no one from it.
"That's me," Tifa replies, offering him a smile. Even though she's nervous about all of this, is anxious about returning to her hometown, and is already leary of this estate, she's accepted this position and there's no reason not to be pleasant with the man of the house. "Mr. Strife, I presume?"
"Cloud," he tells her softly. He steps out of the way, gesturing to the space beside him. "Please, come in."
Tifa nods, feeling her heart ricochet at a suddenly turbulent pace inside of her chest. Eyeing the darkness beyond where Cloud stands, she wraps her hand tight around the handle of her carry-on, wheeling it behind her as she steps inside the threshold.
The grand foyer that Tifa steps into as she passes through the front door steals her breath. It is a vast open space of marble and obsidian, the walls lined with faded ivory wallpaper, the floors polished and sleek in a checkered pattern that's trimmed with blood-red carpeting. Twin staircases with solid black balustrades spiral up into the next level at either side, branching off into wings that stretch on deeper into the house. Directly ahead of where she stands, in the center of the foyer beyond the stairs, Tifa can see another set of doorways that lead to another section.
She takes a moment to glance around, craning her neck as she admires the architecture and the decor. Despite how grim and lifeless the property seems from the exterior, inside, it is shining and pristine. It looks like nobody lives here, but still looks as if it is well maintained. Tifa glances back at Cloud, who now has both hands in his pockets, wondering why a man who lives in a place like this would answer his own front door.
"Is it just you here?" she asks quietly. "Don't you have any staff?"
Cloud shrugs with a toss of his head. "I live alone," he replies, and Tifa realizes that his eyes are sweeping over her, taking in a little bit of her entire appearance but never lingering on one part long enough for it to become uncomfortable. "I don't have a need for staff. Here, you must be tired and hungry from your trip. I'll show you to your room, and then you can have dinner."
"That's very kind of you," Tifa says, and her heart is pounding again, so loud alongside the blood in her veins. "Thank you."
"It's nothing," Cloud says with a shrug.
He turns away, and Tifa feels the same sense of calm reassurance she felt reading his letter in Midgar, somehow ebbing off of him in waves. She doesn't know this man - only knows that Marle seems to trust him enough to send her here - and normally, a situation like this would have every one of her hackles raised. But despite the ominous air that surrounds this mansion, despite the oddness of its perfection and pristine halls, Cloud Strife is a warm wave of summer mist passing through its corridors.
She feels safe.
Tifa follows him deeper into the mansion at a light pace, and he takes her to the stairs. They groan and complain under her feet with every step, and Tifa realizes that despite how well-kept everything appears, this place is old.
Like the first floor, the hallways they pass on the upper level are carpeted in red and bordered by lanterns that burn with mako, flames licking at their glass encasements. It makes their path dim, dancing with shadows, and Tifa swallows as she glances at the faded portraits that cover the walls, lifeless eyes staring at her from visages that are lost in the past.
"This is the guest wing," Cloud tells her, stopping in front of the first door they encounter. "My quarters are on the other side of the house. I hope this is alright."
Tifa says nothing as he opens the door, leading her inside of the bedroom. It is well-sized, dim like the rest of the house, but opulent in its splendor. The floor is covered in a plush carpet of plum, and the king-sized bed in the center of the room wears satin, brocaded down comforters that match its hue, canopied by a heavy silk awning. A large window with grates of iron looks out onto the night sky beyond Nibelheim, its thick dark curtains still pulled back.
All of it is far too decadent for Tifa, far more than one person like herself needs. The offer Marle had given her mentioned room and board as part of the compensation, but she certainly had not expected this.
"Oh, my…" she breathes, still looking around, gripping her luggage even tighter beneath her hand. "It's… lovely."
Cloud's face remains stoic and unreadable, his hands still shelved deep in his pockets. He blinks, and Tifa sees the swirl of color in his eyes that burns something up inside of her, setting her heart to a light race. He's thinking as he stares, and Tifa wonders what is going through his mind.
"Well," he finally says, managing to look away, and Tifa sees a faint highlight of color brighten the tops of his cheeks. "I'll leave you to it, then. Dinner will be served in about a half-hour. Do you remember how to get back to the entrance hall?"
Tifa nods, silently retracing their steps in her head.
"Good," Cloud nods. "I'll meet you there for dinner."
She offers him a shy smile in agreement, but Cloud is already turning away, and soon, he is gone, leaving her alone.
Tifa glances around the room a final time, then lets out the deep breath she has been holding, pulling her suitcase deeper into the room. She feels swallowed and consumed, as if the air here is far too heavy for her to even breathe.
The room is dimly lit, and Tifa takes another glance around as she surveys the antiquated furnishings that remind her of an antebellum period she's only seen or read about in books. She's drawn to the window, though, and she walks up to it, pushing the curtains open as she takes the moment to peek beyond the heavy iron grates that guard the glass. The sky has darkened even further, and Tifa can see the moon, a bright white disc that illuminates a sheet of black. Below, orchids of violet and red stretch on in the field behind the mansion, but everything is grayed by the fog that hangs in the air.
There is a profound melancholy in this view, Tifa thinks, and the sights bring her somewhere bleak. She closes her eyes, but the image is burned there.
It reawakens something in her, but it is more a feeling than anything tangible, a sensation that she cannot name. It burns like the wick of a candle that has just been extinguished, its heat dulled but still hot enough to burn.
Maybe it's tied to the memories she can't find. What difference does it make , she wonders sadly. They won't return to her and even if they do, Tifa already knows that there's no one left in this town that was once hers, not anyone she knows.
A creak and a groan in the wall to her left startles her out of her thoughts, and Tifa turns, dark scarlet eyes widening as she spins around. She stares at the intricate burgundy and ivory wallpaper that lines her walls, and hearing another whine somewhere deep in the house, Tifa wraps her arms around herself, shaking her head.
"It's just your imagination," she says out loud to reassure herself.
Still, she can't ignore the slight thrill of terror that jumps through her at the sound, and she quickly distracts herself, throwing her suitcase on the bed and rifling through it as she prepares for dinner with her new boss.
Tifa has always been punctual, and she is ready and meets Cloud at the foot of the staircase in the vastness of the entrance hall. She's changed out of her travel fatigues into a light silk dress that's belted at the waist and brushed her hair so that it is shining and voluminous under the candelabras that she passes as she makes her way through this old manor. Marle has reminded her over and over again of the importance of making good first impressions, especially with a man who she is going to be working for.
Tifa doesn't think the hints of kohl and gloss she's swept across her eyes and lips have anything to do with how handsome she finds him.
Cloud is waiting patiently at the bottom of the stairs, hands deep in his pockets as he looks up at her, dark blue eyes glowing curiously in the darkness of this house. He has changed his clothes, too - also more formal, now dressed in a simple black button-down and black pants with wing-tipped shoes that shine. Everything he is wearing fits too well, tailored against a body that is lean and well-formed. It's a bit distracting as she makes her way in his direction.
"Good evening," he greets her before she can speak. "You… look nice, Tifa."
Tifa can feel the heat scald her cheeks almost instantly. His words catch her off guard, and the pleasantness that ripples across her entire countenance from the soft tenor of his voice feels like a dream on the other side of midnight. It's almost enough to have her forgetting the strange sounds and shadows she picked up earlier in her bedchambers.
"Thank you," she replies, unable to avoid the tendency to meet his eyes and glance down at her shoes. Her voice comes out small, drowned out by the wind that whistles past the walls of windows that surround the mansion's outer borders.
Cloud only nods in response, then offers her his arm in a gentlemanly fashion. This is another gesture that Tifa finds surprising - she cannot remember a single man in the slums of Midgar who would be capable of behaving with such careful refinement. She chews into her bottom lip, accepting his arm in a loose hold, and follows him throughout the house.
Tifa can't help but look around as they make their way deeper into the center of the manor, down a corridor that widens and leads to branching pathways across the first floor. The silence that lingers in the air seems almost unnatural, but every so often, a groan in the floors above them captures her attention, and she starts at the sounds. The third time it happens, just as Cloud is leading them inside of the dining hall, he stops and turns to her.
"A bit jumpy," he observes, and Tifa sees that the corner of his mouth is twisted in the slightest curve of a smirk. "You alright?"
Tifa hopes that the heat she feels in her cheeks isn't betraying her. She passes it off by turning away slightly to look around the room.
"Oh, I'm fine," she answers. "It's just so… quiet here, that every time I hear a sound, it's a bit jarring, I guess."
Cloud nods, and they approach the dining table, which is long enough to serve thirty guests. He stands by the head of the table, gesturing to the seat beside it. Covered plates and tall wine goblets are at each place setting, silverware already neatly set out. Cloud pulls out Tifa's seat, and she sits, still feeling warmth coloring her skin.
"This house is hundreds of years old," Cloud says. "Late at night, when the earth begins to sink against the pull of the moon, the mansion settles. It's all made of wood and mythril, you see."
A pause settles between them. Cloud lowers his fork.
"It's as if the house is breathing," he almost whispers, and Tifa hears another distant groan."Or perhaps in pain."
Tifa glances up at him and considers this, but he isn't looking at her, pouring a red wine that is so dark it is almost black into both their glasses.
This room is dimly lit like the rest of the house, but its walls and furniture are gilded, producing a brightness that glows against the torches that fill the room. It dumps warmth into the room that Tifa hasn't felt elsewhere in the house, and it casts highlights into Cloud's soft blond hair that makes it look like raw bars of gold dug from beneath the deserts near Corel.
Cloud looks up then, catching her eyes where she realizes she's been staring at him. As soon as their eyes meet, Tifa looks away, the diffidence of her shameless admiration washing over her and brightening her cheeks tenfold. Cloud pretends not to notice and hands her the chalice he's filled for her. She accepts it immediately, keeping her eyes averted.
"I hope you don't mind the dinner," Cloud states, lifting the cover from his dish to reveal a cornish hen beside a heap of springtime vegetables and fresh bread. "I'm not much of a cook, but I manage."
Tifa lifts the cover on her own plate, glancing down at the small bird. Its skin looks unseasoned, and Tifa can see that it is burned. The vegetables appear soggy. Only the bread seems appetizing, warm and fluffy.
She doesn't hurt his feelings by stating these observations, of course. Instead, she looks up at him, offering him a smile as she reaches for her knife and fork.
"If you don't mind, I can pick up the cooking while I'm here," she offers. "I did all the cooking at Seventh Heaven."
"Seventh Heaven," Cloud repeats, intrigued. "What's that?"
"The bar that I worked at in Midgar," Tifa explains, sipping her wine and leaving the food untouched for now. "Marle found me work there after I…" she stops herself, realizing she is coming up against the familiar wall in her memories. She clears her throat and sips again, letting the alcohol muddle her already clouded thinking.
Cloud is studying her face, and Tifa can feel the intensity in his stare. It is focused and precise, as if he is trying to search her memories for her, to unlock the words she is suddenly unable to say. It makes the heat that the wine is inspiring in her blood burn even brighter.
"Oh," he finally concedes. He's silent for a moment, carefully cutting into the skin of his hen. Tifa relents and works on her food as well. "I'd like to hear about your time in Midgar, if you don't mind?"
Tifa flashes her eyes up at him, and she sees that Cloud is still watching her, a forkful now in his mouth. He chews and swallows, and for the first time since she's met him, he smiles.
She tells him everything she can remember.
It's been a little over two weeks since Tifa has come to the manor in Nibelheim.
Cloud's delivery business keeps him away from the mansion for long stretches of the day, leaving Tifa alone in the huge domicile for hours on end. She goes over his ledgers, thumbing through the receipt books that he keeps stacked in one corner of his desk, sorting through the letters and shipping labels and address books that litter his workspace.
Cloud Strife is not the most organized man in the world, Tifa realizes with a chuckle by her second day there.
Despite the work in front of her, Tifa doesn't mind doing it. And judging from the depth of the paperwork she delves into each morning after Cloud leaves for the day, he may not be tidy or structured, but he is bright. She noted his intelligence during their conversation over dinner that first night - the thoughtfulness of his questions, the spark of light she could see dance behind his eyes whenever she managed to give a particularly engrossing answer. Despite the mundanity of that first talk, Tifa found herself enjoying Cloud's company almost as much as she enjoyed looking at him.
Blushing, Tifa closes the ledger she is working on and tries to push that thought to the side.
She admits to herself with a fair degree of mortification that there is something about Cloud that is compelling in ways that Tifa realizes she has never really considered before. In Midgar, there were always plenty of boys who wanted her attention, even when she was as young as fifteen and still ambling through the Sector with layers of gauze wrapped around her chest that would sometimes leak through with red. In those days, Marle would chase them away with sharp words and an even sharper blade. Soon, though, the muscle memory in Tifa's body was reawakening, and with a little bit of her own training, she was chasing them away with her fists.
She never felt anything around those men that was nearly as pleasant or comforting as what she feels around Cloud. Despite how dreary and dismal this house was, he always feels like a warm ray of sunlight that is shining over her.
Cloud has shown her the piano in the parlor on the first floor, but he's been shy about letting Tifa teach him to play, despite what he wrote in his letter. Instead, he asks her to play for him. The first time he asked her, Tifa found herself blushing again. She never played for anyone but Marle, or sometimes her best friend Jessie, or Marlene, the little girl whose father worked out of the basement of Seventh Heaven. Tifa doesn't even recall learning how to play the piano, but like fighting, it's a skill she's never forgotten from a life she never remembers living.
So she plays for him, often after dinner.
Even so, with him gone for most hours of the day, Tifa feels the lonely melancholy of this house settle around her. The odd sounds return, but they don't bother her as much in the daytime. During the day, she can distract herself with other noises, the chirps of birds in the trees that line the property, the whistles of the gales that descend from Mount Nibel to the North, the clip of chocobo talons against the cobblestone in the streets beyond as they make their way through the town square, hauling carriages that carry materials to build new homes and shops.
Tifa busies herself with her work and prepares meals for her and Cloud to enjoy together when he finally arrives. He leaves before she rises, so she takes breakfast alone. But they always have dinner together, even if it is late in the evening, far after suppertime has passed. Some nights they eat as late as eleven o'clock.
But it is always her favorite time of day, the easy lightness of their diffident conversations a shelter for her heart, the warmth of his body just a foot away from hers a blanket over her soul.
Today, she takes lunch alone in the kitchen, the way that she does every day when Cloud is working. She wonders how he could stand to live alone in such a massive house with endless numbers of rooms, but the more time she has spent with him, the more she's come to realize that Cloud is a man who could survive the rest of his life with no other company than his own.
That thought saddens her as Tifa bites into her sandwich, standing over the kitchen table that is crafted from a wood that is so old the grooves in its top have grooves of their own.
She is pulled from her ruminations when she hears a thump in the corridor just beyond the kitchen. It is a loud crash, so much so that vibrations rock through the walls, disrupting the pots and pans that hang above the stove. Tifa stops, looking up at the kitchen door that is wide open and leading into the dimness of the corridor that spills out into the main hall.
Today is an overcast day, and despite the fact that it is just a little past noon, the sky is grey as if the sun has already descended. It makes an already dark house with antediluvian lighting even murkier inside.
Tifa stops eating, swallowing her bite and dropping her sandwich back onto her plate. She stares at the darkness beyond, blinking as she feels her heart begin to stomp and the hairs on the back of her neck rise against the sudden static in the air. She stills her entire body, listening carefully as her mind begins to race with every horrific possibility she can entertain.
"Cloud?" she chances, hoping that he might have come home early, disrupting the front door with a slam.
There's no response, just an endless stretch of silence that seems to drain the air from the room like a vacuum. It prickles Tifa's skin even further with goosebumps, and she sits frozen, wondering again if she is overreacting.
For some reason - maybe it has to do with the trauma, Marle sometimes rationalizes - Tifa is always hyper aware of her surroundings. She hates being alone, and when she is, every sound or movement raises her sense of self-preservation. Since she's moved here with Cloud, she's been able to tamp down her wild reactions to the unknown. But today is the first time since her very first night here that she's felt startled enough that she stopped breathing.
The entire house groans then, just as Tifa is regaining her breath. The house is breathing , Tifa reminds herself in Cloud's voice. She closes her eyes and lets out a sigh, shaking her head at the way her heedless anxiety manifests itself before she rolls her shoulders and goes back to her lunch.
There's another loud sound, this time like the slam of a door, or maybe like a ton of weight crashing a hundred feet to the floor. Tifa looks up and freezes, dropping her sandwich once again, this time with so much force that the slices of bread fall open.
Tiiifffa….
If Tifa was struggling to breathe before, it has become an impossibility now. She is choked, her windpipes restricted as the rasp of the voice echoes her name. The sound seems to come from the walls, seems to come from every direction, folding itself around her as it beckons to her.
Ti….faaaaa…
Tifa pushes up to her feet the second time she hears her name, her chair scattering and falling behind her in a heap. The crash of it only startles her further, and she leaps into the air, nearly ducking into a somersault as she raises her fists in front of her in an effort to protect herself. But there is nothing and no one around, only the echoing hum of the house breathing and its groans as it settles against the earth that has been swallowing its foundation centimeter by centimeter for at least two centuries.
Tifa internally chastises herself, feeling the beads of sweat rise on her forehead like tiny soldiers of panic. She no longer has an appetite, and she busies herself by tossing the uneaten half of her sandwich in the trash, rinsing her plate off in the sink and setting it to the side in the drying rack. Her hands shake the entire time, but she manages not to shatter the china that Cloud informed her was nearly as old as the house itself.
Tiffaaa…
The third time is a charm, Tifa thinks sarcastically in the back of her mind, despite the rising fear that bubbles in her stomach. She can no longer ignore what she is hearing and feeling, can no longer discard the way that her belly rolls and her heart pounds and her skin crawls. Someone, something , is calling her name, beckoning to her just beyond these halls.
A woman's voice.
Another thud, loud and thunderous, somewhere in the house, closer this time.
Tifa pinches her eyes shut. She wants to cry, but what would that do? It's silly. If there is someone or something in this house that wants her, it will find her, and there is nothing she can do but protect herself.
Why couldn't Cloud be home today?
TIFA!
The final shout has her staring up ahead and moving out from behind the kitchen table, where she doesn't realize she has crouched. This time, it is because the voice is right in the room with her.
Tifa opens her eyes finally and looks up. A woman is standing in front of her, but she is shrouded in black. Her bones - every fine, ivory detail of her skeleton - bleeds through the sheer fabric that covers her. Long black hair flows in floating rivers all around her, dancing into the air.
Her face would have been pretty if half of it were not melted away, revealing bone. The woman has no eyes, only lifeless husks of black that sit in sockets that once held orbs of sight. Decay rots off of every appendage, falling like ash to the wooden floorboards as she moves.
Tifa is paralyzed. What she sees in front of her cannot be described, even within the scramble of her own mind.
Tifa , the voice beckons her, but it doesn't come from the woman's throat. It seems to echo off of the walls, reverberates throughout Tifa's very own skin. The chill it produces rises through her entire body like a symphony, and Tifa's feet pad forward, moving with leaderless direction.
Beyond the kitchen, the corridor is dark. Tifa knows that it empties into the main entrance hall, near the staircases and the side doors that entertain the parlor and dining hall. But now, it is nothing but black, slowly opening up into white, a bright sun sitting over a dusty flat landscape that is carved from red and brown clay.
A group of children, all boys, sit in a circle a few paces away from where Tifa stands. Their hands are dirty, muddied by the dirt they've dug through. In their center sits a girl, faceless and pale, her entire body shrouded by long dark hair.
"Tifa!" the voice calls again.
The woman is standing in full view now, but she is no long bones wrapped in silk. She is pretty, deep-set crimson eyes that are as inviting as a glass of merlot. Her full lips are curved up in a smile, long nimble fingers curved into thick petticoats. Tifa glances in her direction, but the woman isn't looking at her.
"Tifa, it's time to say goodbye to your friends," the woman says. "We've got to prepare dinner."
Tifa blinks, watching as the girl in the center of the group gets to her feet. As she rises, Tifa notices she is covered in dirt and dust. She's wearing a bone-white dress that's trimmed with black lace, and her legs are coated with the whisps of scratches and scrapes, the evidence of a girl who spends too much time playing with boys.
Tifa steps back, a hand reaching for something to anchor her to, but there's nothing but blank, dark space behind and to either side of her. She trips over her own feet, watching as the woman claps and the girl runs to her, taking her hand.
Tifa just barely notices the little blond boy who is standing on the outskirts, watching it all.
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Tifa can't concentrate on anything when she's sitting with Cloud that night on the bench at the baby grand piano in his parlor, and he notices.
"Tifa," he inquires gently. "Is everything alright?"
She's sitting quietly in her chair at his side, but her insides are still rolling from the visions she had earlier that day. Her stomach clutches and turns, and Tifa pulls her fingers away from the keys, swallowing back the bile that her recollections inspire.
"Yes," she answers with far too much politeness than their relationship over the last couple of weeks requires. "How was your day?"
She hopes that by deflecting the conversation to another topic, she'll forget the anxiety and excitement of that afternoon. It doesn't help.
Cloud wipes the corner of his lips with the side of his fist, and Tifa can't help but notice how pretty his mouth is. He reaches for his glass of wine that's on top of the piano, turning to her with scorching turquoise eyes finding hers.
"Not bad," he finally answers after a pause that has Tifa squirming her knees against one another. "I went to Junon today. Delivered to Rufus Shinra personally, a very sensitive parcel, apparently. It was an interesting interaction, to say the least."
"I can imagine," Tifa laughs.
Cloud smirks at her reaction, but his facade doesn't break. He continues to stare, so long in fact that Tifa has to look away.
"How was yours?" he finally asks.
Tifa has to think. She wonders if she should tell him about the apparitions she's seen that day. They are still a strange harbinger in the back of her mind, and Tifa folds her hands in her lap as her mind spins again. What would even be the point in telling him? Surely, he will only think she is a madwoman.
Yet, Cloud is staring at her so intently, those ultramarine eyes reeling in the words of her soul that she's refusing to speak. His gaze is so intense that Tifa folds, the words suddenly spilling from her lips.
"I…" she starts, tossing her head from side to side as her fingers twitch over one another in her lap. Her thoughts feel jumbled, and she doesn't want to sound stupid, especially not to this man who is so intelligent and calm and measured, and way too handsome for his own good.
"Cloud, I saw something strange today," Tifa manages at last. "It seemed like there was a disturbance in the hall, and then I saw a woman."
Tifa leaves it at that. She doesn't mention how the woman was decrepit and decayed, how the room shifted and spun to the center of their dusty village and an image of children that Tifa feels like she should know but doesn't.
"A woman?" he repeats. He shifts his body on the bench, facing her fully now. He's wearing a navy blue turtleneck sweater, sleeveless, exposing his arms. Tifa can't help but notice the ripples of his biceps, firm slopes and curves that betray the strength beneath that smooth, pallid skin.
"Has anyone died in this house?" Tifa blurts. It's the only reason she can come up with to justify seeing ghosts.
"This house is hundreds of years old," Cloud responds. "Plenty of souls have come and gone, I'm sure. And you know that this town has seen many violent deaths during the massacre."
Tifa doesn't say anything. She knows, because she was there. She still wears the scars.
She just doesn't remember.
"I don't like ghosts," is the only reply Tifa can come up with.
Cloud's expression softens, and his blue eyes are oceans, their depths crashing against the shores of her heart and calming her. She nearly gasps when he reaches across her lap and gently takes her hand.
"I don't know anything about ghosts," Cloud says. "But I promise, while you're here with me, Tifa, I will protect you."
His hand squeezes hers. It is warm, like a summer wind. It reminds her of a youth that she cannot summon in her memories, but despite this disconnect, it comforts her all the same.
She forgets about the woman and her grayed skin and black hair, forgets about the harried children and the little boy who stood on the edges, while the world revolved around the faceless little girl who sat in the center of their circle.
She's glad she's come here, even if this house is eerie and scares her.
She has Cloud, and he's promised to protect her.
What else could she ask for?
Weeks pass, and autumn has descended on Nibelheim. It's late September and the winds blow down from the mountains, tossing leaves across the unpaved streets.
It's late, just after Tifa has enjoyed dinner with Cloud for the evening. She's been in Nibelheim working for him for just over a month now, the summer having come and gone. But with its fading disappearance, it's left Tifa with a fondness for the man who has come to be her master and also her friend.
Cloud is gentle with Tifa, and as she's grown to know him over these last few weeks, she has realized him to be kind and thoughtful. Despite the fact that she falls under his supervision, he never behaves as if he is her boss. When he needs something from her, he asks her with a soft and sweet cadence in his voice, his hand dropping carefully to her shoulder or her upper arm, his breath dancing across her hair when he leans in. He trusts Tifa to manage his finances with the skill and finesse she possesses, and he never challenges her decisions. He looks over her work when he comes home in the evenings, and he nods silently to himself before he offers her his shadowed smile in gratitude.
And then there are the times when Tifa teaches him on the piano, and seeing the enthusiasm in his face as his fingers sit under hers and float across the keys, Tifa thinks this is the real reason he sought out her services and brought her here.
Tifa is laying back on her bed, staring up at the dark silk fabrics that make her canopy, draped over her bed. It is so rich in comparison to her dwelling in Midgar. She's lived in shanty houses and shipping containers, and it was only when Marle was able to acquire the Stargazer Heights apartments did Tifa, at last, have a real room with a comfortable bed.
But even that was a far cry from the decadence of this manor.
Tifa lifts a hand, holding a ring carved from mythril between her fingers. It's adorned with a wolf's head, the eyes downcast but fangs bared. Cloud had given it to her before she'd departed for bed that evening, as they sat side by side on the piano's bench. It was a simple token of his appreciation for her work with him thus far, even though he was already paying her far too handsomely with gil. And, he told her softly, holding her hand as he placed the ring in the center of her palm, it was a token of their friendship.
It feels like something more, Tifa has been thinking ever since the moment he gave it to her and her heart picked up speed, eyeing the stud in his left ear that matches it.
Now, she twirls it through her fingers, wondering what it means, wondering what is developing between them. She thinks she is probably reading into it too much, searching for something there that doesn't exist. Cloud has been nothing but kind and gentlemanly toward her. He has offered her hospitality and companionship in exchange for her talents. There is no reason for her to assume, despite the pitter-patter of her heart whenever he is near, that there is anything more to it.
Still, Tifa thinks, rubbing her thighs together as she imagines his too-pretty face and deep blue eyes, that gilded hair that looks like satin and those muscles that live like smoothly carved stones beneath skin that feels like velvet, it doesn't hurt to pretend.
Her hand is dancing dangerously across her lower belly when a sound attracts her attention. It seizes her immediately, and Tifa throws open her eyes, narrowing them as she peers into the darkness beyond the posts of her bed.
This time, the sound is a wail. It sounds like a scream of anguish, but it comes from beyond the walls of the house. Her best instincts warn her to crawl deeper into the safety of her blankets and ignore it.
But Tifa can't do that. Curiosity has always been her enemy, luring her into the depths of intrigue and situations she is best off avoiding.
Tifaaa…
She sits up and swings her feet over the side of her bed at the sudden sound of the voice. This time, it is a man's voice, and it calls to her with the force of the gales that blow past the windows beyond. It summons her from beyond her door, and without even thinking about it, Tifa is sliding her feet into her slippers and sliding her arms into her windbreaker to shelter her body that is housed in the thin fabric of her nightgown.
Her heart sounds like the rolling thunder of a train's wheels against an iron track, and it is the only thing that Tifa hears as she picks up the mako-lantern from her bedside table and leaves her room.
The halls of the mansion are dark, even the torches along the walls have been extinguished at this late hour. Tifa wonders how Cloud can manage all of the intricacies of this house on his own, but that thought is disrupted when she hears the voice call her name again.
Tifa…
Her heart stops for a pace and then leaps, and Tifa looks up, seeing a black shape in the darkness of the hall ahead of her. It is the shape of a man, tall and broad-shouldered. He steps in her direction, then doubles back and turns away, finding the stairs.
Tifa is unable to stop herself from following.
Holding the hem of her nightgown in one hand and carrying the lantern, the only light she has, in the other, Tifa makes her way down the winding curves of the long staircase, her heart thundering where it now lives in the center of her throat. Every fiber of her being chants at her to turn back to the safety of her room, but she is possessed, unable to stop her feet from the direction in which they carry her. Soon, she finds herself standing on the front porch of the mansion, just beyond the heavy wooden doors that stretch up into the sky.
The man's figure is better defined against the midnight, and Tifa can now see the black and grey threads that drape off of his form. They seep like oil into the ground at his feet, and then they disappear. His face is marred by deformity, edges of his skull showing, but Tifa can make out the mustache under his lips that is twisted when he frowns at her.
The mountain…
The words echo towards her, but his lips don't move. He turns, making his way down the beaten dirt path that is grooved by chocobo carriages and the footfalls of passersby. Tifa can scarcely breathe, and she is unable to process what she is seeing. Nonetheless, she wraps her jacket around her and follows.
She keeps a measurable pace from the man whose appearance seems to shift, nearly disappearing against the wind. She is frightened but intrigued, and it is this horrific blend that helps her keep her distance even as she creeps behind him, mapping a trail behind the mansion where it nears the mountains and where the orchids stretch on in lifeless hues.
The grass is growing tall around Tifa's ankles when she sees the children, the man stopping a few feet ahead of her. They stand in a small group, all facing the mountains. They are shaking their heads, and Tifa can hear their whispered distress. The man, whose form continues to deteriorate in front of her, covers his face with his hands.
Tifa inches forward, eyeing the children - all boys, much like the last vision she had - as they continue to fret. She follows their line of sight, her eyes drifting upward along the ridges of Mount Nibel just beyond in the distance, past the fog. She spots the little girl with the black hair again, and like before, Tifa cannot see her face. All Tifa can see is her pretty white dress that is already stained by grass, that flowing ebony hair that shields her from the rest of the world.
"Mama," the girl calls softly, her voice carried by the wind.
Tifa watches in horror as the girl loses her footing where she stands and slips from the cliff face. A boy appears, racing behind her with arms outstretched, his voice high-pitched and wild. He is blonde and slight of build, and Tifa thinks she recognizes him.
She doesn't have time to think about it, though. As the girl falls, Tifa feels herself falling, too. The ground has slipped away from beneath her feet, the orchids and flowers of bright purple and deep red disappearing and revealing a chasm of black, jagged rock in their wake. Tifa can feel their sharp edges carve into her skin as she falls, tearing open wounds that she realizes now have existed for years.
She screams.
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"Tifa! Tifa, snap out of it!"
Tifa opens her eyes, not realizing that she is still screaming until she feels the burn at the back of her throat. The world opens up around her, revealing a sky that is indigo and filled with clouds as dawn approaches. The mountains slice up the heavens just beyond, and all around her, she is surrounded by mist. But something warm and firm anchors her, and Tifa leans into the feeling.
Arms tighten around her as Tifa blinks to awareness. She turns, looking up to find Cloud's swirling irises of cobalt and viridian staring down at her. They are wide with concern, and Tifa realizes that he is holding her from behind, crouching where he cradles her limp body in the grass. Flowers are all around them, and as Tifa tries to gather her bearings, she realizes that their petals are crushed and scattered from where she has fallen.
"Tifa, are you alright?" Cloud tries again.
Despite the gentleness in his tone, Tifa can hear the frantic worry in his voice, the strain and the rise in pitch. He's holding her carefully between his knees, and he gives her shoulders a gentle shake where he holds her. The warmth beneath his hands stirs her to life, and Tifa sits up, glancing at the mountain that is encapsulated by fog before she looks back up at those starlit blue eyes and those pretty pink lips that are so kissable in ways that are distracting, even after the terror of her life.
"I'm okay," Tifa reassures him. "I just… I saw…"
She can't finish her thoughts. Surely, Cloud must think she is crazy. All of her rantings and her fears are delusional, and here she is polluting this kind man with the depression and anxiety that has raced through her since she woke up broken and robbed of all of her memories in a city polluted by smog. Cloud has taken her in as a benefactor and pays her richly to do very little, encourages her best interests, and keeps her warm and well-fed and safe with the decency of his good company.
And here she is, acting as if the Stigma has run through her veins.
"Another ghost?" Cloud finishes for her when words fail her.
Tifa tilts her head as she stares up at him. Somehow, Cloud's hold around her tightens, and she feels her body pressed to his. Her left breast is against his chest, a firm wall of steel under the black sweater he's wearing. Her nipples both stiffen at the realization, and Tifa can't resist the impulse to curl closer to him.
He's smirking slightly, and Tifa knows that he is both serious but trying to placate her fears. The warmth that blossoms across her body at this realization is explosive, and Tifa blinks at him, nodding her head slightly to let him know what she thinks she saw is real.
"A man," Tifa tries. "And… children. Children watching, while a girl falls. And another boy, Cloud. He looked -"
Tifa stops herself, unwilling to finish her train of thought. Where her words lead is too ridiculous, even for this moment of unabashed absurdity.
"Tifa," Cloud stops her when she stutters. His hand is at her chin now, and one finger gingerly strokes her cheek. So many sensations course through Tifa's body that the excitement of it all leaves her with a blend of longing and desire and deep, deep affection. "It's okay. I'm here."
Over these past few weeks, Tifa has learned that Cloud is a man of very few words. Even though they converse often and he's opened up so much to her, his responses are often clipped. But what he does say always carries weight, and at no time has this ever mattered more than now.
He kisses her forehead, and Tifa sighs. She says nothing more about ghosts or visions, about phantasms or children jeering or falling from cliffs with scraped knees. She lets Cloud lift her, carrying her back into the mansion and tucking her back into the brocaded sheets of her bed while the sun whispers its greeting to the horizon.
He is there.
It's the end of October - All Hallow's Eve, in fact - when Cloud has to take his first delivery that will keep him away for more than a day.
Tifa hates it. The loneliness she feels when he is away during the day is jarring enough, but at least she has their dinners and piano sessions to look forward to in the evenings. But to go to bed at night without the comfort of his gentle embraces or the soft looks of affection behind those azure eyes is too much to bear.
In the last few weeks, Cloud and Tifa have grown closer but still tolerate and reinforce the boundaries of their friendship. He grows warmer with her by the day, sharing more and more of his heart and the deepest parts of his mind with her. She's come to understand his thinking, finding him to be both complex and simplified in the way that he approaches life, a careful and curious blend of measured and reckless.
His warmth and generosity towards her are what warms her heart the most. She adores how he treats her, the soft touches to her waist or shoulder or wrist, the quiet tone of his voice when he whispers to her. Even the text messages he sends to her PHS set loose the butterflies in her tummy, and every time Tifa reads one of his carefully crafted sentiments, she presses her thighs together and resists the urge to sigh dramatically like a damsel swept off of her feet.
So him being away for more than a day - leaving her alone - leaves her anxious and unnerved and sad, probably in a way that is not altogether rational.
Tifa takes dinner in her room that night, unwilling to sit alone in the vastness of the dining hall, the gilded walls towering over her. She sits on her bed and eats a cold salad on the tray that she's prepared, careful not to spill anything onto the beautiful shuttle-woven sheets.
The chill that crawls through the air is gripping, but Tifa is more arrested by her thoughts than the temperature. She thinks of Cloud and his warmth, his soft touches and inviting eyes that calm her in a house that's every fiber has become frightening.
Tifa …
That call of her name is followed by a shudder and a collapse, the dual sounds of walls folding in on themselves with glass shattering. Tifa sits up and looks around, dark crimson eyes grazing the entire room. Her heart leaps out of her chest, and Tifa tries to contain it, terror a new animal she must command.
Tiiffaa …
The voice this time is far more unnatural than it sounded in her past. It is neither male nor female, has no echoing resonance that Tifa can place. It is nothing but commanding, angry and vengeful and loud, and Tifa moves, compelled.
Tifa slips away from her bed, trailing the ghastly form in front of her. The shape fills out so that it resembles a woman, soft curves making out the hills and valleys of her body. Long silver hair bangs from a head that is at once beautiful and horrifiying, stealing the breath from Tifa's lungs.
Mount Nibel , the beautiful woman chants at her.
She is unsure why, but Tifa gets to her feet, rising and following as the apparition saunters through the house and out of the front door. She follows it through the long corridors and the oppressive darkness, drawing her sweater around her shoulders as she crosses the front door and emerges into the night, the winds instantly wrapping around her. They coat her like rain, every breath and whisper cloistered against her skin as she inches forward and follows the voice that summons both her fears and her rage.
The woman with the silver hair is advancing towards the mountains, both arms extended beyond her hips. Rivers of violet and ruby float from her fingers, dousing the ground behind her and leaving a trail that Tifa follows with careful footfalls. Her heart clutches against her rib cage, reminding her that her body is nothing more than a fortress against this eternity of pain.
Tifa doesn't realize she has followed this woman beyond the base of the mountain. She now faces her among a small outcropping where the workers have dug into the soil, erecting a tight facility of steel and glass into the rock. A sign smeared with the red swipes of blood screams JENOVA at her, and Tifa stills, her hands shaking as she faces the eruption of evil in the hills.
Just ahead of her, Tifa sees rivers of red drain from the mountain, dripping their way down the rocks. Her mouth falls open, but then she sees them, two figures crouched on the steel catwalk of the reactor that has appeared in front of her.
A boy holds a girl in his arms. He's on his knees, holding the frailty of her lithe body against his. She is lifeless and covered in blood, the tassels of her cowgirl vest drenched in the life that drains out of her.
Tifa , the boy says to the girl. Please don't die. I'm here, I'm here, I'm here.
This time, the apparitions are not faceless. The boy is Cloud and the girl is her, and Tifa realizes that this is one of her core memories, a memory of that night when everything broke apart.
She remembers now.
She feels herself crawling across the grates of the catwalk, and the heat of the flames is singing her skin. She gasps, moving in closer. Everything feels torn with pain, but watching as this younger Cloud presses soft kisses to her younger self's forehead, Tifa knows and remembers that only one thing matters.
He's always been there.
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Starlight is shining through the windows where Cloud has left the curtains open. Tifa sees the pale bleed of light all across her room as she opens her eyes, and blinking, she glances about and finds Cloud hovering over her.
"You okay?" he asks her softly.
Her memories return, slamming into her like the waves of the ocean. Her youth, her mother and father, a life and death she's never been able to understand. A blond-haired boy next door who was at once her best and most distant friend, sheltering the wounds of his heart from the open wells of affection inside of hers.
"Cloud," Tifa cries in reply. "I love you."
The words escape her lips like a runaway train, unable to be controlled. The calmness of Cloud's expression shatters, and tears fall from those heavenly blue eyes in a way that has Tifa clutching to him. He holds her tight and she sobs, and soon, Cloud is kissing her hair.
All this time, she hasn't realized that he's not real. But now, holding him so tight, she notices that he's nothing but fabric and bone, that his skin is colder than ice. He is paler than the moonlight, and it is when this realization dawns on her that he kisses her.
His lips are soft and warm, fires and flames beneath their soft touch. They draw her into a place and time that Tifa cannot imagine, and she shivers against his hold, tasting the sweetness of his tongue. Cloud's fingers are nimble, and they dance through her hair and find the skin at the nape of her neck, setting loose a brushfire of desire between her thighs.
Tifa leans into him, a light moan escaping her lips as he deepens their kiss. His right hand has dropped the parchment it carries and is now on her knee, pushing the fabric of her nightgown up and up. The gentle pinprick of his skin against hers travels across her nerves like an electrical current, and Tifa widens her thighs beneath the sheets, feeling herself grow damp at the closeness of his body and the softness of his voice. Cloud brushes her hair from her eyes, his expression curving into a smirk.
"I love you too," he confesses so lightly that it is almost as if he hasn't spoken at all.
His lips leave hers, finding her skin. They dance over her throat, his teeth leaving bites. They find her collarbone, and her chest, his tongue stroking her nipples through a quiet bliss. Tifa can do nothing but accept it, her body winding against the affection of his mouth.
"I always have," he tells her as he pulls her panties away, dropping them to the floor.
His tongue slides between the slick heat of her folds, lapping firmly but gently at the tip of her clit. Desperate sensations of ecstasy rock through her, but all Tifa can think about is the fact that this boy was hers so long ago, that he's always been hers, that he's here for her then and now, and that despite the crater that erupted in the last five years of her life, she's never been alone.
Cloud wraps his mouth around her clit and sucks so gently until she is nearly at the brim, and just as she is about to weep, he stops. He pulls away from her, gathering himself at his knees above her as he sheds his sweater.
"Should I keep going?" he asks once he is shirtless, panting and staring down at her.
"Please," Tifa nearly begs. "Never stop."
The soft affection in his eyes eclipses into feverish longing, and Cloud is soon between her knees, balancing her calves above his shoulders. Every inch of her body is aflame as his fingers scrape over her skin, and when Tifa feels the firm tip of him slide over her clit, she pinches her eyes closed and moans, a tear squeezing past her eye.
When he slides inside of her, it feels like a dream, an indescribable sensation of fullness and hardness and love. He is so thick and warm, so heavy and hard, all of it is too much to fathom. Tifa whines into his ear in response, her arms wrapping around him and clutching him tightly. Polished burgundy nails carve into his skin that is now warm and smooth, life flowing through every vein and reawakening decades of solitude.
Cloud makes love to her so deeply that night that Tifa cries. He moves with a deep but steady slowness that ruins her, her cheeks wet before her first climax. He is relentless, stroking the deepest part of her, finding the parts that her amnesia and depression have relinquished.
It may be hours later when he finally empties inside her, and they are both kissing each other through their shared release. Their bodies are lined with sweat, but Tifa can't get closer to Cloud. Laying beneath him, she shivers, realizing she will dissipate into mist if he leaves her side.
"I remember now," she confesses quietly. "I remember everything. And… I'm no longer afraid."
Cloud takes her chin in hand, his thumb brushing across her cheek.
"Thank you," he whispers in reply. "I'm not afraid, either. Because of you, I'm whole."
He cradles her closer to him, and for the first time, Tifa sees something that brings out the sun and the stars of her world.
Cloud smiles.
Death is a fickle thing.
It leaves him alone now that he is whole, now that the puzzle pieces of uncertainty have been snapped together. Minerva no longer shines her judgmental emerald stare at him, has loosened the invisible chains that bind him, and now he is free to stand on his own.
The entity that's imprisoned him for these last few years - the crimson stare that is like lasers, the silver hair that bastardizes the skylights, the purple skin that bleeds so many colors - she no longer has her tethers on him. But still, she smiles staring at him with evil behind the curiosity in his stare.
"She may have saved you this time," she whispers to him as he turns around. "But I am forever."
It doesn't matter, Cloud thinks as he squeezes Tifa's hand in his, following her to a place where their eternity is molded by lilies and tulips. She has brought him back from death, back from this place that is so murky it can be neither of Heaven or Hell. She has brought him back from the brink, and that's all that matters.
He is alive.