Yaaay, another boring "tying up loose ends" chapter…

Chapter Twenty: The Angel Weeps

She lay on her back on the beach sands, the tides coming up gently to her knees and receding so serenely. Naomi's strength was fading, but she never felt more at peace than here and now, looking up at the stars.

The lights…they're dancing…

A faint voice called in some remote corner of her mind, "Heartbeat's dropping! Incubate now!"

She smiled, however weakly. The stars are calling me home.

"Cardiac arrest is imminent!"

She reached a weary hand for the sky.

The sound of rolling thunder swept from across the sea.

"CLEAR!"

A flash—a shock—and her bloodshot eyes caught the direst glimpse of a woman in white pressing a pair of defibrillators to her heart. Others garbed in matching surgical uniforms coated in blood—My blood?—scrambled about the hospital room to check the monitors and prepare for whatever came next.

That white world of blood and death vanished just as quickly as it came, and now the tides reached as far as her head, her face just inches above water.

What's…happening…?

Flatline, the monitor read.

But now there was no monitor: only the coming storm—

"No response. Hit her again!"

The spark of lightning—

"CLEAR!"

Her ravaged body jolted once more on the operating table, yet her eyes didn't open this time. The anxious doctors turned to the monitor.

The Intensive Care Unit in Radiant Garden General Hospital; earliest twilight of February the fourth…

He stumbled and fell into the Wingless Angel's arms. But despite this brief failure and the necessary intervention on the young hero's behalf, the man knew beyond all doubt: I can walk again…I'm healed! He looked up to the healer in darkened rags who'd caught him and exalted wholeheartedly, "Spirits bless you, Sephiroth!"

The boy in his late teens couldn't say a word. His breaths were shallow from using his magic to heal so many. His brilliant emerald eyes had formed dark circles around them from weariness. His already slightly messy shoulder-blade-length hair had become unkempt from the sweat of constant labor. It went without saying that his peasant clothing—black garments under a tattered brown poncho—reeked with the fetid stench of adolescence. In short, he was the perfect picture of exhaustion.

And for all his efforts, one could scarcely discern by the cheerful people devoid of sickness or injury that this was the ICU. A small group of doctors and nurses stood nearby, amazed at the miracles performed by this one boy in a single evening. They were the ones who directed the hero precisely how the patients were to be healed so his restorative efforts could be done effectively and without causing unintentional harm. Sephiroth had learned much of healing that night.

Much of healing…and much of helplessness…

In time, he made his way out of the ICU, through the lobbies, and stepped aimlessly through a side door that led him to a small resting area outside. There were some unoccupied benches and a few trees and other greenery covered in a layer of snow. He ignored them completely and leaned against a wall, head in his hands as he tried to calm himself.

"Just breathe," his master had told him. "When you feel yourself drowning, remember to breathe…"

In minutes, he slid to a seated position on the ground, lowered his hands, and lifted his weary eyes to the crescent moon. I'm just so tired. I need to rest.

And so he closed his eyes, slowed his breathing, and allowed his mind to clear.

"Darkness is not your enemy. Accept it. Embrace it. Know peace…"

Sephiroth affirmed this. I am one with the dark. I…I am…

He could feel the pain returning, a twinge in his heart. He grimaced, ground his teeth in broken breaths, and felt a warm trail of tears seeping from his closed eyes. He rubbed them away with the back of his forearm and panicked more than asserted, "I am whole!"

His breathing slowed again, but the pain never left. He pressed a hand against his face and scrunched his bangs. "I am whole. There is nothing wrong with me. I am…I'm complete…"

"Sephiroth?" a woman called.

He froze. He didn't hear the door open. Instead, the broken image of Hollow Bastion's Wingless Angel, this young man pushed beyond the limits of what any boy his age should have to endure, slowly turned and lifted his weary gaze to his visitor. The silver-haired boy's mouth slightly opened and his eyes flashed with clarity at seeing who it was.

Naomi's heart surgeon, Dr. Navena: a light-skinned woman somewhere in her thirties or forties—(Sephiroth never was good with ages)—with wavy dark-blonde hair and deep-set brown eyes. Judging by the dark circles, blood stains, hands in the pockets of her disheveled coat, and slouched disposition of her shoulders, she was just as tired him. She spoke in a scratchy, raspy voice like one with a permanent cold, "You're not very easy to find."

Sephiroth ambled his way back to his feet, using the wall for support. Anxiety tinted his voice as he implored, "How—how is Naomi?"

The doctor looked away and exhaled a small breath, then turned back to him and gave her report. "She's alive. But we got her too late. She's in a coma. Don't know if she'll wake up."

That spark of desperation previously in him withered away at her words. He bit his lower lip to withhold any unwanted outbursts, then averted his eyes as he spoke with miserable defeat in his voice, "Then she may as well be dead."

"Not…not necessarily."

"How not?" His weakened voice was rising, but wavering. "She's—she's unconscious, unthinking, unmoving, she may never wake up…the only difference between her and a corpse is she has a pulse, but what does that count for?! This…this isn't life!"

The surgeon kept her voice calm. "It's a bit more complicated than that, Sephiroth." She took some steps forward as she spoke, "Coma patients…they're a tricky sort. They can wake up when you least expect it…or they never wake at all. But they're not even as dead as you think. Many of them can still dream, form thoughts—some can even hear what people say to them. But even still, don't count on divine intervention."

The silver-haired boy groaned and rubbed his eyes.

Dr. Navena placed a hand on his shoulder. "Sephiroth, you've saved a lot of people today. What you've done for everyone in this hospital is nothing short of miraculous, and for you to volunteer all night like this…we can't thank you enough."

His wretched, heavy eyes bore into hers as he shot back, not from spite but from misery, "It's not enough!" His disheveled bangs fell over his face as his hands curled into trembling fists at his side. "I—I thought I could make a difference!" He sniffled a moment, then resumed, "Forty-three soldiers and two civilians were sent to the borderlands, and only nine survived—and Naomi barely counts among the living! And now, I spent the whole night doing what I could, doing as the doctors instructed, and I lost dozens more patients than I saved! All—all this time, I thought I was saving lives, but seeing how many just die anyways…" He lost his breath. It took some seconds to restore it. "How—how do you work like this? How do you call yourself a saver of lives when you lose so much more than you save?"

Her eyes were just as drowsy as his, but she met his pleading gaze regardless, never weakening, never looking away. For as fatigued as her body and spirit were, she still had her strength. She answered him, "By remembering the ones I do save. The numbers are devastating when you look at them, knowing how many lives slipped away or that you never had a chance to help. But despite every single one I lose, some of them do make it, and seeing the gratitude on theirs and their family's faces—knowing I've done the impossible and beaten death, no matter how rarely…those moments are all I need to know my time and failures weren't wasted. The weight, the potential of one life alone…I can't think of anything more precious." She removed her hand from his shoulder, then reached into her pocket and produced a carton of cigarettes. "That's why the losses never get easier, but it's also why the victories are so worth it."

She offered him a cigarette. He hesitantly, timidly accepted. Navena then picked one for herself. "You wouldn't think it from this sappy speech, but I'm a hardcore cynic. That's what working in this hospital's done to me. Sardonicism works for me more often than not. But when bad jokes and distance just don't cut it, that's when I gotta try something different." She'd since brandished a lighter, but for every click she attempted, nary a flicker was produced. Through this, she continued, "We live in a world that's literally being swallowed by darkness. It helps to focus on the light now and then."

A spark—a strong, tiny flame—but not from her lighter. The thimble-sized fire had come from Sephiroth's fingertip, held up just beside the lighter, and a flame comprised of violets and blues shimmered in place of an orange one. Navena was visibly impressed. She raised an eyebrow at the uncanny flame. "Pretty."

Sephiroth allowed a faint smile at the compliment. Then he closed in, bringing the fingertip fire close enough to her coffin nail and shielding the microblaze from the cold wind. He lit his own after, and soon sweetened tobacco smoke rose in small wisps from their tokens of shared comfort. Navena couldn't have known from his calm, collected composure, but this was Sephiroth's first smoke. He was grateful he found the initiation soothing, rather than provoking any coughing fits.

The surgeon continued her small lecture, "In case I'm not being clear enough, I want you to always remember the good that you do, even at your lowest point. It isn't easy and grieving is natural, but when you're ready, learn to appreciate that for all the tragedy you've seen and every life you couldn't save, those numbers could've been worse. Best way to do that is to check in on the people you help now and then. See how they're doing, get to know them, and then, instead of just seeing numbers to add and subtract in the death-toll, maybe you'll also see life growing through the cracks. See what all those people you save are worth; see them laugh, live, love—just see them being human. Seeing those sparks of light after all the darkness…it really does make all the difference in the world." She sighed, considering her words. "Am I on-track here, or am I just spewing crap you already know?"

"No, I really appreciate this." His voice was still weak, but there was sincerity in his words. "Sometimes the obvious things are the easiest to overlook."

"Glad I can help." She paused to savor more of the tobacco roll's flavor, then exhumed another billow of smoke. "I got two kids, one already in middle school, so I'm sorry if this was more of a lecture than you wanted. But you can see where I'm coming from."

"It's okay, really. You've given me something to think about. It's just…" he removed the cigarette and held it in his hand to make it easier to breathe. "It's been a long night, and I doubt life will suddenly get any easier for either of us. It's all just so much to process—the soldiers, the patients, Naomi, what you've said…I'll need some time."

"Of course." She shifted and prepared to leave.

"Thank you, Dr. Navena."

She tossed her cigarette in the nearby ashtray and called back, "Sure thing, kid." And then she left.

Kid… The teenager allowed a slight smile and a small scoff. I can't even remember the last time someone treated me like a child. It's almost a relief.

That's when he noticed. Heavy and unresolved though his burdens still were, he no longer felt his heart being crushed by them. In that moment, he didn't feel…incomplete.

He wiped at some small pools gathering in his corneas. Get to know the people I save? I've…never even considered it. Am I even ready? I'll need to speak with Master about this.

I saved nine people from the Heartless today. Well, yesterday, technically. Five rookies whose names I never got, two invaluable knight-captains, a hero's wife, and even a prince. I helped fifty-seven hospital patients tonight, almost half of which were in critical condition. That's sixty-six people total whose lives I've saved or improved. Even with everyone I lost, I am making a difference.

But that didn't make the losses any less painful. It was a bizarre contrast of emotional highs and lows the young hero endured. This wasn't going to be easy.

In time, he extinguished his cigarette in the ashtray and made his way back inside. He passed through waiting rooms and lobbies, his healing energy spent, and strode for the main exit.

All those lives, I saved. If nothing else, at least they're not going anywhere.

"Sephiroth!"

The Wingless Angel froze. That was Dilan's voice.

He spun around, mere feet away from the main entrance, and found the aeromancer at the other end of the lobby. Something was wrong—he saw it in the anguish in his face.

He didn't take the news of Ienzo's death lightly.

The young hero staggered out of the hospital after hearing of the tragedy—of learning that one of those precious lives he'd steeled himself with knowing had been saved from death's clutches in an otherwise miserable evening was stolen regardless and nothing he did could've stopped it. A life as valuable as a prince's, no less…

After everything he'd endured that night, discovering his already pyrrhic victories could so easily be undone was the last thing the boy needed. He felt no shame in grieving. A gloved hand pressed over his face and hot tears and wretched moans escaped him as he lurched over in the streets. Late winter's snow fell so gently around him, the ice-crystals gathering on his peasant's clothes and unkempt hair or melting on contact with his skin. This boy, the broken form of a youth forced to grow up too soon and compelled to suffer burdens that weren't his, was the perfect image of a weeping angel framed by the snowfall of Heaven's frozen tears.

In his weakness, he caught hold of a handrail bordering the hospital's perimeter. He didn't open his eyes for at least another minute. When he did, he found the metal balustrade overlooking the ice-water lake, glistening in the early light of dawn. There was an uncertain serenity in that frosted inland sea. A sight of perfect natural beauty, it cast its wintry sheen and all could admire or yearn to join it—some to seek solace and others delight—but the lake itself was just an uncaring mass of a neutral element. Nature appeared so enticing from this vantage point, but Sephiroth knew better than to believe the magical façades of Mother Earth. He'd seen enough to know death and darkness so often lurked beneath promises of paradise. Nothing about this world—these worlds—was pure. And for every sentient being's effort to carve or uncover some trace of naturalist beauty or sanctuary from life's overbearing darkness, darkness always prevailed.

Then, why do I still play at being a hero? What purpose can I serve when I will never forge a sanctuary from the dark?

He fell to his knees, arms over the balustrade and his face against the metal bars.

This fight was never meant to be won.

Sunrise came as he stalked the rooftops of wraithlike towers and derelict skyscrapers that pocked the slums of "Hollow Bastion." He was again among the realm of his people: the homeless, the nameless, those without a past. But he wasn't ready to face them. It wouldn't do for a hero to be seen in such a broken state. He'd since drawn the shadow-bringing hood of his ragged poncho.

A distant rumbling—the roar of a ship's engines—permeated the thicket of overcast clouds, and on the other side of the horizon, Sephiroth spied the shape of Xehanort's Gummi Ship entering the atmosphere.

Sephiroth hugged his knees to his chest as he envisioned the future. They're finally back. Someone will have to tell Terra about his wife. The supernatural tingling in his mind that drew his senses to darkness seized his attention to an alley street a handful of blocks away. Shadows twisted and contorted and took beastly shape. The Heartless never gave up.

Sephiroth narrowed his eyes and stood to his full height, gripping the four-foot-long uchigatana sheathed at his side.

Whoever it is that faces the Keybearer, it won't be me.

The Wingless Angel in refugee's rags leapt from the edifice and brandished his blade.

My part here is done.

In his haste, he never saw the Jolly Roger breach the clouds.