The Cabin

It was mid-afternoon by the time they had plowed Fenrir through the deep snowbanks leading to the secluded cabin. It was slow going, but Cloud helped it along by melting a path in front of them. By the time they climbed off the bike, Denzel's legs felt frozen and they resisted orders from his brain.

Cloud tucked the package under his arm and pounded on the rough wooden door. There was no sign of life from inside. Denzel shifted between his feet in an attempt to restore life to them. Finally, the door creaked open slowly. An old man with a stooped back peered out from the darkness inside. He looked too fragile to be living out here on his own, but his voice was strong.

"Oh my, is that the package from Abe Jenkins?" His eyes lit up, taking years off of his craggy face. "I didn't think anyone would actually be crazy enough to deliver it all the way out here!"

Cloud snorted. "Just crazy enough. Sign here, please." He handed the old man the clipboard.

The old man took it and stepped back, opening the door wider. "What's your hurry? You've come all this way, you might as well have some coffee, thaw yourselves out a bit!"

Cloud glanced over at Denzel, who gave him a pleading look as he tried to move his numb fingers. He shrugged. "Ok. Thanks."

They crossed the threshold and closed the door behind them. The cabin was warm and felt glorious to Denzel. They were standing in the Great Room, which had a roaring fireplace pumping out heat. Worn but comfortable-looking furniture was arranged in a semi-circle around the big fireplace, and a bookcase with more books than he had seen in his entire life covered almost a full wall.

The two men had already walked through the opening leading into the kitchen, so Denzel reluctantly left the fireplace behind. The old man was digging through cupboards with surprising agility.

"I see you brought your kid along. Good idea to have a partner when you're way out in the boonies like this. Sit down, sit down." The old man waved distractedly at the scrubbed wooden table. "My name's Webster, but you can call me Web. What do you call yourselves?"

Cloud pulled out a sturdy wooden chair and sat at the table. "I'm Cloud, and this is Denzel."

Denzel watched the old man zipping around his little kitchen, starting a fresh pot of coffee.

"Do you live out here by yourself?" Cloud asked, looking around the tidy kitchen.

"Not exactly," Web answered with a gap-toothed grin. He put two fingers in his mouth and let out a shrill whistle. A few moments later, a mass of snow charged into the kitchen. The two guests stared. The snow pile suddenly shook violently, sending the snow flying everywhere and revealing a large, shaggy dog. "This is my Belinda," Web said fondly, ignoring the cold slush that now covered half of the kitchen and its occupants.

Denzel brushed off the wet globs from his face and glanced at Cloud. He was slouching in his chair and didn't even seem to notice the slush sliding down his face. Something was really off. "Hey, Cloud. Are you ok?"

"Yeah. I'm fine." Cloud sat up straight, but it appeared to take some effort.

Web was studying him now. "The boy has a point. You really don't look well. Why don't you two stay with me for the night?"

Cloud tried to protest. "No, we really need to get back—"

Web wasn't having it. "Don't be silly. You don't even look like you can make it back down the mountain, son. I have an extra bedroom that you boys can use. You can sleep someplace warm, get a hot meal, and tackle the mountain in the morning. I insist."

Cloud shrugged weakly. "Ok. Thanks."

Denzel took that as a sign that Cloud was feeling worse than he was letting on, but he certainly wasn't going to complain about staying a little longer in the warmth of the cabin.

Web fed them a hearty stew that was heavenly in comparison to the food they'd been eating on the road. With a contented belly, Denzel sprawled on one of the cushy chairs in front of the fireplace and looked around the cabin. The floors and walls were all made of wood, but they were well sealed to keep out the bitter winds. Wooden beams braced the ceilings, and a wooden ladder led up to a space under the eaves.

Denzel had brought in their things from Fenrir without even asking Cloud, because the blond really did look rough. Their swords leaned against the wall near the door. Web stood back and admired the gleaming blades while Cloud lounged in one of the overstuffed chairs.

"That's some mighty fine craftsmanship, Cloud. Those are no second-rate weapons. What do you do that you need such fancy swords? Surely those can't just be for delivering packages."

"Oh," Cloud said. "Well, I do run into quite a few monsters on some of my routes. But I used to be a…fighter."

Denzel perked up. "Cloud's the greatest swordsman ever! He keeps our whole town safe all by himself, and one time he defeated a huge summon monster and this crazy super soldier guy named Sephiroth who tried to destroy the Planet."

"Denzel," Cloud muttered, looking uncomfortable. He'd asked Denzel not to talk about their involvement in the events surrounding meteorfall because most people didn't know the half of what had happened anyway, but apparently the kid thought it was ok to talk about his other heroics. Cloud would rather just be known as the delivery boy.

Web just smiled, humoring him. "Well, it sounds like at least you get some good use out of them. They must have cost a good chunk of gil."

"Oh, actually, Cloud made them himself," Denzel blurted.

Now Web really looked impressed. "Is that so? Sounds like you're a man of many talents, Cloud."

Cloud was looking distinctly awkward now. He shifted in his chair and changed the subject. "So what do you do out here by yourself all the time, Web?"

Web rolled with it and seated himself on one of the couches that surrounded the fireplace, leaning back and crossing an ankle over his knee. "Well, I'm a logger, so me and Linda spend a lot of time choppin' wood. Once every moon cycle, a man comes up from his shop at the base of the mountain and hauls it all back down." He chuckled. "He brings up all the supplies I need and gives me a little gil for the wood. I don't need much else."

They two men fell into comfortable small talk. Bored and getting sleepier by the second next to the blazing fire, Denzel climbed the ladder to the attic room Web had shown him earlier. His bag was already up there, and he pulled out his sketchpad and pencil. He flopped down on the mattress on the floor and lit the nearby lantern. The itch in his head was driving him crazy. There were so many images in his mind that he'd been unable to get out while they were camping. He flipped to a clean page and let them out.

Cloud pulled himself slowly up the wooden ladder. He wasn't used to the weariness that clung to his bones, not since his epic adventure with his friends 7 years earlier. The lantern was still on, providing a soft glow in the small room, but Denzel was sound asleep on the mattress on the floor. His face was smooshed against his sketch pad. Cloud gently lifted the teenager's head. A piece of paper lifted with it, stuck to Denzel's cheek. Cloud unstuck the paper and pulled out the pad.

He started to put the pad away, but the picture on top caught his eye. He couldn't help but admire the obvious skill with which it was drawn, but it was disturbingly gruesome. It was the old man, Web. He was lying on the ground outside, his blood staining the pristine snow around him, partially concealed by a lopsided wood pile. Belinda was leaping toward a large green shred with her teeth bared, valiantly trying to protect her master, even though it looked like it might have been too late already.

Cloud sat back and rubbed his eyes, squinting at the picture. Why would Denzel draw something like this? Should I talk to him about it? It's a little disturbing, but maybe it's normal for someone his age. How am I supposed to know? Gaia, I wish I could talk to Tifa. She'd know what to do.

His eyes softened as he looked at the slumbering boy. He had such an innocent face, but he'd been through more in his 14 years than anyone should have to suffer in a lifetime. He'd seen death up close too many times, even stared it in the face himself. Outwardly, Denzel had handled it remarkably well, but that kind of experience left marks on a person's soul. So maybe he just imagined the death of everyone he met. Maybe he did that to protect himself before he lost another person he cared about. Cloud laughed wryly at himself, trying to psychoanalyze someone else. He couldn't even make sense of his own head.

He wondered if it would be an invasion of privacy to look through his sketches; the teenager never shared anything he'd drawn. He dismissed the flash of conscience. It wasn't like it was a diary or something.

The next most recent was a picture centered around Marlene. She had a pained look on her face, her back turned to a trio of girls that looked about her age. The girls were in front of a row of lockers, their heads together. Their faces were scornful, and one was whispering behind her hand. Cloud frowned and continued flipping.

He came across a picture of Jameson Keenan, arms crossed over his gut with a look of fury on his face. Cloud had to smile. Denzel had really nailed his expression. That was pretty much exactly the way Jameson had looked the night he had visited them at the bar.

He turned back more pages, seeing several pictures of people he didn't recognize; he guessed they were people from school. He saw other pictures of people he knew only from the bar, surprised that Denzel had captured them so well. Maybe he should pay more attention to how much time the boy was spending out there.

Cloud flipped another page and saw an impressive gathering of pictures of himself in numerous battles. It was like a collage of fights, a dozen small sketches facing all different directions, all on one page. It was strange to see it from another person's perspective. Cloud had absolute focus when he fought; he only saw his opponents, his allies, and his usable terrain. But in these pictures, he looked like some kind of warrior. Maybe that was how he looked in Denzel's mind, he mused with a grin. He continued flipping.

On the next picture, he froze. It was another sketch of himself, with red tinted irises and tongues of flame on his upraised hands. He had only told Denzel about his ability yesterday, and this picture was so far back in the pad.

Cloud forced himself to breathe. This picture could mean anything. He had always used fire materia. He couldn't hold it in his hands like that, and Denzel had seen him use it enough to know better, but maybe it was creative interpretation. There was always a logical explanation.

The next picture was a startlingly lifelike portrait of Sephiroth. Light reflected off the Mesamune, and long silver hair flowed behind him. There was unmistakable malice in his eyes. Cloud forced a laugh. It was amazing how that man's face still made his heart beat a little faster. When did he get so close to Denzel, though? He gritted his teeth, thinking of that man getting anywhere near his boy. He's dead, Cloud. It's just a picture. Relax.

Thoroughly rattled now, he continued flipping back through more pictures. When he had almost reached the front of the pad, he found a picture that sent a surge of pain through his heart. His hands shook and he dropped it.

The pad hit the wooden floor with a loud smack. Denzel woke up with a jerk, but in Cloud's tunnel vision, there was only the picture.

It was a sketch of a man in a familiar uniform, one Cloud used to have himself. He was tall and muscular, with spiky black hair. He had his hands on his hips and a cocky smirk on his face, but there was true kindness behind his eyes. Every detail was there, from the diamond stud in his ear to the X-shaped scar on his jaw and the hilt of the Buster over his shoulder.

"Cloud?" Denzel's voice was scratchy with sleep.

Cloud's eyes snapped up to him. "Where did you see this picture?" he demanded roughly. He felt like his whole past had been laid bare to the world. Hastily bandaged wounds, all his shame and weaknesses, had been ripped open and exposed.

Denzel's eyes widened. "I…I don't remember. I just saw him somewhere."

"Don't lie to me, Denzel," Cloud demanded, stepping closer. "We only have one picture of him, and it was in a locked box in a locked drawer in my office. How did you get this? Were you digging through my things?"

Cloud's eyes were brighter than Denzel had ever seen, mako blue tinged with red, pulsing with light. Denzel scooted away on his mattress and Cloud followed him. The teen had never in his life been afraid of Cloud, but at that moment, he was terrified. His heart hammered and sweat broke out all over his body. He cowered against the wall in the menacing shadow and a soft whimper escaped.

Cloud blinked, and some of the brightness faded from his eyes. "What are you…I don't…" He stumbled back a few steps, horrified as understanding dawned on him. "Denz, I…" He shook his head. "I need some air."

He jumped down to the floor below without bothering with the ladder and strode out the back door. He kicked at the nearby wood pile, sending the top half of the snow-covered pyramid flying. There was a bitter taste in his mouth. He had never seen Denzel look so frightened, and the fact that the kid had been so scared of him made Cloud sick to his stomach. What had even set him off? He always kept his emotions in check, his temper carefully controlled because he was well aware how easily he could hurt someone by accident.

He slumped against the wall of the cabin until he slid down to the ground. He put his elbows on his drawn-up knees and dug his hands into the blond spikes on his head. That sketch…there was no way he could get so much detail from that grainy picture of him with Tifa and Sephiroth. Is it possible he found another picture somewhere else? Some old Shinra propaganda? No, it's doubtful. They were pretty thorough about trying to erase his existence after he disappeared from Nibelheim. As if anyone could ever forget Zack.

After brooding for several minutes, his butt started to protest the frozen ground. Reluctantly, he pushed himself to his feet. He needed to go apologize to Denzel. As he turned to head inside, the wood pile caught his eye. It was the same lopsided wood pile he had seen in the drawing of the old man, complete with the partial snow-covering. The outer layers of the pile were coated in white, but the logs that were exposed when he kicked off the top rows were bare of snow.

Cloud gingerly touched the dry logs on top. It didn't make any sense. His memory had to be playing tricks on him. He needed to talk to Denzel, and he had to get another look at that picture. He stomped the snow from his boots underneath the dry overhang and went back inside.

When he poked his head up into the room, Denzel was sitting at the head of the mattress with his knees drawn to his chest. He watched Cloud warily as he climbed the rest of the way up and sat down on the other mattress. Cloud focused on his boots and began loosening the tight laces. He kept his eyes away from the teen as he fumbled for words. "I didn't mean to…" he sighed and shoved his hands through his hair. "Denz, you know I would never try to hurt you. Right?"

Denzel shrugged and looked down. "Yeah, I know. But..." He rested his chin on his knees. "I dunno. You didn't look like yourself. Your eyes were really bright and they had this red glow and the way you were looking at me…" he gulped.

The guilt fought its way back up, and Cloud pushed it down. "What do you mean about my eyes being red?"

"I mean the blue looked red. I don't know how else to describe it."

Cloud looked around for the drawings, but the pad had disappeared while he'd been outside. "Denzel, where is your sketch pad?"

Denzel looked uneasy. "I put it away because it seemed to…upset you."

Cloud was careful to keep his voice level and his eyes down as he pulled off his boots and gloves. He hoped it would make him appear less threatening, because Gaia, the last thing he wanted was for Denzel to feel threatened by him. "Will you let me look at it if I promise to stay calm? I think there are some things we need to talk about."

"I guess so," Denzel said hesitantly as he pulled the pad from beneath his pillow. He handed it over and Cloud accepted it gently, careful not to seem too aggressive.

He flipped to the page of himself with the fire in his hands. He pointed to the red-tinted irises in the sketch. "Is this what they looked like?"

Denzel nodded.

It was something Cloud had never known to happen before. Was it a trick of a light? A strange reflection? His blue eyes were always red in pictures, so why not? There were always logical explanations. Right. He wasn't even convincing himself. "Have you seen them like that before?"

"Yeah," Denzel said slowly. "Once. When all those monsters got into Edge and you were fighting them."

Cloud looked back at the picture. "Is that when you drew this? After that day?"

Denzel looked down and fidgeted with his socks. He shook his head.

Cloud took a deep breath. He flipped to the very last picture in the pad. He ignored the gory details for the moment and studied the wood pile. It wasn't his imagination – it matched exactly the wood pile out back after he'd kicked it.

He held the pad out to Denzel. "Why did you draw this?"

"I—I don't know," Denzel mumbled, not taking the pad, only glancing at it before looking away. "I just saw it in my head and drew it."

Cloud set down the pad. "Denzel. Look at me."

Denzel slowly raised his eyes to Cloud's, light blue to intense blue. They were the familiar eyes of his hero – molten steel forged through an unknown pain. A rush of images and feelings flashed through his head – Fenrir, Seventh Heaven, warmth, laughter, safety. He felt himself relax. He knew this man. He trusted him.

Denzel licked his lips nervously. He wasn't sure if he was ready to share his secret, but it was time. "Ok. Here's the thing. I sometimes…see things. My head starts itching on the inside, and won't stop until I put it on paper. It's like the pictures just need to be emptied out of my brain, and then it's okay."

"Itching inside? What does that mean?"

Denzel tapped his forehead. "Like right here, it itches, but it doesn't help to scratch it. It's like the itch is under my skin, inside my brain."

A shadow of a memory flickered. A dark shadow with its center right where Denzel had tapped his head. It was the shadow of Geostigma.

Cloud decided to keep that observation to himself. "I see," he said evenly. "What do you think the pictures mean?"

Denzel's brows furrowed as he summoned the thoughts he'd spent countless nights chasing in circles. "I don't know, Cloud. Sometimes it shows me things before they happen. But there are a bunch of others that don't seem to mean anything."

"Do you think they might be things that were supposed to happen, but never did because something changed? Or maybe things that happened in the past? Or things that happened after you drew them but you just weren't there to see?"

Denzel shrugged. "Maybe."

They lapsed into silence, each absorbed in his own thoughts. Finally, Cloud spoke softly. "So I guess I owe you an apology for accusing you of digging through my things."

"I didn't, Cloud, I swear," Denzel said with wide eyes. "I saw him in my head."

Cloud smiled gently. "I believe you. And I'm sorry."

Denzel nodded, accepting his apology. "So…who is he?" he asked timidly. "The soldier in the picture."

Cloud pushed back the flood of emotions that threatened to come to the surface. "I'll tell you about him sometime, but not right now. Right now, we need to figure out how to handle this." He tapped his finger on the picture of the old man.

Denzel's eyes widened. "What do you mean, handle it?"

"I mean, how do we stop it from happening? You weren't going to just let Web die, were you?"

"But I don't…I mean, Cloud, sometimes they don't happen for months. Or they never happen at all. How are we supposed to prevent something with no idea if it's supposed to happen tomorrow or 10 years from now?"

"If this is going to happen, it will be before the next snowfall," Cloud said confidently. He picked up the picture and pointed at the wood pile. "There's no snow on here because there were other logs on top of them before. It won't look like this after the next time it snows. If nothing happens by then, I guess it's not going to happen."

Denzel looked impressed. He was a little excited, too. He'd never tried to change any of the things he'd seen. They usually didn't have enough detail for him to narrow down the place and time.

"But now, we really need to get some sleep," Cloud said, stretching out on his mattress and pulling the threadbare blankets over his body.

Denzel laid awake for a long time after Cloud's breathing became deep and even. He'd been so afraid of being judged, or not being believed, that he'd never wanted to show his sketches to anyone. He wasn't sure if he should be relieved or scared now that he was no longer alone with the problem. Why had Cloud reacted so violently to the picture of the other soldier?

Day 3

When Denzel arose the next morning, sun filtered through the tiny attic window. He rolled over and was surprised to see Cloud, still fast asleep. He considered snuggling back into his toasty covers, but the most delicious smell wafted up through the opening in the floor.

He followed his nose down the ladder and into the kitchen, where Web stood hunched over the stove. Belinda was sprawled out on the floor next to her master, looking like she was more in the way than anything else. She raised her head and her tail thumped loudly on the floor when Denzel entered the room. Web looked over his shoulder.

"Well, good morning, Denzel!" He guffawed with laughter. "Nothing like the smell of food to bring a teenage boy running, eh?"

Denzel smiled. He couldn't deny that his appetite was often the great motivator behind his actions. "It smells really good, sir. Can I do anything to help?"

Web scratched his chin. "Now that you mention it, could you watch the stove for a few minutes? I need to fetch more logs for the fire." He set down his spatula and turned toward the back door.

"Yeah, I—" The sketch flashed through Denzel's head. "No! I mean—why don't we wait until Cloud gets up? He can get the wood for you. It's pretty heavy, right?"

The old man guffawed even louder as he continued toward the back door and picked up his boots. "Don't you worry about that, my boy. I manage just fine every other day of the year."

"I'll get it!" Denzel insisted frantically. "I mean, if you don't mind," he said, trying to sound reasonable. "I'd really like to. I need to get some air anyway."

The old man gave him a strange look, but set down his boots and shrugged. "Well, if you insist, lad."

Denzel nodded in relief. "Yeah. Just give me a second to get my shoes."

His shoes were still by the front door where he'd left them, right next to the two swords. After pulling on his shoes, he grabbed the harness with the mini fusion sword and slipped it on. If Web wondered why he needed a weapon, he didn't comment when Denzel walked through the kitchen.

The air outside was frigid. Denzel had forgotten how cold it was after less than a day inside the cozy cabin. At least he wouldn't be out there for long. He pulled his sleeves over his hands, ready to pick up the cold wood, when he heard the sound of scuffling and snorting behind him. He followed the sound back around another, larger wood pile. Two small green shreds, no taller than his knee, were wrestling around in the snow.

Denzel smiled. They were actually pretty cute. He could tell by their coloring that they were both female. He had planned to sneak away and leave them alone, but it was too late. The darker green shred spun around and slashed his ankle.

"Ow!" Denzel yelped, stumbling back. The animals followed him and he pulled out his mini fusion sword. He pressed the button on the guard and caught the second blade when it popped off.

He grinned as he held a weapon in each hand. When the lighter colored monster jumped at him, Denzel swung at it with the weapon in his left hand. He slashed it out of the air, but it hit the dull side of the blade. It went flying and smacked against one of the farther wood piles.

He focused on the darker shred. She had seen her sister go flying and was not quite as eager to throw herself at Denzel. She stalked forward slowly. Denzel narrowly dodged a claw from the left and blocked one from the right. He countered with a fast jab at her neck. Green goo splattered the snow as she fell on her side, dead.

The lighter green shred had picked herself up after her collision with the wood pile and was slithering her way back over to Denzel. Senses heightened by adrenaline, Denzel heard the faint creak of the door opening behind him. He risked a quick glance over his shoulder, hoping that it was Cloud, but at the same time hoping it was not.

It wasn't. It was the old man looking down a double-barrel shotgun. Denzel didn't have much experience around guns – they made him nervous, to be honest – and he didn't want to take his eyes off of the weapon, but just then the remaining shred leaped at him. He spun around and drew back his sword to strike. The gunshot was louder than Denzel expected, and it startled him mid-swing. He faltered, and while his strike didn't stop, it was slowed enough to miss the shred completely.

The beast looked startled as well. Already mid-leap, she couldn't stop her momentum any more than her opponent, but she was obviously thrown off. With a desperate-looking scrabble of her claws, one sharp nail scraped across Denzel's cheek as she flew right past him. Hitting the ground behind him, she quickly gained her feet and ran away from the cabin. A dribble of green followed her, but she would probably survive.

"Denzel!" Cloud pushed past the old man in the doorway, running out into the snow, sword in hand. He grabbed him by the shoulder, looking him over intently. "Are you ok?"

Denzel looked back at him calmly. "I'm fine." He looked down at the snow with his eyebrow raised. "Did you just run out here in your bare feet?"

Both men looked down at his feet against the blinding snow. "I guess I did." Cloud grinned sheepishly. "I just heard a gunshot and I panicked, but…looks like you had things under control." Denzel felt warmth spreading through his body. He had really done it! He had changed his vision and saved Web. Now they could go home.

"Come back inside, boys!" Web called out from the doorway. "I'm not trying to heat the entire mountain!"

Cloud muttered under his breath to Denzel as they both walked back to the cabin door. "Sounds just like Ma."

Breakfast was a little burned, but not bad. Web had left it unattended when he had heard the shrieking of the battling shreds outside. Cloud wasn't thrilled about the idea of Web shooting at a target so close to Denzel, but the old man waved away his concerns.

"Pish posh! I didn't shoot at him. I just shot it in the air. Most of the beasts 'round these parts know that sound by now. Just hearin' it's usually enough to clear them off the property. They don't venture near my cabin very often, but those were real young 'uns. They must not know any better yet."

They were sitting around the little table, enjoying their slightly burned sausages. Denzel had wiped the blood off of his cheek, but the scratches were minor enough that he wasn't willing to walk away from that delicious smell to tend to his wounds just yet.

"Did you sleep all right last night? You still look pretty tuckered." Web gestured to Cloud with his fork as he spoke.

For the first time that morning, Denzel looked closely at Cloud. He did still look pretty rough, and the teen felt a flash of guilt that he hadn't noticed it earlier.

Cloud sat up straighter. "Yeah, it was fine. Maybe I'm coming down with something." He shrugged nonchalantly, but Denzel was even more concerned. Cloud was usually impervious to the illnesses that commonly plagued mere mortals.

But Web focused his attention back on Denzel. "That was some mighty stylish fighting you displayed out there, boy. Did your dad teach you?"

Denzel's brain stuttered. The first picture in his mind was of his real father, but of course he had been dead and gone for years, so Web couldn't have meant him. "Um… well…" He looked over at his companion. Cloud was awfully young to be his father, but the ashen tone of his skin and the bags he had never noticed beneath his eyes really did age his appearance.

Denzel shifted his eyes back to Web. "Uh, actually, Cloud taught me."

Web took it in stride and didn't pry any further into their relationship. "Well, he must be as legendary a swordfighter as you say, to pass on that kind of skill to you." The compliment must have slipped right past Cloud, because he didn't look uncomfortable for once. He looked like he was in a daze.

"Thank you, sir," Denzel said politely for both of them.

"I don't suppose you have a name for your sword?" Web asked, raising his eyebrows inquisitively.

"Umm…well, I haven't decided for sure yet, but…I was thinking Skoll," Denzel said shyly.

"Ahh, Skoll!" The old man said. "Chaser of the sun, correct?"

"And son of Fenrir," Cloud added softly. He was listening after all. "Denz, I—"

Whatever he had been about to say was lost into a horrific grimace. Both of Cloud's arms wrapped around his torso as if they were holding in his insides, preventing them from escaping.

Denzel dropped to his knees in front of the chair. "Cloud? What's wrong? Cloud! Are you ok?"

Cloud's breathing was ragged, and the smell of smoke wafted into Denzel's nostrils. His eyes widened, recognizing the smell that had begun to permeate 7th Heaven so gradually that he hadn't even noticed. Denzel grasped his biceps, alarmed by the heat that almost burned his hands.

"Cloud! Say something!" He tried to hold back the tears. He wasn't a baby; he shouldn't be so terrified to see Cloud like this. Logically, he knew that his hero wasn't actually invincible, but he so rarely showed weakness or pain that Denzel knew it had to be bad to spark this kind of reaction. He ignored the heat of his skin and squeezed Cloud's arms harder, desperate to get some kind of recognition from the man.

Finally, slowly, the mop of blond hair rose. Mako blue eyes were hazy with pain. "I'm ok, Denzel. I'm fine."

"Fine?" Denzel exclaimed. "You are not fine! Your skin is burning hot and you didn't respond to me for…I dunno, minutes, at least!"

Cloud smiled weakly. "You're channeling Tifa."

"Oh yeah? Well, maybe you need someone to take care of you! Maybe you don't know when to quit and you have to be ordered before you'll actually rest!" Denzel didn't know why he was so angry, but he had to smother the urge to shake Cloud until he rattled. He might have done just that if Web hadn't intervened at that moment.

At some point while Denzel was busy panicking, Web had gone outside and filled a large metal pot with snow. He set it down on the floor next to Denzel and began packing handfuls against the skin of Cloud's bare arms. It was melting almost as fast as he could apply it.

Denzel got the idea and unzipped Cloud's sweater, pulling it off over his arms to expose more skin for Web. It was like undressing a rag doll. He put a hand under Cloud's chin and another on the top of his pale hair and tilted his head back until it rested on the top of the chair's back rest. Glazed eyes tinted with red stared dully at the ceiling.

The incongruence of his behavior was disturbing. Cloud didn't ask what he was doing or try to take control of the situation for once; he just let the two men take care of him. Dry, wrinkled hands covered his chest and arms with cool bliss; soft, young hands patted relief onto his face. The chair held a puddle in which he now sat, soaking into his pants as it slid down from his chest. Water dripped down the sides of his face, into his ears, soaking his hair.

Finally, Cloud lifted his drenched head. His golden hair was plastered to his head with the weight of the water. He pushed his fingers back through the sodden mop, which released the excess water and sprang back into its usual spikes, albeit messier than usual. He blinked at Denzel and Web, then looked down at the floor dully. "I got your floor all wet."

Denzel let out the breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding. Web guffawed with laughter. "Don't you worry none about that, son. Belinda does that at least 3 times a day." The mutt in question made her presence known by lapping loudly at the puddles on the floor. Web reached over and rubbed her head affectionately. "Thanks for the assist, Linda."

Shaking his head, Cloud used the chair to push himself to his feet. "Thank you for everything, Web. We should really get going now."

"Are you crazy?" Denzel sputtered. "Did you see yourself just now? What if that had happened while we were flying down the road at the speed of 3 times insanity?"

Cloud chuckled wearily. "3 times insanity? I don't think I've seen that one on the speedometer."

Denzel was not amused. "I'm serious, Cloud. I'm not getting back on that bike until you look at least half alive."

The smile slipped from Cloud's face and he looked stern. "We really shouldn't impose on Web any longer."

"Are you kidding?" Web interjected. "Do you have any idea how lonely it gets up here? No offense, Linda," he said, shooting a quick grin at the dog. "Havin' you both here is about the highlight of my year. You can stay as long as you like. Honestly, I'd feel like I killed ya myself if I let you walk out lookin' like you do."

Cloud rubbed his eyes. "Well…maybe one more day," he relented.

"At least," Denzel said firmly. "And you should really go back to bed. Come on." He grabbed Cloud's hand and pulled him along like a child to nap time. When they reached the bottom of the ladder, Denzel stepped back to let Cloud go up first, then followed closely behind him.

"What are you doing?" Cloud asked with a smirk as he plopped down on his mattress.

"Making sure you're doing what you're supposed to!"

Cloud chuckled as Denzel pulled the blanket up over his shoulders. "When did you get so grown up?" His face stretched in a wide yawn and he snuggled into his pillow.

Deep, even breathing told Denzel there was no need to answer. He sat on his own mattress and stared at the blond warrior. Although Cloud was trying to pretend that everything was fine, Denzel was really worried. He touched the spot on his own forehead. There was no itch, but maybe it could be used in a different way. Maybe if he just started drawing, he could force the ability to show him what he wanted to see.

Pulling out his sketchpad, he started with a broad outline of Cloud's figure. He sketched a determined look on Cloud's face and searched for that itch. Nothing. He filled in the details of his hair. Nothing. He put him into a fighting stance, placed a sword in his hand. Nothing. Moving to a clean section of the paper, he sketched out Fenrir and drew Cloud in her seat. Still nothing. Denzel was starting to lose hope.

Maybe he should try something familiar or mundane. Many of his drawings seemed to be just moments in time that were somewhat ambiguous in regard to time or circumstances. Maybe he was trying to be too specific. He ripped out the piece of paper and crumpled it into a ball.

Starting on a new sheet, he sketched a large area around the business square in Edge. As he was drawing Mr. Mio's store, he felt the urge to give it a crumbled corner. The bricks along the edge of the building were cracked. Various pieces of debris littered the ground in front of the store. Was this actually working, or was he just convincing himself that these images were subconscious?

Denzel moved on to the monument that decorated the center of the square. It had been made from pieces of scrap from every former sector of Midgar. When the city had been whole, each sector below the plate had a distinct look. Midgar drew peoples from all corners of the planet, making the city a diverse hodgepodge of culture. Even so, people of different races tended to congregate with their own, and the dominant races of each sector were strongly represented with their unique cultural flavors.

Above the plate was an entirely different story; every plate-dweller had something in common with everyone else, regardless of race. They all had money. Races were slightly less segregated, and the décor leaned more toward modern and flashy, less old-world pride. They had the luxury of art and technology. They liked shiny things. Above the plate they had the wide-open sky and the sun casting light into even the darkest corners, and they shuddered to think of the shadows and filth below them.

But in Edge, a conglomeration of the refugees from above and below plate, everyone started out with nothing. They had all lost their homes, their possessions, and far too many of their friends and family. For the first time, the people of the slums had an advantage. They were skilled in hard labor, accustomed to missing meals and working through injury and sickness. The formerly privileged folks suffered with their new standard of living and wrestled with their life's purpose. What good was an art curator in a settlement where most citizens slept in the shelter of fallen debris? What could a perfumier do in a place where bathing was hardly a priority and it was only tolerable to breathe through one's mouth? It was a time for rebuilding, for learning new skills and recognizing equality in people of all races and backgrounds.

The monument was a symbol of this homologizing, a celebration of similarities as well as differences. As reconstruction slowed and culture was reintroduced, the natural separation of the educated and the laborers became apparent, but in the center of the square was this lasting reminder that at one time, they had all leaned on each other; they had all been equals.

In Denzel's drawing, the monument reminded them only of the demolition of everything they had known. The object at the base of the statue was a large square from an iconic section of wall from Sector 1, but the object he drew was a jagged triangle. The rest of the monument was scattered around the square. The wing of an angel statue from Sector 3 was lodged in the wooden wall of Mr. Keenan's office. The head of the Honeybee from Wall Market was a pile of colored glass shards in the alley.

Denzel closed his eyes and held his pencil loosely, barely aware of what he was drawing. When it was finished, he picked it up and examined the most detailed sketch he had ever made. It was a scene of absolute catastrophe. None of the buildings around the square had escaped the massacre. The pieces of the shattered monument were only a small part of the debris littering the area. Whole sections of buildings were collapsed. The gouges in the walls had to have been made by a beast larger than Bahamut.

Some kind of substance covered the debris and buildings, blurring the texture, but he couldn't determine color from the pencil drawing and had no idea what it might be. The destruction reached to all four edges of the paper, which meant that the damage extended beyond the scope of the large square.

Most horrifying of all were the bodies. Arms and legs of all sizes stuck out from underneath the debris, and a headless torso hung over the edge of a roof. A well-loved doll had been speared through by a pole, a poignant representation of the death surrounding it.

Swallowing back his gorge, Denzel snapped the sketchbook closed. He had no way of knowing if it was real or a product of his imagination, or even if it would happen during his lifetime. What he did know is that if Cloud saw it, he would want to get back to Edge immediately. In his current condition, Denzel couldn't allow that. He shoved the pad into his suitcase, burying it under his clothes.

Day 4

Web had an extra axe. Although the old man insisted it wasn't necessary, Denzel was happy to help him chop some wood. It kept his mind busy—off of the sketch buried in his suitcase—and burned his restless energy. At least he could see how Web had stayed so strong and nimble; logging was hard work. He was also beginning to suspect that the constant biting wind on his skin made him look older than he really was.

The secret he was keeping from Cloud was eating away at Denzel. He hadn't even been able to call Tifa and be reassured that everything was still ok in Edge, because Cloud's phone didn't get a signal way out here. Web had just laughed when Denzel asked if he had a landline.

"Are you sure you've never done this before, son?" Web asked as Denzel hacked away at a limb bigger than himself. "I've never seen such a natural."

"Not exactly," Denzel grinned. "But I train with a sword almost every day, and the movements are pretty similar."

"Well in that case, I oughta be a heck of a sword fighter!" Web crowed.

The old man really did seem to be fascinated with the mechanics of fighting. When Denzel took a break to get a drink and warm up for a few minutes, he grabbed his sword and bracer from the cabin, still equipped with the materia he'd been using. He wanted to give Web a demonstration.

He headed back to the door and pulled it open. "Hey Web, I got—" He stopped in his tracks. A giant green shred towered over Web. The old man was slowly stepping backwards toward the stump where he'd left his gun, trying not to startle the beast. Carefully wrapping his hand around the barrels, he brought it forward and raised it at a snail's pace. A startling bang spurred both Denzel and the shred into action.

Denzel pulled his sword from its sheath and lunged forward with a wild swing that grazed the shred, trying to distract the beast advancing on the old man. It didn't even break the tough skin, but it was enough to get its attention. He adjusted his stance, anticipating the next attack.

"I thought you said they hardly came on your property and were scared of gunshots!" Denzel called over the growling and snarling of the shred.

"Well, those rules don't apply when you kill one of her babies on your property!" Web yelled back.

With a flash of understanding, Denzel remembered the sketch. The beast in his picture had towered over the wood piles, much larger than the baby he had killed the day before. They had let their guard down, thinking they had prevented the attack. Now they were dealing with a grieving mother.

The shred charged at Denzel. He struck out with perfect form, slashing the shred across the chest. The shred snarled and recoiled this time, but the stiff skin didn't allow the cut to open very wide, letting out only a thin stream of green blood.

Another shot rang out, blowing a hole right through the shred's leg. She roared this time and turned toward her aggressor. She was slowed by the bullet, but she was still faster than the old man. He was hurriedly loading another shell, but his hands shook and he couldn't get it into place before a giant claw ripped through his chest.

Web flew backwards with a spray of blood across the snow while Denzel screamed. Deeming that the old man was no longer her biggest threat, the mama shred turned toward the teenager, but all he could see was the blood pumping out of Web's body like a geyser. He pushed back all his emotions, all the distractions of the battle like Tifa had taught him, and focused his cure on Web. The bleeding slowed dramatically and he kept casting, but he was being charged by the big green reptile and self-preservation instincts kicked in. He raised the sword over his head and charged it for 2 precious seconds before swinging it down.

The blade sliced into the shred's chest, and Denzel released the ice spell directly into it. He allowed himself a quick rush of pride when he realized that he'd delivered a perfect slash-materia combo attack, but he didn't have time to celebrate. The shred had stumbled and fallen backwards, but had clipped Denzel with the tips of her claws, starting slow bleeding from four little slices on his chest. Even with the perfect attack, he wouldn't last long against those deadly blades on her fingers.

Even an unstoppable offense is worthless if you never get a chance to use it. Denzel scowled and searched his memory for a more useful bit of training. This is a close-range enemy. If I get enough distance, I can use materia and stay safely out of his reach.

Denzel took a few quick steps backwards, raising his sword and casting ice as he backed away. The ice was hitting the shred, but she barely seemed to notice. As soon as he was at a safe distance, he turned his attention back to Web. The puddle of red surrounding him was huge now. He couldn't possibly still be alive with that much of his blood outside of his body. A pain in his chest threatened to overwhelm him, but Denzel bit down on his lip, hard. He had to keep his mind focused if he wanted to survive the battle himself. He charged his ice for only a fraction of a second before the mama shred was on him again.

He threw the spell at the beast, but it didn't slow her at all this time. He needed a new strategy. The button on the handle of Skoll caught his eye. Yes! Dual wielding. Maybe I can keep her back far enough if I use two swords.

Denzel pushed the button, releasing one of the blades and catching it in his left hand. He swung both swords clumsily at the same time as she descended on him. The sword in his right hand didn't have enough power to break the skin, and he didn't grip the one in his left tightly enough. It slipped out of his grasp as it struck the tough skin, flying out of reach.

His mind was whirling. Nothing seemed to be very effective. He charged up ice again as he stumbled back from the shred, and tried another slash-materia combo, but his timing was off and the ice shot off into the branches, showering them both with snow from the tree. Denzel stumbled back, caught off guard by the whirlwind of snow, but mama shred wasn't even fazed. She lunged at Denzel, swatting at the sword while he was distracted. He lost his grip on the weapon, watching the last two pieces of Skoll go flying and earning deep gouges along the back of his hand and wrist.

All he could do was run. He was helpless. His only attack materia was slotted securely in the sword that was now out of reach. He was going to be killed by some stupid oversized lizard in the middle of a stupid frozen mountain.

He fought back against the wave of despair that threatened to overwhelm him. Man up, Denzel. Don't you dare give up. The voice he heard was the commanding tone of his trainer. The first blade he had lost was behind him, but he had learned his lesson about turning his back on his opponent. He ran backwards as fast as he could. The shred pulled back her right arm again and he reflexively tried to block the attack.

It might have worked better if he'd actually had a weapon in his hand.

He couldn't suppress the scream that escaped when her claws tore through his skin of his palms and forearms, or the tears that burned down his face when he tripped and fell.

The shred loomed over him and raised a claw, dripping with blood. Is it my blood? Or Web's blood? Denzel curled into a ball in an instinctive effort to protect his head, although he knew in his mind that it was futile. It was over.

The shred screeched in triumph. Denzel had read that some animals let out a shrill victory call when their enemy had been defeated, the beastly equivalent of checkmate. Some disconnected part of his brain wondered if he should feel privileged; he was one of the few people who ever got to hear that call. It was too bad he only had moments to appreciate it. He braced himself for the pain.

It didn't come.

She shrieked again and this time it was followed by a wave of heat.

He peeked his head out of his arms. Cloud looked like an avenging angel with his giant sword blazing, sending almost constant shots of red from the materia glowing in his weapon. The shred was recoiling, backing away from him, and now Denzel recognized the shrieks as screams of pain.

The howling may as well have been his own. His hands and lower arms felt like ribbons of hanging flesh. All he could think about was the pain. All he could see was blood, and the glimmer of green shining from underneath the streaming blood.

Materia! I forgot about my restore materia! But his head was still a jumbled mess. It was impossible to focus, impossible to hear anything but the sounds of battle and pain.

'Do you really think your enemy will sit quietly and wait for you to calm your mind? Learn to quiet the noise in your head and listen.'

He should have listened to Tifa. He should have worked harder at that lesson. Even Marlene had failed to focus when she was scared, and she was much better with restore materia. Marlene was the one who taught him how to hear the voices in the first place! She had told him to remember that night in Costa del Sol.

"Getting tired, buddy?"

He heard it in his head as clearly as he had that day. Denzel focused on that voice, extracting the affection, the concern, the tenderness in his tone. Yes, he was certain all of that was wrapped up in those three words.

"Getting tired, buddy?"

He heard the grains of sand sliding under Cloud's heel as he stretched out his leg. He felt the warm weight of Cloud's hand on his head, his fingers idly moving against his hair; the muffled cadence of his voice and the security it implied.

"Getting tired, buddy?"

The battle was miles away. The lifestream was right there. He let the whispers flow around and through him, channeling it into the materia in his bracer. He rolled over and directed the stream at Web. Healing magic flowed from his fingers, but soon the stream was waning, getting thinner and slower until it was only a trickle. Encouraged by a wet-sounding cough from that direction, he redoubled his efforts, forcing the stream that was suddenly harder to move. The stream was pushing back, a slow-moving wave of pain going up his fingers, wrists, arms, shoulders—

"Denzel, stop! Stop doing that!"

The words didn't register. He heard them, but he didn't know what they meant. He couldn't think about anything except Web and that huge crimson aura in the snow. He pushed harder and the pain pulsed through his head.

With a sudden ripping sensation, the stream was gone. A moment later, so was the pain in his hands and arms. He felt himself being laid back gently in the snow. All he could see were familiar boots walking away, but why were they walking on the ceiling?

A moment later, two pairs of boots were back in his field of vision, two sets of knees almost touching the ceiling below the boots. One of the pairs of boots was untied. They moved out of his vision, trailing the loose laces, and then the world spun.

Closing his eyes against the vertigo, he heard someone speaking, but he didn't know the language. Too tired to tell the person that he didn't speak his language, Denzel just shook his head. He felt himself falling backwards. He flailed his arms and legs, trying to catch himself, but it took too much energy, so he relaxed and just let himself fall.

Yskr iy rsdy, nuffy. Judy trlsc.

He stopped falling and felt something soft under his butt and behind his back.

Ftink yhid.

Something was pressed against his lips. He was too tired to protest when his mouth was pulled open and something bitter coated his tongue and trickled down his throat.

"Wha…huh?"

The first thing to come into focus was that familiar blue. Cloud blinked down at him. "Welcome back. How do you feel?"

"Uh. Like I haven't slept in days," Denzel said sluggishly. With a great deal of effort, he lifted his head and looked around. He was seated in one of the cushy armchairs in Web's Great Room, with waves of heat washing over him from the fireplace.

Denzel attempted to wet his lips, but his tongue didn't seem to have much wetness to spare. "Why do I feel like roadkill?"

"Overuse of materia," Cloud said. "Your head should be clearing up soon from the ether I gave you."

"Yeah. Yeah, it's getting better. What happened, though?"

"You kept trying to cure Web when your mind was too strained. I couldn't get you to stop. I had to tear off your bracer to break the stream. Sorry," he winced.

"Web…oh Gaia, is he…" Denzel couldn't bring himself to say the words.

Guffawed laughter drew his eyes to the wrinkled, stooped old man as he entered the room with a tray carrying three steaming cups of coffee. "Right as rain, thanks to you!"

The weight was lifted from Denzel's heart and he jumped up, only to be pushed back down by his shoulders when he wobbled and his vision faded to black. His world came back into focus as two strong, dry hands clasped onto one of his.

"You saved my life, son. I would have been getting picked apart by vultures right now if it weren't for you." A distant look came into his eyes as he muttered, "I guess ol' Abe repaid his debt after all."

"Abe Jenkins?" Denzel questioned. "That package he sent was to repay a debt?"

Web chuckled. "Naw. Debts aren't always owed or repaid in gil. What he sent me was much more valuable than that."

The old man disappeared into another room. Denzel gave Cloud a puzzled look and received a shrug in response. A moment later, Web returned with a framed photograph in his hands. His finger traced a gentle line along the front of the picture before turning it to show it to his guests.

It was a photograph of a sturdy-looking young brunet man with his arm around a stunningly beautiful redhead. She had her head thrown back, laughing at something, and the man gazed at her with open adoration. It was the kind of love that couldn't be faked, the kind of happiness that so few people found in another. The frame was a beautiful reflective silver. The picture was crisp, clear, and bright, aged only by the outdated hairstyle and clothing. Denzel squinted at the young man in the picture, finally recognizing the vibrant, laughing eyes lurking within Web's muddy browns.

"It's been 20 years since I lost my Coral," he said with a cracking voice, hugging the frame to his chest. "I carried this picture with me everywhere. It was so creased and faded, I could hardly even make out her face anymore. Ol' Abe saw it and told me he could make it look like new again." He shook his head slowly as he studied the picture again. "It wasn't true, though. Even when it was new, it didn't look this good. I can almost hear her laugh in my head when I look at this."

"So…what is it a repayment for?" Denzel asked, still not sure what any of this had to do with their adventure in the backyard.

Web blinked rapidly, pulling himself back to the present. His voice was filled with good-humored scorn. "Oh, that old codger went and got himself lost on my mountain. Nearly frozen stiff when I found him. I loaded him onto my wood sled and Linda helped me haul him back here." From her place on the hearth, the dog thumped her tail on the floor at the mention of her name. "He said he could never repay me for saving his life, but then he sent you," he said, his gap-toothed grin splitting his face. "So now I guess I owe him for the picture."

Denzel smiled back weakly, too exhausted to do much more. His eyes drifted to the fire, listening to the comforting pop and crackle of the burning wood.

He must have dozed off at some point, because the next thing he knew, Cloud was sitting in the chair next to him with Skoll leaning against the wall. He didn't even know he had gone to retrieve it. Denzel leaned forward and picked up his assembled sword. His fingers traced over the buttons on the guard sadly. "I don't think I'm cut out for dual wielding, Cloud."

"Well of course not," Cloud said, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.

"Wow. Thanks for the vote of confidence," Denzel said dryly.

"No, I mean, you're not ready yet. I made you that sword so you would have four different styles to use – the three individual blades and the fully assembled sword. Each style works better in a different combat situation." Reading the teen's dejected look, Cloud softened. "I guess it's my fault for not explaining that. I didn't expect you to try dual wielding before you were trained in it. It takes a lot of coordination and strengthening on your non-dominant side. If you really want to learn it, I can add it to your training."

Denzel shrugged listlessly. "Maybe I'm not cut out for fighting at all."

Cloud studied the teen, weighing his words. "If you don't want to do it anymore, that's ok," he said slowly. "But this seems kind of sudden. You've put two years into training already. You're much better than I was at your age." He leaned forward and rested his arms on his knees. "Denzel, where is this coming from?"

"I guess I just thought I could handle myself better than I did. Without you, I mean. But I was just useless. I used my sword and I tried materia, but nothing was hurting it."

"You used ice materia," Cloud said flatly.

"Well, yeah. And my magic is so weak it hardly even noticed I was doing anything."

"Ahh," Cloud mused, leaning back in his chair. "You think it's because your casting was too weak?"

"It isn't?"

"Not at all. You just used the wrong element."

Denzel rubbed at his face and groaned. Time for another lesson, and he was really not in the mood.

"You remember when I taught you about elemental opposites?" Cloud pressed onward. At Denzel's reluctant nod, he continued. "Well, the beasts who live in this kind of climate generally have ice as their natural element, and a weakness to the opposite element. You would've been fine if you'd had fire materia equipped. Sometimes it's more about strategy than ability." He quirked a smile at him.

Denzel grunted in frustration. "I'm never gonna learn all this."

"Sure you will," Cloud said. "Over time. Here." He walked over to where he had left First Tsurugi by the front door and popped the fire materia from the blade. He tossed it to Denzel. "Keep that for the rest of the trip. We both know I don't need it," he said with a wink.

One more hot meal later, Denzel and Cloud packed their belongings and bundled up for the cold. Web sent several days' worth of home-cooked meals with them, insisting that he had more than he could eat in a lifetime and Belinda didn't appreciate his cooking as much as they did. Truthfully, they didn't argue too strenuously.

Web and his dog accompanied them out the front door where Fenrir was waiting patiently. They wore equally forlorn looks as their visitors said goodbye.

Denzel felt a little sad, knowing that he'd likely never see the kindly old man again. At least he would be alive to rescue unprepared hikers who stumbled upon his mountain for a little while longer.

"Hey Web," he called from the back of Fenrir before they took off. "How far do we have to go before we get a cell signal?"

"Oh, probably not until you reach the bottom of the mountain," he said, scratching Belinda's head. "Why?"

"I just miss my family," Denzel said with a shrug. But he couldn't meet the old man's eyes as he said it. The sketch pad in his backpack weighed a ton.