Heart Less Love

Part Four: Shadows

"It looked like... our dead mothers... and our dead brothers. Showing us spectres of their past... It first approached as a friend, deceived them and finally gave them the virus. The Cetra were attacked by the virus and went mad... transforming into monsters."

She wriggled her fingers.

For some reason, watching how the skin tautened and relaxed absolutely fascinated her, she loved the play of tendons as they moved back and forth, stretching her fingers and then curling them up in relaxation back into a loose ball of a hand. She was absolutely sure that the calluses on her fingertips were because of hard work and painstaking care she had given to flowers before, she was absolutely certain that she had once felt her hands go lax and loose before, a kind of looseness that comes from utterly surrendering.

But why she gave up, she couldn't say.

But why she once held on just as hard, she couldn't say, either.

In the distance of the field of flowers, she could see the figures of the small group who had agreed to come on a trip to spend some time away from Edge where they worked as hard as the calluses on her fingers could attest to. Laughter bubbled around them, as warm as the nodding yellow faces of the flowers in their glory, basking in the sunshine. There was loose hair flying, a wild game of chase and tag, a strange mix between the two and even the often shy nervous laughter of the tall man who was snowed down by the slighter, smaller figure of a boy.

She watched them all play, feeling distant and strange, the grass tickling her legs under her full dark red skirt. She'd finally given up her gardening boots for a pair of comfortable half heeled ankle boots that had the tops turned down, stitched into place to prevent them from flapping everywhere. Instead of a pink shirt, she'd chosen a white slip top that exposed her arms and most of her shoulders to the brilliant sunshine. Her hair was caught away from her face, in the familiar braid, but this time threaded with ribbons of pink and white, so intertwined with the hair that it all seemed to be one.

The field of flowers she stood by was close to a winding road on the far side and behind her the crash of a sea only a short walk away, caught and tormented her ears. Even now, the dreams of the water which grew brighter as she sank lower haunted her every night. It frightened her to the point where she sat up, clawing awake and gasping for air.

Within moments, she would be at her side, clutching her hands down from raking the air in desperate, half sleep fuelled motions that mimicked the swimming stroke she knew best. She would smooth her hair, fetch warmed milk with a stick of fresh cinnamon thrown in, cuddle her until the tears stopped and then tuck her into bed, humming that music which she remembered from her dreams, from her non existence.

She called it 'her song'. Why else wouldn't she call it such; the song had been written for her birthday after all. Or… was it for another holiday that it had been written?

It was a beautiful piece of music though; not without a good ear for music herself, she could distinguish the delicate nuance of each passing phrase and the thrumming, almost breaking crescendo at the end of the piece followed by tentative last wisps of notes, fading away into the white noise of the day.

Yes, it fit her perfectly.

She … she supposed.

What she had done yesterday, the days leading to the day she stood on the verge of this field, had been… wonderful? She supposed they had been. But when she was faced with the looks of adoration, their disbelief, their worship, their ideals, she was frightened.

She wasn't some goddess.

She wasn't some incredibly powerful warrior.

She was just…

She was…

"Aerith," someone called as she looked up, quickly checking her wandering gaze from her hands to the sound of the voice. It was the girl, dark hair shining and waving, happiness on her face, the girl of her dreams.

Aerith. That was right, she was Aerith and this world where she stood, where she dreamed and where each night she wept and shook with fears she could not find words for, this world she loved.

That was why she'd given up yesterday.

She smiled and waved back, braided hair shaking as she did so. After all, was yesterday worth today? This today they had all fought so hard for? Yes, it was worth it. It was more than worth it. It was worth the warm sunshine, the laughter of children, the early morning mist, it was worth dreams and nightmares, and it was worth giving up everything she had ever known about herself for the smile on Tifa's face when she saw her.

"And you're alright with that, aren't you?"

She paused, lowering her hand from the wave to turn, eyes looking out over the pebbled beach until she was the figure, a man wearing black from head to foot, His back was to her, and she knew he was looking out over the waves. But without knowing why, she turned her back on her friends and started walking towards him as if in a daze. Under her feet, the sand crunched with each pebble that rocked against each other.

He had been so far away, yet she had heard his voice quite clearly.

Her lips moved, speaking to him as she finally came to a half at his side. She was very careful not to look to the side, a small part of her irrational mind asserting that to look would make him go up in smoke, vanishing away from her.

"Alright with giving everything up for them, you mean?"

"You diminish yourself so that others may take more, more and yet, ever more of what you are? What kind of person gives so willingly yet never asks a single thing in return? Do you not ever have plans for yourself, for your own life instead of blindly following what is so obviously set before you by the Planet?"

"I…"

"That is no matter. I came here to speak to you."

"Where from?"

The figure gestured, at the far cropped mountains of white, laid beyond the sturdy prongs of the hollow ribs of Bone Village, "The City."

"But," she protested, "It has been deserted for as long as I can recall, or my mother recalled. Only Cetra may live there, and I am the last."

"Yes, but do you really think that I meant from your time, Honoured Daughter?"

"I…" She swung her gaze back to the water, boring into it in her confusion, "You're Cetra then, which means you must be speaking from either future, or the past. I see."

"Do you?" The figure chuckled then. "You wear your emotions on your sleeve I see."

"I don't have sleeves," she said, without thinking about it, then winced and bit her lip, scrunching up her nose in a little wrinkle of self-annoyance which only made the black clad figure more amused. "I mean, well… …what did you want to speak to me about?"

"The riddle in the temple, you saw it, didn't you?"

"Yes."

"You know then, that no matter what may happen, the Cetra will survive somehow. But also, as this Planet's only Cetra, you must also understand that Jenova will not be the last threat, nor will her legacy die so readily."

"What do you mean?"

"I cannot give you those answers. They lie in your heart."

"Inside… me?"

"Jenova was the greatest hunter of Cetra that had ever existed in her race. Her ability to regenerate, to separate and to control was astounding. So much so that we knew we had to seal her away without leaving any trace of her. Humans mined her, set her free after a peaceful two thousand years. Who is to say where the next threat may come from. But know this, as the riddle said… as long as Cetra exist, so will Jenova. The answers to that riddle, you must make amends with yourself."

"But, how?" Aerith cried in frustration, turning to him with a wild look in her green eyes, "How can I unravel any riddles when I don't even remember what I did yester…day…"

The place beside her was empty. Only the sound of the sea crashed over where the figure had stood, a male figure if she guessed correctly from the tone of his voice. Her eyes, filled with confusion, as she was now and ever since her time of awakening to this world again, scanned the area as the wind carried his voice to her ears, softly beating on the inner drum.

"The answers are there, if you look for them. Never stop looking, Honoured Daughter and take care of this world, for it is all we have left to give to you…"

"Aerith!" called the girl again and she turned, a ruffle of red and white in the wind from the sea and stared with lost eyes upon the beautiful face of the taller woman. The kind, dark reddish eyes were warm, like mulled wine on a winter evening and the smile curved generous lips into something intimate. Her hand reached out and took that of Tifa's, suddenly feeling cold and alone when she came into contact with the warmer flesh. "Aerith," she exclaimed, "You're as cold as ice."

"I don't have any sleeves," she repeated herself earlier, feeling nonplussed with herself. Why did everything have to be a riddle and why couldn't they just give her the answers for once?

"Well, you said it was too warm for a jacket, remember?" The voice was tinged with both amusement and deep patience – she was always forgetting and Tifa was always there, helpfully waiting for the pieces to fall together.

"Yes, I did."

"You walked off all of a sudden with a very strange look on your face, are you alright?"

"The man, he called to me."

"Man?" Tifa looked around, dark eyes scanning the area as her slightly shorter, dark hair whipped about in the sea wind, driven ashore with the gulls and the scents of the ocean. "I didn't see anyone."

"You… didn't see anyone." Aerith curled her hands, one still tucked into Tifa's stronger, firmer gripped hand. The skin stretched and she stared down at it. Yes, once she had held on exactly like this, as if clinging for dearest life to something that was to pass away, as if to something that must leave.

But she had left.

She spoke aloud instead, "I suppose I was seeing things then, must still be working itself out in my memory."

"We knew it was going to be a long process," Tifa said, partially in relief as she soothingly rubbed the chilled shoulders of the Ancient and started to draw her away from the edge of the sea. "Come on, we have a picnic to eat and there's less of a chill from the sea in the flower field."

"…" She followed, like a lamb, but her green eyes strayed back to the water's edge where two sets of footprints were clearly visible in the pebbled sand, dented there and half filling with water.

Her face was decidedly beautiful. Especially in repose, when there was no agony of trying to fit together pieces that would not go, especially when she lay there, lost in peaceful dreams, her hair golden in the faint glint of light from the doorway which she had open, peeking through the crack.

Regretfully, she gently closed the door and left the beautiful Ancient to what looked to be the first peaceful dreams in a long time and started back down to the kitchenette where Cloud would be slouched over the table, hands wrapped around a mug of hot cocoa as they both tried to digest the strange day that Aerith had experienced. Cloud's reaction to both the girls living together was slowly improving, but he had come to look upon Tifa as a sort of rival for affection, despite some idea in the blonds head that he had been given a backseat by the Ancient in favour of Tifa long ago.

She didn't mind, if it helped him too, if Aerith was alright with having a half grown puppy of a man underfoot then she could endure it too. After all, she had her own debt to Cloud she had not paid off, for spending years telling him that they were childhood friends, lying through her teeth with an ease that Yuffie would have admired if she had known all the tangled secrets that Tifa Lockhart kept about herself.

The walls on the way to the kitchen were littered with pictures from days before to the present. There was Cloud and Barrett, both looking on the city of Midgar as they escaped, the picture of Red and Aerith in Kalm when they took a break, Barrett and his chocobo that had borne his heavy weight somehow, the crossing of the sea where she was stood with her back to the railing, looking over the seas as they burned with a sunset. There was the picture of Yuffie teasing poor Barrett as he was forced to put up with her grabbing the front seat for a rare time, before Cait had officially become Barrett's 'buddy'. Cid and Vincent, both cheating wordlessly at cards, Aerith and Cid tinkering on the buggy, the Temple of the Ancients and of course, the picture of the Ancient City she had gone back to take. There was Denzel and Marlene, laughing as they hugged each other, the group pictures of them all, a rare picture of Cloud smiling as he stood hip deep in the water which had filled Aerith's church after the gang had been destroyed. Then there were many pictures, but for her favourite, the one of Aerith sat in the Radiant Garden, surrounded by flowers. Written on the dog eared corner was, in impossibly neat handwriting: "The flowers really did come back to the slums."

That was the day Aerith had come from nowhere with half a memory but a full watt smile and turned Tifa's life around for the better.

Tifa came into the kitchen, not at all surprised to see Cloud hunched over the mug of cocoa but a little surprised that he held a picture in his hands, framed. He held it lovingly, staring down at it with bright blue eyes, bright even in the dimness of her kitchen at this late hour, with both children and Aerith already abed.

"I'll give you a gil for those thoughts that are rolling around in your head."

"Hmm?" He looked up and then put down the picture; Tifa could see now that it was the picture of Tifa and Aerith, sat side by side on the day before she had left to go for the fateful mission in the City of the Ancients. They both looked so happy, and she had been. "I was just thinking. Nothing in particular, that is, just thoughts, you know."

"I know. Enjoying that cocoa? I can always get you a refill."

"No, got to watch my figure," he murmured wryly and she rolled her eyes heavenward: Cloud's emergence from his shell of doubt and fragile neuroses had left him a little on the comical side, or at least he supposed, she thought.

"Yes, because clearly you are getting fat."

"But I thought black was slimming," he mock protested, and then shook his blond haired head as she busied herself in getting her own cocoa.

She smiled a little ruefully to herself. As bad as his jokes were, this was the Cloud she had long for. This was the Cloud she had hoped he would be, without doubt, without fear, without the pain of having to look back at everything he had done.

"Cloud," she said softly, "Thank you for coming with us today."

"No problem. You know, maybe… maybe she did see something down by the sea."

Her hands jarred on the lids for the cocoa and her eyes tightened just a fraction. She had been staunchly denying that possibility to herself. Because if there really had been something for Aerith to see there, then everything could start all over again.

"I know," she sighed.

"Isn't it strange though? Think about it, when she was there in the Garden, she said that the Planet had returned her for a cause, for more things to come. But what could it be that brings her back in body to us?"

"I don't know, Cloud," Tifa sighed, stirring cocoa in hot milk, "I don't want to think about it."

"Oh come on, you're her…" he choked over it, "Partner. You should at least consider what might happen in the future."

"No," she shook her head, "I thought about tomorrow once, and all I got was a handful of memories and a broken heart. I don't want to think about tomorrow anymore, I want it to be today, always just today, where there's me and Aerith and no Planet or greater calling or fight for good and justice. We've done all that."

"Tifa, don't get angry with me!"

"Well, why shouldn't I? Be angry, that is. I should be, because we're always expected to do something. Well, that's it, we've done our bit, and it's over. I'm through with it all, the only way I'd ever, ever be dragged into something as monumental again is… is if Aerith was to ask it."

"She'd never ask that of you."

"I know!" Tifa turned around and sat down at the table, next to her friend and stared glumly into the cocoa. The kitchen was small but functional, a square table with a bowl of fruit in the centre, a cooker, sink, fridge and a small washer for their clothes. The tiny window looked out, second floor from her established bar which was becoming world famous for the cocktail, "Midgar Nights".

The guilty truth was, a truth which Tifa knew for fact, that if Aerith was ever to be in danger again, then she would never ask it of Tifa to be there. Moreover, she would do all in her power to remove her loved ones from the equation, leaving it entirely up to her once more, leaving her open once again as she had done in the City.

She didn't want that, she wanted to be there, to protect her this time and always. Wasn't that what she had promised long ago, when this was all new and there had been so much more violence in her battered heart?

"Cloud, I don't know what to do. I don't want to lose her again."

"…" Cloud was just as thoughtfully silent, before he murmured in turn, "Me either."

"If that day comes… I…"

"Tifa, if that day comes, we'll all be right by her side again, without a single thought. There will be people across the world itself who would throw down arms and lives for that girl sleeping in your bedroom, because of who she is, because of what she did and because of what none of us will ever hope to match accomplishment wise. She… she's special, as special to this Planet and to every living creature as the sky, the stars, the sun. Don't worry so much about tomorrow, because when it's here, no one will let her go alone. Ever again."

"Cloud…"

That was possibly one of the longest speeches she had heard him give in a long time and even he realised it, flushing as he looked away with a slight cough, a clearing of his throat in embarrassment.

She smiled, tears filling her eyes but not a single one escaping, "When that day comes," she agreed.

"Gawd, how boring," she groaned into the papers, trotting along after Vincent in the dusk that was fast becoming darkness on the shores of Nibelheim. They were hurrying towards the town.

How she, Yuffie Kisaragi and future ruler of the Wutai clan nation, had become impromptu assistant to the mysterious and close-mouthed Vincent Valentine who didn't even keep a single ounce of sugar within his home, was utterly beyond her. How he, being an ex-Turk, could have agreed to make Nibelheim mansion liveable once again, clearing out cobwebs and old experiments so it sparkled, she couldn't fathom. How she had been the one who had done all the cobweb sweeping, didn't escape her – she was very much aware that he had coerced her into it with a menacing look, thrusting the duster at her face so she sneezed and her eyes watered up.

But that she had stayed around, that was even less of a mystery.

Back home, by now, as she was twenty one, they would have been arranging her formalised wedding to some boring but promising young samurai, quoting endless yards of old stuffy texts at her, fixing her hair with oils and telling her sternly to stop biting her fingernails, putting her into confining kimonos and painting her face white, traditionally as she oversaw the ruling of her country, with tradition and honour.

That was precisely why she, Yuffie Kisaragi, Materia Hunter and ninja extraordinaire was out and about, following the vampire-like Vincent and throwing herself headlong into every single scrape that came hurtling her way.

That's not to say that she enjoyed the housekeeping part of each little scrape that came with it – the cobwebs had been particularly difficult and resisted all her efforts to move them at first until a few fire spells convinced them otherwise and out they had been shooed along with their spider masters. Now the mansion was a glistening example of fine art, fine paint schemes and restored, beautifully old furniture. It was a testament to her fine degree of taste (and the stubborn will to add flowers willy-nilly like the Ancient had suggested excitedly over the PHS).

She'd received calls of course, from her father, telling her that she couldn't just keep doing as she pleased. The world had been quiet and peaceful for so long that in her heart of wildest hearts, she was starting to doubt if there really was any excitement left in the world for her.

So tiredly, she walked through the cobbled streets, holding the sheaf of paperwork that she would sit and wade through with Vincent in the mansion, the radio on so she could hear the latest trend in musical fashion, sometimes even hoping that the Turks would ring up and ask them to do some errand or the other, anything to get out of the mansion and into doing something.

"You know," she said, "The paperwork really isn't that important tonight…"

"Less talking, more walking," was all Vincent said.

Yuffie knew that he never raised his voice above a whisper – perhaps this was part of the reason why she was a little afraid of his stern demeanour and tended to clam up just as asked. Vincent Valentine had conceded to eternal nagging and was now clad in a dark reddish black suit, not unlike that which he wore when he was with the Turks. He had shorn his hair shorter, but not as short as it could be, so the ends brushed his ears and there was still a chunky fringe covering his ruby red eyes. His sole concession to his former life was to retain the long scarf of red-plum that was worn through with bullet holes and the golden arm he still used in place of having said arm removed.

He also walked a little too fast for her own walking speed to match, so she was obliged to hop and skip after him, grumbling to herself as she did.

Yuffie Kisaragi had consigned herself to the fact that she would never really grow any taller. At twenty one, she barely made Vincent's shoulder. She was slender, flat in the chest and boy-hipped. Her hair she still kept cropped short and she wore a more traditional Nin' garb than her previous instalments – a black mask which was hung about her neck, a black shirt with her own clan design on the back (A fading moon behind a cloud) and heavy gloves. She had given up her shorts in favour of something a little longer, and now paraded about in close fitting black trousers with a sort of frontal and back skirt in black, cut high to her hips so they flapped about a little aimlessly. Secretly she had had the inside of the flaps decorated with small pouches where she kept smaller shuriken in razor sharp triangles for throwing, so she was never at a loss for a weapon if her fuuma shuriken ever managed to lodge itself somewhere to not return to hand. Of course, she still wore the traditional Wutai leader headband, a headband that her father wore and her mother probably wore when she was alive.

It was passing the well in the centre of Nibelheim that made her slow, staring at the black clad figure who watched her go past. It was a strange sort of meeting, their heads following one another as she walked after Vincent, not daring to drop behind or stop to question. The rest of the plaza was deserted.

"Vincent," she finally said, stopping with insatiable curiosity, "Someone's watching me."

"Someone?" He rasped in his gravely voice, turning to look back at her. The ruby eyes pinned her to where she was stood, "Someone like?"

"That creep by the fountain," she gestured, looking back, whereupon her jaw dropped.

"There's no one there, stop wasting time," he muttered and started back walking, "And don't lag behind, that paperwork will only pile up if we wait."

"But I saw someone," she protested, then with a start hurried after him, "I really did!"

"…" was the noncommittal reply.

She sulked of course, but the mansion wasn't far thankfully, as those papers in her arms were starting to get tediously heavy. Within a few minutes they had reached the gates and she backing into the iron carefully, eyes scanning about cautiously.

Okay, so what if the vampire-ex-Turk didn't believe her, she honestly had seen that creepy guy by the fountain, she wasn't going nuts. Maybe, she surmised, he was just a strange vision brought on by lack of anything resembling sugar in her diet thanks to the health conscious Valentine, or maybe it had been another Ninja sent here by her father and there was yet another letter of reprimand waiting for her inside.

Vincent opened the door and held it open as she hurried inside.

Then she stopped with a cry and dropped the bundle of papers, so the white pages scattered across the floor, coming to a gentle stop by cabinets and units as Yuffie cupped her hands to her mouth in horror.

The room was decorated with writing, the once cream and pale chocolate paint violated by scribbles in what looked to be drying blood, jagged and ugly against the beautiful décor. The writing continued on and one, the hallway was large, and down the polished floorboards ran a streak of drying blood that drew itself towards the back.

"V-Vincent," she stammered weakly.

The words were very visible.

"I see," he said calmly.

How could he be calm! How could anyone be calm in a situation like this? Nibel mansion was damn near impregnable with the wards and traps and bolts and locks and…and… how could anyone get inside to do this, let alone with… with blood!

The words were… so very clear to her.

'Die. Cetra. Die… Cetra…'

Over and over it was chanted on the walls, painted lurid and staining all of her hard work. Yuffie felt like screaming. She nearly did so, filling her lungs, when the cold golden fingers of Vincent's non-living hand clamped over her opening mouth and he murmured softly, as soft as he could go into her ear, "We are not alone."

…and with a slithering, something putrid and rotting came crawling from the back, towards them, the source of the red streaks and as it sped up, sensing them, Yuffie wrenched free and screamed.

"You have to keep looking."

"I am. I don't know where to start though."

"Things will only get worse before they get better, you know this. This is the cycle of all things, this is your role as Heiress and Protector of this world, to endure this cycle. So you must look… keep looking…"

She was stood on the beach, the sandy line melting into the water as her green eyes focused on the far away point of somewhere and somewhen, the distant choked city of Midgar and the water, burning and dying under the face of the sinking sun as it dipped lower and lower to the wavering tide.

She was made of the wind and the sun, of the sand and the sea and when the stars came out, she would name them, one by one with imperious grandeur and know them, as family, for this world, this life was hers and she had made it, she had willed.

With a broken heart, she turned away from the shore where Midgar had vanished to be replaced only with rude and small, crudely made huts of wattle and daub, where others now lived and worked the land in their crude way, coaxing out flowers and plants to sustain and to nourish. She left them there across the water and instead looked towards the north.

With heavy steps she started walking, to the figure who waited, wrapped in the black shroud. Only a pale face was visible, a triangular shaped face. It was beautiful, in the way that Cetra are beautiful, with wide eyes and a pointed chin, with the far away look and the written knowledge of tomorrow in eyes of colours few humans possessed. The hair spun out behind the figure was flaxen and the eyes were a pale amber-green, mixed uncertainly and glittering with the slit pupils that so defined her race.

"You know you cannot stay." She said, not knowing why she said it.

"I know. They will come. Sooner or later."

"Take the Materia and go then, take it far away and destroy it, so no ill can ever come to this place."

"But if I leave here, I will probably never see you again."

"I don't mind. Just take it, take it and go. For the best, isn't it?"

The woman laughed shortly, "And you would say that it is worth it?"

"Isn't it?" She said in annoyance. "Isn't such a thing worth giving up what you can for it? I know you want to stay here but…"

"…Then I will go as far as I can, with that. And when I am gone, you'll have your songs and remember me not, for I would be as the wind, passing and gone. Only this world will remain."

"My brother would mourn you."

The woman laughed again, the sound was bitter and chill as evening winds in winter, "Aye, and well I love him for it. I will go, before the Madness comes, before I can only remember the Materia, and the lure of it."

"…I am sorry," she said softly.

Just then, as they turned to make their way back to the slope of the hills, there was a strange noise. It was decidedly unpleasant and interfered with her concentration…

Buzz. Buzz. Buzz. Buzz…

Groggily she sat up and groped about for the phone. Tifa, as usual, slept like the dead, faced away from her, curled over in their shared bed, stealing the lions share of covers – no wonder her toes were so cold!

After a moment of frantic hand wafting she found the slim black bar and thumbed the keys, only to hold it to her ear. "Mmm?" was about all she could muster, scrubbing shards of sleep from her eyes.

"Aerith?"

"Yes, who is this?"

"It's Vincent. Is Tifa there?"

"She's snoring, but she's here. Cloud's in the spare room. What's wrong?"

"I think you all should prepare for a visit from us. Can you make room for an injured person?"

"Injured?" Aerith repeated, her sleepy brain trying to make sense of this most bizarre conversation at what looked to be five in the morning. "Who's injured? What happened?"

"Yuffie's hurt pretty badly. And there are some things I think we should all talk about. We'll be there by noon, Cid will be bringing us."

The phone cut off. She stared at it, her fuzzy thoughts tumbling inexpertly about themselves and the strange dream where she had become someone else, the strange woman shrouded in black and the events they spoke of. Weakly, she flopped back down in bed and stared at the ceiling, hoping for no dreams.

Wishes, it seemed, were granted, for she slept not a single wink more that strange night…