Cloud hops onto Fenrir and allows the lightning to guide him. Each crooked beam seems to converge on a singular point in the distance, and he can read the signature of Sephiroth's fanfare in the dramatic display. Overhead, Cid directs the airship into the sky but stays low enough to remain under the overcast. Barret protested to "being trapped in a tin can in the middle of a damn storm," but Cid merely boasted the Shera's inductive outer frame in response. Still, Cloud elected to disembark and travel separately.

It's a short trip.

The storm is at its most volatile over the ruins of Midgar. Cloud weaves through the skeleton of the metropolis as thunder cracks overhead. No matter how many times he visits, the desolate emptiness of the once overpopulated city is jarring. It's been picked clean of all measures of comfort and sustenance, leaving behind a soulless corpse.

Up ahead, metal groans as a building tips, tips, tips and collapses across the road in a whirlwind of dust and crumbling concrete. Fenrir's tires lock up when Cloud throws the brake and whips the bike to the side. The blockade of carnage is unavoidable—he lunges off the seat and lands upon the pavement in a crouch, watching helplessly as Fenrir disappears inside the opaque cloud and impacts with a sickening crunch.

The hair on the back of Cloud's neck stands. He straightens up and whirls as his sword hisses from its sheath, materializing just in time to block Masamune's blow. The very aura of the lengthy blade threatens to send shockwaves of despair into his determination.

"Hello, again," Sephiroth says simply with a vile smirk.

Aerith grasps Zack's hand when he shifts anxiously at her side. She knows that his fingers are twitching toward the hilt of a sword that isn't there, that he would like nothing more than to charge in on the action. Zack misses adrenaline like Aerith misses the silken feel of flower petals under her fingertips.

Sephiroth gives a leisurely shove and Cloud skids back several feet. With an enraged yell, Cloud leaps into the air to draw his sword down in a lethal arc.

Sephiroth's eyes gleam tauntingly up at Cloud, though they flicker over to where Aerith lingers for a fraction of a second. He knows she is there, can sense her presence, which means he is straddling realities. One foot is in the material world and one remains in the Lifestream, and this impermanence gives him a weakness. That knowledge calms her racing heart, just a little, and sets her shoulders in rigid surety. Cloud can win.

The subsequent battle is long and taxing.

Cloud is unsure how they end up racing along the upper-plate rooftops, but Sephiroth allows him no time to even breathe. Every movement tugs painfully at one or more of many wounds that weep red blood onto the parched ground. Cloud's muscles scream with protest and he can feel the comparable sluggishness in his attacks—it's been too long since he slept for more than fifteen minutes. Sephiroth, on the other hand, is unfathomably quick for someone who has just arisen from the dead.

Unfortunately, he is also talkative.

"You're favoring your left arm," he taunts, sending a wicked glance at the sickened limb in question as Cloud swerves to dodge Masamune.

"Thanks to you," Cloud bites back through gritted teeth. He dashes forward in a thrust that sails harmlessly through empty air.

"You should be grateful," Sephiroth chides from atop a nearby scaffolding. "Mother's legacy is not a gift that many get to experience. I'm sure your young ward would agree."

Denzel's face flashes within Cloud's mind—the dullness of fatigue in his blue eyes, the black mark spanning his forehead. A fresh pulse of rage sizzles along every nerve ending.

Swords clash, once, twice, thrice.

"You can feel her, can't you?" Sephiroth hisses through a shallow smile. "After all, she led you here. To me."

Cloud snarls.

He won't fall for such a manipulation again. He is not a puppet to Jenova.

They alight onto an adjacent building in a seamless continuation of the violent dance. Cloud spots the Shera hovering nearby, holding his friends who are helpless to do anything except watch. Sephiroth follows his gaze; where his eyes go, thunderbolts follow. The airship rears as Cid backs away.

"Things fall so easily, don't they?" Sephiroth muses after a skilled parry. "Airships. Meteors. People."

A new color in his voice makes Cloud pause—Sephiroth has something to say, and he wants Cloud to really hear it. He falls back a few steps and waits, panting, his skin feeling clammy with sweat and exhaustion. Even during the flare-ups of sickness from Geostigma, he has never felt this ill. Fatigue drags his limbs down and makes breathing a chore. He concedes to let Sephiroth ramble if it means he can recuperate for a moment.

"Fortunately for my agents, she had already fallen. It was quite easy to retrieve her."

Cloud freezes.

What? Is he talking about Jenova?

Sephiroth smirks at whatever expression is on Cloud's face. "Surely, you noticed her absence. Or perhaps not, considering how you've estranged her."

Realization dawns.

Tifa. He's talking about Tifa.

"What did you do?" Cloud growls, his hand aching from how it tightens around the hilt of his sword.

"Don't pretend to care." The conversation pauses there as Masamune grazes Cloud's right shoulder. He retaliates with a slice to Sephiroth's side—the ensuing grunt is a small, fleeting victory of the first successful hit. But all too soon, Cloud finds himself on a scrambling defensive once more. Sephiroth appears before him, well within the bounds of personal space, and reaches up to rip the flowing sleeve from Cloud's arm.

"Perhaps," he muses as he makes a show of admiring the stain of Geostigma. "The real reason you are so angry with her is because my so-called defeat was her fault."

"Shut up!" Cloud roars as he backs away, too incredulous at such an accusation to retort with anything more substantial than that.

Sephiroth merely shakes his head. Blood drips off of his infernal sword.

"Don't deny me." The words are an echo from years ago—a twisted laboratory, a wretched apparition spewing taunts and righteous platitudes.

Falling.

"There is no you without me," Sephiroth concludes. "That's why you allowed her to slowly self-destruct for all this time. She took the Ancient from you, leaving you with despair. But ultimately, she took me from you, and you were left with nothing."

No. Lies. Manipulation.

No. Don't listen.

Cloud roars in fury as his blade arcs through the air.

Sephiroth's attacks, verbal and physical, sing a promise of retribution. They evoke a poisonous feeling that is so much more potent than the tendrils that Aerith has been feeling within the Lifestream for the past two years, and they clearly have an effect on Cloud. Zack's grip on her hand flexes, tightens, and she knows that he can see what she sees: Sephiroth is merely playing with Cloud, and he is preparing for a grand finale of utter devastation. Cloud is unprepared for this onslaught when it inevitably comes, blinded to Sephiroth's weakness by his own howling demons—any absolution that he may have been beginning to reach for is fragile and incomplete, and no help in the face of such raw despair.

Cloud...Sephiroth's words have gotten to him, Aerith realizes as she watches the desolation fall into the edges of his eyes. What would happen...what would happen if Sephiroth wins? If Jenova wins?

"They won't," Zack answers resolutely, eyes hard as they track the battle. Aerith realizes that she spoke her traitorous thoughts aloud. "Cloud's got this."

His unyielding faith bolsters her own. A collage of memories scroll through her mind—Cloud has risen from worse depths than this. Aerith scolds herself for entertaining even a shred of uncertainty.

"You're right."

But then the world is sinking, shattered into monumental chunks of concrete and metal that plummet like monstrous raindrops. She can only see the fight as a gleaming flurry of sword strokes, until Cloud eventually breaks away to land on a jagged slab of highway. He staggers, collapses to a knee, and clutches at his side just before rising to shakily block Sephiroth's swing. His reactions are rapidly growing slower and he stumbles back several steps against a relentless barrage.

Aerith cries out raggedly when he falls upon Masamune. Zack flinches at the black wing that snaps open, and he growls when Cloud is sent flying back to the ground in a mess of bloody lacerations that decorate the grayscale with scarlet.

"Tell me what you cherish most," Sephiroth requests, triumphant condescension coloring his voice. "Give me the pleasure of taking it away."

Cloud struggles to push himself off the ground.

"He needs you. Go," Aerith whispers. Zack vanishes from beside her.

Cloud can win, she repeats to herself.

Time slows. Aerith chooses not to listen in on the short conversation that transpires between Zack and Cloud. Instead, she prays, ignoring the piercing lance of Sephiroth's gaze as it lands on her.

Zack's words are brief.

Whatever he says, it works.

There is a fresh, brilliant fervor in Cloud's eyes that Aerith hasn't seen since back in the old days. She can tell that what he has found in Zack's words is not simple confidence, but certainty. There is absolutely no hesitation as Cloud allows his fresh energy to billow outward in a display of cobalt fire—then, he is dashing through the air in an intricate dance of slicing blows that leaves Sephiroth dissociating from reality, unable to retain his grasp on his precious reunion. It is quick and simple and then it is over. Cloud stands under a lightening sky at the end of it all, sturdy despite his injuries, and closes his eyes.

Zack drapes his arm over Aerith's shoulder and tucks her into his side. "He got that move from me," he boasts with evident pride and copious relief.

Aerith almost rolls her eyes, but she is too glad for Zack's presence to scold him. Instead, she presses the side of her face against his chest and exhales all of her worry.

"It's my turn, now, I think," she tells him as she watches a reawakened Kadaj tumble into Cloud's arms.

Aerith can feel how weak Jenova's influence is within the Lifestream, having been tamed by Cloud's efforts. She taps into her own connection with the Planet, twining her essence with it to exert her will in gentle pushes, and focuses on the fading cruxes of Jenova's implantation. The noxious roots run deep, but they loosen their grip with persistent teasing until they detach and unfurl. The Planet seems to sigh along with her as it rebalances. Now uninhibited by Jenova's restraints on the Lifestream, Aerith glances to the sky with intent and rain begins to fall even as sunlight pierces the cloud bank with soft shafts of peachy light.

"This may be a bad time," Zack starts, his usual mischievousness belied by the colorful relief in his tone. "But that was really hot."

She smacks his arm and fails to stifle a grin.

Tifa is having a strange dream. It feels more…corporeal, she supposes, than typical dreams—like a movie, almost, as if someone is trying to show her something. Her sense of context is skewed, all thoughts scattering save for those she can derive from the scene before her, leaving her thoroughly confused.

She cannot tear her eyes away from the distant figure of Cloud, despite the eruption of cheers from behind her on the command deck of the Shera. He is covered in wounds that seep blood; there is an inky smudge on his left bicep. Tifa wonders who he's been fighting and why. And is that...Midgar? Why is he in Midgar? Why are all of their friends gathered on the airship, celebrating as if they've won a million gil? But she doesn't dwell on the fleeting curiosities—she is transfixed by the way he stands, tall and sturdy, with his face tilted up in quiet welcome of the rain. The thought that he is beautiful strikes her like a missile and leaves shards of her heart strewn about her chest, nicking ribs and tearing muscle as they scatter. A glitter breaks the spell and coaxes her eyes to flicker over to a small water droplet suspended along the metal pane surrounding the broad windows. It catches the light of the emerging sun and tosses it around in tiny beams like a carefree hand throwing blossoms into a gust of wind.

"Thank you," Tifa whispers to Aerith. She isn't sure why she is so grateful.

And then it all goes horribly wrong.

Tifa only notices the two shadows looming behind him when it's too late—one of them raises the gun and the sound of the shot filters dully through the glass that her palms slam against.

"No!" she cries, so shrill that it's more of a shriek.

Cloud jolts forward, falling to a knee and clutching at the center of his chest. For a few eternal seconds, Tifa is left waiting for him to crumple completely. But he stands, turns—Cid is urging the airship to descend, they are drawing closer, the scene is now on display in vivid detail as the distance grows shorter—and Tifa can see the anger flare on Cloud's face, the incredulity, and she is taken back to the battle at the Northern Crater as he charges and shouts, long and drawn, the same way he did back then—

A burst of light. A fireball tinged with the spectral colors of materia blasts. A shockwave that rocks the Shera.

It takes entirely too long for Cid to set the airship down safely. Time speeds up as Tifa flies out of the ship and races for the billowing smoke that reaches up toward the sky like death's hand. She searches and searches, coughing and hacking against the ask and dust, choking on his name as it staggers past her lips over and over.

Cloud is gone.

"Some inspiration for a dream. Have a pleasant rest," taunts a familiar voice. Tifa feels it viscerally, as if Sephiroth is speaking it from within her chest.

The scene fades from her sight and her recollection.

All he can see is white, but he smells flowers and sugar. The nostalgic scent shifts something within him, as if knocking the dust off of a relic that has been untouched for centuries. That something unfurls within his chest, spreading a warmth that infuses his tired bones with lightness and hope.

"Hey, you."

Cloud wants to whirl around at the sound of that voice, but he is anchored in his stance. The impulse fades as he realizes that he may break if he sees her.

"Do you remember when we had that talk, the day after Barret and Cid fished you and Tifa out of the Lifestream? The one where we reminisced about Zack?"

Cloud's voice is still caged in his spasming throat, so he simply nods.

"That's my favorite memory of the two of us. It's when I finally got to meet the real you. And it was so relieving to finally be able to talk about Zack with someone who knew him—it felt almost as if he were in the room with us."

Finally, Cloud finds the strength to speak. "He would have hated that you told me about him building a frilly flower cart for you."

A vibrant laugh. "Oh, trust me, he's not thrilled that you know about that."

Cloud's eyes dart around, searching. "Is he—"

"Not right now. No, you and I need to talk alone. But…he's usually around, if you know where to look."

"…Okay."

A deep breath of preparation. "Cloud. What do you want most in the world?"

"…To turn back time."

"You'll have to pick something a bit more realistic."

He bristles at her teasing tone. "You asked what I want. That's what I want."

"Humor me. Pick something else."

"You and Zack, alive."

"Can't have that, either."

Cloud sighs in frustration. "What's the point of this?"

"I'm trying to help you—"

"This isn't helping—"

"Cloud—"

"I want to be forgiven."

The words are impulsive, rushed, instinctive. He doesn't realize that he's said them until the sound of his own voice replays in his mind. And suddenly, he senses that this is much more a revelation to himself than it is to her. It feels like waking up. It feels like blinking and suddenly seeing the world in a new set of colors.

A knowing hum. "By who?"

Cloud almost scoffs. "You're really going to make me say it?"

"Well, yeah."

"…I let you die." It feels like a shallow representation of what happened, but he realizes—with all the unexpected, jarring brilliance of a lightning strike—that it is the kernel of the matter—the part that haunts him the most.

A sigh. "Cloud. If anyone has any forgiving to do, it's certainly not me. It's you."

"What do you mean?"

"Only one person is responsible for my death. That person went on a journey to save the world and discover the meaning of her heritage. Along the way, she met incredible people and saw amazing places. But deep down, she knew what had to be done to protect those people and those places. She was selfish—she tried to run from her destiny for as long as she could. Eventually, though, there was no other way, and she asked her best friends to make an impossible choice. She never blamed Tifa, and she never blamed you."

Cloud remains silent. There are no words.

"You were the best bodyguard a girl could ask for, but I'm afraid I won't be able to pay you what we agreed. It wouldn't sit well with a certain someone—maybe even two someones, now that I think about it."

A giggle—a farewell. A light touch to his arm—a goodbye.

A somber postscript. "Cloud…wherever Tifa is, she's hidden from me. You have to find her."

Cloud wakes and blinks up at the hole in the roof of the church, seeing a faultless blue sky. It's the hole that he made when he crashed down from the Reactor 5 bombing years ago. Through that opening has fallen a torrent of rain, clean and clear and pure, which has collected into a pool that buoys him gently. He feels the water sinking into him where it touches the Geostigma on his arm and each bloody laceration drawn onto his skin by Sephiroth's blade. It washes away every trace of every wound, leaving behind a quiet strength and newfound peace that makes the color of the sky seem brighter than he can recall ever seeing it. Aerith's words pierce him, driving through every nerve ending and every howling thought in his head. And suddenly, he finds himself letting go. The anger, the hatred, the guilt—it all lifts off of him as if her hands are plucking the burdens away. The shackles of the past begin to turn to dust, allowing him to finally turn toward the present and the future. He isn't cured of his demons, but they're quieting, dimming, dissipating. Aerith's forgiveness—no, he tells himself, it was the lack of even needing her forgiveness, of simply needing his own—has allowed him to start what will surely be a lengthy journey to healing.

And shouldn't I have known, all this time?

Cloud shifts, allowing his body to drift so that he can rise up on his feet. There are children surrounding him in the water and a thicker crowd of spectators lingers on the jagged remains of the church floor.

"It's like she said," chimes a girl as she peers up at him. "Wait here, and Cloud will come back."

As if to drive to point home, Yuffie calls out from a short distance away. "Welcome back!"

Cloud glances up and scans the smiling faces of his friends. His lips twitch to mirror the expression, but they still when he recalls Sephiroth's words.

"It was quite easy to retrieve her."

"What did you do?"

"Don't pretend to care."

And Aerith's entreaty—

"You have to find her."

The unbridled joy of the atmosphere falls away in place of determination. Cloud wades toward the border of the water and meets Barret's stern eyes, sees the relief and the worry warring away. Cid reaches down a hand to hoist Cloud from the pool, giving him a serious nod. Vincent, Cait Sith, and Nanaki have grown equally solemn, and even Yuffie's grin has melted into resolve.

"Let's go," Cloud orders.