Chapter 50 - Bitter Concessions
December, 1991
Sephiroth tries to keep his life orderly in his mind as he walks through the battlefield.
The battle is just over. The last of the enemy has either fled into the forest or is underfoot. Sephiroth chased them to the forest line before turning back. He could go in and find them but his energy is better used elsewhere. Shinra are making headway towards the heart of Wutai but the enemy is growing wiser. They attack Shinra's supply chains. Consistent food and water disappears but it isn't what worries Sephiroth the most.
Shinra weapons and artillery disappear and then show up tearing into the bellies of soldiers that are supposed to fire them.
It is an increasing problem.
Tactically, Sephiroth rushes forward in battle to attack the most dangerous units before they can kill his men. It isn't enough.
Both sides bled heavily today.
He's seen Orlin already. They tend to seek each other out if they fight together. They wave from across the field, knowing that through some miracle, they've made it through another battle.
But the blood sinks deep into their clothing.
Now Sephiroth walks the lines. He looks for destroyed faces of men he trained. It's only taken him weeks to get used to the bodies. The searching stings but he doesn't allow that emotion to continue. Once, he didn't catch the wave of misemotion before it grew too much and the anxiety shut him down.
It still hurts too much to get close to anyone or at least, it had been before he stopped. To them, he stands aloof and indifferent. What he is doing now is his compromise. His payment back for the rough detachment. His ears strain as he steps over bodies. His sword hangs loose in his fingers at his side just in case.
The field is gouged out. The frozen dirt is soft and fragmented now under the smell of gore. Shinra troops gather together. Men yell as they find their comrades. Sephiroth can't distinguish if they are cries of joy or grief. Multiple bases are involved in the attack today. He sees a few soldiers afar that look like they could be generals he's met. Even they kept their distance. It doesn't interest him. The silence in his ears is his priority.
A raspy breath catches his attention. It is so weak that he could barely pick it up.
Sephiroth shifts towards the left and looks. A couple bodies are stacked up near each other. One is missing a lower half and it is impossible to see who he fought for. Does it matter? He wonders idly at the destroyed body. The remaining two are from each side. Sephiroth moves. Another gasp for air cuts through the silence.
He focuses on the SOLDIER. The blue shirt is black and a spear stands upwards in his chest near his heart. His right arm is a muddled mess of muscle and blood. The helmet hides his face. Crouching down in the mud, Sephiroth holds the bare skin of his wrist near the slack mouth. The Third looks dead. Nothing moves. No breath touches him. The man's lips are white. Was it the Wutai man next to him that made the noise?
He leans down next to the SOLDIER's chest and holds his air in his lungs to minimize the noise. He closes his eyes. The crunching of the SOLDIERs nearby is too loud and then he hears the thick irregular beat of a dying heart. The corner of his lips twitch. Yes, he has found one.
"I'm here," he says to the man and sinks to his knees in the bloody slush. It soaks through his pants. He lifts the man as carefully as he can. The head rolls dangerously as he sets it in his lap. The helmet comes off but Sephiroth ignores his face. The man's limp arms fall to the ground on either side of him. The heart throbs raggedly. Sephiroth hurries.
Everything about this man looks bad. If Sephiroth had to guess, he took the hit to the chest with the spear and then a bomb exploded, destroying his arm. He's been bleeding too long. It might be too late but that's why Sephiroth did this. Because he knows, for him, it is not too late.
Sephiroth takes the spear and yanks it out.
The responding spasm is weak and the only visible sign of life he has been given.
Sephiroth doesn't need to dig for the materia. It is slotted and ready. The green glow covers the black leather of his gloves. He settles down, closing out everything else. He imagines himself centered in his mind. The dead weight presses his legs further into the freezing ground. The shoulders blades are sharp into thighs. It doesn't matter. All the other emotions float away. They are unimportant. He is ready. Bending over the man in his lap, he places his hand over the hole that has already filled. Red specks on his own hair try to distract him but he pushes them away. A wet smear from his fingers is added to the others across his face.
Healing other SOLDIERs is child's work compared to the wild battle of healing himself. The magic lulls in his head almost like a sweet headache and he feels it seep easily from his left hand into the man. Sephiroth controls the energy. Too much healing will force further shock and that can kill off what life is left. Too little and he finishes bleeding out. The SOLDIER's heart beats again, almost in question.
Sephiroth bows over further.
It takes energy. Healing is a greedy beast. As Sephiroth siphons what is left after the battle into this man, he starts to feel his own condition. It's not terrible. Just a couple scrapes from the battle but it is the chronic exhaustion that trips him. He pushes it through, leaning into the mako that would kill him if given the chance. R&D states his stamina is high above average. He's been toeing the line for the last half year.
If the medics on the battlefield noticed this man, they would have given him a peaceful death. The cost of bringing someone this far back is too high for a normal person.
Sephiroth places his right hand on top of his left and leans further forward. The materia sucks greedily. His head feels light. Aches wake up in his back. Thoughts skew. Rafi, Mariella, Hojo, Orlin, even a face he doesn't recognize, they all try to snag his concentration.
He doesn't stop.
The heartbeat picks up. A puff of warm air brushes against his stomach. The wounds start to seal. The collapsed ribs snap back into arches, bumping up his fingers. Sephiroth's eyes drip closed. A moan comes from under him. A twitch shakes his thighs. The pressure his hands can use weakens. The magic continues to drag out of him. Something cold drips out of his nose. He refuses to stop as the battlefield swims into colors around them.
He keeps giving.
The magic cuts off sharply, satisfied.
Sephiroth puts a hand on the ground next to them bending further over the SOLDIER and listens to the wild beating of his own heart. His hand fumbles for his pills pack clipped to his belt. He shivers. An emergency pill goes in his mouth dry and sticky. Cold sweat rolls off his face. He doesn't have time for his stomach to work. Instead he crunches the pill, the bitterness a fresh feeling to add to the list and puts it under his tongue.
He closes his eyes as he waits for the medication to take hold. He is stiffening. This healing wasn't too much but it was too close. An internal tremor runs through his arms. He needs to be careful. He can't push it too much. There are people that care for him. He brushes at his nose. They slide easily, a fresh nosebleed.
First signs of his safety is the deep breath his body allows him to take. The pill takes hold, soothing his heart back into a normal rhythm. The smear of a battlefield around them defines again.
The man is still unconscious. Sephiroth shakily peels up the shirt and checks his chest. The skin is miraculously smooth. Only the crackling cover of dirt and gore tells him that the injury had been there at all. He snakes his free hand up to the man's neck. The vein thrums solid and steady. He drags up to the dog tags by the chain. The SOLDIER ID number starts with a B. This man is one of his. Sometimes they aren't. It doesn't matter. They are all men in the same war. He wipes away the crusted muck from the name stamped under the number.
RHAPSODOS, GENESIS.
It takes him a moment to remember why that name strikes meaning in him. He's the man from training who was dancing. He had asked for the name afterward. He was going to check the records in a few weeks to see if the man had improved but it had slipped his mind.
He looks down with more interest. The soldier is more academic looking than the SOLDIER stereotype. He is not the expected type to stand between all the strong jaws and heavy eyebrows. Pink is returning to his cheeks but it is nearly impossible to see under the blood. Some of that blood, he realizes, is fresh. The nosebleed is dripping. Sephiroth tries to rub that away as his own body continues to calm.
The green pill worked. His mind runs the way it always does right after a hard casting. What if someday it doesn't work and he collapses in front of his men? What would they think of him then? If they knew how sick he is, underneath everything, would that be his fall?
He swallows air, ignoring those thoughts.
"Sephiroth?"
He looks up at the few medics that made it over to him.
"I found one."
It's the only thing he has to say. The medics keep his secret.
A SOLDIER guard watches with wide eyes as Sephiroth lifts the man off his lap and passes him over. He'll trust the medics to tell him to keep this to himself. Getting up sets a wave of nausea through him but he conceals it. He waves off their offers to make sure that he is fine. As they mutter among themselves and direct a gurney to come, Sephiroth looks across the field. Sometimes if he doesn't feel terrible, he goes for another.
Today, the shake in his fingers says otherwise.
Another figure across the field stops him from turning back to his tent. His stomach drops as the SOLDIER on the other side stills. They recognize each other. The medics don't notice. Wires of adrenaline creep across him. He's not tired now. The beat of his heart ticks up frantically. The physicality of the man is enough to tell him who it is.
If it isn't enough, the iconic long sword is silhouetted against the trees.
Dinand is there. He's watching him. Anger bits deep into him. Sephiroth shouldn't move. He shouldn't go across the battlefield and make there be one more corpse on the grass. It isn't his job to kill him. It isn't his job to cut him down after everything that Dinand has done to him. He cannot right this wrong.
Dinand takes a step and stops again. Even from this distance, he can see the self assured smile like he is remembering fondly seeing Sephiroth sobbing into the tile in pain.
Sephiroth is sick. How can he stand there? How can he continue to be on this planet? Sephiroth's boots are stuck in the mud. He tells himself that and tries to believe it. He can't go forward but he can't turn his back on the man who ruined any chance of a normal life. This is the man that broke him in a way that would never heal.
Dinand's sword waivers and then he tucks it away under his arm.
He's the one to turn away.
It knifes Sephiroth in the gut.
"Are you sure you are alright?" One of the medics says behind him.
"Yes. Perfectly."
He makes it back towards the rear of the battlefield.
The muscles take minutes to dispense with the adrenaline. A headache pounds against him and he keeps looking back to the spot where Dinand was. There are separate areas for each station. He kicks himself. He knew that Dinand would be around. He shouldn't let it affect him. All those feelings should be boxed and put away. They should have withered and died. It is over now. He is an adult. The fear and shame of his childhood should mean nothing to him.
The shakes finally subside and he starts to limp as he enters his tent. His phone buzzes in his back pocket.
Bored. Send selfie.
Sephiroth can't help the laugh that comes out of him. After everything today, this happens. Rafi has still been insistent upon staying in communication. It's the one part of his life that has stayed the same. His fingers leave smudges as he switches to camera mode for his own amusement.
The sight is gruesome. For not being hurt, it sure looks like he has been run over by a tank. Drying blood runs out of his nostrils. Part of his hair is plastered back with mud from when he had to dive to avoid one of their missiles. Gore is splattered across his cheeks. He's not sure who did that. The only thing clean are his eyes.
Why not?
He taps the button and sends the photo.
Hard to believe but this is a slow day. Washing up now.
He tosses the phone by his clean clothes and tries to allow Rafi to distract him.
While everyone takes care of the finality of the battle, Sephiroth jots down the notes of what he will need to remember for this countless report. He peels off the combat gear. Mud crackles off and onto the floor. Red is soaked through his thighs, the SOLDIER's blood most likely. The pants stick to his legs and hold their shape as they land on the ground. The shoes shed grass as he pries the buckles and the knots loose. He sets his metal bowl on the table and pours water in it.
Habit comforts him. After every battle, he does this. The water soothes away the remaining fight. Noises don't make him twitch as much and he only eyes the opening flap of his tent on occasion. The dried bits get soaked as he scrubs away at the general film of dirt. The water goes brown and he replaces it before leaning over and dunking his head in to loosen the muck in his hair.
Massaging away the blood lessens the weight of the deaths that he could not prevent. He would get the statistics later and then he would have to justify them to the Board. It is his job, as an eighteen year old, to comfort adults on the deaths of thousands.
The screams outside have died away. The trucks are rumbling in. Dinand is miles away again. They would use this for the next camp towards the capital. Sephiroth won't be staying here. He'll go back to the main base to report on the battle and then he'll check his schedule. Things rarely stay the same day to day. PR has been following him but they are making it apparent that he is needed in Midgar.
Orlin isn't always around to help him keep his months straight. Their paths cross but don't run parallel. Both of them are pieces on a chessboard controlled by someone else. Orlin's charisma led him into mentoring a small subgroup of SOLDIERs, mostly Seconds. Shinra's memory is long, they remembered who gave Sephiroth the casting skills he has. The group does operate under Sephiroth's command but often the orders come from above.
Orlin is good at it but he hates it.
Yet, they still talk. Sephiroth has someone to reach out to.
It stabilizes him slightly.
Is it enough? With no reference point of "normal" in his life, he has no idea.
The cold water rolls across his back as he straightens. He combs through his hair and puts on the fresh clothing. He wonders if Rafi would show some part of the life that he disappeared from.
He's surprised.
There is no return picture. She did message him back immediately.
…selfie?
Frowning, he checks that none of his reports are in the background, takes another photo and sends a message.
Did you think I wouldn't get clean?
The phone registers her responding for several minutes.
He rubs the towel through his hair as he waits. Cleaning up immediately after battle used to be a requirement. Sephiroth has orders never to be seen "untidy" outside of combat. Now he does it naturally. He has another half an hour before the helicopter would be here for him. He needs to get everything packed again. SOLDIER did offer to give him an assistant to help but he declined. He can pack his own clothes and take care of himself.
Plus it would be one more pair of eyes watching him.
R&D are demanding to see him. Dodging the appointments has gotten harder but not impossible.
If the pills keep working, does he even need the department?
Outside the things he inflicts on himself, he is doing fine.
He checks the phone again.
She's still typing.
She must be giving him a full paragraph on how he should be cleaning more effectively.
The phone clicks against the desk. Papers go back in folders and he bags his field clothes.
A chime takes him back to the screen.
DUH.