Here we are, one chapter away from the end I've been picturing this scene since literally chapter one, so I hope I did it justice 💐

As always, big thank you to silver_doe287 for editing the chapter 🌻

Enjoy!

One Month Later

Cloud knew that today was the day he was going to die.

The guards had talked about it often enough. Judging by the way they spoke, his death was going to end up as some grand holiday. Day-of they were even going to hold a festival, with fresh food on every corner of their dusty roads and dancing on every shop's flimsy front porch. Apparently, they had even go so far as to build him a stadium of sorts: a raised wooden platform with proper steps leading up to it, a raised dais, and then— for the grand finale— a hemp noose, freshly oiled, which would go around his neck and then–

Well, he figured he didn't need to consider what would happen next, since he'd be dead for it.

The thought made him snort, humorless and dry. Then the barred iron door suddenly rattled, accompanied by the distinct sound of a lock turning. Cloud didn't even bother to check who it was. He already knew it was the guards. He even knew why they were here.

"Time to go," the first sounded, his voice low and gruff.

Cloud closed his eyes. Time to die. He slowly got to his feet, forcing his expression to remain neutral even when he put pressure on his bad leg, the chains around his wrists and ankles clanging with the movement. Rough hands wrapped around his biceps and began pulling him to the door, so quickly that he stumbled to get his feet underneath him. He managed to climb the stairs, and then—

He cringed as they stepped into the sunlight. A month of nothing but darkness, broken only by the occasional slit of light drifting in through cracks in the ceiling, had made his vision accustomed to pitch black. Sunlight burned after the constant darkness, and on instinct he reared back, his heels digging in.

"Stop that," hissed the second guard, jerking Cloud forward. Cloud clenched his jaw to keep from making a sound as he tripped over the first stairs, half-blind.

He heard screaming. Except– no, not screaming, but cheers.

He glanced up, squinting, his eyes burning from the bleached landscape. He could just make out the hazy outline of a crowd surrounding the raised platform. A proper crowd, even. There were hundreds of people— far more than the number who lived in this small town. People must have traveled from all over to see him hanged.

But of course they would, he thought, turning away. He was the last living Simmel. Of course they'd gather to watch him die. Really, he should be grateful that they only wanted him hanged— that they didn't want him tortured beforehand, or worse.

He wondered who he had to thank for that.

By the time he was pushed onto the raised dais, some of his vision had returned. Or at least, his eyes didn't smart quite so painfully when he gazed over the crowd, the largest he had seen since… well, ever, now that he thought about it. He scanned the shouting figures for one face in particular, and he wasn't sure if it was relief or disappointment that twisted in his chest when he didn't see her.

Relief, he told himself. It had to be relief. Why would he want Tifa to see him like this?

The thought made his heart pang.

Sorry, Tifa, he thought as the noose was slipped around his neck. Distantly he heard people dare him to escape, tell him to die faster, scream at him to go straight to hell. He tuned it all out and instead tried to recall her face, her smile, the color of her eyes, the way her nose crinkled when she laughed.

I love you, she had told him in the train cabin, a lifetime and a half ago.

It was only now, a month later, did he realize that he had never said it back.

Cloud's eyes began stinging, but not from the over-bright sunlight. "Sorry," he murmured, his gaze pinned on the uncaring sky. Someone was reading something to him— last rites perhaps, or maybe just a statement of all of his crimes. They were reading for quite a while. "Sorry," he said again, and closed his eyes. Wet heat streaked down his cheek, and he didn't bother to wipe it away. "Sorry."

But then, amid the voice monotoning the list of all of Cloud's regrets, a gunshot suddenly cracked across the crowd. Cloud's eyes flew open as people screamed and threw themselves to the ground, feathered hats flying and frilly, vibrant dresses collapsing into the dust and sand. It was then that Cloud noticed several men on horseback racing for the raised platform. For him .

Fear twisted within him in the same breath as savage satisfaction, but Cloud didn't let the warring emotions reach his expression. This is more like it, he thought as the horseback riders galloped through the crowd, scattering them, shooting at the air, forcing the guards to shoot back. Bullets streaked the air. He could hear them whistle as they cut through the wind, pinging off wooden buildings and ringing off of the hanging iron signs. Yet none of them pierced him, which came as a sharp surprise. If these people were after revenge— if they wanted more to the last Simmel's death than just a simple hanging— then they were doing a piss poor job of it.

Cloud squinted through the rising dust, ignoring when one of the guards near him was shot and fell backward with a cry. Now that he was paying attention… did the people on horseback look familiar, maybe? His frown deepened. Had he robbed them? Killed their families back in the day? Had he looked them in the eyes while he had taken everything from them? Sure, it might have all been on Sephiroth's orders, but Cloud had still been the one to pull the trigger. If they wanted revenge, it was well within their rights to get it.

Except the longer he stared, the more he realized that maybe a few of the rider's weren't horse men at all. That two of them were women, and one woman in particular looked far more familiar than the other.

He watched as that particular rider turned towards him, her eyes glinting over the gingham handkerchief covering her nose and mouth, and Cloud suddenly felt like he couldn't breathe.

"Impossible," he breathed, yet no matter how long he stared, the mirage didn't fade: Tifa was riding on the back of Rain– of course it was Rain, how had he not noticed sooner?- and was firing shots at the guards like she had been born to do it.

It was then he realized that none of the shots were lethal; that while the guard that had been shot behind him had gone down, he was currently lying behind the raised platform with his hands clutching his thigh and his face red and contorted as he cursed. In fact, none of the bullets shot by any of the crew were lethal.

When Cloud turned to stare at the others, he quickly realized why: Cid he recognized by his broad shoulders and the way he hissed out a filthy curse when a bullet grazed his arm, and Vincent was easy to spot by his red parka— the same parka he had been wearing years ago when Cloud had stumbled onto his doorstep.

The memory dug into him like a particularly bad splinter, like a glass shard into the bare sole of his heel. These past few years— hell, nearly a decade now— he hadn't given Vincent much thought, and any thoughts he did have were regarding how relieved Vincent must be to finally be rid of him and his mess. Cloud hadn't exactly been the best houseguest back then, yet now as he watched Vincent turn to Tifa and shout a warning, he couldn't help but wonder if maybe Vincent didn't despise him as much as he had thought. The notion warmed him. It made him wonder what else he had misjudged all of these years.

He was so engrossed in his thoughts that he nearly missed it when Tifa rode up to the platform and, in a single smooth motion, leapt off of Rain's back and effortlessly landed near him. He didn't even have time to shout a warning when one of the guards surged towards her, gun raised in preparation to fire, yet she simply stepped aside. As his momentum forced him to stumble past her, she shot him in the back of the leg. Cloud's mouth dropped open in shock as the guard went down hard, screaming.

But Tifa didn't linger to watch. She instead shoved her pistol into its holster and ran towards him. Though her eyes were shadowed by the wide rim of her hat, he could see the exhaustion written into them, the bruises beneath them that spoke of nights without sleep, and yet he could also see their brightness— her excitement, her relief, the hard edge of her determination as she stretched on her tiptoes and slipped the noose off of his neck.

The moment he could no longer feel its weight, he deeply inhaled, almost desperately. Strange, how much better he could breathe without the rope synched around him.

"Ti—" he began, but Tifa only put one finger up to his lips to silence him.

Suddenly a second rider rode up to the platform— Cid, Cloud belatedly realized. "What the hell'r you waitin' for?" he called, his voice shrill and yet deeply, obviously amused. "This ain't the time to canoodle! Go!"

Cloud heard Tifa curse under her breath and then her hand was latched around his wrist, her grip startlingly tight. Without a word she dragged him to where Rain— Rain! — was waiting behind the platform, toeing at the ground in obvious impatience.

"Hurry," she hissed, her voice tight. "Hurry, hurry, get on—"

A bullet hissed overhead, a sudden crack that had him pulling Tifa down low on instinct, his arm braced over her head just in case. They stumbled forward, shots being exchanged behind them, someone shrieking that the Simmel was escaping, a horse screaming as it reared back, knocking the rider off. Dust pillowed the air but Cloud didn't turn to see who it was, didn't dare to even pause his run as he threw a leg over Rain's saddle.

"C'mon," he said, already twisting towards Tifa with his hands extended— but then he paused, his face growing hot. What was he doing? What was he thinking? She wouldn't want his touch, not after everything he had done. The blood would never wash off and he couldn't bear the thought of dragging her down with him; which, he belatedly realized, he was doing right now. If Tifa helped him escape, then she'd be a fugitive. Tifa. A fugitive, because of him.

If he loved her, he'd slide off the side of the saddle and, after Tifa got on, lightly slap Rain's hindquarters to get her tearing for the distance. If he loved her, he'd let her go.

But then Tifa took his hands— he had been in the process of lowering them, but not quickly enough— and swung over to sit practically on his lap, her thighs pressing against his waist.

"Tifa," he choked out, but then Tifa pressed her lips against the shell of his ear and, in a faint puff of air, whispered:

"Ride, cowboy."

Cloud's hesitation melted away, like frost off of a sunny window. He snapped Rain's reins without thinking about it and Rain, with a joyful neigh, began galloping for the horizon. Tifa's arms wrapped around his shoulders, holding him close. She buried her head in the crook of his neck.

"Welcome home," she murmured, her voice barely audible above the roaring wind.

Cloud swallowed thickly. "I'm home," he murmured, and the moment the words passed his lips, he knew them to be true. Home wasn't the small house in the field of wheat. Home wasn't nestled in the mountains, in his familiar valley, at the end of a long dirt road that wove through gnarled trees. Home wasn't even a place. Home was here, with Tifa in his arms, beneath the sprawling, silver sky.

Literally from chapter one, I imagined the scene of Tifa rescuing Cloud- covering her face with a bandana, cutting him down from the gallows, riding off into the sunset, etc- so I hope you enjoyed it!

We have one last chapter to the end (which is basically just smut with feelings, spoiler alert lol, but if you'd like updates or previews on any of my other writing projects, you can find them on my twitter and, more recently, my tumblr

Until next time, wishing you all nothing but the best 🌻