Aeris
Greenish light weeps faintly into the dining room. It was probably well lit once, but the many windows have become translucent with age. I peer across at an expensive looking grand piano, likewise cloaked in grimy neglect.
I wonder if it still plays?
The room is large but mostly empty, the layout suggestive.
Have people danced here?
The thought resonates melancholically through the atmosphere of oppressive uncertainty as I wait, full of apprehension, for my father to return. I fidget with the lacy decals of the white tablecloth, overwhelmed with questions. He'd insisted on going to the kitchen to get tea...
My Father.
The reality of it refuses to settle into anything solid—anything I can properly grasp.
He is...
His dishevelled appearance was not what I'd expected. Not that I'd known what I expected. Still, I'd recognised him in some way, like some part viewed in slanted reflection. Yet I don't know him, at all, and he—
"Sorry to keep you waiting."
I stand to help him with the door, but he's already through it, using his elbow to secure the handle with the deft practice of someone who has probably made many tea runs over the years. A smile ghosts my lips, my thoughts scattering.
Placing the hot drink in front of me, he takes the seat opposite.
He stares across, huddling around the warmth of his own cup, seeming somehow as unsure as I feel. He was so talkative not long ago. Perhaps that was because he was saying nothing, only making sure that I felt welcome.
"I thought..." he shakes his head, leaving whatever he'd been thinking unsaid. "You look just like her," he begins instead, "like your mother I mean." His tone is a muddle of sentiments, but his look is full of... warmth...
"I still hear her sometimes..." I confess, falling into honesty, somewhat unnerved by my impulse to trust.
"...What does she say?" he asks, attentive.
"...Many things," I pause, my heart still fluttering uncomfortably. It's hard to communicate a translation.
I used to go to the church in the slums, every day if I could, not only to tend my flowers but to listen for her. The lifestream is noisy and full of people. Sometimes it's tumultuous, choppy, so it's hard to make out any meaning. But sometimes it harmonises, lapping at my consciousness in a smooth tide, her presence rising gently to the surface. I used to think I would stop feeling her as I grew older but—
"She'd say that... someday I'd get out of Midgar... speak with the planet, find my own promised land..."
"Can you... if you don't mind... can you hear the planet now?" he prompts tentatively.
I take a moment to think—to decipher the unconscious language of the planet's being into words once more. "...I think so... It's quiet here... hushed. I think—I think it's wary even... maybe," I shake my head, unsure. The words are never big enough. He nods, a solemn mood descending on him.
"...I don't know where to begin, I didn't know—if I had known you were still out there I—" he removes his glasses to rub aggressively at his eyes. As he replaces them on his nose, his gaze comes to rest on the ribbon—limp in the middle of the table where he's left it. My ribbon. An object so personal... it feels strangely, perplexingly, foreign to me now.
"How did you..." I echo part of my earlier question.
He removes his glasses to rub slowly at his eyes again. "Sephiroth," he exhales the name, softly torn, a hand shading his eyes as he holds his temples.
I feel my brow knit with confusion. I've heard of a General Sephiroth, everyone has, but what does he have to do with my ribbon... ? Unless I've misread things—
"The war hero? I heard he went missing..."
He nods, breathing in slowly. "Three years ago. Since then, he's been with me."
"With you... ?" The information is strange and unexpected. Why? How? I'm not even sure what to ask...
Was that him, at the top of stairs? Was that the 'General Sephiroth'?
I've never recoiled from another presence quite like that, not even from some of the hardened types that I would sometimes meet in the slums. Dangerous as they could be, they all had a story. But that man—It wasn't just his severe, militaristic appearance—
"I could take you to Cosmo Canyon," the professor declares abruptly, ignoring my half asked question.
"Cosmo Canyon?" I return, confused. He nods as if affirming it to himself, holding his chin.
"The scholars there are good people. They will hide you, keep you safe..." he trails off, perhaps he's noticed my expression. I only just gained my freedom not long ago. I need to go wherever chance sees fit to take me, how else will I be able to follow my mother's advice? And this man, father or not, does not know me, does not control me and—
"You can't protect me," I state, my soft tone does not need force to covey the finality of my sentiment. I shake my head. "I appreciate that you want to, but..."
He stares across at me inscrutably. Standing, he paces towards the piano before turning back. "It wouldn't need to be permanent... only for a little while, until things are safer."
What does that mean though?
Some part of me never really wanted to leave the slums. I'd felt as if whatever it was that awaited me out there was too big, too unknown, that I would mess it up, or that, somehow, it would just be... too much. But I'm here now, and the idea of being locked away somewhere again is just—
I stand and shake my head in frustration. "Things may never be safer!" I clasp my hands, looking down at them. I hadn't meant to raise my voice. I really do recognise what he's trying to do... but I... I can't be kept, or pushed away. I just can't. "Who were those men... in the hall?" I ask, meeting his eyes.
He sighs, long and vexed, returning to the table, taking a seat with slow reluctance. He simply stares at me for a long moment, his distant, heavy expression clearly conveying how consumed he is by some tumultuous indecision.
"If I tell you, will you agree to let me take you to Cosmo Canyon?" he bargains, but—
"I can't know," I reflect literally. Though technically true, I feel bad for my slippery phrasing. "Honestly, it's unlikely," I add, not intending to be obstinate.
His expression seems torn, concern foremost, followed by disapproval... maybe a hint of cross amusement. He sighs again—
"...I'll need to start from the beginning. It's somewhat complicated," he says, turning inward, becoming remote. He takes a discrete sip of his tea, and I do the same, mostly to contain my questions. He won't be able to answer if I don't leave him some room to do so.
"Years ago, I was... at the head of Shinra's science division," his eyes meet mine. I nod, letting him know in some small way, that this is not news to me, however incomprehensible it remains—more questions that will need to wait. "While in that role... I discovered, what I thought were the two thousand year old remains of a Cetra."
"A Cetra?" the word... it sounds familiar but...
"It's how the Ancients referred to themselves," he looks at me sadly, "didn't your mother tell you?"
"... Maybe, I was very young..." I turn away from the pity in his eyes.
My internal world has always been my primary teacher. There were times when I'd wondered if I was insane, especially when I was younger, but, I learnt to trust myself. Without that trust, I would be completely adrift. "The Turks only ever referred to me as an Ancient..." Memories surface, sudden and unbidden, of how much I'd denied it—being an Ancient meant being taken away—being an Ancient meant being different—being an Ancient meant being alone.
"We... recovered it for study..." he continues, expression tight and uneasy, "named it... Jenova."
He doesn't notice me, doesn't see my reaction, continuing to stare into his cup pensively. I don't move.
"I was... misled in my actions, so sure of my vision, at the forefront of progress, of discovery... by the time I realised how wrong I was, it was too late..." he shakes his head. What is probably only a few seconds, passes painfully slowly before he speaks again. "Two of my colleagues... volunteered their unborn son for the project," he resumes, strained.
Jenova—an Ancient.
The idea is so completely backwards that it takes me a moment to catch up to what he is actually saying. "The project..." I echo, inhaling reflexively.
"We thought we could use the remains—use them to make a human-Cetra hybrid. That hybrid... was Sephiroth."
The man on the upper landing he—My father—My father is the one who... I have to look away—out the window—
"Years into the project I'd begun to have my suspicions, but it was only when I met your mother that I knew for certain that Jenova was not Cetra at all..." I hear him continue. I listen.
The future has always seemed obscured to me, shrouded by immeasurable possibility. But as I set off towards it, the horizon seemed to promise clarity somewhere at it's end. Instead, I feel as if it has suddenly dropped off into a fog and all I can do is focus on his voice.
I understand. It's natural that he'd want to hide me away... but... even if I were inclined to let him, it would be futile.
I'm part of this. All of it. The Ancients, Mother, My father, Jenova, Sephiroth...
"I... have to ask... How did you escape?" he says, approaching the topic of my captivity again, I've managed to evade a few questions about it already. I can feel that he is worked up with guilt. I need to avoid making him even more protective. I find myself hoping that an answer to this question will satisfy him.
"It was... a combination of things." I pause, remembering Cloud's words from hours past, "Did you... free two SOLDIERS from captivity here?"
He stares at me a moment in surprise. "...I did...? " He nods, restraining his puzzlement with composure.
How strange it all is.
"One of those SOLDIERS was," I choose my term instinctively, "a good friend of mine. He was... killed, trying to rescue me... but, he gave another," I struggle to find any word at all that defines my relationship with Tseng, "accomplice the cover to free me. So, I suppose, in a way... all three of you were a part of my escape."
As he contemplates my answer, staring intently into his, now empty, teacup, I turn towards the window again, gazing out at the ghostly shapes of mountain landscape. It's all so hard to digest. He is responsible for... so many things... yet...
"You can't hold it all." I shake my head. I'm not making sense. Our eyes meet. "...You will never be able to keep me completely safe, even now..." Slowly, he stands, turning away, he takes a few steps towards the door.
"You must know," he replies, quietly, "I can't not..." He looks back at me over his shoulder. "I must," he says, gently.
"I think," I say, matching his tone, "I think I need to stay here with you, help you, if I can." I smile, with a resolute bravery I don't quite feel, at least in whole. He stares back at me for a long moment. His expression may be uncompromising but I've left him little option—at least for now.
"...Wait here. I will go and prepare a bedroom for you," he says, distant. I get the distinct sense that this isn't over.
As the door closes with restrained care behind him I release the breath I hadn't realised I was holding.
I feel as if I'm sinking, into waters dark and inevitable. Perhaps I will drown, I think absurdly, frightened, yet, strangely—the implications—the unwieldy totality of it, distils into a still calm.
Slowly, undoing my hair, I reach out, feeling oddly chilled by the touch of my lost ribbon, returned to me as it was—by the unknown. I reform my plait as best I can without the guidance of a mirror. After a brief hesitation—I reach into my jacket pocket—
I simply gaze at my mother's materia for a long moment, allowing myself to be comforted by it's familiar presence, before tucking it in my hair where I always used to keep it. The ritual somehow serves to affirm my decision. I feel so small, but... I also feel that thread of connection. The faint but immeasurable strength of the planet surrounds me, a spectre of reassurance.
As I re-enter the hall there's no sign of the man who answered the door—Vincent. Recalling what my father had told me about him, I can't help but look around furtively, wondering if I will catch a glimpse of the mansion's resident ghost—but it seems as if he's disappeared somewhere into the many unexplored rooms. I turn towards the stairs—
A soft click from the front door stops me in my tracks, the back of my neck chilling, the sensation sliding swiftly down my spine. I turn.
He's so tall.
Only a few meters away, it's hard not to notice. My heartbeat quickens as I notice spots of what can only be blood, made visible by the light parts of his armour. I can only imagine that there might be more—hidden by the predominant black of his cloak.
He may be... as he is, but you wanted to help, right? He won't hurt you. He is close with Professor Gast... if in an admittedly unorthodox way.
I'm not particularly reassured by the thought. The whole sight is a jarring contradiction—the blood, the elegant cruelty of the sword in his left hand, and his expression—I would describe it as serene if it weren't so penetrating. My hands move reflexively to my ribbon as I follow his eyes to their resting place. I adjust it, instead of shielding it from his gaze as my instinct had commanded, steeling myself with resolve. It's already been silent for a few seconds too many, this is silly, I should introduce myself.
"We haven't met... I'm Aeris," My voice comes out reasonably smooth and friendly, if a little wary. I clasp my hands behind my back to contain any nervous fidgeting. His eyes move distractedly to mine as if mildly surprised that I had spoken.
"I know," he says. There's no anger, no shyness, no angst, no emotion I can read to explain it. It's just a bland statement... How... incredibly... rude.
"You aren't going to introduce yourself?" I utter out of surprise.
"I'm sure that Professor Gast must have told you who I am." It's the truth, but still.
"You're not very polite are you," I return, flatly mirroring his matter of fact honesty. He smiles, no joy reaches his eyes.
"I can be well mannered enough, when I'm in the mood," he says, coldly pleasant. I instinctively believe him—and it's annoying. "What materia is that?"
I take a step back. Half a minute ago, he seemed indifferent, but that question felt like an idle cat's first poke at a ball of yarn. How? Of all the things he could have said—have noticed... "It's nothing. It doesn't do anything..." I hear myself say.
He holds out a gloved hand, palm facing upwards. His arm is relaxed, not extended—about level with my neck. "Let me see, perhaps I can use it."
"No. You won't be able to," I answer bluntly. I'm openly scowling at him now. He chuckles softly, shaking his head and withdrawing his hand. This time some kind of emotion does flicker in his strange eyes.
"I apologise, it's been... an interesting few days, but tell me, how is it that you know that I can't." He believes that I'm certain, he's asking how. His question once again cutting to exactly what it is that I most wish to avoid. A strange feeling settles over me. Is he... manipulating me? Is this a test? A game? Is he genuinely interested? I note that none of those things negate each other.
"Weren't you listening?" I smile at him, feigning misunderstanding "No one can use it."
"Not even you?" he asks, his vague, polite smile only makes the piercing nature of the question more uncomfortable.
"Sephiroth!" A voice calls down from the upper landing. I turn, looking up towards my father—Professor Gast—"Where have you been?" he asks with casual concern, but he's descending the stairs quickly—eager to interrupt.
"Thinking," the former general replies, bland, cryptic. His eyes pass between us, lit with calm intelligence. "It was difficult, in practice," his attention settles on the professor, "—taking control of Jenova. My abilities were limited."
What? What does he mean?
My gaze joins his, fixing onto the professor, communicating my confusion. My father said enough to indicate his companion was concerning but failed to elaborate on specifics. I knew it already—that I was being held at arms length but—
I gently exhale my frustration. Was I not also evasive with details of my captivity? It was bound to be this way. We all have secrets here. My rational falters as my mind circles back—
Sephiroth—Control? Jenova? He is looking at me again.
I realise belatedly, that part of his intent was probably to gauge my reaction.
"I left it up in the mountains, but I intend to move it back to Knowlespole," he resumes, addressing the professor once more. "I see this as an opportunity. Once I succeed, I will leave." Professor Gast looks steadily back at him, expression guarded, a subtle sheen of perspiration visible on his brow and the former General turns toward him more fully, body language conveying a harsh sense of gravity.
"Shinra already know you're here. I won't be able to protect you if you choose to stay after I am gone," he nods, his tone accepting, yet like everything else he's said, cold. "I'll be in the library," He concludes, looking at neither of us, but making his way past the professor and up the stairs.
He looks over his shoulder, as if in afterthought—Yet I've never met a more deliberate person in my life—
"It was nice to meet you, Aeris."