AN: Quick house keeping note: While writing this chapter I decided to change the format of remembered/imagined speech from "italics" to —"italics within em dashes."— It just felt clearer. I've therefore gone back and edited accordingly.

Aeris

"Aeris?"

My gaze snaps back into focus, a disoriented flush spreading over my cheeks as Professor Gast looks across at me in puzzlement.

I've no idea what he's been saying for the past minute.

"Sorry I—"

"Not to worry, I know this can all get a little dry at times." He turns back to his work. "Sometimes I think I just need someone to talk at," he chuckles. I smile vaguely at him.

8:45 am.

The antiquated desk clock ticks up at us, nested amongst a cluster of open books, its light clicks echoing intrusively. I shift in discomfort, acutely aware of the closely surrounding library shelves, their dark content looming in uniformity... Save for that one, thin, sweeping, scar...

I'd not thought too much of the professor's change of subject when I'd mentioned it several days past—what with so much to distract us. It's an old building after all, an old building with an unfortunate track record... But, observing it again in the peculiar light of this morning... The cut is so very, perfectly, clean... Signature-like.

It only magnifies my foreboding to imagine such easy violence existing in someone so... cold. I give my head a sharp little shake of frustration. You've barely slept. You're imagining things.

My attention refocuses on the schematics claiming the dominant place among Professor Gast's busy-making clutter. How can he do it? I think, exasperated.

"The thing is—choosing the correct terrain, both agriculturally and tactically... Though I suppose ideally I should be aiming to design for the terrain not seek terrain for the—"

"Have you given any thought," I interrupt, unable to restrain myself any longer, "to what can be done," the professor looks up at me unassumingly, "about Jenova." I finish, my voice hardened.

Slowly, he sits back in his chair regarding me with paused expression. At length, he shakes his head. "That's not for you to—" I return the gesture with more vigour than intended.

"To what?" I demand.

"To worry about."

"Do you?"

"Do I?"

"Worry about it?"

My question comes out slightly accusatory, which I also hadn't intended. I hadn't intended any of that. I know how stressed he is, but—

"Of course," he states, simply, wearily. He stands, looking away.

"Then, surely... you have some idea..." my voice has quieted.

He approaches, hesitating a moment, considering me with his warm heavy eyes before reaching over slowly, placing a hand on my shoulder. "Aeris..." he begins. He's going to push me away again.

"When you found it—you said it was frozen." I rush to pre-empt him.

He nods, eyes drifting to the side. "The Cetra had sealed it away... long before." His sigh has the ragged edge of self reproach.

The Cetra... That's me, now.

"Look, Aeris. This is my mistake to right. Not yours. Not you—"

"Do you know how they did it?"

He looks at me again, brow furrowing, "No," he begins somewhat sharply. "But I know that it took many of their lives."

"There must be a way..."

He nods, pensive. "The planet had another plan, before the Cetra stepped in. It created a weapon of its own. It's still out there, somewhere, sleeping, deep beneath the earth, perhaps."

"A weapon of the planet..." I repeat, trying to imagine such a thing.

—"I am a weapon."—

My mind conjures the authoritative timbre from memory with an ease that unnerves me.

"...I can't imagine it will come to that," I hear the professor continue. "Jenova is weakened, not really alive as such. What's needed... is a way to contain it again. Keep it from those who may use it... for ill."

"What does he want with it...?" He didn't say—wouldn't say.

Silence extends between us as I realise that I've muttered my question aloud. I swallow. There's no need to clarify.

"Aeris," the professor begins meaningfully, "that's not for you to worry about," he repeats.

But it is... I can't even tell him why.

"I wish—" I wish it wasn't. Even notwithstanding the furtive arrangement I'd entered into regarding what Hojo did, it's inevitable. I'm the last.

"...Sephiroth is," Gast sighs, "unruly." Unruly... "But I know him. I'm doing all I can. Please—let me..."

I wonder, not for the first time, about their bond. It feels a heavy thing. Respect. Trust. Duty. Guilt. Betrayal... It surrounds me. I'm caught in the middle of it, treading cement.

What are you doing!? What is he doing!? What happens when he finally succeeds in moving Jenova? Will we part ways? Us to Cosmo Canyon—him to Knowlespole? What will that solve.

I bite my lip.

—"Kind."—

The word is lead. Impenetrable as the answer I'd received. My father won't help me. His kindness won't let him help me.

I am alone.

"I'm going to get some fresh air."

He nods.

"Stay inside the gates," he prompts, smiling his strained smile for me.

I step outside into the crisp, thin atmosphere, taking a few steps beyond the threshold, attempting to clear my lungs of the place. My gaze drifts uneasily towards the distant iron of the Mansion gates. Would I have met him there...?

I shudder in the lingering morning chill.

I fled.

Yesterday's pretence for leaving had been a flimsy thing. What he wants—who he is—I thought I'd be able to coax it from him. Instead I'd found myself being coaxed in return—Manipulated.

Was I?

All I know is that I'd felt it—felt being cornered—herded. Everything he did—calm, calculated, and yet, simultaneously—somehow... sincere?

—"We are not entirely dissimilar."—

I bury my head in my hands. I'd said so much more than I'd intended.

Exhaling, I dust at my dress, moving a stray hair from my face as I begin a slow walk towards the gates. The neglected sadness of the grounds tug at me as I pass and I wonder distractedly if I should spend some time out here tending them.

Arriving at my destination I peer out form between the bars at the town. I can't see the mountain pass from this angle so the idea of it is left to memory and imagination. I turn, leaning my back against the gate, apprehension rising. A Mako fountain.

—"A miracle of nature." —

I can feel the chaotic undercurrent of the idea as my eyes follow the path I've just taken back to the mansion. The only path.

I want to go.

The truth of the admission disturbs me. I can't...

There's something suffocating about him. Like smoke you don't notice because you've been mesmerised by the fire.

I jerk my head to the side in frustration.

I've been unnerved by him from the moment we met. Why? Aside from the obvious? But that's not his fault... He is responsible for his actions though—for his brutality at Shinra, for his unsettling indifference about it all... and... every day, he somehow takes control of it... Such a thing should be impossible. Jenova takes control.

My fingers ghost my arm, finding the spot and holding tight.

He is beyond my understanding.

And yet, still, despite that...

—"We are not entirely dissimilar."—

He didn't know. No one told him. He just knew that he was different. I know it.

I try to imagine what it must have been like, not only to have to learn to understand what I was by myself, but to have been so used, so lied to... I don't have to imagine, in part. But then... to also discover that I was shaped by such a monster—that I was a monster.

—"I thought I was Cetra once."—

It's an odd feeling, uncomfortable, to be a captive of my own understanding... and, to know that it's returned.

—"I was asking about your experience, not Hojo's impoverished ravings."—

My experience.

Of course he doesn't trust. Of course he wants to understand his abilities on his own terms.

It's all we have.

I look back through the bars of the gate, reaching to touch the cool metal.

I feel sick.

I wonder if Cloud left for Midgar in the end? I'd been unable to visit him or his mother since I'd said my good-byes—unable to put either at risk while knowing of my surveillance. I hadn't known him that well, and yet, the idea of him is... cosy? Perhaps his superficial similarity to Zack had granted him the charm of familiarity? He was troubled, yes, but still heartfelt—if a little on the solemn side. Definitely someone who could benefit from a little coaxing—Manipulation—No, why would I think—it's not like—

—"We are not entirely dissimilar."—

I shiver again, deciding to make my way back in order to fight off the cold.

It's approaching amidday as I once again scrape my boots of earth, making another journey to and from the conservatory holding another plant I've newly potted, not one I recognise—It's alien, star like, its flowers covered in a delicate white fur as if to protect it from the cold as it grew amongst some rocks around the side of the mansion. I resolve to scour the various shelves for any books on the subject of native foliage.

I'm nearly at the stairs when the heavy click of the doors reaches my ears. Why does it feel as if I can't move?

Move.

I turn, face neutral.

"You... "

It takes me a moment to remember his name, so much has he lived up to my first impression of him.

A ghost.

"Ancient..." I reflexively bristle at the moniker despite his courteous tone. "Aeris," he continues, as if recalling my name before stepping into the hall properly.

I produce a tiny nod of surprise. "Vincent..." I return.

He stares blankly across at me.

Well now! I set my little plant down on the stairs. Dusting my hands before turning to clasp them behind my back.

"He waited," he begins reflectively.

What?

Vincent takes a few steps into the hall before continuing. "Not for long, but he doesn't usually wait."

"What do you mean?" I don't want to know.

"Sephiroth."

I flinch.

"I saw you," he says. "...at the gate."

My hands clench behind me but I merely tilt my head. "and... ?" I prompt, his manner is so peculiar, I'm not sure what to make of it. I would probably find it interesting if it weren't for what he actually seems to be saying.

"He was waiting for you," he tilts his head back at me, almost in question.

"I didn't see you," I return instead.

"I was on the roof."

"Is that where you've been." My eyebrows raise as I straddle amusement and indignation.

"I can't sleep."

He says it so flatly I Wonder if he means it literally. He is... changed.

"He was waiting for you," he repeats to himself, as if certain now. "Interesting... Gast cannot approve," he adds shaking his head thoughtfully. I feel indignation winning out. What business is it of his? I can't believe I've not seen a hint of him for days and he suddenly appears, now, to quiz me so obliquely about—

"He won't talk to me," he says.

I blink at him in confusion.

"Why is that?" I ask, thrown off.

Silence extends for what feels like a full minute. I find myself reminded of our absent subject matter by just how comfortable he seems within it. "My association... with his mother..."

His mother? The idea of Sephiroth having a mother is momentarily odd, but I quickly remember what Professor Gast had told me. She was a colleague of his? What was her name? "Lucrecia." For some reason, the name makes my spine tingle. Sephiroth's mother... who killed herself...

Vincent nods.

"You were close..." I recollect, very close. "He's... angry?" it's only half a question.

Slowly, Vincent nods again.

"Oh," I exhale. I can easily imagine his icy resentment. He is so very... absolute. "What was she like?" I ask, tentative curiosity beginning to well in me. It only continues to grow as I wait out another silence.

"Beautiful," he states. "troubled," he adds.

"Are they... alike?" I ask, surprised by my eagerness as I hold it in check. There's something so unearthly about him that the idea is somehow compelling.

Vincent looks at me strangely before turning his head with a nod.

"...I see her in him," he replies murkily.

"She was a scientist?" I prompt.

"She would have said... a scientist before anything else..."

I resolve to use the general lopsided frankness of tone to get what I can out of him.

"Is that why... ?" why she chose to use her own child. My words are soft, without bite. I wonder if I should elaborate, but his look assures me that it's unnecessary.

"...Partly. She thought the work was valuable, she thought they were creating an Ancient... but... mostly it was her guilt. Her guilt made her vulnerable... I made her vulnerable..." He shakes his head. "I owe it to her..." He's lost me, drifting into some internal dilemma.

What an odd conversation. I can't seem to grasp its rhythm. Maybe because I'm barely a part of it... I can feel my amicability returning simply through intrigue at his strangeness, even his invasiveness has a disarming neutrality. After so long with just—well—

Vincent's company is refreshing in an absurd sort of way.

After a pause he looks directly at me.

"I have a question for him."

"A question," I echo, along for the ride.

"It is important... I've thought about it." Too much, I'm sure. "He won't talk to me," he repeats. "It's unclear... if there's time... I owe it to her."

He pauses. I wait.

"Perhaps," he begins thoughtfully, "you can help... Tell him... I have a question."

"I see." I say cheerfully. I don't see. "Care to share your question?"

"I cannot."

I nod, playful, right, right.

"Just so you know. You're mistaken if you think Sephiroth will listen to me." Saying his name still feels too familiar.

He doesn't respond immediately, instead tilting his head slightly as he considers me carefully.

"Perhaps," he says, unfazed.

"Perhaps you should just tell me," I return with a quick smile, refusing to be deflated.

"It's... my responsibility. I've no wish to put you at any more risk."

I laugh lightly and my smile softens. More kindness, lucky me. The thought is more cathartic than bitter. "Do I get a say in that?" I ask.

He looks away, unresponsive. "Tell him." he echoes, turning.

"What happened to his father?" I change subject in blunt rejoinder, suddenly afraid he might leave.

Vincent's glances back, his look darkened.

The question is not the best judged. I can't deny that I'm curious though, and It's not like his request was exactly appropriate. Perhaps we can exchange improprieties.

"Professor Gast won't talk to me about it," I mirror back at him with another pert smile.

He considers me again.

"Hm, probably for the best..."

Really?

I can't believe it.

What am I—some doll—some messenger—

I'm facing the doors, so when one of them opens again I see its smooth swing before I hear the loud click.

What time is it? I think. Completely derailed. It all happens so quickly.

Sephiroth looms into the hall, pinning me momentarily with his opaque stare before flicking his eyes over to Vincent. The ice they take on somehow makes the way he'd looked at me seem positively warm by comparison. Vincent has turned again, so I don't see his face when he wordlessly moves to exit, managing to avoid the other man by a generous few feet. Sephiroth's gaze doesn't follow as the door clicks a second time. I watch him as he strides effortlessly up the stairs, without once glancing at me again, disappearing in the direction of the library.

I exhale shakily.

Vincent!

I rush to the doors, finding them heavy as I remember, which confuses my intuition after watching them swing so easily.

The patio is empty and I jog down the path to gaze up at the roof.

He's gone.

How in the world does he get up there? I wonder, looking at the mansion sides, steep and smooth, as I move around it.

I was going to give him a piece of my mind too...

Come back, I think sadly.

It's late afternoon, the sky a sleepy orange as it filters in through the pale conservatory windows. I pause on the landing, looking down at the plant in my hands—this one is a chaparral, with miserly little flowers, it has a wild kind of spirit...

I look back up.

Why should I be surprised? It was inevitable. Seeing him again. Sooner or later. It was so much easier to avoid him when his schedule was predictable. But why is he here? In my sequestered refuge. I might feel mistrustful, affronted even, if he didn't look—He just stands there! staring up, as if into space, and he looks...

He looks serene—warmed by the sunset, eyelids shading the sharp colour of his irises.

I breath deeply to negate the reluctant tightness of my chest. He's got the senses of a cat, it's not like he doesn't already know I'm here anyway. Sephiroth takes the sound as acknowledgement, addressing me without turning.

"This room is distracting."

The tenor of his voice has a strange impact having been stalked by the memory of it for most of the day. His eyes flicker over at me, piercing out through his otherwise relaxed expression. "You've changed it," he tells me. By his inflection I know he means more than just the plants.

"It's the new life," I return, refusing to feel silly under his mechanical scrutiny. "Life always changes things."

"How trite," He replies, but he looks at me softly. To my horror, my heart begins to race.

"You returned early again," I accuse, voice level.

"Hm." He resumes his gaze into nothing.

You chased Vincent away, I think, annoyed. I bite my tongue, my intuition knows not to go there.

I close my eyes, attempting to ground myself. He returned early again, early from—"Is something wrong?" I ask, pleased to hear the evenness of my voice despite the reckless invitation implicit in the question.

He looks at me again. I couldn't call it sharply, but his eyes are properly open, gone is their indulgent glaze. I try not to feel sick as I stare back into them.

"Wrong," he repeats. It isn't a question. It's a prompt.

"Wrong with..." I can't quite bring myself to say it to him, to make it so real. "Jenova," I tear the word from myself, intuiting it as important. It's where he is.

He produces a tiny sigh, almost a scoff really, "There is nothing wrong with Jenova," he states.

You think whatever it is your problem then?

I look down at the potted chaparral. "Jenova is wrong," I murmur sadly, compelled, despite understanding what he'd meant.

"I scare you." His statement is icy, though I discern the barest hint of wry humour in it. I don't look up. Yes. But not like that—like it. You scare me in ways I don't understand.

—Sometimes, the only way out is through.—

I step forward, detaching myself from my traitorous heart, allowing its flighty rhythm to beat through me. I set the chaparral on the nearest empty shelf space, dusting my hands carefully. Slowly, I turn, looking up.

"Jenova is the planet's enemy," I explain, his stare cutting down through me.

"I am not."

"No..." I murmur. Not yet.

—"I am a weapon."—

Whose weapon? Sephiroth? Do you know? Could you—would you, be a weapon for—

I look away, feeling foolish, my eyes finding the plant from earlier in the day sitting on the shelf next to my chaparral—the one with the alien flowers that had so arrested me. Edelweiss.

I lift it on impulse, turning to offer it up.

He blinks down at me. I smile guilessly. "For your room."

It's his.

It wasn't my intention to confuse him, but the bemused innocence of his look, it's... unexpected—beguiling.

"I'm not a gardener," he states flatly.

"Put it in a window," I shrug—feeling muddled and warm.

He steps towards me, taking the flowering plant with his long, gloved fingers, eyes probing me with their unblushing curiosity.

"It might die," he informs me with blunt practicality.

"It doesn't need watering often. It's a very independent plant," I tell him.

At length, he actually looks at it and the sight leaves me feeling disjointedly pleased, and so very, very stupid for it. I reach for the watering can—to water the chaparral, finding it empty. I start to move, relieved for a reason to escape with my thoughts.

—Sometimes, the only way out is through.—

I pause as I exit. "You're going again tomorrow." I say, half asking.

"Yes," He replies absently.

"Before seven..." I continue, unable to quite state my intent—to commit to it. I probably don't need to say any more anyway. His eyes return to mine. It's hard to imagine... growing accustomed to them.

I smile in fleeting surrender, turning away.

Tomorrow then.

Let it grow.