019
Title: Midnight Herald
Fandom: Final Fantasy VII
Rating: PG
Word count: 2,083
Pairing: Aerith/Sephiroth
Summary: Nine years after they say goodbye, Sephiroth pays a visit, more out of want than duty.
She heard the knocking at the front door from her kitchen and paused for a moment. First of all she considered ignoring the blunt wrapping, but after a moment's delay and a faltered breath she pulled herself away from the stove, as she always did, and began to unlatch the door.
It creaked open with the damp wind, and in the permanent half-night Midgar was used to he was there. There was no time for hesitation; Aerith stood back, opening the door wide with no words. A heavy black trench coat covered him, the hood pulled over his head. Shinra logos had been torn off, fresh thread still decorating the tears.
There was not much light-only the fire from her stove and a dim lamp on the table-but she saw his face well enough. Those sharp green eyes, alive with something not quite natural, and strands of silver hair matted against his face.
He stepped in, making what could have been a nod as he did so, and, back to her, unbuttoned the coat. There was no need for disguise in such a warm, inviting home.
Aerith paused, staring at him, not quite sure what to do. She could walk up to him, hold him, but the gesture seemed far too personal, and the thought of her cheek resting against his back made her abandon the idea altogether. Speech failed in her throat.
He knew she had taken a step closer without seeing or hearing and sign, and his body tensed a little. Breathing deeply she lifted arms as if she couldn't quite reach him no matter how far she stretched, and moved so close she could smell the thick, mako-poisoned rain on him. She didn't break the taboo of contact.
The wind gasped and the door slammed behind them, and with a smile and a slight chuckle Aerith was pulled back into reality. With one of her wandering hands she pulled out a chair, and the unintentional scraping forced him to turn around.
“It's been a long time,” Aerith said, arms folded and matter-of-factly.
“Nine years,” Sephiroth agreed with her, with another not-quite nod telling her he had spent every day counting them.
It would make sense to ask him why he was there; why he was out so late; how he had been; and just what he wanted, but Sephiroth knew there was nothing straight forward about the young girl who would smile without reason.
Well, not so young anymore, he told himself, gracefully taking a seat but not removing his gaze. She stared back softly with those green eyes that hid the torn roots beneath the surface; eyes like his.
When he had carried her from the Shinra building, she was a child so scared of a sky that she had never seen before, and of the crisp, polluted air of the real world that she had buried her face into his neck and begged him to take her back.
Still, he marched on, her mother at one side, and the Masamune by the other.
He looked at her then the same way he did now: with a feeling of curious unease, and a subtle aching that could only cause sadness. Her skin had been cracked then-cuts, bruises and little pin-pricks from needles-and probably still was now; but she had faded into the every day life of Midgar, and now her skin was simply dulled.
Her eyes though-they still showed no fear. As soft as the snow that she couldn't remember feeling, and as violent as the Lifestream.
He had only a few memories of her, and wasn't in the business of making any more. It was enough to remember the way she pressed against a glass prison (part-time home) with such stillness and sadness to wave at him-which had made him want to smile, despite the horrors they went through-and the way those same hands shook so badly as they wrapped around his neck.
“How have you been?” he asked, and although it was simple, the question took a deeper meaning. He had always wondered how the human mind would cope with seven years of isolation and imprisonment, and then the cruelty of society.
“Well,” she said, smiling brightly before turning and placing the kettle on the red-hot stove. “I grow flowers in the Church, and sell them to strangers-it's not much, but it's enough.”
The girl had a talent for twisting horrors into simplicity; it was all she would say of the past nine years. She knew she didn't need to mention the Turks to him of all people.
“And yourself, general?” she asked, a brilliant grin crossing her face as she turned to for a split second, before giving her attention back to the now-hissing kettle.
Sephiroth let out a flat, soundless laugh. “So you watch the news then, miss.”
“Aerith. And I ask you to find me one person in this city that doesn't know of you.”
“Aerith. Then it can't be helped.”
“Nope! And that's why you were wearing that coat, correct?”
Moving back to the table she slipped a mug of coffee in between his unsteady fingers. He wrapped them around it, tightly, but they remained cold from the slums. Amazing that Aerith could survive every day here with such calm demeanor.
“I didn't think you'd recognise me as quickly as you did,” he murmured between grateful sips. “We were young then.”
Sephiroth had been sixteen then, and Aerith was sixteen now. He smiled into his reflection, wondering how all those nights of empty wondering had passed so quickly. And from within his contemplation, he felt warm hands wrap around his.
“Do you remember what you said to me?” Aerith asked, not entirely satisfied when Sephiroth's eyes did not rise to meet hers.
“I said that we couldn't see each other again. It wasn't safe.” Sephiroth nodded at the sound of his own words. It had been for the best. For Aerith, for Ifalna. For his own guilt.
“And here we are.”
“I was curious-hurt by Hojo's lies. I needed to make sure for myself.”
Aerith shifted at the name, a hint of that fear that she had killed off so long again making her skin tingle.
“Hojo?” she asked finally, trying to hold dignity in her voice as she whispered the name.
Sephiroth laughed, bitterly.
“He found out. Of course he did-it was foolish of me to believe that he wouldn't. He told me you were dead, both of you, laughing all the while. But then I progressed higher in SOLDIER, and met some of the Turks. Apparently you had been a priority of theirs for some years,” he explained, speech fragmented. And it took me this long to come down, he didn't add.
Aerith nodded, silently wondering what had became of the silver-haired boy who never smiled once Hojo approached him.
“I suppose it's alright, though. You're doing... well.” And well didn't mean much in the slums.
“My mother died. At the station, not an hour after we left you. The lady who owns this house adopted me.”
Aerith spoke so bluntly that Sephiroth didn't have time to feel sad for her. No sympathetic apology left his lips. He grunted and briskly brought the coffee to his lips, and Aerith stood there, watching and waiting. Sephiroth didn't know exactly what for, but he was certain he couldn't give it to her anyway. Perhaps she thought everything would be alright once the hero from the other side of the glass came back to her.
It hadn't been a particularly good idea to let two women into the slums on their own-especially those who had been locked away from the real world so long. Anyone could have taken Aerith from the station steps. Anyone.
Rocking back on his chair Sephiroth stared blankly through the coffee's steam at it spiraled towards the low ceiling. Aerith had backed away, awkwardly, and closing his eyes he could hear just how heavily she was breathing. Had she been like this the whole time? He listened, and between the aroma of damp flowers and soft fires he felt relaxed.
And when he opened his eyes the coffee had turned cold and Aerith was leaning against his back.
“I mourned for you both, you know,” Sephiroth said quite suddenly, and Aerith jumped almost as if she hadn't been aware that she was resting against him. “Well, as best as I knew how to; I'm sure it was quite pathetic. You especially, though I suppose it rightly should have been the other way around.”
“You couldn't hear me,” Aerith explained, a little confused. “So you should have known.”
“Hear you?” Sephiroth asked, more confused than the flower girl. “Of course not; I was all the way up on the Plate.”
Sephiroth shook his head as he rose to his feet and Aerith followed. He'd never understand her, not truly; they'd been apart far too long for that; never really been together in the first place.
“Never mind,” Aerith whispered as she stood before him, taking his hands in her own once more.
He straightened uncomfortably, and Aerith leaned into him, wrapping her arms around him as she pressed her face onto the rain splattered coat. She was small, not quite reaching his shoulder and he rested a firm hand on her head; if he put his arms around her he might be tempted to fulfill his duty.
“I don't think-” he began, and Aerith meticulously cut him off.
“Aren't you going to take me back to the Shinra? That's why you're here, isn't it?” she asked, because it was easier to embrace a murderer than fight one.
“Officially,” he replied, reluctantly.
Aerith nodded against him and looked up. Sephiroth didn't blink, even when face with eyes that were showing the weakness her voice refused to.
“They shouldn't send a SOLDIER to do a Turk's work, Aerith,” and for a moment he let his gaze wander onto the cheerful wallpaper, pealing ever so slightly at the corners. “More than anything, I wanted to see all of this. I wondered how you'd turn out, and after everything, I suppose you at least deserve this freedom of yours.”
Sephiroth was smiling in a way his voice was not, and Aerith's eyes had softened once more. Her arms fell to her side-had she really only been holding onto him so he could take her away?-and she let the distance between them linger.
He answered her question before she asked it. “But, keep this in mind, I won't help you escape for a third time.”
“There won't be a third time,” Aerith said firmly. After so long, after so much, Sephiroth finally showed his face and all he did was stay for coffee. “It's not safe.”
Sephiroth lost his smile as she spoke and pulled her towards him, leaning down and whispering in her ear so he didn't have to face her.
“There may well be a third time. And if there is a third time, I won't help you escape; if I fail today, they'll send more and more after you. You won't be able to escape, with or without my help. If there is a third time, I will have to kill you. You're not going back there.”
What a twisted idea of protection the general had. Aerith sighed as he spoke, because his words were so soft that he may as well have been speaking of love. He almost sounded noble. Silver hair was twisted uncomfortably across her face, and she played with it between her fingers. Why hadn't Sephiroth escaped with them all those years ago? She'd seen it. He was just as miserable as she was, but deep down she knew the truth, even if he didn't; there was something in his blood that screamed out against her.
Looking up she brushed her lips against his, quickly and lightly; more of an excuse for contact that a real kiss.
“Do you promise?” Her lips burnt as she spoke.
He pulled his hood back over his face, and then his expression was gone completely; when he answered, she couldn't pick out the emotion behind his voice without green eyes as a guide. Out of the door, in the rain, and stolen by the wind he replied:
“I promise.”
It was almost like fate.
Fandom: Final Fantasy VII
Rating: PG
Word count: 2,083
Pairing: Aerith/Sephiroth
Summary: Nine years after they say goodbye, Sephiroth pays a visit, more out of want than duty.
She heard the knocking at the front door from her kitchen and paused for a moment. First of all she considered ignoring the blunt wrapping, but after a moment's delay and a faltered breath she pulled herself away from the stove, as she always did, and began to unlatch the door.
It creaked open with the damp wind, and in the permanent half-night Midgar was used to he was there. There was no time for hesitation; Aerith stood back, opening the door wide with no words. A heavy black trench coat covered him, the hood pulled over his head. Shinra logos had been torn off, fresh thread still decorating the tears.
There was not much light-only the fire from her stove and a dim lamp on the table-but she saw his face well enough. Those sharp green eyes, alive with something not quite natural, and strands of silver hair matted against his face.
He stepped in, making what could have been a nod as he did so, and, back to her, unbuttoned the coat. There was no need for disguise in such a warm, inviting home.
Aerith paused, staring at him, not quite sure what to do. She could walk up to him, hold him, but the gesture seemed far too personal, and the thought of her cheek resting against his back made her abandon the idea altogether. Speech failed in her throat.
He knew she had taken a step closer without seeing or hearing and sign, and his body tensed a little. Breathing deeply she lifted arms as if she couldn't quite reach him no matter how far she stretched, and moved so close she could smell the thick, mako-poisoned rain on him. She didn't break the taboo of contact.
The wind gasped and the door slammed behind them, and with a smile and a slight chuckle Aerith was pulled back into reality. With one of her wandering hands she pulled out a chair, and the unintentional scraping forced him to turn around.
“It's been a long time,” Aerith said, arms folded and matter-of-factly.
“Nine years,” Sephiroth agreed with her, with another not-quite nod telling her he had spent every day counting them.
It would make sense to ask him why he was there; why he was out so late; how he had been; and just what he wanted, but Sephiroth knew there was nothing straight forward about the young girl who would smile without reason.
Well, not so young anymore, he told himself, gracefully taking a seat but not removing his gaze. She stared back softly with those green eyes that hid the torn roots beneath the surface; eyes like his.
When he had carried her from the Shinra building, she was a child so scared of a sky that she had never seen before, and of the crisp, polluted air of the real world that she had buried her face into his neck and begged him to take her back.
Still, he marched on, her mother at one side, and the Masamune by the other.
He looked at her then the same way he did now: with a feeling of curious unease, and a subtle aching that could only cause sadness. Her skin had been cracked then-cuts, bruises and little pin-pricks from needles-and probably still was now; but she had faded into the every day life of Midgar, and now her skin was simply dulled.
Her eyes though-they still showed no fear. As soft as the snow that she couldn't remember feeling, and as violent as the Lifestream.
He had only a few memories of her, and wasn't in the business of making any more. It was enough to remember the way she pressed against a glass prison (part-time home) with such stillness and sadness to wave at him-which had made him want to smile, despite the horrors they went through-and the way those same hands shook so badly as they wrapped around his neck.
“How have you been?” he asked, and although it was simple, the question took a deeper meaning. He had always wondered how the human mind would cope with seven years of isolation and imprisonment, and then the cruelty of society.
“Well,” she said, smiling brightly before turning and placing the kettle on the red-hot stove. “I grow flowers in the Church, and sell them to strangers-it's not much, but it's enough.”
The girl had a talent for twisting horrors into simplicity; it was all she would say of the past nine years. She knew she didn't need to mention the Turks to him of all people.
“And yourself, general?” she asked, a brilliant grin crossing her face as she turned to for a split second, before giving her attention back to the now-hissing kettle.
Sephiroth let out a flat, soundless laugh. “So you watch the news then, miss.”
“Aerith. And I ask you to find me one person in this city that doesn't know of you.”
“Aerith. Then it can't be helped.”
“Nope! And that's why you were wearing that coat, correct?”
Moving back to the table she slipped a mug of coffee in between his unsteady fingers. He wrapped them around it, tightly, but they remained cold from the slums. Amazing that Aerith could survive every day here with such calm demeanor.
“I didn't think you'd recognise me as quickly as you did,” he murmured between grateful sips. “We were young then.”
Sephiroth had been sixteen then, and Aerith was sixteen now. He smiled into his reflection, wondering how all those nights of empty wondering had passed so quickly. And from within his contemplation, he felt warm hands wrap around his.
“Do you remember what you said to me?” Aerith asked, not entirely satisfied when Sephiroth's eyes did not rise to meet hers.
“I said that we couldn't see each other again. It wasn't safe.” Sephiroth nodded at the sound of his own words. It had been for the best. For Aerith, for Ifalna. For his own guilt.
“And here we are.”
“I was curious-hurt by Hojo's lies. I needed to make sure for myself.”
Aerith shifted at the name, a hint of that fear that she had killed off so long again making her skin tingle.
“Hojo?” she asked finally, trying to hold dignity in her voice as she whispered the name.
Sephiroth laughed, bitterly.
“He found out. Of course he did-it was foolish of me to believe that he wouldn't. He told me you were dead, both of you, laughing all the while. But then I progressed higher in SOLDIER, and met some of the Turks. Apparently you had been a priority of theirs for some years,” he explained, speech fragmented. And it took me this long to come down, he didn't add.
Aerith nodded, silently wondering what had became of the silver-haired boy who never smiled once Hojo approached him.
“I suppose it's alright, though. You're doing... well.” And well didn't mean much in the slums.
“My mother died. At the station, not an hour after we left you. The lady who owns this house adopted me.”
Aerith spoke so bluntly that Sephiroth didn't have time to feel sad for her. No sympathetic apology left his lips. He grunted and briskly brought the coffee to his lips, and Aerith stood there, watching and waiting. Sephiroth didn't know exactly what for, but he was certain he couldn't give it to her anyway. Perhaps she thought everything would be alright once the hero from the other side of the glass came back to her.
It hadn't been a particularly good idea to let two women into the slums on their own-especially those who had been locked away from the real world so long. Anyone could have taken Aerith from the station steps. Anyone.
Rocking back on his chair Sephiroth stared blankly through the coffee's steam at it spiraled towards the low ceiling. Aerith had backed away, awkwardly, and closing his eyes he could hear just how heavily she was breathing. Had she been like this the whole time? He listened, and between the aroma of damp flowers and soft fires he felt relaxed.
And when he opened his eyes the coffee had turned cold and Aerith was leaning against his back.
“I mourned for you both, you know,” Sephiroth said quite suddenly, and Aerith jumped almost as if she hadn't been aware that she was resting against him. “Well, as best as I knew how to; I'm sure it was quite pathetic. You especially, though I suppose it rightly should have been the other way around.”
“You couldn't hear me,” Aerith explained, a little confused. “So you should have known.”
“Hear you?” Sephiroth asked, more confused than the flower girl. “Of course not; I was all the way up on the Plate.”
Sephiroth shook his head as he rose to his feet and Aerith followed. He'd never understand her, not truly; they'd been apart far too long for that; never really been together in the first place.
“Never mind,” Aerith whispered as she stood before him, taking his hands in her own once more.
He straightened uncomfortably, and Aerith leaned into him, wrapping her arms around him as she pressed her face onto the rain splattered coat. She was small, not quite reaching his shoulder and he rested a firm hand on her head; if he put his arms around her he might be tempted to fulfill his duty.
“I don't think-” he began, and Aerith meticulously cut him off.
“Aren't you going to take me back to the Shinra? That's why you're here, isn't it?” she asked, because it was easier to embrace a murderer than fight one.
“Officially,” he replied, reluctantly.
Aerith nodded against him and looked up. Sephiroth didn't blink, even when face with eyes that were showing the weakness her voice refused to.
“They shouldn't send a SOLDIER to do a Turk's work, Aerith,” and for a moment he let his gaze wander onto the cheerful wallpaper, pealing ever so slightly at the corners. “More than anything, I wanted to see all of this. I wondered how you'd turn out, and after everything, I suppose you at least deserve this freedom of yours.”
Sephiroth was smiling in a way his voice was not, and Aerith's eyes had softened once more. Her arms fell to her side-had she really only been holding onto him so he could take her away?-and she let the distance between them linger.
He answered her question before she asked it. “But, keep this in mind, I won't help you escape for a third time.”
“There won't be a third time,” Aerith said firmly. After so long, after so much, Sephiroth finally showed his face and all he did was stay for coffee. “It's not safe.”
Sephiroth lost his smile as she spoke and pulled her towards him, leaning down and whispering in her ear so he didn't have to face her.
“There may well be a third time. And if there is a third time, I won't help you escape; if I fail today, they'll send more and more after you. You won't be able to escape, with or without my help. If there is a third time, I will have to kill you. You're not going back there.”
What a twisted idea of protection the general had. Aerith sighed as he spoke, because his words were so soft that he may as well have been speaking of love. He almost sounded noble. Silver hair was twisted uncomfortably across her face, and she played with it between her fingers. Why hadn't Sephiroth escaped with them all those years ago? She'd seen it. He was just as miserable as she was, but deep down she knew the truth, even if he didn't; there was something in his blood that screamed out against her.
Looking up she brushed her lips against his, quickly and lightly; more of an excuse for contact that a real kiss.
“Do you promise?” Her lips burnt as she spoke.
He pulled his hood back over his face, and then his expression was gone completely; when he answered, she couldn't pick out the emotion behind his voice without green eyes as a guide. Out of the door, in the rain, and stolen by the wind he replied:
“I promise.”
It was almost like fate.