finalflight | PSL; [NOLI MANERE]

PSL; [NOLI MANERE]

burn me out, leave me on the otherside.

[In another timeline, diverged down an invisible path, the battle was long over.

The dragon’s corpse, still shining emerald green in the haze of the sun, would be pressed unmoving into the ground, its maw still gaping open, tongue lazily hanging over jagged teeth. Two clean cuts, deep into its chest, would ooze hot and coppery ribbons of blood, a color matching the hue plastered across the edge of Masamune. Zack would still have his knees ground into the dirt, hand grasping at a side as he tried to pull himself up; lucky that he’d come away with nothing more than cracked ribs, something healing magic would have to tend to soon. And in the vehicle behind them, still idling, the blond-haired infantryman — Cloud, quiet and sullen and nervous — would be watching, harried, but wise enough to keep his distance. And they would soon carry onwards to their mission to Nibelheim, undeterred.

But in this instance, this strange set of circumstances, the fight does not go so smoothly.

He doesn’t understand why, or how. This creature should be nothing, his blade should cut straight through its hide instead of only managing glancing blows that barely scrape closely-packed scales. A monster should not be this strong, no matter how permeating the Mako leak was in the surrounding area. It’s beyond unnatural, something that has him gritting his teeth beneath a twisted frown as Sephiroth rushes forward, blade flashing.

Zack’s already unconscious, a deep wound bleeding from the shoulder courtesy of the dragon’s claws, body strewn several feet away, now useless in this fight. The creature rises up on its haunches, spreading giant wings as it snarls down at the only moving target, and catches Masamune in its teeth. Sephiroth pushes; it pushes back. He hears footsteps rushing forward from behind him, staggering, panicked breaths drawing closer, and he turns his head just in time to see the infantryman closing the space between them, readying the rifle that had been slung over his shoulder. Sephiroth knows he may as well be heading straight for death.]

Stay back— [Comes the command, in a voice so used to giving them that it hides the jarring reality of the situation — that this is not good, this is unheard of, and judging what may happen from here anyone’s guess. But it’s too late, because there’s pressure clamping down on his blade, and then with a feral twist of the neck, the dragon has snapped his weapon in half with a reverberating ring.

It’s only slight, but his eyes widen. The other half of the blade topples to the ground, his gloved-grip around the hilt falters for just a second, but it’s all the time the dragon needs to lurch up with fire filling its maw.

It’s the last thing he sees, flame and writhing heat all around him, and then the world goes black.

— — — — — —

He has his face pressed into soggy sand. Hair a tangled mess, clothes damp and sticking, as the waves thinly slide over his form. And then he’s jolting awake with a start, fingers pressed into the shore, hefting himself up and immediately tensing, expecting to see fire and teeth as he cranes his neck—

And is met only with a clear blue sky, a bright shining sun, and the scent of the sea. Masamune’s two halves lay half-buried in a mound of sand, one laying flat, the other sticking straight up a short distance away. The hiss of an exhale, trying to bring himself to his feet, disoriented and maybe a little wobbly, head bowed down. (Also unheard of.)

Both confusion and frustration dance in his insides. What’s happening?]

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[He won’t be distant and weird about it, no, but he will stiffen his shoulders, sitting up military-straight and still while Luka decides to tend to his hair. It’s an old habit from years ago, told to stay unmoving and quiet as Shinra employees hovered around him, or as Hojo gripped his arm, turned it over so his veins could be seen just beneath his skin, seeking prime places to draw his blood. To poke and prod, checking his teeth, his pupils, his heart rate, absolutely everything in-between.

Braiding his hair is a far less intrusive task, but this is the only habit he can fall back on, since he never had a chance (or possessed the true willingness) to break it.

So he keeps his eyes focused on the fire blazing in front of him, the heat rolling off in pleasant waves. Conversation, though, is forced through via curiosity.]

Six?

[He can’t even hope to fathom what that must have been like. Six sisters, and obviously a penchant for braiding their hair, if how… easily Luka is sorting his tangles seems to feel.]

...Is that normal?

[ It occurs to Luka about half a second before Sephiroth asks that he’d never mentioned his family, outside of Sensei, very much. There’s a part of him that knows that one day he’ll have to return home to Eorzea, he’ll have to get on his knees and beg the people who only tried to help, who tried to love and console him though they were all hurting, for forgiveness. The thought makes an uneasy knot form in his stomach, but he wills it away, focusing instead on working through Sephiroth’s rather impressive mane. ]

Yeah. Keepers like me– [ a brief pause to see if Sephiroth remembers the short lesson Luka gave him on Hydaelyn and Her people or if he needs elaboration ] –usually have pretty big families. Lots of girls, not a lot of boys, so I don’t have any brothers.

[He does remember; while not ever the sort to show signs of blatant curiosity, every oddity of this world — every fraction of information he can glean or is told — sticks in his mind as the days pass.

Including this much about Luka’s family, a subject that neither of them had really touched on before. Now he realizes the other man’s experiences must have been wildly different from his own. Whereas he had a dearth, Luka might have had, reasonably, too much.

If such a thing can really exist.]

Even so, having that many siblings is the epitome of chaotic. [Not that he really has experience, but. Six? An introverted demeanor absolutely balks at the very notion.]

Your parents are very patient people.

Edited 2019-12-16 21:42 (UTC)

My ma was a saint. My pa didn’t come around much, but that’s pretty normal too. Keeper families are looked over by a matriarch, so the men just kinda keep to themselves.

[ He shrugs, the motion unseen as he smooths away the last of the snags from Sephiroth’s hair. Luka blamed his father for his distance a lot when his mother first passed, hated him for the way the already quiet man withdrew into himself even more, but there was nothing to be done for it. It wasn’t his father’s place to be a part of the family, even with the death of his wife.

(But perhaps Luka could have used a shoulder to cry on in those moments.)

Satisfied that he’s got the tangles sorted, he begins separating Sephiroth’s locks into three sections for braiding. This is sort of a weird thing, right? Braiding the hair of some guy he’s only known for a month? But at the same time… he kind of likes it. Likes the closeness, and that speaks more about how lonely he’d been than he cares to admit. ]

You got any family? Brothers or sisters?

[He wonders at that family dynamic. What it might be like, to have a mother as a constant, a father a bit more distant, and a bevy of siblings to keep one entertained. Were the days filled with noise, with compromise and cooperation, a home full of warm bodies to annoy each other, or keep each other company? He imagines, if nothing else, it would stave off any sense of loneliness.

My ma was a saint. Sephiroth turns over those words, the past tense. His brow furrows, wondering if he’s overstepped, but then Luka sends the question right back at him, and he shakes his head. The gentle tug and pull of his hair, deft fingers working through the silver, is felt all the more prominently because of it.]

No.

[No, his childhood consisted of a rotating staff of scientists with Hojo always at the helm. His family was a seventy-storey building planted in the middle of Midgar, his hearth and home the laboratories within. Glass, steel, businessmen and military uniforms.

He’s silent, wondering how to broach that subject. What to shear away and what to reveal — and he decides, in the end, that there’s really nothing to keep to himself. What did it matter?]

I don’t have any siblings. My mother died soon after I was born; I know nothing about her, other than her name. And that’s more than what I know about my father.

[But there’s a detached way in which he says it, purposefully unaffected.]

I was in the company's care, so they raised me. If you count that as family.

Oi.

[ Here comes what is likely another first for Sephiroth: Luka taps him firmly on the top of the head with one finger. An old habit he picked up when his younger sisters would wiggle while he’s got his hands in their hair. Luka does it without even thinking, without even realizing that he just bopped Sephiroth like he was a seven-year-old girl. ]

Quit moving.

[ He lets the other’s statement ruminate a moment. Luka’s own relationship with his family might have been rocky at best in recent years, but he can’t even fathom what it would be like to be without them completely. ]

That’s rough. I’m sorry. [ The apology comes even though Sephiroth doesn’t seem bothered by the notion in the slightest. How can you miss something you never had in the first place? He hums thoughtfully. ] That explains some things, though.

[It’s sudden, Luka reaching up to bop him on the head like he’s a child, and—

(Quit moving, Hojo had said, adjusting his glasses with one hand, rapping his knuckles against the back of Sephiroth’s head with the other. The more you fidget, the longer this will take.)

—he stills again, frowning against the light of the fire.]

Don’t do that.

[Luka!

When the silence passes, it’s hard to know what to say to the condolences, especially since he did not ask for them, does not know what to think of them. The rest is easier—]

Explains what?

[ Don’t move and he won’t have to bop you!! Gosh! ]

Why you act like you got a stick up your arse most of the time, for one.

[ His eyes drift away from the simple plait he’s working on to follow the line of Sephiroth’s back, ramrod straight. Even if he’d just scolded him for moving, no normal person actually sits like that. ]

Just seems to me like you missed out on the parts of life that make it worth living. You take everything so seriously, and I guess that makes sense when you were pretty much raised to be a soldier.

[That combination of statements makes Sephiroth turn his head, looking over his shoulder to spy Luka in his periphery, disregarding the fact that he was just told to remain still. (His back, however, is as militant straight as before.) The green glow of his gaze is poignant in the shadow, sharp and assessing.]

That’s assumptive of you.

[Luka wheedles and questions the only purpose he’s ever been given. He prods at his own insecurities that Sephiroth began to cultivate of himself, that whisper of an idea that Nibelheim would be his last mission with Shinra, no matter what they had to say about it. It hits too close to a target that he does not speak of to anyone, the manner of his role, his life, the meaning behind his moulding in the corporation's hands, and he’s not certain he likes the ground that the other treads.]

What rule says that a family is required to live a happy life? Or to know your place in the world?

[So of course he argues the opposite.]

You must think I’m some kind of friendless war machine back home. [And maybe, after all that’s happened with Genesis and Angeal, that’s close to the truth now.] But if you grew up the way that I did, you would know that I’m fortunate to have what I have.

[ Luka isn’t actively trying to braid at the moment, his fingers still in silver locks, so Sephiroth is spared another thump on the head. The miqo’te leans a little to get a look right back at him, one eyebrow quirking in the face of that steely gaze. ]

No rule, and that’s not really what I’m saying.

[ So, what is he saying? He could mention the loss of his own childhood, the angry and bitter thing he became after his mother died, and how he refused to truly live again until eight long years later, but that seems a bit too raw a thing to bring up in the moment. So, instead he starts with: ]

You got a little bit of a sense of humor – it’s in there, I’ve seen it! – so, I wouldn’t call you a machine, either. But… it’s like you got a Shinra-colored lens that you look at the world through, when the rest of us just see it with our eyes. Feel it with our hearts.

A bar fight’s just a bar fight. It doesn’t gotta be a tactical battle.

[He watches him, silent and assessing, and the words are clarifying if not terribly reassuring. Not to a man whose life was defined by Shinra, who had never functioned outside of its purview.

Sephiroth return his gaze to the fire. Even if that is the point that Luka is trying to make, it settles unevenly in him, part of him wanting to be defiant, the rest fending off exasperation.]

I am praised for it, you know.

[A non sequitur that seems to lack context, but he has to take a moment to form the words. Sephiroth, deeply observant and thoughtful, cannot always say what he means without being too blunt, too clipped.]

For being effective, strong. [The legendary SOLDIER, Shinra’s finest!] My whole life was trained for war, Luka. I fought in my first real battle when I was thirteen. They called me a hero soon after, because there was no one left to resist. They all know my name in Midgar — in Gaia.

[And it had been so easy to cut down all of those who rebelled; men and women, trained and untrained. Desperate, all of them, fighting to the very end, and then they were gone.]

That’s all I know; and I understand that’s your point. But mine is that no matter how much you criticize me, I can’t change the fact that I’m different. Understand?

[ The quiet stretches between them, for perhaps a moment too long. Luka turns Sephiroth's words over in his head, the half-finished braid sitting forgotten in loose fingers.

Perhaps a smarter man would hear all the SOLDIER has to say and think that he's right, that he is who he is that's all there is too it, but Luka doesn't often think with his head. He's all emotion and impulse, tempered only by the blade at his hip and the teachings of the man who gave it to him. ]

First of all- [ it comes out quiet. Well, quiet for Luka, in any case, an edge of sincerity in his tone. ] I'm not trying to criticize. I'm teasing, mostly, but that's what friends do, yeah?

But you're not made of stone, Sephiroth. You're not some- [ a vague hand motion with his free hand ] -unchangeable thing. You're a person, and last I checked, there's no Shinra around here to tell you what to do. So, why don't you try living without that lens of yours for a little bit?

[How easily what he’s said is denied, like the permanent nature of being beholden to one group is malleable and never indelible. It’s very Luka, he thinks, never rigid, always going with the flow — a personality impulsive, emotional, raw. Enviable.

It should agitate him, really, but for some reason he cannot find it in him to reject the notion a second time. The application of the term “friend”, given life through actual vocalization, upends any real desire to. He has such a small collection of them; his loyalty had always tried to extend to them, give them the benefit of the doubt, until he could no longer.

And so, the sound of an exhale expelling from his lungs, shoulders rising and falling.]

What would you suggest? Other than sparring and reading.

[A dry reference to their conversation prior.]

[ It doesn’t even occur to Luka that the word friend has passed his lips, it just sort of slipped out like it was the most natural thing in the world. If he did realize it, however, he likely wouldn’t take it back. They are friends, for all their differences, for the rather unorthodox start to their relationship.

Sephiroth doesn’t refute him, so the statement gets to simply stay there, out in the open on the riverbed.

Any forthcoming argument seems to go out of the other man with that sigh, and Luka smiles to himself, pleased that they seem to be making some sort of headway. He sets back to work, carefully braiding Sephiroth’s impossibly long hair. ]

I dunno. Everyone’s different. Is there something you’ve always wanted to do but haven’t had the chance to?

[Unmentioned, settled, embedded as truth. Choosing not to contest the notion of friends, perhaps it’s official, one way or another. Rarely does he pick them up, but it seems like one has fallen into his lap in this world — or vice versa.

(It's nice, he thinks. For however long it might last, until Gaia is within reach again.)

Sephiroth’s tone, ever cool and professional, does lose a small part of its rigid edge. The gentle tugging at his hair, tamed into a braid as Luka continues his work, is oddly meditative.]

…Yes. But you might laugh at it.

[ Luka doesn’t expect a yes, but Sephiroth has a way of surprising him now and again. Perhaps he does need to alter his opinion a little, to consider that, despite what little he knows of Sephiroth’s life, he still has desires beyond the little box he was so carefully molded to fit in. ]

Come on! I won’t laugh, I promise.

[ He’s actually quite curious to know what a man like Sephiroth might wish for. ]

[He exhales. This one is very audible because he knows that it’s a simple, ridiculous thing.]

...Do you have black chocobos in this world? In Midgar, it’s difficult to take care of larger animals outside of a controlled environment. Only the rich can afford it, and even then, the normal ones are rare. I’ve only seen a black one once in my lifetime, away from the city.

[A beat.]

They’re more solitary, harder to find. Harder to train. But they’re faster and stronger than their brethren. [It kind of reminds him of… well, himself.] I’ve always wanted to feed one.

[ To his credit, Luka doesn't laugh. Not even so much as a chuckle, but it's just as well that Sephiroth has his eyes fixed on the fire because Luka is smiling. It's a slow sort of grin that lifts the corners of his mouth by degrees as he realizes he's just been given a glimpse into something deeply personal - something sort of sweet in its simplicity.

He would love to make that dream a reality. Such a simple thing, but that doesn't make it unworthy in his eyes in the least.

There is a bit of a problem, though. ]

... Chocobos can come in all sorts of colors here. My family lived near enough to Bentbranch, the farm where they breed 'em for racing, that I've seen just about every color there is, even black. Thing is, I don't think our chocobos are quite the same as yours. The color of the feathers has nothing to do with how strong a bird is.

I'd love to take you to see one, but it wouldn't be the same, and I think that probably matters.

[ A beat, as he carefully continues the braid. He'll need something to tie it off soon, but he's probably got a bit of twine in his traveling pack. ]

I hope you get your chance one day, though.

[The mention of chocobo races, the birds with varying shades of plumage, reminds Sephiroth of what he’s heard about the Gold Saucer — it seems some facets of life, no matter the planet, remain the same.

He makes a small noise of amusement, so faint that it’s nearly lost in the crackling flame.]

I see. That’s fine, it’s fallacy to assume that even chocobos are the same here.

[It’s not much of a loss, either way. It’s truly a silly, pointless endeavor, born of a silly, pointless thought.]

Maybe a specimen will end up at headquarters. [Dry as the desert. But he moves on.] Did you ever watch a race?

It’s a good dream, though. I like it.

[ Though his tone is lighthearted, he’s earnest about it. He kind of likes this little glimpse he’s gotten into the whims of Sephiroth’s heart, and once again he’s left to reassess his opinion of the man – for the better, to be sure. ]

A chocobo race? Not a real one. I’d watch the breeders showing off their birds to prospective buyers from time to time, but the Gold Saucer proper ain’t for people like me. I don’t have enough gil to even get in the door.

[He’d argue that “dream” is too weighted of a descriptor to apply to a passing whim like that; it isn’t as if he has lingering plans to become a chocobo rancher. But he holds his tongue, letting the conversation move forward beyond non existent hobbies and things he would like to try.]

...You have a Gold Saucer here, too?

[That’s just perilously confusing. His brows knit in quiet revelation.]

Where people go to be entertained, and to waste money in order to do so?

[The Gold Saucer represents everything that would grate against Sephiroth’s personality — he has seen pictures of it. He cannot imagine staying there for a prolonged period of time, much less willingly.]

[ Luka’s in the middle of trying to lean over to get at his bags without leaving his seat, and the end of Sephiroth’s braid, unattended. The words “you have a Gold Saucer here, too?” nearly make him fall right over with surprise, and he probably only has his feline-like heritage to thank for the fact that he doesn’t. ]

The hells do you mean “too”?

[ He’d heard the Mandervilles, the Gold Saucer’s proprietors, were filthy, stinking rich but opening a casino on another world seems like a bit much?? ]

Yeah, that’s right. People gamble and play games and bet on races and stuff.

[He spares Luka another glance over the shoulder, glimpsing him almost falling over in surprise.]

That sounds like mine.

[Well. “His” in the sense that Gaia is his home, and possesses that particular tourist attraction, too.]

Racing, gambling, games. An arena that hosts fighting tournaments. There’s one on Gaia. Owned by a business man named Dio, from what I’ve heard.

[ He looks back at Sephiroth, which probably looks quite comical with how he’s half-sprawled in the midst of reaching for his bag. ]

That’s so… weird.

[ But before he can elaborate on that scintillating thought, he makes one last grab for his traveling pack, snatching it by a strap and dragging it over. A little rummaging around in a side pocket reveals he did have some twine after all. Though he’s sure Sephiroth would prefer a black silken ribbon or something ridiculous, it will have to do. He sits back up, trying off the end of the braid. ]

The one in Thanalan is owned by Godbert Manderville. To hear tell of it, the man’s the richest son of a bitch in all Eorzea, maybe in all Hydaelyn. No arena, though. That’s the Bloodsands in Ul’dah proper.

[He won’t complain about the rather thin piece of twine that’ll keep his hair together. Mind you, black would have worked just as well, but the striking part of his hair has always been its color — unusual even on Gaia.

He watches Luka as he fiddles with the end of the braid. It’s so long that he can easily see it from here.]

And why do you think that this is something both of our worlds share, despite differing owners that I assume have no awareness of the other’s existence?

[Not that Sephiroth really expects Luka to know either. He crosses his arms.]

That’s strange. But maybe there is a connection between the two planets; my arrival here is proof of that.

PSL; [NOLI MANERE]

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