[…Hello? he hears it again, light and playful. The timbre sits strangely in his ears, unused to being addressed in such a way, an admittedly awkward thought to invade his mind while he’s sprawled gracelessly on the ground, bent stems and flattened petals beneath the silver elite’s weight. But the voice hooks into his conscious mind, drags him up and over the surface of wakefulness, and Sephiroth opens his eyes.
He sees sunlight. A roof with a hole in it. And in his hazy periphery — cat-like eyes already straining to refocus, readjust — a woman whose braid dangles over her shoulder as she gazes down upon him.
For all the surreality of this situation, or perhaps because of it, years of ingrained training kicks in, doubles up and rises to the surface. He could always recover quickly from all that ails him, both rare injury and strange circumstances alike, and this is no different. Every muscle in his body tenses, unleashes like a coiled spring, and memory of conflict (sword raised against a friend, a traitor) bolsters his action; Sephiroth sits up, silver hair untangling from the plants beneath him. His left hand grasps in the soil as if reaching for something that is always there, but Masamune is gone, fallen and landed out of sight.
Not that he needs it. Reason settles in a half-second after instinct, and as he gazes up at her, some of his edged look draining away. Caution and unwanted confusion take its place.]
Who are you?
[Who are you, he asks, like he’s the one who didn’t fall from the sky, a bird with its wings clipped.]
no subject
He sees sunlight. A roof with a hole in it. And in his hazy periphery — cat-like eyes already straining to refocus, readjust — a woman whose braid dangles over her shoulder as she gazes down upon him.
For all the surreality of this situation, or perhaps because of it, years of ingrained training kicks in, doubles up and rises to the surface. He could always recover quickly from all that ails him, both rare injury and strange circumstances alike, and this is no different. Every muscle in his body tenses, unleashes like a coiled spring, and memory of conflict (sword raised against a friend, a traitor) bolsters his action; Sephiroth sits up, silver hair untangling from the plants beneath him. His left hand grasps in the soil as if reaching for something that is always there, but Masamune is gone, fallen and landed out of sight.
Not that he needs it. Reason settles in a half-second after instinct, and as he gazes up at her, some of his edged look draining away. Caution and unwanted confusion take its place.]
Who are you?
[Who are you, he asks, like he’s the one who didn’t fall from the sky, a bird with its wings clipped.]