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Chapter Text

Rocks slipped under Hawke's feet. She scrambled to catch herself as she ran. The Nightmare demon chased her under the fluctuating green sky of the Fade, its spider form scuttling over the loose stone.

The bloody Fade. The horrific, screaming, magical abyss that was the Fade. Honestly. Whose idea was this?

Right. Hers, technically. She volunteered to stay behind, to be the distraction. And it was her fault it was even necessary, she woke up Corypheus, who else was going to take the blame? Other than Corypheus, of course, but the Blighted lunatic wasn't interested in cleaning up after himself.

The demon looked away from her, back to the others. She snarled and hurled a lightning bolt into its face, sparks exploding against its carapace. It swung back around to focus on her.

On the far side of the platform Varric looked back at her. Just for a second. Then the Inquisitor pulled him through the rift and they were gone. The rift smacked shut with a sucking sound and a pop. The Fade closed. Just her and the demon now.

It was all so green and ridiculous. The demon spider towered and said something that it likely imagined was scathing.

"Small potatoes pal," she replied, dodging one of its sticky, tree-trunk sized legs. "Go on; tell me I failed Kirkwall again, like it's some kind of revelation."

"Not just Kirkwall, Hawke," the demon rumbled. Its hundred eyes blinked, black and beady and out of sync with each other. "You failed Anders."

She swallowed back her fear and forced her legs to keep moving. It chased her, over the platforms, down a wall of loose rock and scree. The jagged stones cut at her exposed arms.

"You're like some layabout nobleman who thinks he's a cutting edge poet," she yelled, breathing hard, and flicking lightning bolts behind her. Some would hit, surely.

"You failed Fenris," it said.

Her gut clenched with the nausea of over taxing her magic.

"And Merrill. The pirate, the guard captain."

She careened to the bottom of the slope and kept running. The spider's legs smacked against the rock and entropic magic surged up before her, a wall of terror spells.

She spun and slid down another rock face.

A pit of black rock and fallen corpses surrounded her. Damn, dead end.

She spun again, looking for an out. There was nothing around but a couple of old corpses and a dead Eluvian Mirror, reflecting back the empty pit.

"Your brother, your sister…" the demon said, and it had the nerve to say it gently, like an old friend who didn't want to hurt her. "Your mother."

She lifted her chin and tried to hide how hard she was breathing. "Your material is trite and hackneyed, and betrays a complete disconnect with your audience."

It skittered down into the pit, its many legs taking the descent with more grace than she did. She swung her staff into position. She couldn't even summon enough ambient magic to spark along it. The blade was still worth something.

"And of course, you failed Varric the most," it rumbled, standing patiently in front of the only way back out of the pit. "You left him all alone, to clean up your mess. Did you see his face? Did it make you feel like you were worth something?"

She sucked in a ragged breath, terror threatening to close up her throat. "One out of five fluttering scarves, not worth the price of admission. Don't know what the publisher was thinking."

"Did you think you mattered, Hawke?" It cocked its head, as much as a spider could. One leg tapped on the ground and corrupt spirit magic surged. "Did you think anything you ever did mattered?" Flecks of green and purple magic warped in the air. Her skin singed and her mental shields trembled. She tried to cast a barrier, but had nothing left.

The spider strolled towards her, leisurely.

The magic danced against the Mirror's glass and sank in. Its borders crackled under the surge and began to fray. The surface rippled with life, blues and greens and reds thrumming within. The force of the spell began to ring in her ears.

She looked between the demon, the corpses, and the Mirror.

Well. She'd done stupider things.

She ran face first into the Mirror.

Glass and magic tore at her, and the world warped.

The ringing in her ears snapped and smashed like a chandelier crashing on a marble floor. She was screaming. A maelstrom roared. Time stretched and rippled, a thread pulled through a cloth, tearing at the weave. Images refracted through the magical morass and her mind's edges frayed.

Had she been pulled into the Eluvian network? Was she still in the Fade? Was she… was she anywhere at all? Was there anything left of her to 'be' anywhere?

The emptiness around her warped with memories and thoughts not her own.

A dragon. An Archer. Elves, tall and imposing, echoing with memories of crystalline cities, the clashing of swords and the shattering of glass. It was too much. Her mind folded in on itself.

She grew cold. The bombardment continued but it didn't feel so severe.

Then, a jerking sensation. The expanse of chaos froze for just a moment. The echo of a chuckle that she thought she knew and the snap of dragon wings, before darkness took her.

Hawke woke to the smell of lilies.

She sat up, ready to swear at someone. There, on the window ledge: a row of flower pots overflowing with green and yellow lilies. She made a face.

Where was she, some snooty Orlesian's parlour room? It sure as the void wasn't her Kirkwall estate, or Varric's suite at the Hanged Man, it was too floral for the first and too clean for the second.

She rubbed her eyes and tried to blink the sensation of magical overwhelm from her eyes. What had she been doing, staring into a rift?

The room was small and overwhelmingly pastel, with an impersonal 'spare room we keep in case of company' feel to it. The patchwork quilt under her was pretty but threadbare, the stuffing showing through some of the cotton squares. It was also floral.

Her trusty staff leaned against the wall and her daggers were in their sheathes on her back. She reached forward to touch her toes, groaning at aches all through her back and thighs, still squinting her eyes and blinking. It felt like she had a brick lodged in her head. She stumbled off the bed and staggered to her feet. Oof, damn that Nightmare demon, her legs were killing her.

Oh yeah, that was right. The Nightmare demon. Huh.

There was a strange fixture on the ceiling, with yellow light streaming from it. It was the wrong colour for veil fire or a mage light, but what candle would burn in a little glass ball? She concentrated, but felt no magic in the room. An enchantment maybe?

Light footsteps tapped outside the room, then a muffled voice.

"I think she might have fallen off the bed. Don't worry, I'll be careful." There was a quiet knock before the door opened.

A teenage girl with a long brown ponytail and a mischievous look in her eye peeked in the room.

"Oh, you're awake!"

"Hello," Hawke said with a smile. "Could you tell me where I am? And your stance on the Inquisition?"

"You're in Sector 5," she replied, stepping into the room properly. "And I... don't… know?"

Hawke blinked. She'd file that response under 'interesting'. She wasn't an agent of the Inquisition herself, but people tended to be either pro or against saving the world. Not invested enough to pick a side was a novel take. And the fifth sector of what?

The girl's clothes were odd, strappy sandals and a thin sleeveless dress stitched with little flowers along the short skirt. Who wore quite so little so far south.

"Right. Sector 5. Where is that exactly? How did I get here?" Hawke asked, checking her gear. She needed to track down Varric and find out how the battle ended. Did they take the Fortress?

"The Sector 5 slums, silly, under the plate. I found you right outside the house. You were bleeding pretty badly." She frowned. "Really badly. I've never seen injuries like that before. Mum didn't want to bring you into the house, but I couldn't just leave you out there in a puddle."

"You live in a slum and you brought a random bleeding stranger into your house?" Hawke stared at her. "Probably should have listened to your mother. You don't know whether or not I'm dangerous, you're not even armed."

"I healed you," the girl replied with a pout. "You're welcome."

"I appreciate it. Next time, make sure you're carrying a big stick."

The girl opened her mouth to retort, then paused. Hawke felt something shift. Magic twisted through the air, not a spell she recognised, it felt... green? Could something feel green? Hawke hadn't cast anything so- oh. 'I healed you.' Not at her best today.

The girl blinked, looking nervous for the first time. "You're not from around here."

"You're an apostate," Hawke replied.

"What?"

"I felt whatever spell you just cast. You shouldn't do that in front of a stranger, by the way, you never know who'll be able to sense what you're up to." Now the girl really did look concerned. "Don't worry, I'm not going to tell the Templars."

"You… you felt it too?" She looked up at Hawke with a curious frown. "What's a Templar?"

"Um," Hawke said. She blinked. An adult mage just asked what a Templar was. Right. She strolled to the window, pushed aside the terrible, no good, very bad flowers and peered out. She had to be in the Fade still, probably dreaming it up from an Inquisition medical tent. Or a Venatori dungeon.

The light outside was blue and faint. Not the green of the Fade, and there was no sign of the distant Black City hanging mournfully in the sky.

Instead a giant flat metal thing loomed hundreds of meters in the air, blocking out the sky. Sunlight fell in sheets in the distance, presumably where the 'plate' ended. One of the support pillars towered nearby.

"What in the void?" she muttered. It wasn't... wasn't like anything she'd ever heard of. Not even in tall tales over ale or fanciful childhood myths. She twisted her torso and looked back at the girl. The girl who didn't recognise her armour or even think to be scared of her.

She straightened. Then crossed her arms. "So, my name is Hawke."

"Nice to meet you. I'm Aerith."

She nodded thoughtfully. "Nice to meet you too, Aerith, thank you for the hospitality, you've done your family proud. Tell me, are you... are you at all familiar with a place called Kirkwall?"

Aerith frowned and shook her head.

"Alright. Fair enough, it's a big world, lots of places. What about... Ferelden?"

"Sorry."

"Orlais?" Hawke asked, her voice strained.

Aerith pouted in thought, tapping her chin. "Is that near Kalm?"

"Where's Kalm?"

"Outskirts of Midgar."

"Is that... where we are?"

"You've never heard of Midgar?" Aerith raised a sceptical eyebrow and looked Hawke up and down.

"Don't give me that look, you've never heard of Orlais! Tevinter, though, surely you've heard of Tevinter?" She was pleading at this point and she didn't care. "What about Par Vollen? That's not even in Thedas."

Aerith tilted her head like a curious sparrow and Hawke wished she hadn't asked.

"Where's Thedas?"

She sat on the bed. She put a hand to her temple.

"I think I need a moment."

"Oh. Okay. Call if you need anything." Aerith left, looking back curiously. Hawke barely noticed.

"'Where's Thedas'," she said aloud. "Alright. Sure. Where's Thedas? No problem." She nodded. She swallowed the dry lump in her throat. "Not the weirdest thing that's ever happened. Sometimes you just up and lose Thedas. Varric's going to love this."

Maybe Aerith was just crazy. Or lying.

She didn't act like a crazy person though, and she looked honest. That didn't mean anything, lots of people looked honest. She almost reminded her of Merrill. Where was Merrill these days?

The floral scent stuck in the air, in her throat, hot and humid.

She stood abruptly. No good whining about it, she was going to look like the crazy one, sitting around talking to herself. She grabbed her staff and marched out the door. The rest of the house was just as cheery and flower filled, a well-worn family home. She felt like she was drowning.

Aerith and a woman she assumed was the mother sat in the living room.

"Thank you so much, I have to go." Hawke spotted the door and kept walking. It was in their best interests that she leave anyway. Trouble followed her like a diseased dog.

She pushed open the heavy door without waiting for a response and it closed with a thud behind her.

She was outside. She could breathe easy. She panted in the hot and humid air. Oh, it stank. She took deep and slow breaths, letting panic's sharp little claws ease out of her.

Ugh. The Lowtown docks smelt nicer than this place, what was that?

The huge plate loomed overhead, hazy in the smoggy air. What looked like rubbish and debris occasionally fell from the edges. She kept walking.

There was so much metal. How did they smelt it all? And into such odd shapes too. She stepped over a puddle of vomit and around the drunk woman slumped next to it. As foreign as the scenery looked, there was a familiarity to it. A group of rough looking humans loitering near a wall eyed her as she walked past. She let her legs swing with a careless saunter and kept her staff in her hand. She slapped away a pickpocket's fingers and her nerves settled. A smile broke out across her face. A stinking slum comforted her while a tidy, flower filled home unnerved her? Her mother would have been appalled.

She set aside her earlier panic for later denial and took stock of what she had. Her staff twirled lazily in her hand, and her daggers rested on her back. Her backup knives were tucked away snuggly against her thighs and she had half a health potion swaying at her belt. She was in her best armour set, a second skin by now, and in surprisingly good condition even if Varric had bled on it a little at the end there. She shook her head. Midgar. Sector 5. Getting through the day.

This wasn't too bad, all things considered. She could make this work. The people spoke the same language, she had enough resources to get by, and her magic was fully recovered. Maker, the Eluvian could have dumped her in Qunari lands, or the Tevinter Imperium. This was… well, it wasn't worse than those options, certainly.

All she had to do was pick up the pieces, and start again. Easy.

High above the Midgar plate Genesis Rhapsodos cradled a cup of artisanal tea. He leaned against the back of a couch, facing the windows, his ankles crossed and his long red coat resting on the seat back next to him.

The sun was sinking into the thick band of smog that sat upon the horizon.

He bobbed the silk teabag in his cup. The light made it difficult to see how strong it was. Everything looked the same under the orange glow. The city sprawling below looked rusty, its many street lights and mighty Mako reactors weak and sickly.

"This city is so ugly," he said. Even the horizon looked inflamed under the red haze, like an infection.

"Mm," Sephiroth replied from the other side of the couch, nose buried in a report. Silver hair draped over the couch around him like a pool of mercury.

"Why couldn't Shinra have made Junon its capital? We could have had seaside views." Genesis took out the teabag and slung it into the bin. It landed with a splat and an orange stain on the plastic. "Even they couldn't poison the entire ocean."

Sephiroth turned a page. "Give it time."

Genesis looked sidelong at the man, then took a sip of his tea. It was bitter.

"When the war of the beasts brings about the world's end, the goddess descends from the sky," he recited idly, gazing out over the city. "Wings of light and dark spread afar, she guides us to bliss, her gift everlasting."

Sephiroth finally lowered the report and looked up at him. "Did the director ask you to teach the cadet's materia classes yet?"

"He brought it up this morning." Genesis lifted his chin. "You knew he was going to."

"He asked who I would recommend."

"And you recommended me?" He laughed. "What did the cadets ever do to you?"

Sephiroth leaned back. "Are you going to do it?"

"Of course not. Angeal is the teacher, I don't have time to waste on incompetents."

"Angeal has an apprentice to worry about. And you do have the time."

"I do not," he replied, glancing over his shoulder. A tendon in his neck strained.

Sephiroth was quiet for a long moment. "You haven't taken a real mission in weeks."

"Yes, because I do not have the time, are you not paying attention? Why don't you do it?"

Sephiroth smirked. "I thought you were the magic expert?"

Genesis looked back at him, unsmiling. "Did you?"

Sephiroth's brow pulled down in a puzzled frown. "It's what you always say, isn't it?"

Genesis looked to the sunset. He said nothing.

"I don't have the time either, to train the cadets. Or to keep covering for you while you mope," Sephiroth said.

Genesis crossed his arms. His shoulder ached at the movement. The sun disappeared below the horizon. "I'm sure you can manage."

"Genesis," Sephiroth said, getting up. "Go hunt something. Take out a monster nest under the plate, do a patrol somewhere, clear some missions off the roster. Preferably before the end of the week."

The light flooding into the room turned muddy and dim. Genesis put down his cup and finally turned to face his old friend. His commanding officer. "Is that an order?"

"It will be if you don't… start acting like yourself again," Sephiroth said, wearing a frown. "I can only cover for you for so long."

Genesis scowled. "I don't need your charity."

He was rewarded with a pointedly raised eyebrow.

"Fine. I'll go hunt some monsters. Are you happy?"

Sephiroth crossed his arms. "Will you take up the materia classes?"

He scoffed.

"I'll let you drag me down to a play."

It was Genesis' turn to raise an eyebrow. "Will you?" He picked up his coat and pulled it on. He moved confidently through the sting of pulling it up over his shoulders and smiled grimly to himself.

Sephiroth hesitated. "So long as it's not Loveless again."

"I'll give you one hour of training per hour of theatre," Genesis said, flicking his red hair back.

"You're already getting paid. This is, in fact, your job."

"Then you may have fun training the cadets yourself," he replied with a smile. He strode past Sephiroth and out the door.

Fine. If they wanted him to hunt monsters, he could provide. He left the Shinra headquarters, his sword at his side and a bracer of materia at his wrist.

There was a new poster of Sephiroth hanging up outside the front door, fluttering in the cold evening breeze. In it he was wearing the expression Shinra preferred on all their propaganda pieces, solemn and looming, like he was standing atop the world and taking the responsibility seriously. To Genesis he looked bored and awkward. Of course he would be bored. He didn't need to waste time looking superior, he simply was. No posing required.

Genesis scowled and walked under it down to the train station. It was a bad day. The wound on his shoulder didn't normally ache quite so insistently. The pangs kept travelling down his spine whenever he jostled his arm.

He found a monster nest under the plate and tore into it, putting all his vitriol into the swing of his sword. The evening grew darker. Flickering lights from pubs and hotels lit the way.

Just one bad day. Tomorrow would be better.

He locked his jaw. It had been a month of increasingly bad days.

The last monster in the nest fell, it head sliced cleanly from its body. At least the injury wasn't on his sword arm. He activated his Fire materia and burned the bodies and the nest. His mastered Full-Cure materia sat snugly next to the Fire. Useless.

What good was he if he couldn't even heal himself?

He trekked further under the plate, hunting the creatures that lurked in the dark. The looks the slum dwellers sent him were more vicious than anything the monsters had provided so far. He kept his spine straight, tossed his hair back, and moved on to the next infestation.

There were reports of an eligor haunting the train graveyard. It was more interesting than anything else he'd encountered, but they could cast silence.

He was… hesitant to close with serious monsters now. He vastly preferred to fight them with magic at a distance. He couldn't afford to get injured again.

Maybe he wouldn't find it.

He found it.

A woman yelled a battle cry and he felt his hair start to lift with static energy. There was a CRACK, a flash of blue-white light, and a wave of electricity passed through the earth.

He drew his sword and rounded the burnt out remains of a train car. The hulking monster had its back to him as it engaged a woman with a bladed staff. She spun the weapon, a grin on her face and little sparks crackling out of her free hand.

She was illuminated only by the magic she cast and a dying street lamp in the distance. Black hair flicked about her face and she had a wildness to her that made the lightning look quite at home in her grasp. Her armour was bizarre, a large pointed pauldron on one shoulder and plate armour that ran down her arm to a sharp fingered gauntlet.

She gestured with the staff and three electrical bolts arced through the air to slam into the monster. It convulsed with a cry.

It's dragged itself back from her. She gave chase. It roared and unleashed a burst of light. A Silence spell.

The woman stumbled. The sparks extinguished.

"Hey!" she yelled. She latched the staff onto her back and drew a long and ugly dagger. She rolled to dodge its blade.

The red bulb on the monster's face began to glow, its real attack building up. Genesis seized the opportunity and leapt forward, his sword raised. He stabbed it in the spine and dragged his sword up through its neck.

The monster collapsed with a gurgle.

The woman looked nonplussed, the dagger hanging loose in her hand.

"That," she said, "was mine."

He snorted. "I just saved your life."

One corner of her mouth pulled up in an aggravating grin. "Did you, though?"

"I've done you a service," he said, burning the blood off his blade and sheathing it. "The least you could do is show some gratitude."

She narrowed her eyes. "…Do you… want me to pay you?"

"What? No." He tried not to let his shoulders sink, for both pain management and appearance's sake. "You have no idea who I am, do you?"

"Have we met before?"

"I highly doubt it, madam." What rock had she been living under? He wasn't Sephiroth but he was still an icon.

She had the temerity to look puzzled at his response.

He nodded stiffly. "Well. It's been a pleasure."

She reached out "Hey-!"

Pain shot through his calf. He spun, drawing his sword and slicing down in one motion.

An adolescent eligor leaped back. Blood dripping off the monster's blade. He stumbled away from it and it chased him. Pain screamed through his leg. It reverberated through his spine, seized his shoulder, and black spots drowned out his vision for a second.

A flash of magic, and his vision returned to the inside of a magical barrier covering him. He hadn't cast anything.

Lightning cracked and the little monster fell dead.

The woman loomed in his field of vision, disappearing behind patches of inky blackness. She was well off for a slum dweller to be carrying two materia, he thought distantly.

"I think that makes us even," she said, with a toothy grin.

His vision grew hazy and he swayed. No, no, he couldn't pass out, not here, not in the slums.

"Woah," the woman said, reaching for him, "hey, let me—"

"It's nothing, I'm fine," he said, stumbling back.

"You're bleeding."

His legs collapsed under him.

"Huh," he heard the woman say, before he blacked out.

Hawke looked down at the passed out man.

She turned away. She clenched her jaw. She hunched her shoulders. She turned back.

He looked very pathetic, passed out on the cracked concrete. Even unconscious, his face was pinched in pain.

She nudged him with her boot. Nothing.

This was exactly what she'd told the mage girl off for earlier. The smart thing to do would be to leave the well armoured, self important, insignia-and-rank-wearing man alone. She should listen to herself, she gave good advice.

She sighed. She crouched down by his side and cast a healing spell.

Genesis woke up alone.

He lurched up, looking around wildly. He was still in the train graveyard. A sprout of razor weed scuttled away from his boot. He still had all his gear on him. Even his bracer, with its full complement of mastered materia was still there. That alone was miraculous.

There was no sign of the woman.

He pulled himself to his feet and glanced around. The quality of the dark hadn't changed, he couldn't have been unconscious long. He shook his head at himself. What a humiliating performance.

He marched up the slopes of a pile of rubble. It was past time he got out of here.

He paused, frowning. His leg… it had been cut open by the young eligor. He looked down at his calf. The wound was closed, a red line of freshly healed skin visible through the slice in his boot.

His breath stuttered to a halt in his chest. He stood up straight, straighter than he'd been able in a month.

His shoulder didn't hurt.

Chapter Text

Hawke walked through the slums, her money pouch heavier than it had been. It had been a good hunt until the self-important man in red appeared.

She hunched her shoulders and pulled her fur hood over her head.

She hadn’t even searched him for loose coin. But she had left him unconscious in that abandoned field of metal carts. That was probably worse than robbing him, now that she thought of it.

He had that look about him: too powerful to be worth upsetting and aware of it too. Better to leave him to sort his own problems out.

She had healed him, as far as she could at least. He did her a good turn, he deserved the same. The superficial wounds hadn’t been very difficult: the slice in his leg and that infected looking mess on his shoulder. It was all she could offer him. She shook her head, her shoulders slumping. Poor guy had the Blight.

She breathed out a sigh. She had her own problems.

The night grew heavier. The plate trapped in the heat and humidity and kept the city smelling like a pile of silage baking in the sun. She had rarely been so glad her tunic was sleeveless.

Were there any stars or moons shining up there, above that metal lid? She heard there was another city up there, clean and beautiful. Was Satina bathing it in her silver light? They probably thought they deserved it too.

She left the noisy streets behind, wandering. She had passed a whole street of taverns and alehouses earlier but couldn’t bring herself to go in. A weapons shop boasting some curious magical baubles almost tempted her, but the owner gave her a weird look at all her questions so she moved on.

The pavement soaked up the thud of her leather boots. She kept walking. Past ramshackle houses, collapsing shacks, and abandoned hovels. 

A Chantry.

She paused, her breath caught in her throat.

It looked out of place, a tall and proud building of white stone, complete with stained glass windows. The images they depicted were dark and inscrutable, but none of the panes were broken. Its heavy wooden door loomed above her: closed.

There was no Chanter out the front, reciting the Chant of Light. No Chanter’s board, requesting help in the community, not even a Lay Sister vainly tending to a dead veggie patch.

Abandoned. Forgotten in the dark.

Hawke climbed the shallow steps. There was no graffiti, no missing slats in the wood.

She lifted her hand to the door. She hadn’t entered a Chantry since… since the Chantry. Since she and Anders blew it all to hell and started a war. She couldn’t bring herself to touch the door. What right did she have?

The hairs on the back of her neck rose. Someone was watching her.

She scowled. What right did they have? How many dead mages could she heap before this door? How many tranquil? How many children, herded like animals because of what power they might have?

The ghost of her little sister, dead for so many years she couldn’t remember her face any more, whispered in a voice she couldn’t forget even if she wanted to. ‘Why can’t I just be normal?’ Oh, Bethany.

She flicked her hair out of her face and pushed open the door.

A long hall filled with empty pews stretched before her. Light from a distant liquor shop stabbed in through a window and pooled before the altar, where the floorboards were missing.

Aerith looked up, crouching in a patch of lilies.

Hawke wanted to turn around and walk straight back out. She didn’t. She couldn’t. She was rooted to the floor only half a step inside.

The door creaked to a close behind her on old hinges.

The little mage stood up, brushing dirt off her dress with one hand and holding a trowel in the other. 

“What are you doing here?”

With no other recourse left to her, Hawke smiled. “It’s the prettiest building around, thought I’d try my hand at squatting.”

Aerith’s eyebrows rose. She put her hands on her hips. “You can’t squat here, I’m squatting here.”

“Ah, you beat me to it,” she replied with a snap of her fingers. She edged closer. She nodded at the flowers. What looked like a mint bush was flourishing near the wall and dandelions bobbed about in a warm draught. “Did you grow those?”

“They’ve always grown here. I just… keep them company,” Aerith said, facing the flowers and looking at her from the corner of her eyes.

All the flowers were open, despite it being well past sundown. Hawke hummed. She could feel the echoes of Creation magic in the air. Keeping them company, hm?

She sat on one of the pews, resting her staff against her shoulder. The altar was a strange shape, up on a platform. There was no statue of Andraste or brazier for the Eternal Flame. It probably wasn’t even a Chantry really.

Aerith was still looking at her sidelong. A plain dented staff was resting in the flowerbed next to a small watering can.

“How old are you?” Hawke asked.

“Fifteen. Why?”

“How long have you had your magic?”

Aerith hunched in on herself but she took a step towards Hawke, looking up at her. Something hungry shone in her eyes. Maybe it was just the reflected glow of the liquor sign.

“Always,” she whispered. “I’ve always had it.”

Hawke nodded slowly. “And those watching the building?”

Aerith’s head turned away with a jerk. “You weren’t born with your magic?”

“I was about nine when it showed up. I grew into it.”

“Who taught you?”

She sighed and let her head fall back, stretching her legs out in front of her. “My father, at first. Then whatever lost grimoires and old journals I could get my hands on. Trial and error.”

Aerith took another step closer. “Journals?”

Hawke cracked a grin. “I don’t have them on me.”

“Can you get them?”

Her grin cracked at the edges. “I doubt it.”

“Can you try?” Aerith demanded.

“I am trying.” She stood, raking her gauntleted hand through her hair. “There’s got to be a mage underground here. Hedge witches or… something. You can’t be the only one.”

Aerith pursed her lips and stared her down. “I am the only one.”

Hawke looked at her sidelong and away again. “Are they going to hurt you? Those who are watching?”

The little mage crossed her arms. She probably thought it made her look more intimidating, but it only showed how willowy she was. “So what if they do? Did you need me to save your life again?”

Hawke opened her mouth to protest but thought better of it. The girl was a plucky thing. She probably had a growth spurt in her near future, but for now, she was short and skinny with dirt under her fingernails.

“I probably deserved that,” Hawke said. She crossed her arms and regarded the girl. She was regarded in turn. “What do you want?”

The girl braced herself. She lifted her chin. “Teach me. Teach me how to use my magic.”

Hawke shook her head. “You don’t know anything about me.”

“No, but… I’ve got a good feeling.”

“You should get that checked.”

“Don’t be mean, Hawke.” She put the trowel down on a pew and stuck out a hand. “Well? Do we have a deal?”

Hawke raised an eyebrow; pretty sure she was getting hustled. “What deal?”

“You teach me magic and I won’t tell the Templars about you.”

She barked a laugh. “Nice. You don’t even know what the Templars are.”

A grin tugged at the corner of Aerith’s mouth before she smoothed it out into an expression that was all Serious Business. “Do we have a deal?”

“First, that’s not a deal, it’s me giving you something for free, and second…” her shoulders slumped. This was such a bad idea. They were all going to regret it. “Yeah, I suppose we do.” She took Aerith’s outstretched hand. “Assuming your mother approves.”

“Hey! That wasn’t-”

“Nope. I’m not going to be the adult woman secretly hanging out with a teenager in an abandoned building in the middle of the night, thank you very much.”

“Oh.” Aerith blinked. She awkwardly took her hand back. “But, you’re not…”

“Not wearing a fine patina of other people’s blood? No, no, of course not.” She swung her staff back onto her back. “Come on, let’s go see what mother dearest thinks.”

Aerith’s mother reacted about as well as Hawke thought she would. Thank Andraste somebody did.

Her frozen smile was distinctly alarmed as she looked between the two mages standing in the door of her kitchen, soap suds still clinging to her hands.

“What did you say your name was, dear?” she asked, reaching for a tea towel.

“Hawke,” she replied with a twitchy smile. She didn’t much care for kindly maternal people calling her ‘dear’, it made her suddenly conscious of her unbrushed hair and all the stains on her tunic. Oh, Maker, how much filth was she tracking onto the rugs? She offered a hand for shaking. It seemed the done thing.

“I’m Elmyra,” the elderly woman said, taking her hand and glancing up and down at her. Aerith looked between them with her brows knit together. “Where did you say you were from?”

“Out of town,” Hawke hedged.

“Yes, I understood that much.” She crossed her arms, the picture of patient maternal disapproval. She was shorter than Hawke, with frizzy brown hair pulled back into a bun, and a thin, worn face that betrayed a life of long hours and few breaks. She had the desperate, gentle smile of a single mother trying to keep some joy in her daughter’s life, and the shrewd eyes of a lifelong citizen of the underclass.

“And you’re settling down in Midgar?” she asked.

“Ah, no, I’ll only be staying for a couple of weeks.”

Aerith’s shoulders drooped and Hawke winced. Then scolded herself for letting this all get to her. She had a home to return to, things to do and places to be. She still owed Varric a beer and a hearty roast nug dinner. “Maybe a couple of months, but only until I can build up enough resources to leave again.”

“And you want to teach my daughter ‘magic’, in the meantime?”

Hawke shrugged. “She asked.”

“Who else is going to teach me?” Aerith pleaded.

“Are you a Cetra, Hawke?” Elmyra asked, politely unmoved. “Descended from the Ancients?”

Hawke… didn’t know what that meant. She knew she was being gently accused of being a fraud, but not much else.

“I’m a mage,” she hedged. Ancients… like the ancient elves? She hadn’t seen any elves at all, only humans. That was weird. There were usually lots of elves in poorer districts.

Elmyra studied her for a moment. Aerith looked beseeching. Finally, the woman clapped her hands together.

“Well, if you’re happy to teach, we’re happy to have you. I should love to see it. Would you…? If you don’t mind?”

“Yes!” Aerith said, bouncing with excitement.

“Of course, not at all,” Hawke said. “Here? Now?”

“Let’s go into the living room. You can leave your staff and armour here,” Elmyra said with a smile and a wink. “Materia doesn’t count.”

Hawke nodded and did as instructed, pulling off her gauntlet and weapons. It made sense. She did look a bit like a grifter. Probably on account of all those grifts she pulled.

Aerith herded her into the small living room, biting her lip in excitement. She found herself standing in the centre of a rag rug under a warm yellow light that hung from the ceiling.

Elmyra sat in an armchair with her hands folded in her lap, like a kindly judge who was very sorry to have to give you this sentence and hoped you would make better choices in the future.

Aerith stood in front of Hawke, her hands tensing and releasing nervously. “What do I do?”

Hawke scratched the back of her neck. It had been a while since she’d done any actual teaching. She and Merrill and Anders had all talked shop back in the day, before… before, but they had all been experienced mages, well on their way to being experts in their own fields. She had taught Bethany though, in the early days. She cracked her knuckles and shook her hands out.

“Okay…” she began. “What is materia?” May as well start with what her pupil knew.

“The knowledge of the ancients,” Aerith replied with a sage nod, “preserved in Mako crystals.”

Hawke nodded. That likely meant… “its inactive magic.” Probably like an enchantment, lyrium merged with a magical essence to make something that anyone could use. Was that what Mako was? Lyrium?

“What you and I can do is active magic. No piggybacking on anyone else’s knowledge, or letting the crystal set the structure or power level, you’ve got to know it all yourself. You’ve got to control it all yourself.”

Aerith nodded, her eyes serious and her hands clasped in front of her.

“It’s harder, a lot harder. But once you know what you’re doing there are very few limitations.” Magic was a function of belief. Or, as Hawke liked to think of it, a subset of the school of bullshit. You could get away with pretty much anything if you did it with enough confidence.

“Do you know how to cast a spirit bolt? It’s about the easiest spell out there.”

Aerith shook her head. “I only know a few healing spells.”

“Stretch your hand out.”

Hawke lifted her own hand and pulled the tiniest smidge of mana into her palm. It hung there, not quite glowing and not quite visible, like a trick of the light that strained your eyes if you tried to focus on it. She formed the outline of the bolt, the simplest twist, and let the mana fall through it. It sizzled into life, a little white ball of energy that would give a mild shock on impact.

Elmyra stood. Aerith stared at it with keen eyes. She let the frame go and it dissipated back into harmless mana.

She took Aerith’s outstretched hand and formed the same outline in the girl’s palm.

“Oh,” Aerith murmured, her eyes losing focus.

“Do you feel the shape?”

She nodded.

“Push your mana into it, let it flood the structure and take on the shape, just…like…” A spirit bolt flashed in Aerith’s hand, wobbly and fluctuating in power level, but real and strong and entirely Aerith’s. “…that.”

“Elmyra,” Hawke said, still keeping her hand under Aerith’s to hold the bolt in place. “Do you have something we can hit? A handkerchief maybe?”

“Oh, yes, of course,” Elmyra said, looking around. She came up with a bright pink feather duster. “Will this do?”

“Perfect. Would you be so kind as to throw it?”

She grinned at Aerith. “Spirit bolts always find their targets, all you have to do is focus on what you want to hit and release it. Ready?”

Aerith nodded, wearing an expression of focus, but with excitement bubbling in her eyes.

“Now, mum!”

Elmyra lobbed the thing in an awkward arc and Aerith dropped her hand. The sparking bolt sprang out towards the feather duster and it occurred to Hawke why it probably wasn’t the best object to use for target practice half a second before impact.

The feather dusted exploded in a ‘poof’ and a rain of feathers.

Hawke snorted a laugh, pink feathers landing in her hair. Elmyra and Aerith looked stunned.

“Oh,” Aerith whispered, covering her mouth.

She burst into tears.

“Oh, my darling,” Elmyra said, rushing forward and folding her into a feathery hug. “My clever, clever girl.” She sniffed and blinked her suspiciously damp eyes.

Hawke retreated to the kitchen.

Her pile of daggers and armour greeted her, glinting coldly in the light. Sniffling sounds were coming from the living room.

She picked up a knife and put it back in its sheath. There. That was better.

A tea kettle sat on what looked like a stove. She poked around with the controls and found it produced something flammable when she twisted the nobs, so she used a little fire spell to get a flame going and the water heating.

Soft and emotionally charged murmurings were still coming from the living room.

She slid another dagger into its sheath.

They were so nice and wholesome. So heart-warmingly domestic. This was going to be awful.

Aerith hadn’t even known a spirit bolt. She’d picked it up with very little prompting and likely would have figured it out on her own given time, but she was already being watched. The feeling of eyes on the back of her head had followed her from the chantry building all the way to the house. Whoever it was, Hawke had no doubt they were bad news.

Maybe there were Templars here and they just had a different name.

Eventually, Aerith appeared in the kitchen doorway.

“I will see you tomorrow,” she said in a tone that brooked no argument, still wiping at her cheek.

Hawke looked to Elmyra, who was standing behind her and received a nod.

“I suppose you will. Goodnight, Aerith.”

“G’night,” she replied and then disappeared up the stairs.

Elmyra came into the kitchen proper and regarded Hawke cautiously. The kettle started to whistle. She took it off the stove and busied about making something that smelled like cinnamon. She didn’t look up at Hawke until she was pushing a mug into her hands. 

“Thank you,” Elmyra said in a hushed tone. “I don’t think you know how much this means to her.”

Hawke looked into the milky depths. “I think I do.”

“She went looking for you after you left. That’s why she was out so late.” Elmyra sighed. “Ever since her birth mother died I think she’s felt…” she trailed off then shook herself out of it.  “What do you want in return?”

Hawke held up her hands. “Nothing. I’m not…  Look, an untrained mage is a danger to themselves as much as the people around them. She’s already picked up at least one interested party out there. She’ll be safer once she can use her own power.”

Elmyra nodded. The tilt of her chin and raised eyebrow said she wasn’t fully convinced but was prepared to let Hawke get away with it for now.

“Where are you staying?”

“I’m still sorting out the details.” Right. Lodgings. And preferably some food, eventually. When had she last eaten?

“You can stay with us, while you find your feet.”

Hawke shook her head and began to stand. “I couldn’t do that.”

“Nonsense. It’s late. Nothing nearby will be open. I’ll get you some pyjamas.”  She bustled out of the kitchen before Hawke could react beyond a startled blink.

Well. That explained Aerith’s skills of persuasion.

Elmyra returned, carrying a folded stack of flannels. “Here you are, dear. Upstairs on the left.”

Hawke took the clothes and waited for an ‘I’ve got my eye on you,’ or maybe an ‘if you hurt my little girl, Hawke, you’ll be sorry.’ None were forthcoming.

“You’re very kind,” she said into the ensuing awkward silence. She would have felt so much better about it if someone had threatened her.

She slunk up the stairs and found herself back in the pastel-coloured guest room, this time wearing floral bedclothes six inches too short for her.

Genesis looked over the lab results. He didn’t understand what most of it meant. The relevant information, however, was in plain English in bold red ink.

“I am still degrading,” he said. His shoulders fell. It didn’t hurt. Nothing hurt, in a way that he had forgotten was possible. He hadn’t realised how accustomed to chronic pain he had become.

“Yes, and at the same rate,” Doctor Hollander replied. “There’s been no real change. Whatever you did was superficial at best. A dead end.”

Genesis looked up at him over the printed results. “Yes, quality of life, how meaningless.”

Hollander crossed his arms, his lab coat pulling awkwardly over his yellow t-shirt. “How did you do it?”

“You tell me, doctor,” he replied, narrowing his eyes. That was the pattern of these visits, wasn’t it? He gave Hollander information and resources, and Hollander used them to conclude that nobody else could help. Just not yet. No cure today. Come back tomorrow, with more resources. Around and around they went, with nothing progressing except the degradation.

Hollander cleared his throat and re-crossed his arms the other way. “I don’t think it will last. Your shoulder will reopen. Come back tomorrow, I’ll re-examine it.”

“Or you could simply tell me you don’t know what’s happening today and save us both the effort.”

Hollander harrumphed. “Genetics are complicated, yours especially. It takes time to get these things right. If you rush you get… mistakes.”

A sneer pulled across Genesis’ face. It wasn’t a surprise that Hollander wasn’t happy to see him healing. He had been a showroom piece for Shinra’s Science Department too long for that kind of naivety. It was disappointing and infuriating. But not surprising.

“Perhaps,” he said, tilting his head and stepping closer to the doctor, “if you had gotten my genetics right from the beginning, neither one of us would be paying the price for your mistakes.” 

Hollander had the gall to look offended. The snake.

“You’re…you’re going back to the front, soon. Back to the war,” Hollander said, in the least subtle conspiratorial voice Genesis had heard outside of a pantomime. “Are you ready?”

“You really can’t rush these things, doctor,” he replied. “Strategy is complicated.”

He let the lab results flitter to the floor and turned to walk away.

“Genesis!”

“Yes?”

Hollander glanced around, his shoulders hunched. “Tomorrow morning then?”

Genesis smiled wanly. “Perhaps Thursday, if I have the time.”

If Hollander was so keen to launch a rebellion against Shinra, he could do it himself. Genesis walked out of the office with something self-satisfied simmering away inside him.

He bumped into Angeal on the way out.

“What are you doing here?” Angeal asked, greeting him with a one-armed hug and a poorly hidden glance at his shoulder. 

“What am I doing here, what are you doing here?” Genesis replied. He strategically adjusted his fringe with his left arm in a blatant display of the range of movement in his arm. Angeal hadn’t even known to what extent he’d lost it, but he couldn’t resist the temptation to flaunt it now that it was back.

“Just a check-up,” Angeal replied with an easy smile.

Genesis’ self-satisfaction cooled. “What for?”

“Some lingering aches, an old strain. Nothing serious. You look better though, I guess we should all get checked up more often.”

He nodded, mute. He gripped Angeal’s shoulder. “I’ll see you at the bar tomorrow?”

Angeal looked at him oddly. “Of course.”

They parted ways and Genesis left the Shinra building for his apartment, feeling the weight of Angeal’s ignorant cheerfulness.

Angeal was going to degrade too, Hollander had warned him. They were bred under the same monstrous circumstances, but he’d thought there would be more time. He was older than Angeal and it had taken an injury to trigger his own cellular decay. Hollander had proven himself to know so little that he’d begun to hope maybe he was wrong about that too.

A dangerous assumption.

He needed to find the woman from the slums.

He stepped into his living room. He had forgotten to turn his air conditioner off when he left; the apartment was a blissful cool temperature. What did it matter? Shinra covered his living costs.

He looked around. Comfortable leather couches, magnificent paintings on the wall, and that splendid Wutaian mural. The mahogany coffee table with its single cup stain that he refused to replace so that Sephiroth would be confronted with his sins every time he visited.

He had been slowly removing the personal touches over the last month. He moved his photos from the mantelpiece and painstakingly found all the lost journals wedged between couch cushions and left abandoned on window sills. Getting ready to leave it all behind.

But he couldn’t very well leave now, the cure was hiding in the slums somewhere. Angeal needed it just as much as he did. If she could do it once, she could do it again, no matter what Hollander said. All the doctor’s grand ideas of revenge and clones and burning Shinra down felt more like delusions when he woke up in the dirt with his injuries healed.

He hadn’t even caught the woman’s name. She didn’t know his either, perplexingly. What did that mean?

He sighed at himself and took his boots off. He was going to find her, preferably before he got shipped out to Wutai again. He had no other choice. But it had been dark and he wasn’t paying all that much attention. And then that little monster got the drop on him and it all turned blurry. So what did he know?

She was tall. Possibly even as tall as him. Short black hair in a messy cut, strange armour, and he thought he saw blue eyes but that might have simply been the lightning she threw. She was irritatingly beautiful, he remembered that. Beautiful like a well-thrown blade, or the golden edgings of sunlight on a black storm cloud.

He couldn’t place her accent either. Northern continent maybe? She had the colouring and build for it, but she carried herself like a consummate city dweller.

He should have gotten her name. 

He ran a hand through his hair. A dark-haired woman with strange armour? That was likely a quarter of all the women below the plate.

She carried multiple materia and knew how to use them. That narrowed down the pool of suspects dramatically. She was wielding it in public too and he couldn’t have been the only one to notice. Perhaps he could start by querying the weapon and materia shops.

Just what did she do to heal him? He carried a mastered full cure himself it did nothing for his injuries. He had as many health potions as Shinra could make at his disposal, and still, nothing. All of Doctor Hollander’s expertise. It amounted to nothing.

What could anyone achieve in less than two minutes that all the healing in Shinra couldn’t? Who was she?

Aerith watched Hawke try to balance her staff on her forehead. The blade swayed high in the air and she shimmied about to try and keep it upright.

They were in the church, Aerith kneeling by the flower pit in her favourite dress and ready for a day of lessons.  She tested the dampness of the soil out habit and smiled down at the white blooms.

There was a crash and a flurry of cursing.

She looked at her teacher in concern.

“Remind me to go over proper weapon handling at some point,” Hawke said, rubbing her nose.

“So…” Aerith said. She narrowed her eyes as the woman reached for her staff again, “…magic?”

“Mm-hm?”

“Hawke.”

“The first rule of magic,” she said, twirling the staff then planting it on the floorboards with a thud, “-is that there are no rules and anything is possible.”

Aerith sat up straight.

“The second rule of magic: You can only do what you know you can do. You cannot do what you know you cannot do.”

Aerith furrowed her brow. “But anything is possible.”

“Correct. Put those two together and what do you have?”

“A riddle?”

“Ha, almost.” Hawke sank down cross-legged in front of her, sharp armour bits sticking out in every direction like a lopsided hedgehog. “In training you I am giving you a foundation to build on, and as with any foundation, it supports the building, while also setting its limits. The Fade is a function of perspective, magic a function of belief. What you think, what you know, matters. You cannot build beyond the foundation without going back and redoing it all.”

Aerith hummed. She ran her hands through the topsoil. “But everything is possible?”

Hawke held up a finger. “Anything. Not everything.”

“I was expecting you to make me chant things or, I don’t know, dance in the moonlight, or something.”

“Moonlit dancing is magical and don’t listen to anyone who tells you otherwise.”

She snorted a laugh. “We’ll do that later then.”

Hawke leaned back on her hands and smiled. “I’m bringing it up because letting me train you, letting anyone train you, is letting someone else decide how big the canvas is. But they’re also teaching you how to paint and giving you a free starter palette. Pros and cons.”

Aerith grew still, her hands still in the soil. “So if I just figured things out on my own, I might develop magic you don’t know about?”

“Absolutely, you would. If you did it on your own everything you came up with would be utterly unlike what I do. You might even do things that are impossible because you don’t know any better.”

“Ha!”

“I pick and mix from a dozen magical traditions. I’m building on what others have already figured out, you won’t be able to build that level of complexity by yourself.”

She closed her fist in the dirt. “But… the knowledge of the Ancients…” Her birth mother could have done things Hawke never could, she knew it in her bones.

Hawke shrugged, a sad smile on her lips. “You’d have to ask the Ancients. All I’ve got is the knowledge of the Hawke.” She stood, dusted off her hands, and offered one to her. “Do you still want it?”

She took her hand from the flower patch. There was dirt under her nails. “Asking the Ancients hasn’t gotten me very far.”

“You healed me.”

“I did.”

She took Hawke’s hand. The woman pulled her up and gave her a wink.

“So what’s the Fade?” Aerith asked

“Hooo boy,” Hawke said, letting out a gusty breath.

The Fade, it turned out, was the Lifestream. Or at least something so similar that Hawke couldn’t tell the difference. You could connect with it in your dreams and it was everywhere.

There was no getting around the fact that Hawke was… foreign. If her blatant questions the first day hadn’t given it away, then her easy mastery of the most exotic magic would have. She wasn’t a Cetra, she was something else.

The planet hummed around her strangely. Most days Aerith couldn’t understand it, it was like a low-pressure ache throbbing around her heart. The pressure amped up around Hawke. Twisting into almost a word, on the tip of her tongue. If she had to name it in human language it would have been… Outsider.

“Where are you from again?” she asked, midway through the lesson.

“Hm? Kalm,” Hawke replied, not missing a beat in the swinging of her staff and the building of a spell. “Eastern outskirts, near Old Bill’s chocobo farm. I can’t ride for shit though. Ever been?”

Aerith shook her head. Hawke was good at this. It was kind of scary.

Outsider, the planet called her.

Well, what did it matter? There was nobody else around to teach her this stuff.

She crushed the worry deep down inside her and focused on the lesson.

It was fascinating. She was learning, more than she had since her mother joined with the Lifestream. She swung her humble staff around and the magic released with an oomph that she felt all the way up her arms. The planet hummed around her, and she could have sworn the pressure felt happy for her.

The day drew to a close and they set out for home. Aerith, exhausted, locked the church doors, and Hawke chattered on happily about this and that. 

“Who are they?” she asked, her tone unchanging. “The chaps watching from the opposite roof?”

Aerith stiffened. “They’re, uh, friends. From Shinra.”

“Uh-huh.” Hawke replied. She waved obnoxiously.

Aerith followed her line of sight up to Reno and Rude, watching from a position more obvious than normal on a roof across the road.

Reno waved back.

She gulped.

Hang on, no. She wasn’t going to hide, she wasn’t doing anything wrong. With Hawke standing next to her and magical exhaustion sending tremors through her fingers she felt bold. She waved too. Reno smiled a toothy grin.

Aerith lead the way home.

Chapter Text

The Fat Chocobo was a poorly lit pub with faded and peeling racing memorabilia on the walls and the smell of yesterday’s spilled drinks in the air. A jaunty tone played from a box in the corner with half its lights blown out,  and silent TVs behind the bar showed replays of old chocobo races.

Hawke stretched her legs out and grinned. She knew they were called TVs and felt rather pleased with herself over it. She still didn’t know how lightbulbs worked, but progress was progress.

“It’s electricity, innit,” the very drunk man next to her said, waving at the light bulbs dangling overhead.

“Yeah, so?” she replied, squinting. “It’s can’t be just lightning in tiny glass orbs, that’d break the glass!”

The man scrunched up his forehead. “It’s like.. wires and stuff. Mako energy.” He nodded sagely.

“Oh, Mako energy, of course.” She had meant to learn more about Mako and Shinra's whole thing. Hadn't found the time yet, between training Aerith, looking for a place to stay, and just surviving. 

A hand brushed against her back pocket. She reached back, grabbed the hand, and hauled the attached person into view. Startled green eyes under a mop of chaotic red blinked at her. The Turk from outside the church.

“You’re just in time,” she exclaimed, dumping him on the seat next to her, “next round’s on you!”

The drunk on her other side cheered.

“That's some bullshit, yo,” the red head said. He still waved at the bar tender and settled onto his bar stool like that was where he had intended to end up all along.

“I'll have a nice dark ale,” Hawke said, “something good and hoppy, lots of body to it, and a serious head on top, like a solid two inches.”

The bartender passed her another warm pale ale topped with a mere hint of foam.

“Perfect, exactly what I wanted,” she said.

The drunk clinked his drink with hers, chuckling, and raised a glass to the Turk.

The Turk smirked. A thought could be visually traced entered the drunk’s mind at the sight, percolating through a lot of alcohol, and then blinking into realisation on his face. Hawke watched the process with curiosity. The smirk on her left grew, and the rosy red cheeks on her right drained of colour.  

“I, uh, cheers, for the drink,” he said, raising his glass again. He stumbled off his bar stool, nodded politely, and retreated.

Hawke took a sip of her sad beer. The Turk stretched out his lanky arms and cracked his neck, moving like a man who would have a lot of joint trouble when he was older if he had any plans of living that long. His red hair was all spikes falling this way and that, barely held back by a set of goggles pushed up onto his forehead. A sharp red line ran along each cheek bone. She thought they might be tattoos over scar tissue.

“So, how’s Midgar treating you?” he asked. “I’m Reno.”

“Hawke, and it’s everything I could have hoped for,” she replied, grinning.

“City of dreams, yo.” He raised his glass and so did she and -oh. He wanted to get her drunk. To loosen her lips, or so he could beat her up and have an easier time making her disappear?

She took a swig, eying up the three empty glasses already in front of her. Eh. Whatever. She could outdrink a Carta dwarf most days.

“So what's that card game happening behind us?” she asked.

“Quetzalcoatl five?”

She blinked. “It’s what?”

Reno raised his eyebrows, a lazy smile on his lips. “They don't play Q5 up north?”

She smiled back. “No, nobody plays that, back home, in the north.”

He snorted. He pulled out a pack of cards and went over the rules. Or at least, what he said were the rules. She was pretty sure he was either making it all up, twisting it just enough to make her look like an idiot if she tried playing, or the people in this city had the worst taste in card games possible.

“So you want to keep a queen in reserve as long as possible?” she asked, staring down at the cards spread out on the bar in growing confusion. The game was played with teams of two, except for when it wasn’t, and it had three stages unless you were playing Junon style which was five stages, but above the plate, people were playing four these days. She held onto her empty glass for comfort.

“Losing the queen early is pretty much a deal-breaker, and a good way to get your kneecaps broke by your partner.” He was on his second drink and getting into the rhythm of it. “But you gotta play it when the second switch happens or it’s too late. Unless it hearts, or you’re the third player, then you want to get rid of it, A-bloody-SAP.”

“So, so, the third player-”

“Third player, If you’re playing with four. If you’re playing with three then it’s the first player, if two its nobody. You get it.”

“Yes.” She nodded. “I get it.”

“Ready to play a round?” he drawled.

“Will I get my kneecaps caved in?” The spiked metal knees of her greaves scratched against the underside of the bar.

“Only if you don’t pay up,” he said with a grin and a flick of his hands as he shuffled and dealt her in. “But you’re wearing a lot of blood, I’m sure you could take me.”

She flashed him a toothy smile. “Na.”

The night rolled on. The conversation was loose and fun and full of little barbed traps looking for information. She dished out lies and truth with equal generosity and no discernible pattern. He squinted at her in bafflement while taking her money. Her sleight of hand was just good enough to get her a victory or two, but even that was a stretch and she was pretty sure he was letting her.

“And I win again,” Reno drawled.

“Why?” she asked, on the verge of tearing her hair out. The fact that the local variant of an Anvtivan Crow or Orlesian Bard was taking her for a ride didn’t hurt nearly so much as being terrible at cards. Varric would be shaking his head somewhere.

He shrugged. “I played three of hearts after the second switch.”

She let her head fall onto the bar with a thud. It was sticky. “This is for stopping you from getting my wallet, isn’t it? It’s a pantomime mugging of vengeance.”

He laughed. “You’re not even making it hard for me.”

“That’s it, I hate Midgar. I’m leaving.”

“And go where?”

“Back north, of course.” She rested her chin on her knuckles on the bar and sighed. “I never should have left the farm. I miss grandma’s cooking.”

“But we’ve got such a good thing going here.”

“Maker, don’t insult me.”

“I bet you don’t even have a grandma.”

“Everyone has a grandma, Reno, that’s how ancestry works.”

He stacked the cards back up, tapping the deck on the bar. The barback had cleared away their empty glasses so she had no idea how many he was on. His patented slouch was getting slouchier “Play again?”

“No, thanks. I’m outta coin, must think of my poor vulnerable kneecaps.”

“Don’t worry so much,” he said. “You already owe me, and here I am being so nice about it.”

She looked at him sidelong. “I don’t remember taking out a loan.”

“Do you remember inviting yourself into a church and making yourself comfortable?” He rolled his neck lazily, with an unpleasant crack.

Her lip twitched and she leaned back on the stool. “Oh, finally going to share that threat you’ve been sitting on all night?”

“You know the drill, yeah?”

“Don’t rock the boat, don’t step on any toes, don’t get too big for my britches, etc, etc.” She drained her glass.

He nodded along. “Not that we mind having an extra set of eyes around the place, just so long as you don’t get in the way, or start getting any bright ideas.”

“Or I’ll be sorry,” she said with professional understanding.

“So sorry, yo.” He folded his winnings into his wallet.

It was kind of nice to be a two-bit mercenary again, getting shaken down by the local corrupt government. The Champion of Kirkwall had to deal with armies and snide diplomats, but Hawke got threatened in dirty bars. Maker, she missed being just Hawke.

“Well, interesting game,” she said, making a show of shaking herself and getting up. “Maybe I’ll get better with some practice.”

He smirked “Not too bad for a first timer. That dealing from the bottom was very slick.”

She gave a half-hearted smile and squeezed past him on her way out.

 Reno stayed seated, staring at his half full glass of light beer.

The pub had slowly emptied as they played and nobody else was sitting up at the bar anymore. He didn’t look up until the barback stood across from him, her arms crossed.

“Well, that was a… fascinating waste of time,” she said.

He cracked a smile. “Speak for yourself. I just made three hundred gil.” 

Cissnei gave him a flat look. The apron and borrowed uniform made her look tiny. “Did you learn anything in exchange? Or did she just pay you to get off her back?”

He waved the question off. “She’s not going to be trouble.”

“You think? Did you get her ID?”

“Got clever fingers, I’ll give her that.”

“Tseng will be… disappointed.”

He scowled and sat up straight. “No way she’s even got ID.” He drummed his fingers against the bar. “She’s a burned out merc or bounty hunter who’s too tired to go against the flow anymore and too experienced to get tangled up in anything. No friends or contacts in the city ‘xcept the little flower girl, no affiliations, and nothing to her name but the clothes on her back.”

“What’s she doing in Midgar?”

“Just washed up here.” He gestured with his head to the empty old bar. It smelled like piss and fried food gone cold. “Like everybody else.”

“From where?”

“Does it matter?”

Cissnei looked thoughtfully towards the exit. “I guess not. I’ll see you back at HQ.”

He nodded and took one last swallow of beer. He stood, his hand reaching back into his pocket, only to find his wallet missing.

Entering the Fade while trashed was always a weird experience.

After drinking with Reno Hawke made it home and collapsed straight into bed, without a care for whatever was going to happen next.

Alcohol affected your brain but only your mind passed through the Veil. It was easy to get the two confused until you fell asleep and your mind neatly slipped into the dream realm and left the brain’s drunken nonsense at the door. It felt a little like getting kicked out of a tavern onto the damp and dirty ground, only the tavern was your body and the ground was being stone cold sober.

Hawke sat up in the dream realm with a distinct sense of betrayal.

She had been so carefully avoiding entering the Fade too. Ever since stumbling into Midgar, she’d done what she could to make sure she never slept deeply enough for it.

She sucked in a breath and grudgingly got her feet. The dream version of the floral guest room that didn’t have quite enough presence to settle on a particular colour or size. The room certainly had walls and a roof but how far away they really were and how solid they would be once you got there was less certain. The same for the colouring. Her mind recognised the carpets as ‘pastel’ but not any particular shade therein.

Stupid Fade.

She was used to it, it was fine, she was a mage and that meant entering the Fade whenever she dreamed. It was fine. She just so happened to hate it.  

She wandered out into the corridor. The whole house was a bit wobbly, in Fade terms. That surprised her, surely Aerith wandered through here often enough with her full memories and grasp of the location to anchor the spot down.

Maybe Aerith wasn’t a very strong dreamer. It took a strong dreamer to bring some clarity to the raw nonsense of the Fade. But that was ridiculous, Aerith was a strong mage and that equated to a strong dreamer. That was how it worked.  

Hawke slung her staff off her back and hummed as she trotted down the stairs. The kitchen floor had been replaced with cracked concrete and upturned earth. Stringy weeds grew around the legs of the table and benches, flowering in little bunches of colour. Flowers spewed out of the walls like sap from a tree

Alright, so Aerith definitely had a strong impact on the Fade, just an inconsistent one. Hawke would probably have to talk to her about that.

She stepped around a tall reaching vine that was half steel girder. She squared her shoulders, twirled her staff, and sauntered out into the false daylight.

Confidence was vital in the dream world. If you acted like you knew what you were doing, it typically played along. If you felt afraid or vulnerable, it would play along with that too. You were at the whims of the Fade no matter what you did.  

She looked up from the rickety porch. Instead of the expected metal underbelly of the plate, large islands floated above her, their dark rocky undersides much closer to the ground than Shinra’s upper city was in the Material world.  

“Huh,” she said. “More green than normal.”

The Thedas horizon was usually a kind of muddy brown. Fluctuating greens and blues coloured the air, filtering down between the various islands. There was a sort of stringy quality to it.

She waved a hand through it. It looked like it should have been thick, like moving through soup, but there was no resistance and only the lightest change in the swirls of the green air.

Weird.

She shook her head and kept walking. Of course it was weird, it was the Fade.

Paths of rocky earth and cracked concrete appeared and faded away around her. She reached the top of a small hillock and looked around. There were no buildings. Aerith’s house stood out as strange little structure all on its own, under the shadow a cliff. There was the hint of something further up a floating island, something pearly white, like a marble wall maybe. But there was nothing down on the ground. It was just… empty. Desolate.

Not even any spirits.

That couldn’t be right. She scowled, peering through the translucent green air. This should have been the territory of a powerful despair demon, or maybe rage, or sloth. Something! There was so much pain and aggression in the slums, it should have reflected into the Fade and birthed hundreds, thousands of little wisps and spirits feeding off the emotion.

The Veil between worlds was weak around Midgar too. With all the structural integrity of a doily, the spirits should have been flocking here, jockeying for power and slipping through the veil every which way. Possessions, abominations, and random hauntings should have been rampant like it was in Kirkwall.

The barren earth looked back at her bleakly, offering no answers and producing no demons as it rightly should have.  

Even the Veil felt different.

Maybe the Dread Wolf did a trial run making the Veil here before committing to Thedas’ version.

Her thoughts came to a screeching halt.

What? No, oh no.  The stringy air was too green and sharp, pulling, tearing at her. Green and purple and shattering glass. She stumbled backwards, the thick viscous air choking her, cracking, shattering, fraying.  

She woke up hyperventilating. She fell out of bed and threw up into a pot of marigolds.

The carpet was pastel pink and solid. The worn down threads cut into her knees and cold seeped up from the kitchen downstairs. She panted, a thin string of spit clinging to her mouth.

The Veil was made by the Dread Wolf to stop the Evanuris from ending the world.

She clapped a hand over her mouth.

She didn’t know that. How could anyone know that. She didn’t even know the old elvhen gods were called the Evanuris before- before.

Maker, she was still drunk. She reached for the glass of water on the bedside table with shaking hands and gulped it down.

Nobody had called them the Evanuris within living memory. Or for what, six, eight thousand years? How did she even know that?

She got her breathing under control. Maker forsaken void, these weren’t her memories and she didn’t appreciate the loan. She rinsed her mouth out into the pot plant. Could hardly make it worse now.

She got up onto wobbling legs and stumbled down the stairs. Oh, when she got back home she was going to give that bald elf bastard in the Inquisition such a piece of her mind.

“‘Solas,’, my ass,” she mumbled, leaning heavily against the kitchen bench. Flemeth too. This felt like she’d do.  Ancient Elves, running around ruining everyone’s day, dumping perfectly nice people in cities they didn’t belong with memories they didn’t ask for. Inconsiderate was what it was.

She splashed some water on her face and pretended like that helped.

She glanced through into the dark living room and saw the backpack vacuum cleaner was gone. Elmyra must have been at work still. Thank the Maker for that, she didn’t think she could handle caring maternal concern right now.

She turned to the fridge and grabbed a snack. The box boasted imitation white apple juice flavouring, even though the apple pictured on the box was blatantly purple. She snorted and it turned into a giggle, thin and strained. What a ridiculous night.

With a shake of her head and a desperate attempt to pretend her stride was steady, she walked back upstairs. She wasn’t going to let it throw her, not now at least. She was going to have such a headache in the morning. Back in her room, she picked up the abused marigolds and deposited them on the roof outside her window and closed the curtains. Tomorrow’s problem.

She got back into bed, sighing and wiggling her toes. Honestly. She tried to think what Varric would say about it all but couldn’t get much further than ‘well, shit.’

She closed her eyes.

She opened them in the Fade.

“Oh, for goodness sake,” she said, digging the heels of her palms into her eye sockets.

She got up, again, grumbling extensively. She glanced out the window. Yup, green-blue Fade world still out there under a shifting canopy of floating islands. The pot plant was still there too, looking at her accusingly. She walked over to Aerith’s room and knocked on the door.

“Hey, Aerith, you in?”

There was no reply so she pushed open the door gently.

White light streamed out into the dimly lit corridor. She blinked owlishly at it before her eyes adjusted.

Flowers covered the floor like an infinite, lush carpet. Aerith was crouching a few meters away tending to a bush of yellow calla lilies. She looked up at the intrusion.

There was no ceiling. Just a white void stretching up forever.

Hawke stepped through the door and peered around. There was a single wall, the one with the door in it, that just sort of stopped existing after about four meters in each direction into the same white, bright, nothing.

Hawke stared at it long enough for her eyes to get sore. Then she squinted at Aerith.

The Cetra was looking up at her curiously, a slight frown creasing her forehead.

What exactly was going on, and why was it happening in Aerith’s bedroom?

Aerith tilted her head sideways. “I’m dreaming, aren’t I?”

“Mm-hm. This is the Fade.” Hawke kicked at the ground, feeling very petty. “Despite my best efforts.” There wasn’t even any dirt. The plants were growing out of carpet, their roots disappearing between the worn down threads.

“So the Fade is the Lifestream,” Aerith said, nodding to herself. “I knew it.”

Hawke sank down onto the ground. She gave up, she didn’t have the energy to keep on being confused. “What’s the Lifestream?”  

“It’s our mother,” Aerith said simply.

Hawke blinked at her.

She huffed and shrugged. She waved expressively for a moment as she drummed up the words. “All life comes from the Lifestream, and all lives returns to it afterwards. It’s… it's energy. The planet’s energy, Gaia itself.” She sat back on her knees, her hands folded neatly in her lap. Even here there was dirt under her nails. She smiled as she spoke. “The Cetra were Gaia’s first children, and they have a stronger connection to her. Humans came afterwards. They can’t hear her calls, but they still return to her.”

Hawke watched her, pieces falling quietly into place in her mind.

“Who told you that?” she asked.

Aerith turned her head, reaching for the nearest plant. “Why don’t you like lilies?”

Hawke frowned at the non-sequitur. “Terrible accident in a perfume aisle.”

Aerith pursed her lips.

“Did you do that?” Hawke pointed up. To where there should have been a ceiling of fickle Fade-scape and pleasant, uniform whiteness glowed instead.

“I wanted to make it brighter,” she replied, looking up with one eye squinting.  “I was… eight? The flowers weren’t happy. They needed more light, and I thought I could try… bringing the sky to them. It didn’t really work.”

Hawke nodded slowly, calmly, feeling either a scream or a hysterical laugh catching in her throat. Without the least bit of training, Aerith had permanently reshaped the Fade, on a whim, and considered it a failure. And she was looking to Hawke for guidance.

“The Cetra have a stronger connection to the Lifestream,” she said, just to make sure she had all the pieces lined up in the proper order.

“That’s what makes us Cetra.”

She smiled. Aerith’s attention was wandering back to the lilies.

“You’re a Fade shaper,” Hawke said. “Like the Ancient elves.”

“What does that mean?”

She pointed up again. “I can’t do that. I’m just a normal mage.” Her hand dropped and an affectionate smile split her face. “You, my dear, are something much more powerful.”

Aerith grinned back at her, looking up only briefly from the plants. “I know.” 

Hawke snorted. She let herself fall backwards until she was lying amongst the blossoms. A patch of blue and purple pansies bobbed over her head. “Are the flowers happy?”

There was a hum. “Yes, I think they are.”

“That’s something at least,” Hawke said lightly, closing her eyes.

Reno was waiting outside the church the next morning, his hands shoved in his pockets and a scowl on his face.

Hawke threw him his wallet as Aerith went ahead and opened up the doors.

“That’s not funny, yo.”

“It’s hilarious,” Hawke said, “drinks next week?”

He waved and wandered off.

Inside, they shut the doors and got down to business. They had covered a lot of ground in the week and a half since the start of the arrangement and Aerith needed time to process and practise it all.

She drew her staff and ran through some practice motions and basic spells.

Hawke paced near the altar, doing little loops by the mint bush on the edge of the hole in the floorboards and keeping Aerith in her peripheral vision.

A whole race of Fade shapers. Not elves though, Aerith’s magic didn’t feel elvhen, not even half elvhen. Or especially human, now that she thought about it.

They needed more information about the Cetra. There was a supposedly public library somewhere, maybe they’d have something. How much you could get for free remained to be seen. She’d take anything, at this point. Aerith didn’t know much about them, not her fault, there just wasn’t that much information available and nobody around to teach her. Perhaps the librarians could direct them somewhere more useful.

Assuming information about a magical and not-as-extinct-as-you-thought race wasn’t tightly controlled. On Thedas it sure as the void would be. Maker, the thing the conniptions the Templars would have over just the idea of it.

Aerith twirled her staff through a shield spell. The power wobbled for a moment, before the spell fizzled out. She cried out and dropped the staff. She stomped her foot with frustration.

Maybe… maybe there’d be some mention of Thedas in the libraries too.

Her eyes dropped. “You could be growing so much food here,” she said, off handed.

Aerith looked back over her shoulder.

“Do you have any idea how many tomatoes you’d get from that soil? How much you could sell them for? And courgette for days, I bet.” She leaned back against the waist high altar. Aerith’s forehead scrunched up. “Set up some frames and you could have aubergine, peppers, cucumbers. Spinach and silver beet if you can expand the top soil."

"I’m not growing food in here,” Aerith replied with an offended shake of her head. “That’s not… that’s not why I tend to the flowers.”

“Oh. I’m sorry.”

Aerith frowned and turned back to her staff, spinning it slowly. She already had a pretty grasp of how to use her weapon, and no hesitation in wielding a big stick in the normal manner when her magic ran out.

“Are the flower beds outside…hallowed too?” Hawke asked tentatively. She’d just been running her mouth, but now that she thought on it, it didn’t sound that bad an idea. “It doesn’t have to be about the money, but fresh produce would do this area a lot of good. That’s a good cause, right?”

“It’s not hallowed, it’s just… personal.”

Hawke blew her hair out of her face and leaned back on her hands. “When’s the last time you ate a vegetable that didn’t come from a tin or a freezer?”

Aerith bit her lip. “I had some fresh beans last summer.”

“And wouldn’t you like to have some more?”

Aerith narrowed her eyes at her. Hawke grinned.

“What do you know about gardening?”

She shrugged. “I grew up on a farm.”

“But you’re such a city girl,” Aerith said, looking her up and down.

“Honey, I can pickpocket thugs with one hand while milking a druffalo with the other.” Hawke tilted her head. “While on a train.”

“At rush hour,” Aerith added seriously.

“Standing on one leg.”

She snorted a laugh. “You’re ridiculous.” 

“Really? Nobody has ever said that before.”

She tapped her staff lightly on the ground, little creation spells that sent the plants shuddering up with little bursts of energy.

“Tomatoes?” she asked, looking up tentatively.

“Juicy and fresh, still some crunch to them, bursting with sweetness, and a little tang,” Hawke said, a slow smile stretching across her face. “10 gil a truss.”

“What’s a truss?”

“One vine’s worth, usually four or five.”

Aerith’s mouth fell open. “Only 10 gil for 5 tomatoes!”

“You could easily get three hundred fruit out of the patch out the front.”

Her eyes shone for a moment, then her expression fell again. “People would steal them.”

Hawke lifted her chin. “People would try.” Like she couldn’t just set a lightning glyph over the patch and let the thieves education themselves.

Aerith’s forehead scrunched up heavily. She counted on her fingers, tapping them against the staff.  Finally, she looked up, determination in her eyes. “Where do we get the seeds?”

“If you can prep the soil, I can get them by the day after tomorrow.” Hawke considered the flowers in front of her and the turns the weather had taken. “Given the time of year, we might be better off using saplings.”

“That would limit our yield.”

She threw back her head and laughed. “Alright, Messere Entrepreneur, don’t let me hold you down.”

Aerith put her hands on her hips. “If we’re going to sell veg, then we need veg to sell.”

“Alright, let’s do it. But magic practice today, gardening tomorrow.” She swung her staff off her back and spun it. “Shields up!”

Both women gestured and then slammed their staffs against the floor boards. Two shields sprung up in unison, impenetrable shimmering domes.

“Nice!” Hawke called.

There was a deafening crash. Smashed wood and roofing tiles thundered down around them, and a heavy body thudded against Aerith’s shield. She yelped as it bounced off and landed with a thud in the flower patch.

The shields flickered out and Aerith rushed over to the unconscious man.

“I don’t think he’s hurt, thank the planet,” she said, breathing heavily and her hand over her heart.

“That’s good,” Hawke said, a dagger in each hand.

He was tall and wearing a purple knit sweater with silver pauldrons. Aerith brushed thick black hair back from his face. He couldn’t have been older than seventeen, and he was in a Second Class SOLDIER uniform.

“Stand back, Aerith, give him some space,” she said, her hand on the girl’s shoulder and casting a smaller, stronger shield over her.   

The boy stirred. He mumbled something and blinked his eyes open. They glowed a violet blue.

“Heaven?” he asked up at Aerith’s smiling face.  

Aerith giggled. Hawke groaned.

Chapter Text

The SOLDIER’s name was Zack, and Aerith blushed very prettily when he smiled up at her.

Hawke watched with a crooked grin and figured that was the end of any magical lessons happening that day. Jolly teenagers.

The SOLDIER uniform worried her though. She’d seen the posters at every train station and hanging off of street lamps, Shinra’s elite fighting force. There were stands of recruitment pamphlets in every convenience store and they gave out a free SOLDIER trading card with every cup of coffee or 250ml healing potion bought before 10 am. Hawke had acquired and promptly lost six Third Class Swordsman cards and one Second Class Combat Medic. It took her an embarrassing number of days to figure out who the red man from the train graveyard way. Given the price his trading cards sold at, he was quite the big deal.

The pamphlets said they were all enhanced with Mako. That made them kind of magic, right? Like Fenris, with his Lyrium tattoos. Jury rigged mages, she would have said, if their postures in the posters and their strategic placement around the slums didn’t position them more like Templars, looking down on the populace and just waiting for someone to step out of line.

Zack didn’t carry himself like that, he was friendly and endearing. None of the Turks outside were worried about his sudden intrusion, and even Aerith didn’t hold the hole in the roof against him. He even laughed at one of Hawke’s jokes, which was a true rarity.

He didn’t stop to ask why there were Turks hanging around outside when he finally left.

Her contemplative mood followed Hawke into the Fade that night. She wandered the empty landscape, looking up at the looming floating islands with narrowed eyes.

Mako must have been different from lyrium after all if they were routinely treating people with it. The lyrium ritual had marred Fenris so badly he’d lost all of his memories, even his name. Templars took lyrium orally to strengthen their anti-magic powers, but that did nothing for their physical strength and she was pretty sure its real purpose was to just keep them addicted to a Chantry controlled substance instead of any actual benefit. Keeping the leash short.

What did that make the SOLDIERs?

Shifting pathways appeared and died out around her. A bit like the Wounded Coast, she thought, kicking at the clumpy dirt. There was a Fade version of the church, but she didn’t stop. She rarely had the mental fortitude for Fade Chantries.

The island Aerith’s house stood on drew to an end. The thick green void stretched out below, interrupted by other islands here and there. She wondered sometimes if there was some kind of bedrock if you kept going down far enough. She didn’t know anyone who’d fallen off the edge without either waking up or just landing on another island.

What surprised her was the bridge.

An elegant white structure stretching out into the green. Its surface looked like mother of pearl, with a swirly sheen and depth to it. She tentatively took a step, and then took some bolder ones when it didn’t fall out beneath her feet. It led high up to the upper islands, despite every step feeling like it was made on level ground.

Aerith hadn’t said anything about building bridges.

The bridge curled around the bulk of an island in the way and Hawke paused mid-step.

A magnificent city towered up above her. Buildings like curling seashells, pearl towers reaching up from multiple islands, connected by elegant soaring bridges. A river of light rose up in directions rivers typically didn’t, floating between the islands. The entire thing was made of the same white material as the walkway beneath her feet, with no brickwork or stone, looking more like a city that had been grown and cultivated than built.

No wind moved, no spirits roamed. No eyes peered down from the towers, and no banners flapped from flagpoles. It looked more like a painting than reality.

She would have to bring Aerith here. She had never seen such a solid structure in the Fade before, not on this scale. Was this the strength of the Ancients? Surely, they must have rivalled Arlathan at their height.

The notion brought the threat of memories not her own to mind. Crystal spires and tall elves in shining armour. She shook her head and kept walking. Not tonight.

The view disappeared when she reached the end of the bridge. She breathed a sigh of relief. It was so silent she felt like a brutish intruder with every step thudding against the pearl surface. This island was broken up with hills and gullies, the ground a lush green grass. Even that was more than she’d found anywhere on the lower islands outside of Aerith’s domain.

She passed a tree.

She slid her staff off her back.

More trees clumped around little paths. They were strangely shaped, their trunks bending over like sad sunflowers. Purple apples dangled from the branches.

“The only one, huh, Aerith?” she muttered when a building came into view.

It was a curious mis-matched thing. Half a grand old mansion, like something that could happily seat a minor Orlesian nobleman, and half modern townhouse like the ones she saw on realtor ads. The two halves were haphazardly wedged together in a confused mess of old-world grandeur and minimalist modern chic. Some of the décor, wandering beyond the bounds of the walls, actually looked pretty good together, but it was the feeling that mattered in the Fade. And it had the same feeling as a lamppost grafted onto a tree. Whoever was doing the dreaming had no grasp of the Fade at all.

It was a good thing there were no spirits here. This was entirely too open.

A familiar voice floated on the air, reciting poetry.

She rounded a corner and there he was, Genesis Rhapsodos of SOLDIER, sitting on the curve of a bending tree, his legs dangling beneath him and a book held high in his hand. An ornate chandelier hung above him. Not hanging from anything in particular, just hanging.

“Legend shall speak,” he recited, with a bard’s composure and enunciation, “Of sacrifice at world's end. The wind sails over the water's surface. Quietly, but surely.”

She leaned against the wall behind him and listened. It had been a while since she had had the luxury of enjoying a performance. Varric didn’t tell stories in taverns in the same way anymore and bards and musicians got weird if they recognised her in the audience.

He fell silent. He had a straight nose and a sharp jawline, under vibrant red hair. She idly observed that they had the same haircut.

“I know you’re there,” he said.

“I was waiting for the next stanza,” she replied.

He looked at her from the corner of his eye, turning his head only enough to look over his shoulder. “As are we all.”

She walked around him in a wide arc, moving to a more polite position to hold a conversation.

“Tough crowd I see,” she said, nodding at the field of trees curving away before them.

He smiled. “But they never demand new material or critique the performance.”

“Perhaps they're humouring you.”

“Likely.” He studied her from upon his tree trunk, running his fingers up the open page of the book.

She looked to the orchard, intruding on a lovely tea room. A branch heavy with purple apples was brushing up against a packed bookshelf. She could draw some conclusion about him from it, but she didn’t know where it all fit in with the man the posters called the ‘firebrand.’

“Why are they called Banora white apples when they’re clearly purple?” she asked.

“They’re white on the inside.”

She tilted her head. “All apples are white on the inside.”

He frowned, then tossed his hair dismissively. She grinned.

“Did you know your mind cannot invent faces?” he said. He snapped the book shut, then slid off the tree and landed facing her. “All the faces you see in dreams are people you've seen elsewhere.”

She watched him with her tilted head. “That’s… definitely not true.”

“Which leads to the question, oh dream-o'-mine,” he continued, undaunted, “are you wearing the real face of the woman from the slums or has my mind simply supplied you with one?”

“You don’t know where we are, do you?” she asked.

He shrugged. “I’ve always been good at lucid dreaming. I imagine I'm wrapped up quite comfortably in bed.”

She grinned again. There was a luxurious bed out in the middle of the orchard and an apple tree blocking the door to the kitchen, and he thought he was good at dreaming? Did Shinra know it had a mage in its top ranks? Did he?

“And you?” He narrowed his eyes. “Where are you?”

She shrugged. “The same. Different bed.”

“I need to find you. I’m running out of time.”

She paused at the urgency in his voice. “Why?”

He stood tall. “You can heal me.”

Oh. Of course, he had the Blight. Her shoulders sank. He was indeed running out of time. “Did you get injured again?”

“No, but I will, inevitably.” A hand drifted up to the shoulder she had healed. “Until you heal the degradation within me, I walk upon the precipice of disaster.”

Her eyes fell. “I can’t heal that. I’m sorry.”

He shook his head in denial.

She stepped towards him. “I can't heal the Blight, Genesis. Nobody can.” If she had that power, she would have started with her father. Or her brother. Or Anders.

“Blight?” He looked down at his hands, running his thumb over his fingertips. “An apt term for it. I feel blighted, marked by the goddess. Monstrous and cursed.”

“If the Chantry is right, then yeah, more or less,” she said, off-handed, scratching the back of her neck. Maker, the Blight. Had any Grey Warden’s survived the fight at Adamant Fortress? Were they still under Corypheus’ control? Was Carver under Corypheus’ control?

Genesis looked up at her with a scowl. She probably deserved it.

“How did you get it?” she asked. “I haven’t heard anything about Darkspawn here.”

“I’m a SOLDIER,” he said with a sneer.

“And… what are SOLDIERs?”

“Quite.”

 “I was legitimately asking.” She crossed her arms on top of the tree trunk he had been sitting on.

“Why, we’re Shinra’s most elite abominations, of course,” he replied with his arms spread wide. “With enhanced strength and speed and magic no normal human could possibly attain, sent out to conquer the world on the president’s whims.”

“But you’re a mage.”

“A red mage, yes.”

“Are you all mages?” she asked, her eyes narrowed. Was this a Tevinter situation? Why all the song and dance with Materia then? “Is Shinra run by a cabal of mages?”

He shook his head, his brow lowered. “What? No. I’m more magically gifted that my brothers in arms but we’re not… SOLDIER is comprised of swordsmen. And there is no special power in the blood of the Shinra family, believe me.”

“But there is in yours.” There had to be. He was here.

“And it is my undoing.”

She propped her chin upon her knuckles, thoroughly confused. He looked back at her with just as baffled an expression.

“What do you mean when you say mage?” he asked slowly.

“I don’t like this city.” She turned away from him, looking to the sky in frustration at the sheer nonsense. There was no Black City in sight. She looked back down, not prepared to deal with that either. “I want it on record: Midgar is strange and upsetting, and I am putting my foot down.”

“Yes, that’ll show them,” he drawled.

She sighed. A warm wind sighed through the orchard.

“You healed my shoulder,” Genesis said quietly. “I have faith in you.”

She didn’t look back at him. “You really shouldn’t.”

“I won't be dissuaded, don't waste what little sleep I have. I’ll track you down, whoever you are, wherever you are.”

“You’re going to be disappointed when you do.”

He let out a sigh. “Sombre dreams tonight.”

She looked up at him. His eyes were downcast, and his fingers clutched the book of poems.

She crossed the distance and put a hand on his upper arm. He started at the sudden contact, like he hadn’t thought there was anything around to touch, let alone reach out for him. The muscle of his arm was strong through his leather jacket and her calloused fingers were too. Real. No Fade fabrication.

“My name is Hawke and I am not a dream.”

“Hawke...” He looked at her with something between confusion and desperation. “Do you fly away now... to a world that abhors you and I?”

“Do you know what we are… you and I?” she asked, taking a chance.

“We?”

“Don’t see anyone else here, do you?” she gestured around the empty orchard. “Only us dreamers.”

“What are you talking about?”

She sucked in a breath. “I can do nothing for the cause, but you don't need my magic to heal your injuries, you have your own.”

He shook his head. “Materia are not enough.”

“I didn’t say materia,” she whispered.

He raised a curious eyebrow but she felt the dream lose cohesion. He may have spoken but no words reached her and she woke to the light of day.

Aerith stepped boldly into the Sector 5 public library. Hawke stood at her side, armed with pens and notebooks and empty book bags. It was research time.

Hawke sauntered over to the information desk with great confidence of purpose. She asked for a library card, brandishing a fake ID, fake proof of a fake address, and a fake upper plate bank statement to go with it: all the required documentation.

Aerith watched from a couple of steps behind her, a bubbling mix of excitement and irritation fuelling the butterflies in her stomach. She didn’t have a library card, neither she nor Elmyra had the credentials to open an upper plate bank account or the contacts to get convincing fakes. Or the guts to risk it either, there were consequences for these kinds of things.

Hawke didn’t seem to care.

The librarian saw nothing amiss and handed over a new card with a smile.

“Can you point me to anything you’ve got on the Ancient Cetra?” Hawke asked, matching the young man’s welcoming grin.

He wrote down some suggestions and pointed out the relevant shelves.

Aerith had been here before, of course, with her old school. She’d had a look around: timidly snooping through the shelves, or so it had felt at the time. She’s caught sight of Tseng watching her once and lost her nerve.

What information could they even have, in a Shinra funded public library? Nothing accurate, probably. She’d listened to the Planet’s song and that had been enough.

She walked between the shelves now, probably double the height from when she had last been here, and felt giddy at the sheer number of books.

“Oh!” she said, turning her head sideways to read a cover. ‘Cetra burial urns at the Bone Village third Grave Circle,’ with half a dozen authors and co-authors listed beneath it. She pulled it out and held onto it, only to immediately see another next to it about the Bone Village excavation, and grabbed that one too.

There was so much information!

It had been here. All this time.

Hawke just… just asked for it. As always, just strolling in, with her strange words and lack of reverence and taking whatever information she wanted.

Getting her grimy hands on it.

Aerith hunched her shoulders a little, feeling quietly embarrassed at the thought.

She put her two books down at the nearby table where Hawke was settling their things. She met the woman’s eyes for a second and received a wink. She ducked back between the shelves.

It wasn’t that she herself was somehow cleaner- Hawke wasn’t dirty. It was just that she made everything feel so cheap. So mundane. She brought new and exciting concepts, like the Fade and Dreamers but she made it all out to be about as hallowed as the cracked concrete they walked on to get here.

There were so many books to choose from she grabbed five at random and wove back to the table.

The silly thing was, she didn’t even want to be special. Being a special Cetra had gotten her nothing but trouble. It… cost her mother her life.

She didn’t want that sacrifice to be for nothing. If being a Cetra had cost her mother her life that meant it couldn’t be some common cheap thing. It had to be special.

They arranged their haul on the much graffitied wooden table.

“ ’The Old Mystic: Cosmo Canyon’s Place in Historical Preservation,’” Hawke read, running through the list. Aerith’s excitement dimmed now that she was really looking at them.  

“ ‘Cetra Crafting for Old Souls’, ‘The Lost City of Pearl’, ‘Unleashing your Spirit: the Ancients’ Guide to Freedom of Mind’, ‘The Cetran Coquette’ — I’m just going to put that one back — and ‘Cetra Grave Goods and the Place of the Matriarch in Ancient Northern Continent Society’ by Ettie Lackner, PhD.” Hawke gave a low whistle. “Choices, choices.”

Aerith turned the crafting book open to a random page. ‘Making enchanted Cetra wind charms from wire coat hangers and chipped crockery,’ read the header.

She looked up at Hawke with a raised eyebrow.

The human woman coughed. “Maybe I’ll put that one back too.”

“There’s nothing here.” Aerith hugged her arms.

“Most of it is rubbish, but most of most things is rubbish,” Hawke offered apologetically. “There might be some leads, something to go off if nothing else. If any of these authors sound like they know what they’re on about, we can look into them and just toss the rest.”

Aerith didn’t look up. She’d seen the cover art of The little Cetra Coquette. It wasn’t new or shocking, she saw get-ups like that at costume shops and in cartoons all the time. She felt silly coming all this way to look for validation from these people.

“We can go back home if you want,” Hawke said.

She steeled herself. “No, I… I want to do this.” She pulled the book about the Bone Village excavation closer.

“Alright. I’m shouting lunch afterwards. Those ramen smells have taunted me for too long, today is the day I discover the flavours behind them.”

They traded smiles and pulled out their seats. The hours passed in quiet study. Some of it was interesting, some of it not so much.

After a while, she noticed Hawke had a couple of medical textbooks in her stack.

“What are you reading?”

“I’m looking for anything about the Blight here,” she said, briefly looking up from her page flipping.

“What’s the Blight?”

“Precisely,” Hawke said.

She shrugged and went back to her own research. There was nothing concrete about Ancient magic, which was their main goal. The archaeologists had a lot of theories about rituals and how certain tribes and settlements arranged their lives hundreds of years ago, but it was just that, theory. The vases were beautiful.

Vibrant glossy photos displayed ceremonial necklaces, tabards of woven flaxes, and mother of pearl tipped staffs. She bit her lip and studied the ancient pieces of art. There was a set of gleaming Jade-edged armour, thought to be purely ceremonial.

She adjusted the book to see better and a thin academic journal slid out from between the pages.

’The Last Nomads’ read the title.

A grainy black and white photo of a group of about twenty people looking sternly into the camera filled the cover. In the middle of the group, a portly older woman with a wizened face smiled cheerily.

‘Cetran settlement in the face of the industrial revolution,’ said the subtitle. Aerith looked at it puzzled for a moment before it dawned on her and she sucked in a breath.

“Hawke! There’s a photo! A tribe!”

She flicked it open, there were more photos inside, not enough, not nearly enough, but it was more than she’d ever seen before!

Hawke looked over her shoulder. Aerith held it open, trying to focus enough to read the thing. It was written in dry language but not dehumanising, which was more than half the others could boast. It reported the story of an eastern continent tribe that dwindled down to just one extended family roughly a hundred years ago and then settled in the Junon fishing village. Quotes by the tribe’s leader, the smiling old woman, filled its pages.

They were a tall and golden-haired group, with what looked like coppery skin in the monochrome photo. They looked strong and hardworking, with hats and bandannas to keep the sun off them. So foreign from Aerith and her life, but these were her people. Nearly a century ago in a different city, but they were hers. A hundred years wasn’t that long. That was only, what, three mothers ago?

Aerith smiled fiercely down at the photos.

The Matriarch’s words carried determination and a stubborn cheeriness. She was wearing a dress dotted with little strawberries under a neat white apron, her sleeves rolled up past her elbows. She had set up shop in the village as a laundress and sent her sons out to work on the fishing boats.

The more she read the less foreign the story sounded. For all her cheeriness, it was obvious they were poor and struggling. They settled in the village because their nomadic way of life was no longer possible in a world where every scrap of land, drop of water, seabird and river eel had an owner and complex licensing rights.

She looked sidelong at the glossy academic books on the table. They waxed poetic about relics sold between museums for tens of thousands, all kept in high security, temperature-controlled vaults, where only the most decorated scholars could touch them. The last scraps of a people who died in poverty.

She tugged the little journal closer to herself.

“Is your family from Junon?” Hawke asked.

“I don’t think so,” she replied, looking down at the matriarch, with her chubby cheeks carved deep with smile lines. “My mother didn’t look like this.”

“There were probably other tribes. This was just the one the human world chose to see.”

That was a nice thought. Shinra had called her the last. But Shinra didn’t know everything. “I wonder if they’re still there,” she said, daring to voice it. The information was hardly secret, she’d found it in an under-plate library for planet’s sake, but just knowing felt like rebellion.

“Their decedents probably are,” Hawke said, her head tilted in thought. “I wonder if they know they have a cousin in Midgar.”

Aerith couldn’t stop her grin. She buried her nose back in the book.

The strange dream followed Genesis throughout the day.

It wasn’t that he didn’t have enough to focus on, he was leading the next push north in Wutai in a matter of days and run off his feet with work, but Hawke’s words and sharp eyes lingered with him.

It was the most he had seen of the woman from the slums since she healed him. And until the war ended or he got rotated back to Midgar again, it was all he would see of her. A dream of her saying she couldn’t help anyway was not how he had hoped to see her again before shipping out.

It was just a dream, he said to himself while rejecting poorly formatted requisition requests. Not even a poignantly symbolic one. There were no mystical implications and symbols to pour-over. If anything it was frustratingly mundane: a dream correcting him on how dreams worked. How droll.

It raised an interesting concept though. Magic… without Materia. Perhaps his subconscious trying to lead him to the answer?

He turned the subject over while exchanging passive-aggressive emails with Director Heidegger.

How would he go about it? If not Materia, then what?

Limit breaks, they weren’t technically cast through Materia. You did need to have at least one equipped, but they were cast with built-up energy mid-fight, an explosion of your own mana in the heat of the moment. They were an expression not of weaponry but of the self, hence their unique qualities.

Did Hawke heal him with a limit break then? All sorts of otherwise impossible things were possible via a break. Unlikely. The fight had already ended by then and she didn’t look all that worked up.

He could typically discern what kind of break someone might have and he doubted hers would be support spells. More likely to be something that stabbed or exploded, if he was any judge.

‘I didn’t say Materia,’ the dream had said. ‘You don't need my magic to heal your injuries, you have your own.’

He frowned, his fingers stilling over his keyboard. What more magic was there?

Nothing. There was nothing else. Everyone knew that.

He narrowed his eyes. He was deeply sceptical of things ‘everyone knew’.

He got up, taking a deep breath. His eyes stung from staying at the screen all day.

Everyone had once known he wouldn’t make it into SOLDIER, he was too scrawny a little thing.

He picked up his coat and marched out of his office.

And when he made it into SOLDIER anyway, everyone had known he would never make it to first Class. He had the wrong build. He was too temperamental, too cerebral. ‘Everyone’ made no allowances for the exceptional and could not be trusted.

He arrived at a VR room and selected a generic magic training setting. Gently hills crested with wildflowers, swaying in a false breeze, stretched away in every direction. Twisting old olive trees dotted the landscape.

Limit breaks proved you didn’t need Materia. He had never thought of it that way before, but their very existence proved it.

He plucked his mastered fire materia from his bracer and observed it. It caught the synthesised sunlight, refracting through the green crystal beautifully. The first he had ever mastered. It responded to him so readily these days it was practically automatic.

Without so much as a blink or a hitch in his breath a fireball shot from the materia. It roared in a graceful diagonal arc before colliding with a tree. The flowers and long grass at the tree’s base caught fire. He triggered his ice materia just as easily and the flames died on his command.

The ability to cast independently was inside him, somewhere.

Not everyone had the ability to break their limit. It was a rare skill, held only by a minority in the already small pool of people with the ability to use Materia. It wasn’t an ability that could be taught or consciously grasped, it either happened or it didn’t. Well, why? Who said it couldn’t be done consciously?

Decades of peer-reviewed scientific studies, that was who. It was a well-known and extensively studied phenomena. Those same scientists had said his shoulder couldn’t be healed with magic, so what did they know. Hawke must have figured it out.

He paused, regarding the frozen, burnt tree before him. 

‘Hawke’ wasn’t actually her name. It was only what his subconscious labelled her. It suited, though. A bird of prey rarely found in Midgar, no tamed pet wearing Shinra’s collar.

“‘Wings of light and dark spread afar,’” he murmured, “‘she guides us to bliss, her gift everlasting’.”

He put his materia away and stretched out a hand. He narrowed his eyes with concentration and irritation at how foolish it felt.

He visualised fire. The lick of flame, the roar of combusting oxygen, the wave of heat.

The frozen tree sparkled in the sunshine.

He pursed his lips and closed his eyes. Fire. It was the first thing he had ever cast, the element that all but called to him. He pushed his mana into his hand as he would with a new materia and concentrated.

Nothing.

He threw his hand up with a snarl.

Well, what did he expect? If it was easy, everybody would be doing it.

If some random slum dweller could do it, then so could he.

He pulled out his phone and reprogrammed the VR room to send some enemies after him. Generic makonoids rose from the ground and charged at him. He cut them down and threw regular materia spells at them. He was nowhere near breaking, but he could feel the mana build up within him, starting to simmer beneath the surface.

He threw his hand out again, willing a fire spell to explode out.

The monster launched itself at him, decidedly not on fire. He bared his teeth and cut down the last of the enemy wave.

His mana build-up dispersed and he paced in the stamped down grass. He rolled his fire materia between his fingers again. It was poor form to hold them while casting, instead of keeping them all in a bracer, but he still indulged from time to time. It felt better. There was something about that sudden release of power that bracers lacked.

He focused on the little bauble.

What was it actually doing? He activated it, and again, the tree was on fire before he had finished drawing breath. He shook his head and cast again, forcing himself to slow down. He had trained to cast as fast as possible, faster even than Sephiroth on a good day.

It took more will power than he expected to slow the process down, like throwing himself back into the body of his 15-year-old self, still trying to figure out how to force the bauble into co-operating.

He took a steady breath and kept a tight lid on his mana. Letting it fill the materia in his right hand but not actually cast.

There were patterns within it. Different from other materia, ice felt sharp and smooth, heal almost molten, but this.. this was like smoke if you could hold it down and pin it in place. He could feel it, fluid and shifting but very definitely structured. 

It felt like a fire.

He raised his empty left hand and tried to replicate it. The fluid pattern that felt like the very concept of a flame. His mana didn’t sit right in his hand, it didn’t want to be outside of his body without a medium to shape it.

He held his breath. He felt for the materia again, hovering uncomfortably in that half-cast place. He almost had it.. just.. a little more. He pushed more mana into his hand. How to trigger it? How to get ignition?

A fireball exploded in his face. He flew backwards and landed on his back in the dirt.

A fine rain of town grass and dirt and daisies fell down onto him. He groaned. Damnit, how long had it been since he was getting blowback from failed spells? He let his rest back on beaten-down grass. His left hand stung from the burn. One more injury he didn’t need.

Wait. His left hand.

There was a rumble of laughter. Silver hair intruded on the blue sky above him.

“What on Gaia are you doing?” Sephiroth asked.

Genesis sat up and stretched his hand out, studying the damage that burned through his thick leather glove. His materia sat warm but inactive in his other hand.

“Trying a new casting technique,” he said, distracted. It was a sign. He could do it, he could. The dream had been right.

Sephiroth surveyed the damage as well. “And…?”

Genesis rose to his feet and readjusted his coat. He fixed his hair, feeling a genuine smile cross his face.

“Well, you know what they say about omelettes and broken eggs.”

“You’re not an egg, Genesis. Please don’t fry yourself,” he replied, his brows furrowed. A cautious smile tugged at his lips. “Not before deployment at least.”

Genesis snorted a laugh. “I shall wait until Shinra no longer has use for me then.”

Sephiroth gave him a cautious look. “What brought this on?”

Genesis frowned, looking to the small ring of destruction. It wasn’t much, not by either of their standards. He hadn’t said anything particularly shocking either.

“Brought what on?”

Sephiroth’s tentative look remained. He didn’t elaborate, retreating to silence as he typically did when unsure of context. He maintained a respectful distance from him too, a borderline awkward distance for a normal conversation.

A normal conversation, when did they last have one of those? How long had Sephiroth been tiptoeing around him? How long had he… chosen not to notice?

His shoulders sunk with shame. Hollander styled Sephiroth as the better version of himself, something to strive against and resent. But Sephiroth was his friend. Genesis had chased him down and all but demanded it be so when they were still teenagers. It was a friendship hard-won and something he valued.

The look in Sephiroth’s eye said otherwise.

“They say the Ancients could cast without materia, do they not?” he said, trying for a change of subject.

“They say a lot of things about the Ancients,” Sephiroth said with a raised brow. “Is that what you were trying to do?”

Genesis shrugged. “If they could do it, why can’t we?”

“I doubt it’s possible for anyone.”

“How do you know?”

“I would have figured it out if it was,” Sephiroth said simply.

“Oh, would you just?” Genesis drawled. Honestly, he was friends with the most blindly aggravating person on the planet. “Have you tried?”

Sephiroth watched with eyes narrowed as Genesis drew his sword.

“Perhaps you’d care to teach me,” he said with a grin.

“You’re in a good mood.” Sephiroth drew his own sword, his cautious expression replaced with something more confident. Sparring had always been safer territory then emotional woes.

“Why shouldn’t I be? I’m about to beat you into the dirt,” Genesis said, taking his stance. The wholly inaccurate boast stung a little, as it always did. But it was a familiar sting and almost comfortable now. He wasn’t ready to stop trying.

“If you say so,” Sephiroth said with an easy smile.

Chapter Text

It was a lovely day below plate and Aerith was feeling cute as a button in a blue dress with yellow flowers stitched onto its spaghetti straps.

She met Zack at the playground. It was their third date but they weren’t calling them that. They were just hanging out. Hanging out was safe, hanging out meant she wasn’t crushing on someone who worked for Shinra and showed up literally in their uniform.

Reno stopped following her as Zack arrived.

“Hey, let’s go above plate,” Zack said. “I know somewhere you might like.”

She bit her lip. She’d never been above plate before. The shafts of light falling to the ground were stark and dangerous, rubbish and refuse and worse things fell from above. But she had seen photos.

His smile was infectious.

“Okay,” she said with a nod, and then fetched her phone.

“Oh, you’re-”

“Hi Hawke,” she said when it picked up, holding a finger up to interrupt Zack. “I’m going up plate, can you tell Mum?” She put her hand over the mouthpiece. “Which sector?”

“One,” Zack said.

“Sector one. We’re getting lunch, I should be back before five. Mm-hm. Nope. Mm-hm.”   

“Give me a call if you need a pick you up, and don’t let the Bootlicker try anything,” Hawke said, with one of her laughs that implied she wasn’t really joking.

“If he does then you can kick his butt,” Aerith replied, winking at Zack.

He held his hands up in mock innocence, playing along, mouthing ‘I would never!’

“Okay, let’s go!”

She led the way to the train station, chattering and confident.

“Take me to the surface world, show me the sun!” she demanded as Zack bought the tickets.

Then they stood up between the packed seats and the nerves she had been ignoring snuck back in and made themselves known. The train shook as it left the station. The last time she had been up plate it had been in Shinra custody.

Her smile turned shaky.

“So, um.” She scrambled for something to talk about. “Are you getting ‘shipped out’ soon?”

“I’m on standby. It’s so boring!” Zack said gamely. “It’s like I’ve been hung out to dry.”

“Standby? Does that mean you could get called on at any moment?”

“I could, but Commander Rhapsodos is pretty much handling it.” His expression turned grim. “I don’t think it’ll last much longer.”

“You won’t get a chance to miss me.”

“Or brag about you to the boys!” He held onto the overhead handle slightly behind her, not quite putting his arm around her but imitating it well enough. “Tell them what a cute girl I’ve got waiting for me back home.” 

“Waiting for you?” she asked, tilting her head coyly.

“What, is there someone else?”

“Oh, dozens.”

“I’ll fight them all!” He pulled a heroic pose.

They giggled and she leaned into him a little as the train jostled. She always forgot how much fun he was.

The train came out of the tunnel and bright noon sun pierced through a sun shower and the grimy train windows. Her mouth fell open. She didn’t remember it being so big.

“Welcome to the city of the future!” Zack said.

“It’s really beautiful.” She hated that it impressed her.

“It suits you.”

“Mm-hm,” she replied, raising an eyebrow. Shinra’s metal city suited her like the air suited a fish.

“It’s not even finished yet. There’s going to be, like, a hanging garden up on that ledge on the Shinra building, Angeal says. They’re still making the water systems and stuff, and the office levels get priority, but it should be done in like three more years.”

Zack rattled off more facts and lead her out from the station and around the sights, giving her the grand tour.

She’d seen most of it on brochures and on the news, but it was bigger and brighter in person. The sky was so big and sunny she kept shielding her eyes and instinctively standing under shade whenever they passed some.

If Zack noticed he didn’t say anything or let it interrupt him, but he did detour through shaded areas a lot.

She watched and listened, nodding along where appropriate. His enthusiasm was infectious, as usual.

She could see why Hawke called him bootlicker. She’d even said it to his face a couple of times, and he thought she was having a laugh. Which she was, but Aerith suspected she meant it.

They settled on the edge of a perfectly manicured park. It looked very odd to her as they approached, the green of the grass and trees bright and strange, the movement in the wind not quite right. Then they reached it and she realised: it was fake. All fake. Astroturf, not grass, and plastic trees with stitched on leaves. She smiled as she and Zack sat sprawled on the scratchy imitation grass. Shinra could take the sky and everything else, but only she had real flowers.  

“Did you know there used to be an even greater city here?” she asked when the conversation drifted.

“Did there?”

“Mm-hm.” She hadn’t seen it yet, the Fade city of Ancients Hawke spoke of, they didn’t always enter the Fade at the same time and her looking for it hadn’t produced anything, but she was going to track it down eventually.

“The Ancients built a giant metropolis here out of pearl and light,” she said, lifting her arms dramatically.

“I thought the lost city of pearl was on the northern continent.”

“There was more than one,” she chided.

“Oh, my bad.”

“It was on great big floating islands, held up with magic. Towers and trees reaching between the islands, even the river floated.” It sounded outrageous even to her, but it was magic. Anything was possible. She smiled smugly. “It had all sorts of magical things Shinra can’t even imagine.”

“Floating islands? Like the plate?” he asked, smiling.

“No!” She swatted his arm. “Better than that.”

“Must have been something.” He leaned his head back and stared up into the big blue sky. “How high up do you think they went, the islands? Do you think they could float through the clouds?”

“All the way up into the sky, to see the stars,” she said sagely. “And all the public bathrooms were free.”

“That’s the dream.”

A breeze drifted through the park and ruffled his hair. It carried a wonderful smell of sizzling meat and deep-fried things.

“You know what else is pretty magical?” he asked, looking back down at her. “The best kebabs in Midgar.”

They chased the smell back to a food truck.

Hawke piled all her worldly possessions onto her bed. She had trespassed on the Gainsborough’s hospitality long enough.

Elmyra had kindly provided her with some cardboard boxes for the move, a very optimistic number of them in fact. Hawke looked at her diminutive pile of belongings and felt rather pathetic.

Oh well. There was always more stuff to acquire and promptly lose.

She carried the boxed up things down to the front door, where she saw Reno lounging out in the garden, half sitting on the fence in a very intentionally present and unmissable manner. He was letting her know he knew she was moving and undoubtedly where to.

“Hey,” she called.

“What?”

“If you’re going to hang around, you can help carry stuff.”

He slouched his way in and she dumped a box into his hands. There were only two, she would carry one filled with assorted sharp things and the maintenance thereof, and glowing HP and MP bottles.

He reached into the box he was holding and pulled out a mug with ‘a wizard did it’ printed on the side.

She left a note for Elmyra, who was still sleeping off a long night's work, and left it on the kitchen table. Then she locked the door behind her, slipped the key underneath it, and that was that.

“So,” he drawled, “Upscaling?”

She snorted and they turned away from the happy little family home and down onto the busy, dirty main road.

It had been nice. They deserved someone equally nice to share it with. They wouldn’t miss her.

Her new place was only a short walk, only a couple of blocks away.

It was tall square building leaning at a slight angle and painted an indeterminate grey. Older than Shinra itself, it had probably quite nice once, but the weight and pressure of the nearby pylons had impacted the foundations: thick cracks ran through the walls. The whole place was humid, the wooden walls oddly spongey, and the rental agreement was mostly instructions on how often she had to scrub away the black mold.

They stood outside looking up at it for a moment.

“So do I breathe the hay-blown airs of home,” Hawke said, with unjustifiable optimism.

“It’s not that bad.”

“I’ve certainly seen worse.” She pushed the front door open and handed him her keys. “Upstairs, first on the right. I’ll be up in a moment if you want to go plant your spying glyphs and such?”

“Yeah, you’re not that important,” he said, taking the keys and sidling up the stairs.

She put her things down, patting a little ice glyph onto the outside of the box, and went to go find the landlady.

She was a tiny Wuteng woman with severe frown who owned both the building and the laundering business downstairs. She wove between the towering industrial machines, all but one row of which were quiet. They specialised in businesses who needed clean linen every morning and they had to get it all done overnight.

“Let me see then,” the lady said, her arms crossed and her thin lips pursed.

“Behold!” Hawke said, before slapping a modified lightning glyph on the back wall, right above a mess of wiring. She had been working on it since she figured out the relationship between the wires in the wall and electricity. The glowing circle sank into the wall and disappeared.

She reached down and unplugged a multi-box. The row of washing machines kept going.

The landlady looked between her and the machines with her arms crossed and her eyes narrowed.

“Is it a trick?”

“Of course it’s a trick, a trick that’ll cut your power bill in half.”

“Materia?”

Hawke winked.

The woman patted the wall, leaned her ear against it, and inspected the loose power plug. Her eyes turned calculating. “How long-?”

“Two days, then you’ll need me to come in and redo it,” Hawke replied, drawing the rolled-up bundle that was her rent from her pocket and tossing it into the air a couple of times. They had agreed on less than a third of the woman’s asking price if she could pull it off. Given what she knew of Shinra’s prices, the woman was getting the better end of the deal. “Perhaps… you ought to be paying me.”

“Tch.” the woman snatching the money from mid-air. “I’ll see you in two days.”

Hawke chuckled and made her way up to her new home. Reno was lounging about and helped her unpack by offering a useless commentary. Then they went up to the roof, she ordered a pizza, and they spent the rest of the afternoon doing nothing.

Reno’s leg started seeping blood, a reopened wound from activities she didn’t ask about and he didn’t explain. She handed him some bandages.

It must have rained up top, the weather was distinctly drippy. There was a pond of unknown depth by the corner of the building, where a thin stream of brown oily water fell from the plate, like a water feature.

“How’s the veggie patch doing?” he asked as he rewrapped the ugly gash on his calf.

“Oh, well enough. The first shoots of the seedlings are showing, and the saplings are loving it. We’re probably leaching all sorts of horrible things up from the soil, but fresh food is fresh food no matter how squishy and off coloured.”

He scoffed. “You won’t get food from it. Nothing worth the hassle anyway.”

“Sure we will. If you can grow boutique-quality flowers, you can grow some cheap tomatoes.” She watched the dirty water glisten in the neon light of the slums as it fell. She hoped Aerith was having a nice day up plate.

“Nothing good grows down here, don’t let the flowers trick you.” He leaned back on his rickety chair, propping one leg up on the ledge. “This is it for us. Why waste the effort?”

“Yes, why should we slum dwellers try for anything better, says the man in a suit and tie.”

He sneered. “Not wearing a tie.”

“Spiritually wearing a tie.”

“Never been spiritually anything.”

“But you got out,” she said quietly. She had too once, she moved into a manor, much to the horror of everyone else in High Town. There was always a way out, a way to make things better. “I know you don’t live below plate anymore. Don’t ‘down here’ me.”

“And how many sticky-fingered street-rats took my place?” He took a bite of cold pizza and chewed it with his mouth open.

“But none of them has your charm,” she drawled, letting it go. She held out her hand and he threw her a greasy pizza slice. She thought that he probably needed to believe that the slums couldn’t improve. They all had their little lies they clung to.

“You know the city’s gonna kill you right?” he asked later when what little light there was had started to dim. “Sooner or later. Same as me, same everyone.”

“It’ll be public service if it does,” she replied with a snorted laugh. “But nobody’s really dead until there’s a body.”

He laughed and struck a match to light his cigarette. “Cheers to that.”

As night fell the building trembled with the churning of the washing machines downstairs.

Hawke closed her eyes in a noisy, cramped room and opened them in the silence of the Fade.

The laundromat didn’t have Fade presence here, but Hawke was starting to. She was sitting on a log by a little campfire, nestled onto the ledge of a cliff. She looked down over the edge, and there, down below was Aerith’s house. A familiar tea kettle was hanging over the fire, and she didn’t need to check the water to know it wouldn’t be just slightly too cold to make a drink with. The usual clay earth had turned into gritty sand.

She leaned forward, her elbows on her knees and stared into the fire. She knew this campfire. It had followed her for years, all across Thedas, whether she was dreaming in the Deep-roads or in the alpine heights of Skyhold. It wasn’t a real place, but an amalgamation of places and feelings that had become part of her. An empty log sat opposite her on the other side of the fire.

She knew that if she looked up, the giant copper statue of one of Kirkwall’s twins would likely be nailed into the cliff, weeping into its hands. She didn’t look up.

“Hey!” Aerith’s voice called out.

She looked down at the winding narrow path of shifting sand that climbed the cliffside and was met with a panting, steely-eyed Cetra.

“You didn’t tell me you were moving out!” she said when she got to the top, pointing accusingly.

“You knew I was going to.”

“Not without saying goodbye.”

“I’m still here,” Hawke said. “Now you’ve got your privacy back and Elmyra’s not trying to provide for three.”

Aerith pursed her lips. She glanced up at the cliff face above them and grimaced.

“What is all this?” She sat on the empty log opposite Hawke, only suddenly she wasn’t opposite her, she was adjacent to her, and there was still an empty log opposite Hawke. She looked between the three seating options in confusion.

Hawke chuckled. She had some control over her impact on the environment, but most of it was subconscious. She didn’t care to examine whatever great truths it told about her, but she was more than happy to find a use for it.

“The Fade reflects whoever is in it,” was all she said. She got up and held a hand out to Aerith, pulling her up.

“So how was your date?”

“It wasn’t a date,” Aerith replied, mirroring her hunched posture.

Hawke raised an eyebrow.

“Okay, it might have been a date. It was pretty good.”

“Nice! Are you going to see him again?” she asked, strolling down the path to the level ground.

Aerith hedged around the question as she followed but it sounded like the answer was in the territory of a ‘yes’.  

Hawke smiled. It was probably not a good idea for a mage only just outside of Shinra custody to be dating a member of their most elite army. Then again, it might be the only insurance she could get. When your freedom was an indulgence someone else extended to you and might revoke at any moment it paid to invest in every defence you could. Not that Aerith viewed Zack in that light, but the point stood.

She led the way down and past Aerith’s house. The gritty sand and shifting pathways had spread far beyond the campground, it circled the house now, Hawke was pleased to see.

“This reminds me of the Wounded Coast,” she said pointedly, loudly, and the Fade obliged. Aerith trudged through it with some difficulty, using her staff as a walking stick. She would get used to it and when she did her grasp of the Fade would be much stronger for it. The wandering pathways were one of the best fortifications you could get in this realm.

“Are you taking me to see the City of the Ancients?” Aerith asked, tense and excited.

“I did promise.”

“Why can’t I find it on my own? I’ve gone looking!”

“There’s your problem,” Hawke replied, picking her path at random. “Don’t go looking, go finding.”

Aerith huffed. “What does that even mean?”

“Ever had a dream where you’re being chased by something and it never catches you but you have to keep running? Or you’re chasing something but it’s always just out of sight?” She thought of long spider legs and green sizzling magic the second she said it, then shook herself to dislodge it. “Looking and finding are completely different exercises,” she finished, trying to sound academic, but her voice turned thin. “The Fade loves a good hunt.”

Aerith looked at her sceptically. “How do you find something without first looking?”

“I tend to strategically stumble upon things.”

She laughed. “That’s so silly.”

“Go on, you try.” Hawke stopped walking and put her hands on Aerith’s shoulders, gently turning her around to face in the general direction. “Don’t worry about whether or not you know the way. Assume you do and take us there.”

She hesitated. “But I don’t.”

“But the Fade does.”

“Hmm.” She started walking, then looked back over her shoulder and pointed threateningly. “I know you know the way, you’d better not be just having a laugh.”

“The way is forwards. It’s always forwards.”

They left the shifting sands behind. They passed the shadowy chantry building that was called a church. Flowers bloomed in the windows and spilled out alongside a soft light through the open door. It was quiet even for this empty corner of the Fade.

“Why do you hate lilies?” Aerith asked.

“Got trapped in a conservatory for three weeks, there was nothing to eat but the lilies,” Hawke replied, her eyes fixed straight ahead. “Did you know you can eat the entire plant?”

“No, you can’t.”

“You can if you’re not afraid of a little gastronomical distress.”

Aerith snorted, and they kept walking.

The mother of pearl bridge sprung up before them, anchored into the side of the island and leading off into the green void. Aerith gasped. She straightened her shoulders and took a bold step out onto it.

Hawke watched her stay there for a moment, one foot on the ancient accomplishment of her ancestors, the other on the cracked earth of Midgar.

“Do you think…” she whispered.

“Only when awake,” Hawke said, putting a gentle hand on her shoulder. It didn’t pay to doubt your own worth when suspended on a magical bridge over an unending abyss.

Aerith stood straight again, tossing the braid of her hair back. She stood fully on the bridge and nodded at herself. She led the way with feigned confidence that made Hawke proud.

They rounded the corner, and there it was, tall and magnificent, the City of the Ancients, gleaming in the distance. Aerith stopped and put her hands over her mouth.

“It’s so much bigger than I imagined.”

Hawke leaned on the railing and let her have her moment. It looked the same as it had the last time she saw it, some weeks ago. The proud metropolis of a people utterly unbothered by the laws of reality. Tevinter would be so jealous.

“How do we get there?” Aerith asked.

“Keep following the bridge,” she replied, with no idea whether or not it would work. Last time it had led to Genesis’ island, but he was off in Wutai now and there were no spirits or other dreamers to say which way the bridge had to go. Sometimes just deciding something would happen was enough to make it so.

Aerith nodded and led the way again. It took far less time than it should, given how expansive the view was. They arrived at the base island of one of the lesser towers.

Spikes like on a seashell spiralled up the wall, all the way up to the top, which was hidden from view from the ground. Soaring bridges connected it midway up to other nearby towers.

In the distance it had all looked like a mausoleum, more memorial than anything living.

Aerith set foot on the island and it was like it remembered it had once been alice. The tower’s pearlescent walls glowed with depth and recognition, soft grass swayed beneath their feet. She walked forward and set her hands on the walls. A breeze picked up where before all had been still. 

“I can hear it,” she murmured. “It’s… it remembers.”

“What does it remember?” Hawke asked, worried.

“I don’t know. But it’s remembering it really strongly!” Aerith gulped in a deep breath. “We have to go inside.”

They circled the tower, Hawke trying to keep a reverent silence, and Aerith looking around with her eyes open wide. They found the entrance and hesitating at the door.

“Do you want to go first?” Aerith asked quietly.

“I don’t think I can,” Hawke replied. She slung her staff off her back and twirled it in her hand. “But I’ve got your back.”

“That’s not what I meant.” She gestured with both hands at the towering thing. “It’s… it’s so much. And I’m just… little old me, you know? Only… only half a Cetra.”

“Hey.” Hawke lowered her staff. “You’re only the most powerful dreamer on Gaia. This is your inheritance.” She gestured at the door with her head. “Hasn’t it waited for you long enough?”

Aerith pulled herself up, then pushed forward.

The door lacked substance and swung open with a ghostly after-image. Light glowed from the walls and drifted down in shafts from the higher levels. A spiralling staircase ran up the walls, breaching up through the many levels. From inside they could see that the walls were paper-thin, more suggestion of structure than anything else. They tentatively climbed up in contemplative silence, convincing themselves and the Fade with each step that it ought to hold them. The different levels held furniture and tools they couldn’t name or even fully see sometimes.

The floor lacked substance in places and they didn’t risk stepping out beyond the stairs.

Given what she had learned of the Cetra, this city hadn’t been lived in, not even dreamed in, for thousands of years. That it was still standing was astounding, but the wear of time was evident. Things they couldn’t identify lost cohesion the more they looked at them. The very act of observing it was both reinforcing it and wiping it away.

She looked down and was saddened, but not surprised, to see Ferelden stonework supporting the stairs they had climbed.

Where Aerith touched the walls they glowed brighter and stronger, but she didn’t know any more about the architecture than Hawke did and the tower’s secrets grew inscrutable when she tried to comprehend them.

They reached a wide opening that led out of the tower and onto a bridge without railings.

They didn’t risk it, its glowing tiles were translucent.

“What is that?” Hawke asked, pointing out through the door.

From the new height they could see more of the city, but on its outskirts three dark patches intruding on the soft white light. Two floated in the distance, far from the city, but one of the ominous dark spots was on the side of an island, that must have held multiple buildings once. Now only half a wall and a crumbling little watchtower remained, visibly fraying even at this distance. The city’s light was warping and getting dragged into the hungry black void.

“It’s like it's eating the city away,” Aerith said. “What could- oh.” Her lips thinned. “They’re Mako reactors. This is the Lifestream, after all.”

“Maker,” Hawke muttered. She disliked Shinra on principle, but siphoning away the Fade itself? “How many did you say there were?”

“Eight in Midgar. I don’t know how many across the planet. Maybe fifty? A hundred?”

Hawke grew still. And this was where their electricity and much-vaunted technology came from? It was just Magic in a different hat, after all. The veil already felt thin and tattered around Midgar.

“I wonder what will happen,” she said slowly, “when the veil gets too thin to support them, or whatever substance it is they’re feeding off of runs out.” With so many of the things, if they went wrong the consequences would make Corypheus’ breach look like a stubbed toe in comparison.

Aerith didn’t reply.

She led the way further up. With the imagery of the reactors in their minds, the thinness of the walls seemed to offend Aerith more. She trailed her hand along the wall and railing and everything within reach as she went. A line of strength spread out from her touch, the tower humming with potential, both new and remembered.

The stairs ended and they stepped out into the open air. A domed roof held up by delicately carved pillars stretched out above them. The power that been humming up through the building at Aerith’s touch quietened and the air felt like it was waiting.

The Cetra stood in the centre of the flat circular platform, with complicated patterns laid out in mosaic under her feet, and looked around in awe. It was a work of art that would make Val Royeaux jealous.

This was a place of great ritual and power. It reminded Hawke of the Elvhen ruins she had discovered with Merrill, had the elf been here she would have offered a prayer. But it wasn’t Elvhen, and Hawke didn’t know what the place wanted.

The floor gained strength under Aerith’s steps, and she made out sparkling thin grooves between the tiles. They turned to channels that ran up the columns and into the dome. She looked up. The very top of the dome was carved out like a reservoir. All the channels leading up into it made it look like a many-petalled flower. Or a spider.

She looked down at the wide-eyed Cetra, turning in circles to look everywhere at once. Probably a flower.

“I’m going to cast something,” Aerith whispered, and Hawke didn’t think she was talking to her.

She swung her staff in a wide circle, magic sighing down the wooden shaft. A simple healing spell, from the creation school.

The building sang with it. The floor shone with power and the hum that been building throughout the tower burst into light and joyous noise, suddenly solid and real. Aerith laughed and spun with it, dancing in the cacophony. Her arms rose and the magic coursed through the tower and up the columns, painting colour into the structure and collection in the dome. It gathered, bright, alive and growing.

Hawke hung back and watched from the entrance. She was so happy for her. Tears glinted on Aerith’s face in the light and Hawke wanted to cry too. A mage welcomed home.

With a cry, Aerith pointed her staff straight up and the magic in the dome burst. It exploded in a burst of petals and leaves that rained down upon them.

Chapter Text

Hawke sat up at the bar at the Fat Chocobo. The TVs behind the bar usually played chocobo races, with the one of the far right showing motocross, but tonight they were all tuned to the same thing: Shinra’s victory parade. The Wutai War was over.

Zack was in the parade, even though he hadn’t seen any action. She caught sight of him, marching with enthusiasm. There was no sign of Genesis, though his picture popped up on the screen alongside Sephiroth’s: the war heroes.

He didn’t look Blighted. She wondered if the photos were just faked. Maybe that was why there was no sign of him in the parade: the infection had taken hold and he was hospitalised somewhere. It was impressive enough that he had survived the war let alone contrived to win it.

Her months of research had produced nothing whatsoever. As far as anyone knew there was nothing like the Blight on Gaia and the nurse at the local clinic thought she was making things up to get out of work when she tried to describe it.

The legend of the Great Calamity that wiped out the Cetra had some interesting parallels, but that didn’t spread across the world and raise an army of darkspawn. It just... went away.

Why were there Blight-infected SOLDIERs in a world with no Darkspawn, no Deep Roads, and no hibernating old gods? It was enough of a mystery to irritate her. She had even furtively cast a healing spell on Zack at one point just to check, but if he was infected too then it was in such early stages as to be undetectable.

It had taken her brother, Carver, less than twenty-four hours to go from strong and healthy to collapsing on the cold stone floor of that filthy cave.

She squinted at the healthy looking photo of Genesis flashing on the screen over the rim of her beer glass.

Around her the bar was slightly drunker than normal. That was about the only real reaction to Shinra’s great triumph. She wondered at it. She played cards with many of the other regulars and they were from all walks of life, a couple of them even ex-Shinra, though there were no current employees that she knew off. Some were refugees from Wutai. If anybody had an opinion on the way the war ended, they didn’t say it.

Or perhaps they just didn’t say it around her.

Reno settled onto the next barstool. “Yo.”

“What are you having?” she asked. “First round’s mine.”

“I’m not sticking around.”

On the screens the president began a speech and the barkeeper switched it to mute and someone started the jukebox up again. Reno leaned closer and spoke quietly, his breath sour with old cigarettes.

“You and the flower girl need to get out of town for a couple of days.”

Her hand stilled at the base of her half empty beer glass. “Why? Who are we running from?”

“Us,” he said with a wink. “Don’t look so jumpy, we keep you around for a reason.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Thanks.”

“You’re welcome, not everyone gets a tip off. If we go looking for you over the next three days its real important that we don’t find you, yeah?”

She tapped her fingers across the surface of the bar, her thoughts racing. She kept him around for a reason too, but she hadn’t expected it to come up so soon. “This isn’t just a song and dance before you kill us, is it? You can do that right now and save us all the bother.”

He snorted. “Course not, I know where you live, why would I do more work than I have to? This is on boss-man’s orders.”

She nodded. “Three days?”

“You heard me.”

“I did.” She knew some people, had enough money and goodwill that she could get them discretely out of town for a couple of days. Where to, Kalm? No, too close. Fort Condor was too far, and any of the little villages between were so small the appearance of two strange women would cause a stir. That left Junon. It’d be expensive. She’d owe some people afterwards. The cost of living, she supposed.

She gave him a jaunty salute and got up.

“Oh, and no need for flower girl to worry,” he said. “We’ll keep an eye on the little old lady while you’re away.”

She looked back at him. “That’s awfully kind of you.”

“It is, isn’t it?” He grinned. “See you Tuesday.”

The Turks weren’t watching. Aerith looked out the window at all the little lurking spots they thought she didn’t know about. Whatever else was going on, whatever Hawke had done that they suddenly needed to leave town, what mattered to her was that right this moment, nobody was watching.

She threw some clothes into a bag and ran back down the stairs.

Elmyra wasn’t thrilled, but she understood. When was the next time she would get a chance to see the outside? If the Turks were telling her you to clear out of town that was exactly what she was going to do.

“We’ll be safe, mum,” she said, hugging her around the waist. “Don’t worry.”

“Don’t tell me not to worry,” Elmyra said, holding her close. She pulled back and looked sternly at Hawke over Aerith’s shoulder. “Be careful, please, both of you. Junon is still a Shinra city.”

“Of course,” Hawke replied, then the goodbyes were over and the two mages swept out the house, unobserved. Unhindered. It was a dark and humid night, the green lights of the plate’s underside blinked hazily in the heat waves far above them. They wove a roundabout route to the next sector.

Aerith kept looking around nervously, but Hawke lead the way with an unhurried stride. Looking for all the world as though they were off to the church like any other night.

Just going above the plate had been big. Aerith had dreamed of it and made up fanciful plans for how she might pull it off. This was something else entirely. She had never left Midgar and knew she never would, that was just her lot in life. But here she was anyway.

Every step felt like rebellion, it didn’t even matter that it was done with permission. Maybe she could find the descendants of the Cetra tribe that settled in the Junon fishing village. Maybe she would never come back. Maybe the Turks would lose sight of them and they could just… disappear. Travelling the Planet was a very Cetra thing to do, she thought. Nobody knew how long Cetra lived, maybe that rosy cheeked matriarch in Junon would still be alive. Maybe she would be impressed.

A mud splattered vehicle pulled up near the outer limits of the sector and Hawke spoke quietly to the heavily armed driver. They looked like they knew each other.

They got into the back and the truck took off into the night.

The drive was winding and confusing: the route poorly lit and the cracked roads shiny with oil spills. The windows didn’t close all the way up to the top and the smell and heat were even worse inside. Without warning the city limits appeared and the road got darker under the shadow of the gate. Then it passed them by.

Outside Midgar the moon was shining.

Cold and dusty wind whipped at her hair and made a dull roaring noise through the car. The heat dissipated and the stickiness of nerves and humidity on the back of her neck dried. Silvery plains spread out around them. She plastered herself to the window, and fell asleep watching it speed by.

The roar of the wind had stopped when Hawke shook her awake. Something smelled salty. She cracked an eye open and saw a cocky grin in front of blue sky.

“Sleep well?” Hawke asked.

“Very well, thank you,” Aerith said, closing her eyes again and trying to lean back into the comfortable spot.

She shot back up a second later. Hawke stood back with a laugh.

The car had stopped at a look out spot. Below them tiered rows of houses marched down into the sea, and then there was nothing but ocean, grey and glinting with the soft light of early morning. Thin clouds like shredded ribbons decorated the sky, slowly falling apart in the wind.

She stood in silence and soaked it in. Hawke stood next to her and breathed in deeply. Black and white birds called to each other from balconies and awnings above. Only the shadow of Shinra’s massive cannon pointing out at Wutai tarnished the view.

“If only it stank of rotting fish and I could think I was home,” Hawke said. A jagged smile tugged at her lips.

It didn’t feel anything like home to Aerith. It felt grand and unknowable, and like something a Cetra should feel comfortable with. It made her ache deep down in her chest.

“So,” she cleared her throat and pulled herself up. “Where are we off to first?”

“This way, messere,” Hawke said with a flourish and enough drama to bring a smile to Aerith’s face. She gestured to the building just next door: a very sparse motel of a sort Aerith recognised from Midgar. Hunter hotels, they called them. For civilian monster hunters and rough travellers. They didn’t ask for ID.

The two checked in, dumped their things, and then launched out into the city.  

It wasn’t a tourist town, most of the residents were military families: all around them troopers and SOLDIERs on leave spent the day with their loved ones. The two of them held cameras for others and pretended to have already taken their own photos. They ate expensive things, window shopped, and looked out at ships on the horizon from binoculars mounted on lookout posts. They joyfully pretended they belonged and had a wonderful time.

After a morning full of stalling and hoping maybe Hawke would bring it up so she didn’t have to, Aerith looked down over the edge of the upper city, but it hung out well away from the shore. She couldn’t catch a glimpse of the fishing village below the airfield.

Hawke watched her from the corner of her eyes. “Ready to go have a look yet?”

Aerith staunchly ignored the skittish nervous that had been building in the pit of her stomach all day. She smiled and nodded.

The way down lead them away from the uninterrupted sea and blinding midday sun, into a rickety elevator so dark they could barely see. It didn’t look like it saw a great deal of activity. Creaking, it took them down, down, to the shore. The doors opened to a village under a city on a plate.

They looked all evening for some mention of the last Cetra. Anything at all. Nobody had heard of them. Some of them residents didn’t even know what the word meant, and when Aerith explained they said the Ancients had died out a thousand years ago. Everyone knew that.

They ran out of places to look. There was a cordoned off archaeological dig beyond the city limits but it was high security in a way Hawke didn’t know how to sneak around, and nobody even knew what they were excavating. 

Aerith looked out across the pebbled beach. Clumps of black seaweed streaked across it and abandoned fishing boats sat pulled up past the tideline. It didn’t smell of salt, it stank of rust, rot, and oil. Even the seagulls weren’t interested in coming down here. Living without the sun was familiar to her, but Midgar had a grimy determination to it. This place felt like resignation.

Shinra’s beady eyes weren’t watching them down here. Nobody was, there was nothing worth watching. Until now she had never considered the despair of that.

Her eyes rose to the electric pylons rising up from the water. Angry tears sprung to her eyes. It was stupid. She knew, she knew better, but she’d let herself hope.

“Maybe they integrated with the rest of the village,” Hawke offered awkwardly at her side. “Maybe these people are their descendants.”

“Mixed up and watered down,” she spat. “Like how I am. A half breed.”

“Don’t call yourself that.”

“It’s all the same! Don’t you see?” Aerith flung her hands up at the city above and its hard line of shadow that cut through the water. “Stealing even the horizon for themselves, always, everywhere! They all died under a shadow Shinra built! Same as mothe- same as I will!”

“You aren’t dead yet.” Hawke said, suddenly vicious.

Aerith faltered in the face of it. “It doesn’t matter. What’s the point?”

“You might be the last but you are here. You are alive, you have a chance,” Hawke said, her voice low. She put her hands on Aerith’s shoulders and leaned down to look her in the eye, uncomfortably serious. “You’re angry. Good. Be angry. Remember what those fuckers did to your family every time you see Reno or Tseng following you around, and when you have the chance to do something about it-”

“What chance?” Aerith scoffed wetly.

She straightened. “We make our own chances.”

Aerith swallowed. She wanted to ask what she meant but she saw a terrible fire in the eyes of the alien woman and lost her nerve.

She wiped her own eyes with the back of her hand and sniffed.

“I’m just tired,” she said.

Further along the beach someone screamed.

They both spun to look. A giant serpent slithered up out of the water, chasing a little boy.

Two staffs slammed into the pebbles and Hawke’s ice froze along its body and Aerith’s shield sprung up around the boy.

Genesis walked the length of the Mako Cannon and looked out at the sea. A wind had picked up and the distant water was choppy and sparkling in the sinking sun, vivacious and bright. The simulations didn’t do it justice.

He sat on the very end of the canon and considered destroying it.

He wasn’t meant to be up there, but he was a newly minted war hero and who was going to stop him? He and Sephiroth defeated Wutai in Shinra’s name and now the company ruled the whole world. A lifelong dream fulfilled and every ambition he had ever entertained. What a monster he was.

The rot within him had grown with every step across Wutai’s burning fields. An ache in his spine lingered at his lower back, and his offhand wouldn’t stop trembling. It might have been a trick of the light but he could swear his complexion had turned ashen. If Hawke was even still in Midgar, what were his chances of finding her in time? Perhaps this was his due. To die with as little dignity as he had lived: just another of Shinra’s leashed monsters. Nobody had even noticed that he was slowly dying. Or perhaps they had and simply didn’t care.

He had destroyed this canon often enough in simulations, how would it feel to do it for real?

An empty gesture at this point. It wouldn’t buy back his life or honour.

“When the war of the beasts brings about the world's end, the goddess descends from the sky…” he began, but faltered. The next lines were too optimistic.

“My friend, the fates are cruel,” he tried instead and that felt better. ”There are no dreams, no honour remains. The arrow has left the bow of the goddess.”

A commotion rang out from below. An attack on the fishing village?

He couldn’t see from this angle, but his enhanced hearing picked up the racket of combat. The crack of lightning and a monster roar. There were no defences down there, Shinra didn’t care enough about the village to guard it.

He threw himself over the side of the cannon. His coat flapped in the wind as air rushed past and he spun to look back at the shore. He cast Float and his speed slowed to a crawl.

A burst of lightning lit up the darkened sea and shoreline, cast not by the monster but by a hauntingly familiar woman with strange armour and black hair.

Hawke raised her staff with a yell. Lightning thundered.

The serpent blasted water magic at her, distracted from the little boy and Aerith further up the beach. She redirected it with an ice spell, sending up curving frozen walls and barricades.

The monster reared up, towering over them. One of Aerith’s earth spells rang out, a low tone barely on the edge of hearing. Long ropes of kelp reached up from the water and wrapped around its body, dragging it back.

It thrashed around, throwing up sand and water. Some of the kelp tore, but more strands wrapped around it on Aerith’s command. It lifted its tail from the water and lashed it at Hawke. She leapt out of the way. The kelp tightened. Her lightning crashed down on its head. It screeched and shot magic around wildly.

Sand, pebbles, and wooden boats exploded under its blasts. Iron rivets shot in every direction and Hawke hissed at the stinging impacts but kept on casting. Lightning arced from her staff. Armoured scales cracked and burned.  

The kelp snapped. The monster swung its tail and knocked her to the ground.

Its spike filled mouth loomed over her. She threw her hands up and blasted ice into its throat. It choked and reared back. It hacked and screeched, thumping its head against the ground in pain.

Her skin tingled with the burn foreign magic.

“Barrier!” she yelled to Aerith, scrambling away and raising her own shields.

The air warped with a spell she didn’t know.

Red flashed, and the serpent’s tail fell off, sliced clean in two. A familiar SOLDIER in a red coat landed lightly on the beach next to her, his sword glowing and dripping red.

“Hawke,” he said with a tilt of his head.

“Stealing my kills again, tut, tut, tut,” she replied with a feral grin.

The serpent roared.

She slammed her staff into the sand and a barrage of lightning bolts shot out. One of Aerith’s barriers sprung up around the two of them.

Genesis lifted his hand out to the serpent. A materia glowed red at his wrist.  Hawke raised her staff to throw ice spears into the gashes in its flank.

A Spirit sprung to life in front of Genesis, facing the monster. Hawke’s swore in surprise and misfired, ice shards exploding. The spirit took the form of a tall blue woman, with long white hair and thin flowing silvery clothes. A freezing mist trailed along her feet and thick metal cuffs armed her wrists.

Hawke’s fingers tightened around her staff. The hairs on the back of her neck stood on end.

The Spirit of Wisdom flung ice stronger than any she could, a row of spears that shot through their opponent’s side and head.

The serpent collapsed into the surf. The spirit turned back to face them.

“Now then,” Genesis said, sheathing his sword.

“Hawke,” Wisdom called, with a voice that shook the earth.

Genesis whirled back around in surprise.

“Free me,” she called, her face haggard. Her eyes shone steely grey. “Please.” Then she faded away, and the glow at Genesis’ wrist died. Only a fine frost lingered where she had stood.

The two of them stared at the empty spot for a moment, stunned into silence.

Aerith approached quietly.

“What, on the Maker’s green earth, have you done?” Hawke asks quietly.

“What have I done? What did you do to my summon?” Genesis asked, staring at her like she had sprouted horns. “She spoke! And she knew your name. Who are you?”

“You bound a spirit of wisdom to yourself,” she said, her voice low. She had heard of such things done before, it was a cruelty that corrupted the spirit into a demon. But the spirit hadn’t corrupted, it still looked like Wisdom.

Genesis lowered his brow, looking as confused as she felt. “I haven’t bound anything.”

“That was the Shiva summon,” Aerith said, standing at Hawke’s side. “The lady of ice. I didn’t think they could speak.”

“They don’t speak.” Genesis’s hand rose to his wrist. He looked searchingly at the two women. “I never thought to ask whether or not they could.”

“What do you want?” Hawke asked.

“Only a moment of your time.” His hand dropped and he stepped forward and lowered his voice. “Where can we go to speak?”

She glanced down to Aerith then regretted it. They had come all this way to hide her from Shinra, and now a SOLDIER was staring her down. She couldn’t invite him back to the motel, but she didn’t know how to get rid of him or hide Aerith without drawing more attention.

“Or, if you would prefer, I have a place in the upper city,” he said, when she didn’t answer.

“No, that’s alright. This way.” She turned and walked back to the elevator into the upper city. She wasn’t going to take Aerith to a place he controlled and from where there might be no easy escape. They could simply change motels after he left.

The sounds of two sets of feet crunching in the pebbles followed. When they stepped out into the upper city it was to a cold wind in the dark. She mentally scrambled the whole walk back, under yellow streetlights and palm trees flapping in the wind. Were all summon materia bound spirits? Was that why the fade was empty? Why did he have one? What did he want, and what was she supposed to tell him?

She knew herself well enough to tell that the Spirit’s appearance had rattled her. She wanted to reach for a knife and twirl it around in her hand, just for the grounding comfort of it. Her dumbest tell, Varric called it. She refrained.  

She paused when they reached the motel. Genesis hid the disgusted twist of lips at their lodgings half a second too late. Aerith hung back and tried to look inconspicuous.

Hawke sighed and crossed her arms.

“I’m happy to talk, Genesis, in exchange for a promise.”

“Oh?”

“Promise you’ll tell no one about me, or her. Not that you saw us here, not that we spoke to you, not even our names.”

He raised a curious eyebrow. “Who are you running from?”

“No answers until I know you won’t be passing them on.”

He placed a hand over his heart and spoke quietly. “I’m here for my own reasons, not for Shinra or anyone else. You have my word. None will hear of you from me.”

“Thank you.” It was the best she could do. She lead them up the stairs and into their little one room apartment.

She expected Genesis to make a fuss about the locale and perhaps try to avoid touching anything. Instead he went directly to the only couch and sat luxuriously like it was his rightful throne and they his supplicants.

He unbuckled his sword and propped it up against the side of the couch in a practiced and pointed motion. Hawke replied by unhooking her staff and leaning it against the wall. There. Mutually unarmed. They made no acknowledgement of his materia bracers or the knives on her back.

“Now,” he began. “Who are you? What are you?”

Aerith sat at one of the dining chairs and pulled her knees up to her chest. She looked between the two of them, fascinated.

Hawke stood in the kitchenette and leisurely poured herself a glass of water. “You can’t just ask someone what they are, its rude.”

“Answer my questions and I’ll be more polite.”

“Is that right?” she asked, taking an indifferent sip. “So you’ll be impolite if I refuse?”

He tilted his head down slightly. “I gave you my word in good faith.”

She tossed a hand. “Merely observing the lay of the land. One does like to know whether or not there’s a knife at one’s throat. Changes the whole tone of a conversation.”

He smiled. “Stop stalling.”

She looked down. She was flipping one of her throwing knives around her fingers. Damn.

“What is it you think I am?”

“A collection of so many contradictions, I can only assume most of what I know about you is false.” He lounged, patiently waiting for her own nerves to betray her. “Well?”

She turned to pour the water down the sink, hiding her scowl at herself. She’d given up the control of the conversation. Best not to try and hide in words then, he was too wily for someone who didn’t even know what was going on.

She sat next to him on the couch, forcing him to turn and move to accommodate her. She leaned forward, her elbows on her knees and her hands open and flat.

She called up a leashed ball of lightning in the palm of her hand. It floated and sparked. In the other hand she conjured a solid and spiking ball of ice.

Genesis leaned back from the bright display. She didn’t look at him, couldn’t bring herself to while revealing her magic to an authority figure.

“If you’re planning to attack me-” he started.

She swapped them. The lightning solidified into ice and the ice crackled seamlessly into lightning.

He sucked in a breath and she looked up. His eyes were wide with understanding.

“No Materia,” he whispered. He reached out a hand over the lump of ice, she felt his mana questing out to sense what she was casting. She swapped the spells back and the lightning sparked there again. He snatched his hand back.

“I’m a mage. A real one. I don’t need the bottled knowledge of the ancients, I have my own.”

“How?” he demanded.

She let the magic die. “It’s common enough where I‘m from.”

“Which is?”

“Thedas,” she said, daring to hope. “I don’t suppose you’ve heard of it.”

He shook his head. “Where is it?”

“I don’t know.” She let out a breathe. She couldn’t even bring herself to be that disappointed anymore. “It’s not on any map I’ve found since coming here, and unless Shinra have hidden a whole continent, then its… not part of Gaia.”

He shook his head. “That’s ridiculous.”

“So am I. And yet here I am.”

He held out his hand and pursed his lips with concentration. The tiniest whisper of fire ignited and died again in his fist. “I don’t need materia either. That doesn’t make me from beyond Gaia.”

She raised an eyebrow “And who taught you that?” He hadn’t known about magic outside of materia when she spoke to him in the Fade.

“No one. I taught myself.”

“Really? Did you teach yourself my name as well?”

His face froze, and then dropped. He looked as though she’d slapped him. It dawned on her what he was chasing. “You were hoping I could cure you.” Her heart sank.

His throat bobbed as he swallowed. “How do you know that?”

She tilted her head in sad reprimand.

“I told you. My name is Hawke, and I am not a dream.”

He stood. “How is that possible?”

“The Lifestream, the Fade, the Dreaming, whatever you want to call it. I don’t know why you’re a mage when nobody else on Gaia is, or why you have the Blight when nobody else does or what any of it means.” Her shoulders sank. He needed to know the truth, she was nobody’s saviour. “I only know the Blight is fatal.”

He stared her down. “So you can’t heal me.”

“No.”

“Then… none of this matters.”

“I’m sorry.”

He turned away. He ran a shaking hand through his hair.

Finally he looked back at her, disappointment growing cold and weary in his eyes. “Thank you for indulging me.” He took his sword and quietly left.

She and Aerith turned in for the night not long after. It had been a long day and any excitement it started with had been sapped away.

Aerith took the bed and Hawke made herself comfortable on the little couch.

She opened her eyes at the foot of a mountain. She climbed, not knowing where she was going, just that she had to get there, she had to see. It stretched high above her, steep and crumbling. One foot after another she climbed and climbed and climbed. The hard ground chipped under her boots and flung up to cut at her exposed arms.

The peak drew near: she could see a tall stone jutting up out of the earth.

She crested the mountain. It was an island surrounded by an ocean of thick viscous Lifestream. No horizon, no Black City, just the hard earth sloping away in every direction, and an Obelisk of grey rock. A list of names were carved into its side and a shape little rock stood at its base.

It was a grave. She hoped Aerith didn’t dream that night, that she needn’t see it. She reached out and traced the letters.

She knew some of them. She’d read them in the article about the last Cetra tribe. Only the Matriarch’s name was missing, presumably there had been no one left to carve it.

She picked up the little carving rock and stood silent in the place of grief and shame and choked on it.

There were no spirits here to process it, to reflect and remember. The weight of ancient grief sat heavy and unmoved in the barren place. Not even a cruel wisp of despair to wear her father’s, mother’s, brother’s, sister’s face and make her remember.

She stepped back and another obelisk was at her back where there had been none before. She didn’t turn. She knew the names that would be carved into it. That had to be carved into it. The little sharp rock cut against her palm. And tears gathered in the her eyes. If they weren’t there she would have to carve them herself.

‘Did you think you mattered, Hawke?’ An voice rumbled from her memories, given substance by the fade, ‘Did you think anything you ever did mattered?’

She cried out, and fell off the couch. She blinked in the dim motel room, so agitated it took her a moment to realise what had happened. She wiped at her face and looked at the clock on the microwave. It hadn’t even been twenty minutes.

“Amateur performance, Hawke, real amateur,” she muttered, trying to dredge up some amusement. She couldn’t even remember the last time had been so agitated she knocked herself out of the Fade, she told herself, well aware it was a lie.

The room was far too small and stuffy, it smelt like old cigarettes. Aerith slept peacefully on the bed still. Hawke quietly left to get some air.

There was a staircase going down to the front door, and another leading up. She followed it to the roof, hoping the cold wind from earlier was still whipping about. The door was unlocked, it looked like the lock had been smashed off and left in pieces on the floor.

She stepped out into the night. Genesis was sitting on the ledge, looking up at the moon.

Chapter Text

Genesis looked out across the dark rooftops.

Silvery moonlight glowed through shredded clouds high in the sky, and just on the edge of hearing waves crashed against the city’s pylons. Nobody was out, the night was cold and quiet.

Hawke was lying. She had to be. Shared dreams, magical illnesses, and made up worlds, how could it be anything but lies?

But her name really was Hawke. Like the dream had said. Like she said to his face in the waking world, in a direct reference to it. They had shared dreams in a display of magic so outlandish he had no name for it. She spoke with the Summon spirits and knew things that couldn’t be known.

A cold wind whistled between the air conditioning units on the motel’s roof, whipping his hair about and piercing through the weave of his uniform. He shivered.

What did it matter? She could walk through as many of his dreams as she liked, his degradation marched on.

The door opened. The woman who could not save him stepped out.

“What are you?” he asked quietly.

“Human.” She spoke from several meters behind him

His gaze dropped from the cold beauty of the moon. The black ocean soaked up the light and reflected nothing back. Every one of his assumptions about her had proven false. Even if she was telling the truth, he had no idea who or what she truly was.

“Why are you here? On Gaia?”

She sighed. “It was an accident.”

“Convenient.”

“It really isn’t.”

He frowned and turned to face her. “That an unknown agent from an unknown nation, with powers we know nothing about, should arrive in Midgar without Shinra’s knowledge or permission, and immediately ingratiate herself with well-connected locals?” He tilted his chin down, looking her over critically. She had left her weapons and gauntlet inside, but already proven how little she needed them. “Incredibly convenient.”

“Ah. I see. You’ve discovered my dastardly plans.” She snorted and leaned against a humming air conditioning unit. “Next I’ll tie you to some train tracks and twirl my moustache.”

He paused. “There aren’t any trains in Junon.”

“Tram tracks?”

“Lacks the charm,” he replied, feeling himself awash on a tide of absurdity. Perhaps this too was a dream. Old injuries ached with the chill.

“I suppose I’m not a very dastardly then.”

He gave a wan smile. “Merely disappointing.”

Her grin fell.

“I’m not the hero of this story, Genesis,” she said, her voice hard. “Or any story.”

“Apparently, no one is.”

“Sounds about right.” She frowned at him, eyes trailing over his body. “You’re hurt?”

He scowled and turned away. His back ached acutely but he refused to show weakness by leaning on the railing. “I believe we have established that.”

“But you’ve got fresh injuries.” She came and stood next to him, leaving him no escape.

“It's nothing.”

“Shut up and take your coat off.”

“You can’t heal anything,” he bit out. “What difference does it make?”

“Pain relief. Mobility. No difference at all, really, forget I offered.”

He remembered the sheer relief when it hit him that his shoulder was closed over. It hadn’t re-opened, despite Hollander’s claims. It had brought so much false hope, every time he saw the faint and inconsequential looking scar. He didn’t want to be deceived again. His left hand trembled with old nerve damage. He screwed it up into a fist. It made no difference.

He let out a harsh breath and pushed his coat down off his shoulders.

She stretched her hands and fingers out in front of her, then gestured at him. “May I?”

He nodded. She placed her hands on his bare shoulders and questing magic sank into him like ink through water. She narrowed her eyes in concentration.

His memories had turned her into something playfully benevolent, haunting him from the dim twilight of the slums. In the hard shadows of the night she was a spectre of sharp edges and unknowns.

The questing magic died away. He sighed. Nothing had changed.

She tilted her head with a hum.

A wave of magic hit him. He gasped at the strength of it, it sank down into his bones, his blood, his very cells. Her fingers dug into the meat of his biceps. It was nothing like a Cure spell, which worked in soft and gentle patches no matter who did the casting. Its weight fell on him like a heavy blanket with a chaffing edge to it.

She put an arm around him to place her hand on his lower back. It felt like a deep cleanse, scrubbing away old clinging filth. He closed his eyes at the sheer relief.

Finally the magic ebbed away and she let out a heavy breath, then released him. He rolled his shoulders and felt nerve endings giving feedback where before they had been deadened. He twisted his torso without pain for the first time in months. Even his mind was clearer, his thoughts curiously un-muffled. He hadn’t noticed that they had been otherwise before. How numb he had grown, the sheer amount of life being siphoned out of him.

He met her gaze, his throat closing up. Blue eyes glinted from under the shadow of her sooty black hair.

“Can you blame me for putting my faith in you?” he asked. It came out too raw.

“I told you I couldn’t do it,” she replied. Her shoulders slumped and she stepped back. “I visited you in your dreams to tell you I couldn’t.”

“How can you heal the damage but not the root? Surely killing a contaminant is easier than undoing cellular decay!”

“Oh, it is, is it? How about you give me a demonstration then and I’ll copy you.”

“What kind of healer treats only symptoms?” he demanded, all his frustrations bubbling over. “What is the use of you?”

“None whatsoever,” she snapped. “So I guess you won’t bother with me next time you slip in the shower.”

“I would hate to inconvenience you,” he sneered.

She sneered back. “Yes, you’re so concerned about what this might cost me.”

“I didn’t ask for your help in the train graveyard.”

“Forgive me for freely offering it.”

He clenched his jaw and looked away. He didn’t mean it, he was grateful, and he couldn’t afford to alienate her. She might not be the cure but she was the only stop-gap he had. But why wasn’t she enough? Why couldn’t she be enough? It felt so tantalisingly, infuriatingly close, only centimetres out of his reach.

“Can’t you… figure it out?” he asked, hating how pathetic he sounded. “Examine the damage, experiment on samples, whatever trial and error it takes.”

She shook her head.

“I am dying,” he spat. “Won’t you try?”

“I have tried!” she snapped back, suddenly savage. “If I could heal this, my Father would still be alive and my brother wouldn’t be dying in a cave somewhere.” She blinked at her own words and shrunk back. She looked away. “I tried. I’m sorry. I tried.”

His brow lowered. She hugged herself against the cold and looked out across the rooftops, pointedly avoiding his gaze.  

“Your brother is a SOLDIER?” he asked quietly.

She forced out a breath and hunched her shoulders. “He’s a Grey Warden. You don’t have them here. Been infected longer than you, but he’s tough.” She crossed her arms. “Probably outlive you.”

He raised an eyebrow. She raised one right back at him with her lips pursed, and he decided the subject of her family was best left in peace for the moment, and whatever a ‘Grey Warden’ might be.

“I am grateful for what you’ve done,” he offered. “Perhaps I can repay-”

“If you offer to pay me I’ll undo all the healing I just did.”

“Then I remain in your debt.”

“I know. I’m ingratiating myself with all the powerful locals, remember?”

He placed his left hand on the railing and tapped his fingers against the cold metal. Not a trace of the tremor that had harried him for months remained. Looking at her, her lips still turned down in a sulk, he found it hard to believe his own accusations.

“Is there nothing I can do?” he offered.

She turned and leaned her back against the railing, facing the towering heights of the city with her arms crossed.  

“You’ve never heard of Thedas,” she said. It wasn’t a question.

He shook his head.

“Neither has anyone else I’ve spoken to since I arrived.” She looked up, her expression grim and bathed in cold moonlight. “I’ve exhausted all my resources trying to find just a mention of it. I don’t know where to look anymore.”

“I’ll see what I can do,” he said, slowly. What that would amount he had no idea. He had more resources than anyone living in the slums, certainly, but he had travelled the entirety of the planet for Shinra. If he hadn’t heard of it, it either didn’t exist, or accessing it was beyond the realms of possibility. Did she know that? Would her willingness to help him evaporate when she found out?

“It’s not a price I’m demanding, by the way, this isn’t quid pro quo. I won’t stop healing you even if… anyway.” She ruffled up her fringe with her hand and tossed it out of her eyes. “You need me to patch you up or stick your legs back on, find me in the Fade.”

“Thank you. For doing what you can.”

She snorted. “I know, I’m a crushing disappointment.”

“Not… crushing.” He looked her up and down from the corner of his eyes. “In certain ways, you have completely exceeded my expectations.” Upon closer examination, there was no greater evidence of her coming from a mythical land than herself. Who dressed like that? Who would be so brazen as to go around healing unconscious men she didn’t know with impossible magic? What a bizarre creature she was.

“Oh?” She gave him a jagged grin and tilted her head up to catch more of the moonlight. “Did you forget how beautiful I am?”

“It was a privilege to behold you once,” he replied, flat and indulgent, “who would dare to hope for twice?”

“You, apparently. The audacity.”

He tossed his hair back and turned to look up at the moon as well. “Though the morrow is barren of promises, nothing shall forestall my return.”

The remainder of Hawke and Aerith’s time in Junon was subdued and largely spent indoors. The excitement of the city had worn off entirely. After a fitful night of sleep for the both of them, Hawke led the way up to the landward gate.

According to Reno’s instructions it wasn’t safe for Aerith to be in Midgar for another day and a night just yet, but that was alright. Time to start recouping the trip’s expenses.

The stench was the first thing that greeted them as they approached their destination. Then came the squawks.

Aerith had been walked with her head down and her staff thudding heavily into the footpath. Then her brow furrowed and she looked up.

“What is that?”

Hawke grinned. “That’s our ride.”

The road turned and the chocobo stables came into view, housed just outside the city wall.

Aerith expression bloomed with excitement and Hawke laughed. The ride home was technically a job: Hawke had hired them out as rangers who would guard the flock on the road back to Midgar. They would each ride or walk at the head of a long line of them roped together. The guy who had hired them didn’t even care that neither had any experience with the birds so long as they could defend them from monsters on the way back. He wasn’t paying well enough for any actual rangers to be interested.

The rest of the morning was spent jovially falling off of chocobos and pretending to be cowboys. By the time they set off both were smiling, Aerith was chewing on a long piece of straw, and the sun was high in the sky.

Ahead of them the flock’s owner rode on a tall blue rooster, the only non-yellow of the flock. A couple of other hirelings rode around, each with their own long line of birds trailing behind them.

Hawke gave up trying to ride before the city had even disappeared from view behind them. Her meager experience with horses wasn’t applicable in the least. She dismounted and walked alongside the head of her line, an elderly hen with no sense of direction, understanding of fences, or even the lead gently nudging her in the right direction. Hawke named her Elthina.

Aerith rode with ease on the back of a noisy and affectionate cockerel that she named Zack, with a grin that was trying very hard to look innocent. Hawke snorted a laugh and took a photo for her to send to human Zack.

A pack of Kalm fangs attacked but Hawke fielded it before the other rangers could even dismount. The slow ride continued peacefully and the owner let the two of them bring up the rear.

Hawke walked between the two lines of birds, Elthina on her left and Aerith riding tall on Chocobo Zack on her right. The birds chattered happily, with choruses of warks and kwehs.

“So…” Hawke began. “What’s the deal with summons?”

Aerith held down her cowboy hat against a gust of wind. “They’re rare Materia.”

She nodded, she knew that much. Genesis and the Blight had demanded enough of her attention the evening before that she’d forgotten to ask him about Shiva.

“Ever used one?” she asked.

Aerith shook her head. “I saw someone summon Cactaur once. It’s cute.”

“What’s Cactaur?”

“It’s a walking cactus. It shoots needles.”

“Huh.” Did that make it like a dessert variety of a Sylvan? “How many are there?”

“Loads. There are plenty of Ifrits. I don’t think there are many Shivas. And there’s definitely only one Leviathan.”

Hawke frowned. The long dry grass of the foothills pulled and snapped against her boots. Just the term ‘summon’ put her on edge. And there were used commonly enough that their names were well known. She couldn’t shake the image of Anders, glowing blue with the strength of a spirit of Justice. She shook her head and instead landed on the Grey Wardens at Adamant fortress, slaying their own numbers to summon and bind spirits to themselves.

Elthina warked at her and investigated her hair.

“You think the summons are spirits,” Aerith said after Hawke had gotten lost in her thoughts for too long.

“Shiva is. She’s a spirit of Wisdom.” And not even a corrupted one. She had been clearly bound, begging Hawke for her freedom, but she hadn’t twisted into a demon.

“How do you know?”

Hawke shrugged and pushed Elthina away. “I’ve been a mage for thirty two years. I know a spirit when I see one.”

“Are there lots of them?”

“Thedas has more spirits than people, but Wisdom is so rare its often thought to be a myth.” She had only ever seen one before, years ago, deep in the Fade. It had cradled her face in its hands and shaken its head mournfully. She gave a crooked smile at the recollection. Even then it hadn’t surprised her much.

Aerith hummed in thought. She leaned over from her high vantage point and picked a downy feather from Hawke’s hair. “Where do they come from? Aren’t they supposed to live in the Fade?”

“Supposed to?” Hawke blinked. The borrowed memory of a time full of elves where the waking and the dreaming world were one tugged at her. A shiver ran down her spine. She shoved the memory deep down inside of her where she didn’t have to think on it. “They do live in the fade,” she said forcefully, insisting it be true, “but they come from people. Or… what people think and feel. They reflect yourself back at you.”

“That explains why Wisdom is so rare.”

“While Rage, Hunger, and Fear are as common as dirt.”

“But there are plenty of people here. Why is the Fade empty?”

“I don’t know.”

“Where do they actually come from?”

Hawke sucked her teeth thoughtfully. Where did any life come from? ‘The Maker made them’, was the official word on the subject.

“New ones sprout from the broken pieces of old ones,” she said instead. “Shatter one in the Fade and the pieces will grow into dozens more. They’re impossible to get rid of once they’re there.”

“But where did the first one come from?”

Hawke shrugged. “I don’t know.”

“Why would they be inside Materia? And unhappy about it?”

She shrugged again. Aerith made an irritated noise.

“Why did she speak to you? You don’t know anything.”

“I knew what she was.”

Aerith hmphed. “Yeah, but you’re just a…”

A grin broke out across Hawke’s face and she looked up at Aerith.

“Just a what?”

Aerith sniffed with exaggerated pomp. “A mere mortal.”

“Thank you for blessing me with your presence, oh mighty ancient.” Hawke bowed dramatically.

She extended her hand, chaffed and dusty from the riding. “You may kiss the blessed hand.”

“May I push the blessed ancient off her chocobo?”

“Denied.” She broke into a giggle and accidentally tugged on the reigns. Chocobo Zack startled and tried to leap forward, yanking the bird behind him. Elthina got excited by it and pushed closer, upsetting her own followers.

Hawke pushed her back and they spent a few minutes calming the birds back down again. Aerith had to dismount because Chocobo Zack had gotten it into his head that she wanted him to run. She petted his neck and cooed at him. He bent his neck over and warked beseechingly.

“Spirits aren’t mortal, are they?” Aerith asked, when the bird gave up asking and took to sulkily ignoring her.

Hawke shook her head. Elthina caught sight of a field mouse leaping between the grass and tried to wander off. She tugged on the lead, gently directing her back.

“The ancient elves were immortal too because they were spirits made fl-” Hawke stopped speaking, her mind drawing a blank. Somewhere in her head glass shattered.

“Wisdom doesn’t normally fight,” she said, as though that was the sentence she had begun, “it’s not an aggressive spirit.”

Aerith looked at her with both eyebrows raised.

“Ancient elves?”

Hawke patted Elthina’s neck reassuringly. The bird looked at her, confused. Aerith did the same. She ignored them both.

“The older a spirit is, the more complex and powerful it will be, often taking whole swaths of the Fade as territory.”

“Oh?” Aerith said, still looking at her oddly.

“New born Hunger will be simple and obvious, probably conjuring up generic looking food. But give it a hundred years of people-watching and it might grow into Longing. It’ll fill the Fade with the smell of Poppa’s old workshop, or the cold salty breeze of the beach house your grandma took you to when you were a child. It might conjure up flaky pastries that are almost but not quite the ones they used to sell at your best friend’s bakery, then watch you bite into it and satiate itself on your longing for the real thing.”

“Oh. That’s mean.”

“The predatory ones will lure you and trap you there, keeping you like an emotional battery. You should see the things Fear can come up with. Or Regret.”

Aerith frowned and patted chocobo Zack’s flank idly. “I think I’m happier without them then.”

Hawke looked at her. “Did you dream in Junon?”

Aerith’s frown deepened. “Yes.”

Hawke looked away, giving her all the privacy she could. “The Fade is already mean. Without them… something is missing.”

Soon the foothills plateaued and the sun began to sink the sky. Soon it would be all downhill and on to Midgar.  

“Can you free Shiva?” Aerith asked after hours of walking in silence.

“I don’t know,” was all Hawke could reply.

They stopped for the night halfway down the foothills. The birds settled down in little circles, perfectly continent to sleep on their leads. They set up camp and shared a gamey dinner cooked around a campfire. The other rangers were nice people, even the stingy and grouchy owner of the flock was nicer and more relaxed while sitting on a log around a crackling campfire.

Aerith didn’t say much. She sat between two of the ones she didn’t know and just listened. Hawke swapped jokes and stories with the others and they laughed together long after the sun had set. Someone produced a metal flask and passed it around. She had a sip and coughed but nobody made fun of her.

The night was warm and the food surprisingly good. She was dirty with old sweat and the dust of the road. Her body ached from the long hours riding, but it was a satisfying kind of pain. She had earned it, by doing something she’d never done in her life before.

Tomorrow they would arrive back in the city. She pulled her jacket tighter around her.

“Cold?” one of the other rangers asked, an awkward older man who seemed more at home among the chocobos.

She shook her head and said she was alright. He put another log on the fire just in case.

She smiled and ducked her head.

She would do this again one day. She promised it to herself. Somehow, someday. How could she go back to quietly existing under a lid now that she knew how wide the horizon was?

Finally they called it a night and headed off to their bed rolls. Hawke volunteered for second watch and Aerith felt inspired and took the third.

She laid back on her thin mattress, near her circle of chocobos. There was a rock under there somewhere, and no amount of fishing around in the dirt had found it. She gave up and just went and leaned against one of the birds. It shuffled it feathers but didn’t wake. It was nice and warm under her, and rose and fell with steady breaths.  

A few minutes later Hawke joined her on the chocobo next door.

“You are a genius, Aerith,” she mumbled, curling up under a wing.

Aerith smiled and looked out across the horizon.

The plains stretched out below. It wasn’t the grey dust of the Midgar plains yet, grass still grew and there were clusters of trees here and there. There were so many stars above them. She watched it in quiet awe.

She had seen photos before of course, on tv, and astrology charts, but somehow it hadn’t struck her that it was real. She assumed it was all exaggerated. Like maybe you could see two of three stars on a good night and the others could only be seen by telescope. It had never occurred to her that such a magnificent display was just… there. For free, every night.

Hawke didn’t even look up at them, it was so normal for her.

She ought to have been sleeping, but try as she might, she couldn’t keep her eyes closed. To think, just weeks ago she had been afraid of the sky. She tried to press as much of it to her memories as she could.

In the distance Midgar’s glow was visible over the horizon. There was a thick band of dark pollution above the yellow and green smudges of light, blocking out any stars in that part of the sky.

Her thoughts travelled back to her discussion with Hawke about the spirits. How the Fade should have been full of them. The emptiness was unnatural. It had to be Shinra’s fault. Maybe the reactors, those big black voids eating the Lifestream from the inside out, had destroyed them all. Maybe they choked and died under the progress of human industry as surely as the Cetra did.

She reached into her hair and slowly undid her braid. Her mother’s Materia rolled out of the ribbon and landed heavily in her hand. She always forgot the weight when it was in her hair. She rolled it in her hand. It was so warm, so present.

She thought back to her despair on the Junon beach. The silent monument to dead Cetra in the Junon Fade. On bad days she liked to think that the Materia pulsed or glowed in sympathy. It didn’t really. It didn’t do anything. She was alone. The vast expanse of stars blinked down at her, unmoved.

She scrunched her mouth up to stop herself from doing anything embarrassing.

“I’m… angry,” she whispered. She didn’t want it to be true. She wanted to be cool and untouched, above whatever the world threw at her. She wasn’t. Oh, planet, she wasn’t.

She was so angry. At Shinra. At the whole world, for leaving her alone with its weight. How was she meant to carry that by herself? She was just one Cetra, she didn’t know what she was doing, what she was supposed to do, not even what the dull white materia in her hand was supposed to do.

But it was hers to carry. Hers alone. Her hand tightened around it.

Tears dripped down her face.

The chocobo at her back warked softly in its sleep and wrapped a wing around her torso. She sank back against it. The stars twinkled on, beautiful and unyielding. Midgar’s glow blocked the sight of them, but they were still there.

She let out a deep breath. Then she nodded to herself and did her hair back up, tying the white materia back into its place. She felt stronger.

The ranger on first watch looked over at them. It would be Hawke’s turn soon.

She reached out a hand for the alien woman, and found a black head of hair somewhere between all the yellow feathers. She knew Hawke understood, intimately, what it meant to be alone.

“Hnf? Hawke mumbled, rising from the depths of sleep.

Aerith smiled, still a little teary and tender.

“Thank you for being my friend,” she said.

“Thank you for being mine,” came the groggy reply. Then a moment later, lighter and more aware, “even though I’m merely human.”

She shook her head and ruffled the visible hair. “I’m sure you didn’t mean it.” She ducked her head, even though Hawke couldn’t see. “I know I didn’t.”

“I know. ’M just teasing.” The woman rose from the blanket of feathers, just peeking through over the edge of the wing.

Aerith looked back to the stars. At the band of darkness that was Shinra’s crown jewel. She breathed in the clear, wild air, and felt just as wild herself. She felt like anything at all might be possible.

“One day…” she said, smiling and not even bothering to whisper, “will you help me tear down Shinra?”

Hawke twisted her neck to look at her. Then she burrowed back into the yellow wing.

“Yeah, alright.”

Chapter Text

The shadow of Midgar swallowed Hawke and Aerith back up.

The first thing Hawke wanted to do was collapse into her bed and vow to never touch a chocobo again. Stupid birds, she felt like her legs were going to dislocate and fall off after the two day ride. She hefted Aerith's bag over her shoulder and led the way through the gate, tired and sore all over.

Elmyra was relieved to see them back safe and invited Hawke over for dinner. She turned her down but hung around long enough to exchange news. The Turks had put on a show of searching the house for Aerith and being stumped at her absence. Hawke had seen them at a distance in Junon too, though none she recognised. She sighed at their antics, and headed back to her place.

She caught sight of Rude standing dramatically in an alleyway on the way back. He gave her a nod.

Back at her house she answered the desperate calls of her landlady and renewed the electrical glyph that fueled the laundromat. Then she had a chat with her pregnant neighbour and enchanted her couch cushions to function as heating pads in exchange for a tupperware full of frozen tom yum soup, then finally, at long last, got inside her own little apartment.

She kicked off her boots, shrugged out of her armour, and collapsed onto the bed with her trousers still on.

The Fade embraced her.

She kept her eyes closed for a moment, enjoying the floating sensation before her mind filled in the blanks. The weight of armour settled onto her shoulders. Her boots were back on but at least her legs weren't sore anymore.

"Infinite in mystery is the gift of the Goddess, we seek it thus, and take to the sky…"

She opened her eyes. The bridge of pearl glowed under her feet, and the City of the Ancients towered in the distance.

Leaning against the railing was Genesis, looking up at the view. He was in his usual red jacket, with a sword at his side and his hair shining in the golden glow of the chandelier hanging above him from nothing in particular.

"...Ripples form on the water's surface, the Wandering Soul knows no rest," he quoted, mesmerised.

"Smart," she replied. "Nobody who wanders the Fade has any business resting."

"A novel interpretation."

"How old do you think it is?" she asked, nodding at the city. Aerith hadn't known and none of their research had been much use.

"Three, four thousand years perhaps. The Ancient's civilisation collapsed under the Calamity two millennia ago, but no one truly knows when it was founded."

She gazed at the soaring towers. It wasn't truly fortified, its battlements were purely decorative. Beauty for its own sake, designed without fear. That made it more dreamlike to her than any river of light.

"It makes current Midgar look rather sad," she said.

"Midgar already looks sad, no assistance required." He blew a hair out of his eyes and stood straight, finally acknowledging her with a look. His complexion was healthier in the Fade, he lacked the dark lines she'd seen under his eyes in the flesh. "Is any of it real? Are the spires sound, can you climb them?"

"It's as real as anything here." She turned from the view and started wandering down the path. "This is a realm of thought, not substance. I've explored some of the lower islands, but I'm sceptical of the heights. It feels like walking over a mass grave."

He frowned, falling in step with her like it was his idea. "You think the Ancients fell here?"

"I doubt it, it wouldn't look so wondrous if they had. That many souls passing through the veil, the sheer amount of pain would drown out any wonder over architecture."

He made a thoughtful noise. It was comfortable walking with him, in the way the Fade often painted the unfamiliar as perfectly natural, as though they had done this a million times before and would a million times more. She hung back and let him lead the way, curious to see where the path would take him.

"You believe in the planetary reincarnation theory," he said after some time. They meandered between the towers, seeing the sights and never arriving.

"Do I?"

"What else did you mean by 'souls passing through the veil'?"

She raised an eyebrow. "Where do you think souls go, if not the Fade?"

"Who says they even exist?" he asked archly.

"Who says you exist?" she replied. They came to a stop under the eaves of one of the outer towers. It looked like the cap of a mushroom. "Perhaps you are the fanciful dream of a spirit roaming the void."

"Perhaps we are but the idle thought exercise of an Ancient in a pearly tower," he said, gesturing grandly above them.

"Or maybe we're Fade memories, half remembered facsimiles playing out endless, meaningless repetition."

He shook his head. "You certainly have a fine grasp of absurdism, Hawke."

"I'm absurd? You summon chandeliers overhead if you stand still long enough."

"I do not."

She grinned and pointed a finger up.

He closed his eyes. "There isn't."

He opened his eyes. There was.

"There, there," she said, crossing her arms and leaning back against the railing. The tower gave off a soft bluish light that made it feel like early spring, and a warm breeze blew through the non-air.

She smiled at the golden network of lights, dripping glistening crystals. It was luxurious, ostentatious, and betrayed a complete lack of control over his own presence here. It was bizarre to see in an adult mage, and frankly unnerving. Thedas' spirits would have swallowed him right up. Maker, just the Fade on its own was dangerous.

"Why aren't you followed by anything?" he asked, a touch snide. "Electrical storms? Greasy fast food trucks?"

"Because I know what I'm doing." She tossed her hair back with a sniff. "We don't even have trucks in Thedas."

He narrowed his eyes, then paused. "Then how do you transport things?"

"Carts. Carriages. Boats. Sacks." She shrugged. "Arms?"

He gave her a suspicious look. "Carts. Pulled by chocobos?"

"We don't have those either."

"Hm. And combustion engines?"

"That's… what cars use."

"Of course not," he said, with a perfectly serious expression. "Cars are run by little demons that are kept in cages under the hood. Everyone knows that."

She narrowed her eyes. "No, they aren't."

"How do you know?"

"Because… I checked."

He smiled and it was infuriating. "Oh, Hawke."

"Shut up." She didn't like to be on the receiving end of smug grins, that was her trick.

"Your world is pre-industrial, isn't it? Medieval."

"We have industry," she said, crossing her arms and hunching up her shoulders.

"Do you have factories and electricity?"

Lightning sparked along her fingers. "Electricity? What's that?"

He smirked. "Bet you don't know how a lightbulb works."

"Do you?"

"An electrical current run through metal twine, protected by inert gases to stop it from burning. That's incandescent bulbs at least, fluorescents and LEDs are different."

"Is… is that all it is?" she asked. His smile turned even more patronising and she pointed a finger at him. "You're acting like that's common knowledge but I have been asking people since I got here and nobody actually knows."

He laughed. "You really don't know."

"Neither do the majority of people on this planet so I refuse to be embarrassed about it."

"Hm. Do you have printing presses?"

"And a thriving publishing industry, thank you very much," she said, feeling like Varric would want her to.

"Cotton gins? Firearms? What's your smelting technology like? Have you discovered bacteria or vaccines- ah." he cleared his throat and looked at the distance between them. "You should get checked. You'll lack immunity to our diseases and vice versa."

She rolled her eyes. "Yes, I'm sure a super bug filled clinic handing out antibiotics like after dinner mints is the healthiest place for me to be."

He blinked in surprise.

"I'm foreign, not stupid."

"You made a joke back in Junon about train tracks," he said, his brow furrowing, "..and silent film era villain stereotypes."

"Universal cultural touchstones, don't you know." She grinned at him and enjoyed the suspicious look she got in return.

"No, not stupid," he drawled. "Not especially wise, but not stupid. Dangerous, perhaps."

She shrugged and turned back to the path. "You're the one with the Spirit of Wisdom in your pocket."

"You're talking about Shiva," he said, trailing after her. She set the pace this time, walking with resolve and not bothering to look up to see what the bridges had to say about it.

"Where did you get her?" she asked.

"I found the summon in a Mako fountain. That's where all Materia comes from. And I didn't... 'bind her', or whatever it is you think I did."

"And yet she is bound."

"She's never spoken of it before. Or at all, for that matter."

"I think it cost her to speak in the physical world."

"Then why call out to you?" he asked, quietly, more like he was speaking to himself.

The glowing path ended and she looked up, satisfied with their destination. She stepped onto a barren island, cold and isolated from the rest. There was no sign of the city.

She turned back at him. He surveyed the bleak scenery with sharp eyes, looking more like an armed soldier than the relaxed tourist of only a moment ago. A cold wind picked up and whipped his coat around him.

"Why not ask her yourself?" Hawke said.

His hand rose to his bracer. "Is it safe to summon such a creature in this place?"

"The Fade is never safe." If there was ever a place to call on a spirit it was the Fade, but she didn't know how that applied to those trapped in Materia. Was there a reason they were sequestered away?

Genesis studied her seriously for a moment. Then he moved to the centre of the small island, raised his hand, and the bracer around his wrist glowed red.

A freezing mist rose up from the ground, filled with whispers and cries it lacked in the real world. Shiva rose up with the chimes of shattering ice, majestic and crystalline. Thick copper coloured cuffs covered her ankles and forearms, hard metal against the flowing liquid silver of her hair and clothing.

She had long pointy ears.

"Shiva," Genesis called out.

She wasn't looking at him, she looked up at the liquid green sky, the thick viscous of the raw Fade. She spun in place, the horizon was interrupted in every direction. She raised her arms and closed her eyes.

"Oh," she whispered, her brow scrunched up in pain, and the seven foot tall spirit fell to her knees and wept.

Genesis stepped back and looked to Hawke with wide eyes. She shrugged, she hadn't seen this coming either. She didn't know spirits could cry.

"It's been so long, so long," Shiva said, her voice a broken symphony, deep and rumbling. She dug her hands into the clay, making fists in the earth. "I never thought to see the Dreaming again."

"Wisdom?" Hawke called tentatively.

Shiva stilled, her head bowed. Her breath didn't hitch, Spirits didn't need to breathe, but she gathered herself and drew back her calm in her own way. Slowly she rose back to her feet.

"Hawke," she said, with a graceful nod.

She looked similar in posture and form to the only other Wisdom Hawke had met, but there were deep lines of grief written into her youthful face. Her eyes were fathomless grey, impossibly old and filled with regret.

"Who did this to you? Why…" she trailed off. She knew why. Spirits had power, and binding them was the only way to leash it. It was always the same.

Shiva blinked, her form stuttering in place. "They… they called me a spy of Mythal."

Hawke's spine snapped ramrod straight.

"Who did?" Genesis asked, his expression open and confused.

"I did not know their names. They shielded their dreams from me, welcomed me, but did not trust my advice." Her eyes lost focus but her form remained steady.

Genesis shook his head, confused. "Who is Mythal?"

Hawke said nothing.

"The Mother," said Shiva.

"Who's mother?"

"Elvhenan. Vhenas theneras," Shiva said, naming the ancient elven empire with the old tongue Hawke understood but shouldn't have been able to. "Arbiter of Justice and Vengeance," she said in common. "Protector. Mother, moon, queen, goddess."

"How long have you been bound?" Hawke blurted out.

"I… do not remember." Her image stuttered again, and ice formed and broke beneath her. She wasn't whole anymore. "Ages passed within the green. The war is over. The Matriarchs no more. Elvhenan no more. No more..."

"The mother goddess?" Genesis asked, stepping forward with reverence. "You are a servant of Minerva?"

"No, Da'len." Shiva shook her head, her shackled hands fell still at her side. "Wisdom is not a servant. Mythal is not Minerva."

He paused. Behind him Hawke couldn't see what he might be thinking, but she saw Shiva's expression turn cold.

"Were you her spy?" he asked.

"I gave her council, as I gave to all. Wisdom is not loyalty. Wisdom is not a soldier. Wisdom holds no allegiance." A sharp whistling wind tore at her clothes. Ice climbed up along her body, cracking and reforming, and her hands shook. "This is not Wisdom."

Hawke took a step back, her hand latching around her staff. If not for whatever hold the Materia had on her, she was certain she would have corrupted and they would have a demon on their hands. Genesis stood before her, undaunted.

"There rarely is any wisdom in war," he said gently.

"And for this we were shackled." The ground beneath them cracked, dry and dead. The wind turned freezing, and howled by. Chains fell from Shiva's cuffs and her wrists bled water. It froze as it fell. The droplets clinked onto the dry earth. "The Dreaming lies fallow, the wall stands strong, my brethren bound and bruised and forced to fight, but the war is over!" Her voice thundered with the wind, a deep and enchanting chorus. There were screams in the wind, the clash of swords and firing of rifles. Cries of elvhen and common mingling senselessly together.

Hawke stepped back again, a barrier spell on the tip of her tongue. She tripped on a body in Wutaian armour.

"The war is over. It's over, it is!" Genesis stood tall in the centre of the collapsing dream. His hands balled into fists and he held his chin high as he yelled.

The dream lost focus, and the howling grew louder. Hawke threw the barrier over Genesis just as bullets ripped through the air, fired by nobody at nothing, the product of another dreamer's nightmare.

"The war is over," Shiva repeated, buckling under the pull of the chains. "The war is over. The war is over, ma ghilana mir din'an, the war is over, the war is-"

The island cracked through the middle.

Hawke slammed her staff into the ground.

Genesis sat bolt upright in bed.

He was trembling and drenched in sweat.

He closed his eyes and counted his breaths, forcing himself to calm down. He wasn't in Wutai. It was nearly four in the morning, he was in his own bed, and the war was over. It was finished, and there was no one to fight. He was back in Midgar, awaiting his next orders. He opened his eyes. The light of Shinra HQ flooded in through the window, green and flashy.

His heartbeat picked back up.

He reached for his wrist with a shaky hand. He wasn't wearing his bracer. Of course he wasn't, he didn't sleep with his armour on. He stumbled out of bed and reached blindly for his armour stand. The bracer was cold to the touch. He spun it around, and the equipped summon materia glowed up at him, still warm and humming with magic.

He clenched his jaw.

The image of Shiva on her knees begging for the war to be over made his skin crawl. Now in the waking world, he was certain she hadn't actually been talking about Wutai, but in the moment it had been so obvious, so visceral and painful.

So what war was she talking about? Had Hawke said? His memories of the exchange were all jumbled and he couldn't remember if she'd said anything at all. Had she even been there at the end? It felt less and less coherent the more he tried to focus.

His mind kept catching on the trickle of icy water weeping from Shiva's manacles.

He'd summoned her all across the world and commanded her to fight for him. Not once had he thought that the cuffs on her forearms could be anything other than armour.

Did it really matter what war she was talking about, when she lived in chains?

He ran his fingers over the warm materia. He dreaded it, but he had to see, here in reality.

He threw his hand out.

The mist swept over the floor of his bedroom, leaving icicles on his thick carpet and against the foot of his bed.

Shiva rose up, silent, graceful, and confrontingly real. She was too big for the mundanity of the setting. She cast an ethereal blue light on him, and spun in place until she was facing him, her feet floating over the ground. her head was bent at an angle to duck under the ceiling.

She looked down on him, and he didn't know what to say.

He ran a hand through his hair, tugging on the strands. He wanted to know more, but this was all new and contradictory. It spat in the face of so much he had always held to be true.

"Who is Mythal?" he asked. He remembered that much from the dream. He didn't think it had been answered.

Her beautiful face was as yielding as a glacier, carved deep with lines of grief. She opened her mouth but no noise came out. She winced then closed her mouth. He felt the drain on his reserves. His shoulders sank.

"What is it you want?" he asked. His voice came out raspy.

She held out her cuffed wrists.

"You want to be free?"

She nodded.

"I don't know how to give you that. If it should even be possible."

She dropped her hands. She didn't look surprised, only resigned.

His phone rang. The director's ID flashed on the screen.

"I have to take this," he said.

She floated, cramped and silent in the space.

He felt absurd at explaining himself to a summon. Then shame at having never bothered before. He bowed his head, and cancelled the spell. She collapsed into icey dust.

He picked up the phone and answered Shinra's summons.

Chapter Text

The Shinra tower never truly slept. 

Even in the lonely hours of the night, there was always an IT worker installing an overnight update, a cleaner emptying the shredders, or a Turk disappearing behind a corner. And more often than not, Sephiroth, sitting in the First Class lounge with a laptop, working until the sun rose. 

Sephiroth enjoyed the early mornings. They were quiet and peaceful, more so then his dreams tended to be. He didn’t sleep much. It didn’t even matter that there was less work to be done now that the war was over. 

The sky was still black when the door slid open.

Genesis walked in, his eyes downcast and his brow furrowed. He nodded in greeting and made a beeline to the coffee machine. 

“You’re early,” Sephiroth said.

Genesis grumbled something that sounded like, “tell me about it.”

Sephiroth raised an eyebrow at his back. Once it would have been expected. Angeal would sleep until the world ended if permitted, but Genesis awoke early no matter how hard he tried not to. For years it had been tradition for him to join Sephiroth at this time and they would work in companionable silence. It was out of habit formed in those times that Sephiroth still spent his early mornings in the lounge and not his office. 

That hadn’t been the norm for some time. Genesis didn’t show his face around the office until at least nine in the morning now if he could help it. 

Genesis ran a hand down his face. The machine finished spitting out his coffee but he made no move to pick it up. When he said nothing else, Sephiroth turned back to his work. 

“Have you ever learned something that made you step back and reassess your whole life?” Genesis asked after some time. 

“No.”

He pursed his lips. “Nothing has ever shaken you? Really?”

“That’s not the same question,” Sephiroth said. “There’s being shaken and there’s a complete change of perspective.”

“What’s shaken you then?”

“I didn’t say I had been.” Sephiroth kept typing. 

Genesis scoffed and picked up the coffee. In his peripheral Sephiroth saw him stand moodily at the window, staring down the green glow of the city. He was leaning against the glass with the shoulder he had been favouring for months.

“Do you remember when I broke Angeal’s leg?” Sephiroth asked. 

“To reset that bad break in the jungle last year or when we were teenagers?”

“The second.”

“You didn’t look especially shaken.” Genesis looked back over his shoulder. “Not compared to Angeal anyway.”

Sephiroth stared fixedly at the screen. “I was. Why do you think I refused to fight either of you for so long after that?”

“I assumed we were too beneath you. You told us not to challenge you unless we were prepared for it, and we weren’t.” Genesis turned and leaned back against the glass, looking at him seriously over his steaming drink. “It wasn’t even the first time you beat us to a pulp.”

“It was the first time I regretted hurting someone. You and Angeal always treated me like a person, not a weapon, not a specimen. Until that moment... I hadn’t considered that you were people too.” 

Genesis stared at him. He couldn’t bring himself to look back. When no reply came he started typing again. He had forgotten this aspect of sharing the mornings: he got a lot less work done.

The silence stretched out and grew heavy. Sephiroth kept working, unprepared to challenge it. Angeal’s leg had snapped without noise that day but he had felt it in his hand. The black of the night sky bled into grey.

“What is freedom worth?” Genesis asked quietly. 

“What?” Sephiroth looked up. “What is it worth to who? Freedom of what?”

“Say, personal freedom.”

“Self-determination is a significant factor on quality of life,” he replied, slow and sceptical of the question. 

Genesis watched him through sharp eyes. “And how much would you sacrifice for it?”

“You already know the answer to that.” He had been living in the labs still when Genesis and Angeal demanded a place in his life. They had seen how hard he had to fight for the luxury of his own living quarters. 

“What about the freedom of those beneath you? How much would you sacrifice for them?”

“Surely that’s their own cause to sacrifice for. I am not responsible for everyone else.”

“And if you look down and realise you’re the one holding the leash?” Genesis swallowed harshly. “How much is their freedom worth?”

“I would have to decide on a case by case basis.”

“So whether or not someone is entitled to freedom is a matter of convenience, devoid of principle? You are worthy of freedom because you want it, but others aren’t because you don’t want it?”

He shrugged. “Accuse me of selfishness if you like, I can’t make a blanket statement. It’s not worth the world, some restrictions must be made.” He leaned back on the couch and crossed his arms. “I’ve seen how strict you are with your own men, what of their freedoms?”

“I don’t impede on their personal lives,” Genesis sniffed. 

“Sometimes you have to, they still have to follow your orders.”

“It’s not the same.”

“Not the same as what?” Sephiroth narrowed his eyes, remembering the question that started the discussion. “What are you getting at?”

Genesis looked out to the night again. Shades of Pink tinged the horizon. Somewhere beyond the smog, the sun was rising. 

“Everyone answers to someone.”

Sephiroth nodded. “We all make concessions. That’s what society is.”

“A bleak view on things.”

“Nobody who exists around others can truly do whatever they wish, not even president Shinra can do whatever he wants. Absolute freedom requires isolation.”

“No it doesn’t,” Genesis scoffed. “Isolation is its own limitation.”

“Then there is no freedom in life,” Sephiroth said. He put the laptop aside and rose to get another drink. 

Genesis was looking at him with a very grim expression.

“...Is there only freedom in death then?”

“Of course not.” He emptied out the old coffee grounds and refilled the water tank. “The dead aren’t free, they’re just dead. Nothing is achieved with oblivion.”

“Surely that’s the decision of the party in question,” Genesis whispered.

Sephiroth watched the machine spit out its standard black sludge.

The implications of Genesis’ words dawned on him. His head snapped up to stare at his old friend. 

“Who are we talking about?”

Genesis looked back at him blankly for a moment. His eyes widened in realisation.

“Not me! I’m not- you think I would consider dying anything other than a defeat?” He scoffed. “ No .”

“Then what are we talking about?”

Genesis crossed his arms and didn’t meet his eyes. He hadn’t even quoted Loveless once. Sephiroth’s concern refused to subside.

“Consider... a summon spirit,” Genesis said, eventually. “Summons are sentient beings and we hold the Materia themselves to have been formed by the Ancients.”

Sephiroth nodded along, he had heard that theory before and could see where it was leading. “There’s no actual proof that summons are fully sentient, they could be automatons for all we know.”

“Let’s assume they are.”

“Then either they were created for the purpose they now fulfil, or were sentenced to it by the Ancients.”

Genesis raised his eyebrow. “Created to be bound? Yes, that’s much better. Does a slave who is born to it not deserve freedom as much as one who was born free?”

“It’s not the same thing.”

“Why not?”

Sephiroth shook his head. It couldn’t be the same, and talking of human rights in Shinra tower was a doomed exercise to begin with. “Who are we, who rely so heavily on the Ancient’s wisdom, to turn and question it?”

“Who are we to excuse ourselves by hiding in ignorance? Who are we to take it on faith that someone we’ve never met and cannot so much as name made the right choice for the right reasons?” He looked searchingly out into the new morning. The sky had turned soft blue beyond the scraggly grey clouds. For a single unassuming moment, Midgar was beautiful. 

“Since when are you sceptical of the Ancients?” Sephiroth asked. “Doesn’t their mythic connection to the planet make them above reproach?”

Genesis shook his head. “No one is above reproach.”

The corner of Sephiroth’s mouth turned up. “Not even you?”

He got a scathing side-eyed look in response. 

“You have never considered me above reproach.”

He smiled and picked up his coffee. “I missed these pointless discussions.”

“They’re not pointless,” Genesis snapped.

“Go bring freedom to the oppressed then.”

“Maybe I will.”

Sephiroth gestured at the city. “By all means, proceed.”

Genesis tossed his hair back. “Just watch me.”

A fireball exploded. The sparks skittered over a barrier, burning through the surface level magic before dying out. 

A thundering blast of lightning followed hot on its heels. The barrier held. A tattered old pillow stuffed with old weeds and sawdust sat unharmed within.  

Hawke saw Aerith’s eyes narrow. 

She smirked and yanked up another weed from the tulip patch. 

Another fireball slammed against the unimpressed barrier.

“I’m gonna get ya,” Aerith said, snipping the last ripe green bean off the stalk. She threw it onto a trestle table, next to the rest of the harvest.

“Sure you will.” Hawke brushed her fringe out of the way, probably smearing dirt on her forehead. 

They were in the half light of morning outside of Aerith’s house and the temperature was steadily rising. They’d spent some time harvesting peacefully together before they got bored and decided to practice gesture-free magic simultaneously. Hawke’s barrier was holding strong, but Aerith’s bombardment was picking up steam. 

“So then what happened?” Aerith asked. She sat on the table and swung her feet. Spears of ice exploded against the surface of the barrier.  

“The dream collapsed. I assume Genesis woke up, taking Shiva with him,” Hawke replied.  It had been a few days but the experience lingered. ‘The war is over,’ Shiva had said, pulling at her shackles, her voice breaking with grief and anger.The Fade had drawn from Genesis’ memories and populated the island with fallen SOLDIERs and Wutai’s defenders, a cacophonous nightmare. 

Hawke lowered her eyes.

“I think I owe Genesis an apology,” she admitted.

“Why?” Aerith asked, concerned and curious. Lightning cracked.

“I threw him into something he didn’t understand and had no defences against. It ended in… what looked like a war flashback.”

“Oh. Could you have stopped it?” 

“I could have warned him. Or tried to control the context better so it didn’t spiral out of hand.” She sat back in the dirt, giving up her hunt for weeds. Dried earth coated her arms up to her elbows. 

“Why didn’t you?” Aerith’s legs stopped swinging for a moment. An explosion of grasping vines burst out of the earth and threw themselves at the barrier. It hadn’t flickered yet, but it would soon. 

“I wanted to see what he would do when left to his own devices.”

Aerith hummed. “He just had a nightmare, right? It’s not nice, but it’s not… that big of a deal. You didn’t cause it. And you said yourself you can’t shape the Fade, nobody is going to blame you.”

“No. But I led him there.”

“What’s the worst that could have happened?”

“He never wakes up again,” Hawke said, drier than the dirt flaking off her arms. 

Aerith’s eyes widened. The bombardment halted. 

“Can that really happen?”  

“Yes. It can.” Which Hawke knew was knowledge nobody else had, and she had kept to herself. She let her head fall forwards in shame. How many more inventive ways could she concoct to make people’s lives worse?

“People don’t write letters here, do they?” she asked. That was how she preferred to offer apologies, with unrepentant cowardice and no eye contact.

“Not really. Snail mail is for bills and, like, legal stuff,” Aerith said, a smile pulling at her mouth. She squinted in concentration and three fireballs rained down on the barrier in quick succession. “I taught you how to text, Hawke, but you never reply to my messages. Are you... having some problems?”

Hawke refused to let her face react. “You’re going to be insufferable about this, aren’t you?”

Aerith gave her an angelic smile. Fire roared down from above and reflected on the shiny buckles of her jacket. “Remember when I forgot how to cast that stone barrier and you chased me around the church with electrical wisps until I figured it out?”

Hawke’s lips twitched. “Doesn’t sound like something I’d do.” 

The barrier flickered.

“Hawke, did you forget how to text?”

“Of course not. Who could forget something so simple?”

Another volley of fireballs exploded and the barrier collapsed with a crunch. The stuffed pillow case exploded into blue flames 

“Ha! Yes!” Aerith yelled, jumping to her feet and throwing her hands up. Then she spun and pointed a finger at Hawke. “I won! Now you have to tell me.”

Hawke snorted and shook her head. “Fine, you got me. I moved the envelope symbol by accident and now I can’t find it.”

“Do you mean the icon?”

“It is a distinct possibility.”

Aerith held out her hand. “I’ll fix it for you.”

Hawke handed off her phone. “Thank you, you’re very gracious.”

Aerith winked at her. 

She hauled herself up and went to fetch the tubs they were using for the vegetables. They had already picked all the other ripe produce earlier and would be making their first attempt at selling them after lunch. Elmyra’s fridge was packed with fresh vegetables. Mostly Zucchini. Hawke really hadn’t expected it to thrive that well, they actually had to cut the vines back before they strangled everything else. She hadn’t expected any of it to grow so well, in all honesty. 

She came back out with the tubs, Aerith handed her phone back, and they packed the beans up.

“What war do you think Shiva was talking about?” Aerith asked as they worked. 

“I don’t know. Did the Cetra ever go to war?” Hawke replied, trying to pass it off as a careless curiosity. Wisdom, or Shiva, had mentioned Mythal. What did that mean in relation to Gaia? Mentioned in the same sentence as a war… a shiver of unease ran down Hawke’s spine. 

Aerith hummed. “I don’t think so. Does the Calamity count?”

“That’s the lady who fell from space and ate people?”

“That is very disrespectful.”

“Is that not what happened?” Hawke blinked. “If the Calamity was their last stand, the summon Materia must have been made before then anyway. I assume.”

“I guess so.” Aerith chewed on her top lip for a moment. “Mythal must have been one of the matriarchs. Maybe she sent Shiva as a spy to a rival clan, and she got caught. Inter-clan espionage, sabotage!” She snapped a rubber band around a final bundle of beans and tossed them into the tub. “What a scandal. Grandma Mythal, I’m ashamed of you.”

Hawke laughed. It petered out quickly. She sucked in a steadying breath and decided to commit to saying it out loud.

“She wasn’t a matriarch. She wasn’t even a Cetra.”

“How do you know?”

“Because I knew her name before I got here.” And the name she went by these days. 

Aerith paused midway through clapping the dirt off her hands. 

Hawke spoke quickly before her own hesitation could cut her off: “She was the Elvhen goddess of motherhood, the sky, and justice. Also herbology and poetry, which really feel like they ought to be Sylaise’s domain, but whatever. She was head of the pantheon so I guess she got to call dibs.”

“Oh.” Aerith blinked at her owlishly. “‘Elvhen’?”

“An ancient magical species of Fade Shapers that ruled Thedas before humans came along.”

“Huh.”

“Hm,” Hawke agreed. 

“When did they live?”

“Oh, roughly two thousand years ago,” she said lightly. 

Aerith’s eyes narrowed. “ Huh .”

“Hm,” Hawke repeated for symmetry’s sake. 

“ Would this Mythal send spirits to spy on the Cetra?”

“It was all so long ago, who can say?” Hawke said, in place of the ‘yes, and then she’d send armies,’ that jumped to her mind first. The Cetra lived in peaceful nomadic clans, according to historians. The elves lived in an empire. An empire that Mythal and her family had personally built, the old fashioned way. 

She shook her head, no time for any of that, there was food to be eaten and wares to be sold. She lifted the tub and carried it inside. 

Aerith was quiet for most of lunch. She looked to be stewing, and Hawke left her to it. 

She swung back on one of the kitchen chairs, sandwich in hand, and pulled out her phone. The little picture of an envelope glowed back where it was meant to be. She tapped it and took a moment to wonder what the problem was now since nothing happened. Oh, that was right, the glass didn’t like her gloves. 

She discarded them, then felt too exposed, staring down Genesis’ contact details. 

She gulped down her trepidation and a mouthful of tuna and soggy bread, and wrote what she hoped wouldn’t embarrass either of them too severely. She highly doubted he would want her to make a fuss out of what she had seen, any more than she wanted to make a fuss over having been responsible for it in the first place. 

‘No apology is necessary,’ he responded a moment later. Her shoulders sagged. ‘We are all subject to the night, are we not? There are no dreams, no honour remains.’

She was puzzling over what that meant, when he sent another message. 

‘Incidentally, texts do not require salutations.’

Ah. Aerith hadn’t said anything. It hadn’t occurred to her that she couldn’t just text people the same way she would write them a letter. 

‘So this is an acceptable way to compose a message?’ she said, with no further greeting or signing off, and feeling the ghost of her mother shaking her head over her shoulder. 

‘It is accepted practise, yes.’

‘It feels unbearably rude.’

‘I wasn’t aware that was something you struggled with,’ he wrote. 

‘Until five seconds ago I would have agreed with you.
Sincerely, Hawke.’

‘You are the most lackadaisical conversationalist I know in person and yet the most formal on paper.
Charmed, Genesis.’

“Could you please put that on silent?” Aerith said from the other side of the table and a pile of zucchini. 

Hawke held the phone out and had it returned to her half a second later. 

That was one more set of social norms she was going to have to learn from scratch. Good thing she had lost Reno’s number immediately after he gave it to her, he probably would have been less gracious about her gafs. 

‘While I have your attention,’ Genesis wrote, ‘are you available to perform some healing this afternoon?’

She frowned at the screen, ‘Did you get hurt again?’

‘It’s not for me. My brother in arms suffers the same affliction as me. He doesn’t know it yet, but he is starting to show signs.’

She glanced at the piles of food they were planning to sell, and hatched an idea. 

She told him he would have to come to her. 

Genesis led Angeal onto a train heading for the slums. 

He peppered him with questions about the Loveless performance they had been to the other night. Genesis knew full well Angeal didn’t especially care but if he asked with enough insistence then Angeal would focus and dredge up an opinion instead of asking too many questions. 

“I liked the props.” Angeal leaned against a pole in the middle of the carriage, bearing it with good grace. “That swinging rig the goddess repelled down from was impressive.” 

“Tacky.” Genesis lifted his chin. “It stole what little gravitas the adaption had, and replaced it with empty spectacle.”

“The crowd loved it,” Angeal replied lightly. 

“Well yes, but they would, wouldn’t they?” 

Angeal rolled his eyes and looked out the window.

“So are you going to tell me where we’re going?”

Genesis shook his head. “Honestly, Angeal.”

The fact of the matter was he didn’t actually know what Hawke was planning. He was about to say what he was planning either. 

He snuck a look at angeal, who noticed. He didn’t move as though he was suffering, but he was paler. There was a slight papery quality to his skin that had never been there before. Even Sephiroth had noticed because he told him to get more sleep, in that awkward way of his. 

Genesis reflexively rolled his shoulders. No sting, no residual ache. Sometimes he could swear he still felt it, it had followed him for so long. 

Angeal didn’t know. He hadn’t suffered any injury bad enough that Hollander would risk telling him. Angeal was a stickler for rules and a great respecter of authority. He wouldn’t entertain the thoughts of rebellion that Genesis had if he learned about the degradation, wouldn’t be the co-operative weapon the scientist wanted. He’d…

Well. Genesis couldn’t fully predict what he’d do, but the news that his honourable parents were Shinra employees and his entire life a lie would cut him to the quick. It was unnecessarily cruel. Fortunately, it was also entirely avoidable. 

The train stopped below plate. People looked at them curiously and whispered as the two of them got their bearings. It had been a crisp day above plate, but it was warm and damp below. 

“This way,” Genesis called, setting off according to Hawke’s surprisingly comprehensive directions. He had gotten lost almost every time he came down here. 

“Genesis, what are we doing?” Angeal replied. 

They turned the corner into a little market. The directions ended here. 

“We are...” Genesis said, searching for a black head of hair amidst the roaming civilians. People stopped and gawked at them. He caught sight of a familiar pair of armoured boots propped up on a bench. Hawke’s gangly form leaned back on a chair next to a trestle table covered in fresh vegetables. “...Grocery shopping,” he finished. 

“You don’t do your own shopping,” Angeal argued, before his eyes landed on the produce. He sucked in a sharp breath. 

“Where did you get those?” he asked, stepping up to the table with rapt fascination.  

The teenage girl who had been in Junon appeared at Hawke’s side, smiling cheerily. “Grew them right here! Go on, have a sniff, they’re good.” 

He picked up a tomato and examined it, asking eager questions about soil quality. Genesis affectionately shook his head. Angeal could be such a nerd about these things. 

A line of curious onlookers formed behind them. 

“Wow, a real life SOLDIER,” Hawke said, rising from her chair and smiling lazily. “At my stall? I can’t believe it.”

“Believe it.” He flashed his indulgent celebrity smile. He looked sidelong at Angeal and back again. “We’re just here to shop, no need to make a fuss.” She knew what he needed, nobody could know. Especially Angeal. 

She nodded. “And, uh, what can I get you?” She tilted her head in concentration. Her eyes lost focus. There was no mystical glow or sensation in the air, nothing to give away the trick. 

He looked down. “Beans.” That ought to satisfy any questions. 

“I’ll get you a bag,” she said. She blinked then moved behind the girl, fussing with bags, boxes, and scales with unbearable slowness. 

“I can barely get anything to flower in the city,” Angeal was saying to the girl. “What kind of fertiliser are you using? Did you grow these from saplings?” 

Hawke did a lingering loop around their side of the stall, looming with all the subtlety of a storm cloud. Genesis resisted the urge to close his eyes in despair. 

Angeal flicked a hand like a fly had buzzed near his ear. He looked around. 

“These were from saplings,” the girl replied, “but the tomatoes and zucchini are all from seed. Same as the basil.”

“No! You did not grow basil in Midgar, did you?” he said, his attention seized again.

“From seed,” the girl replied triumphantly. “No white aphids either. Here, look.”

Hawke contrived to leave the stall and walk through the line forming behind them, passing right next to Angeal. She made a complex shape with her fingers and brushed his back. 

“Oh, sorry,” Angeal said, stepping forward. 

“Not a problem.” She patted him on the back. Distract him , she mouthed at the girl over his shoulder. 

“Genesis, did you just cast something?” Angeal asked, his brow heavy over his eyes. Hawke doubled back and walked behind him again the other way.

“No, why?” Genesis replied, his head in his hand. Was it possible Angeal could be as oblivious as Hawke was obvious? Would the goddess grant him that mercy?

“I know you! You’re Zack’s mentor. Angeal?” the girl exclaimed.

“Uh, yes.” His brow furrowed for a moment, before realisation dawned. “You’re Aerith. Pleasure to-” He spun around suddenly, startling the people in the line. There was no sign of Hawke, only an elderly gentleman holding an empty chiller bag. He shrunk back from the large SOLDIER First. 

“Oh. Sorry.” Angeal turned back around, sheepishly scratching the back of his neck. “Sorry. It’s a pleasure to meet you, Aerith. Zack talks about you all the time. He mentioned you had a garden, and that you grew flowers.” 

“They’re more of a luxury good. What else does he say about me?”

Hawke popped back up behind the stall, opposite Genesis. 

“So you wanted some beans?” she said, perfectly nonchalant. Her eyes were fully focused and looking all too pleased with herself.

He gave her the driest look he could. She raised an eyebrow with what he felt was an accusation. He crossed his arms and looked down his nose at her. She scoffed and crossed her arms back at him.

“What are you two doing?” Angeal asked.

“You know, Angeal, you’re being very odd today,” Genesis declared, spinning around and demanding the entirety of his attention.

“You’re the one who’s being odd. Not that I don’t approve, it’s good to support local business.”

“Naturally. But are you sure you’re feeling alright?” 

“I’m fine,” Angeal said, giving him a weird look. His skin was a healthier colour already, the capillaries on his neck no longer visible. His hair even looked a darker shade. He rolled his shoulders. “Better than fine, actually. I feel great.” 

“That’ll be the fresh air,” Aerith said. 

Angeal snorted a laugh and turned back to face her. “I think that’s everything.”

She bagged it up for him. 

“Thank you for your business.” She beamed. “That’ll be eighty gil.”

“Eighty!” 

“Friend’s discount,” she said with a wink.

Genesis returned to Hawke. 

“Satisfied?” she murmured, arms still crossed. 

He inclined his head.

“Are you a permanent installation here?”

She shrugged. “Depends on how long the stock lasts. We do take orders, for all your after-hours legume needs.”

“Dreams of the morrow hath the shattered soul,” he replied. He would meet her in the Fade. 

She nodded seriously. “Pride is lost, Wings stripped away.” She slapped a bag of five individual beans into his hand. “ The end is nigh.”

Chapter Text

Genesis dreamed.

He hadn't entered the Fade since he and Hawke had summoned Shiva. He slept fitfully, all too aware of where the Shiva summon sat in the drawer of his bedside table and hoping not to rest so deeply he would be confronted by it again. By the end of the week he was too exhausted to do anything about it.

He opened his eyes to a mansion under a green sky. Golden light danced over thick grass dotted with wildflowers, and dumb apple trees curved through the lavish halls.

There were less exterior doors than he remembered.

He stood in the entrance of the library that was half orchard. It had been an open plan layout before: now it was rather like a maze with shelves, trees, and dead ends winding senselessly around him. It was utterly silent.

It had never occurred to him before how little control he had of his dreams. The mansion felt like a part of him, it was clearly assembled from his subconscious, but it was invasive and unaccountable. Taking some intimate, indescribably facet of himself and broadcasting it across the landscape. Could he command the walls to rearrange themselves? The dumbapples to give fruit?

The watchful silence in response to his barked orders said he could not. Or at least, not like that.

Hawke had apologised for the nightmare the last dream had spiralled into, but that was only reasonable if she had the power to control it. She didn't act like she did. She didn't always act reasonably either.

He pulled a book off the shelf. It was heavy and solid, unnamed and leather bound, with the smell of an old tome. He resisted the urge to flip it open, he knew from experience that hours would slip past, before he would look up with no memory of having actually read anything. It seemed so mean spirited of the dream realm to present him with books he couldn't actually read.

A muted knock sounded behind him.

Hawke stood in the doorway, leaning her hip against the side post.

"Hawke." He inclined his head and slotted the book back onto the shelf.

"Evening. How's Angeal?" she asked.

"Better." He turned and crossed his arms. "I believe he noticed we were up to something."

She cracked a smile. "But we were so very subtle."

"Your identity and magic is a secret still," he said with a sniff, "and it is purely down to my quick thinking and fabrications."

"Hey now, I'd like to see you cast something so intrusive on a seasoned warrior without them noticing."

"I am not a healer."

"Neither am I, look at me."

He did so. She was fully armed and armoured, to an extent he hadn't seen since the day he met her in the train graveyard. Her dream self was somehow mundane and grounded against the slightly unreal and changeable backdrop. She was a comforting anchor for the eyes.

She winked and showed her profile. "This is my good side."

He raked his eyes back up her form. "Quite."

She flashed a toothy smile.

He sobered a moment later. "Hawke… we should talk about Shiva."

"Ah. Not here." Her expression shuttered.

He shook his head. "It's painful for her to speak in the material world, I won't put her through that."

"I mean not here in the mansion. I don't want her to spiral into despair again."

"What's wrong with my mansion?"

She looked around, tilting her head back to look up. There was a balcony above them of distinctly Midgarian design intruding on the old world elegance. Now that he looked at it, he was struck by its oddity, the bare metal supports and glass railings. Had that always been there? It was a nonsensical addition. The dumb apple trees curving over the railing didn't suit it at all.

He narrowed his eyes. Why were there trees inside his house?

"This is a place of... very strong feeling." Hawke said, sounding distinctly mysterious, and like she was covering for an observation less complimentary.

She shook her head and disappeared down the corridor. He followed her, observing the treacherous surroundings as they went. Hawke moved with confidence through the halls, her body coiled and ready for anything, vigilant in a way she wasn't even in the heart of the Midgar slums. She faced the Fade like a familiar opponent, one she had regarded with respect.

"Where are we going?" he asked, as they traversed the orchards and then left them behind entirely. Pathways wound in circles and crossed over themselves without the scenery ever repeating.

"Somewhere a little less..." Hawke searched for a word.

"Yes?" he drawled.

"...melodramatic," she drawled right back.

He narrowed his eyes and had the perfect response for that on the tip of his tongue, when something under his boot crunched.

There was a clump of thick green grass intruding on the bare clay ground, with something caught in the blades. He kicked at it, overturning what had drawn his attention.

It was a clay Wutaian talisman, the sort they carried for luck into battle. It had shattered under his weight. He looked up.

A ridge of upturned earth blocked the way forward, cutting through a grassy mound. It looked odd under a bright white light, like scorching noon without a sun.

Hawke slowed her pace, her hand straying to her staff. "What is this?"

He felt a shiver of unease run up his spine. He drew his sword and together they climbed the ridge.

A silent battlefield stretched out below them: rolling hills torn open by bomb blasts, white birch trees snapped and uprooted, and scattered in the lush green grass in every direction, motionless bodies in Wutai uniforms.

"No. Stop this," Genesis said, rooted to the spot. "I don't want to dream of this."

"It's not me, these aren't my memories." Hawke said, her grip tightening around her staff. "I don't know what this is."

"It's the Da Chao massacre." He couldn't take his eyes off of it.

She stepped back off the ridge. "We should leave."

It was exactly as he remembered it, the rows of impact sites along the hills, the swathes of forest sliced clean in two, the rich glossy colour of bloodsoaked dirt. It was garish in the bright light, cheery and gut churning. "It's wrong. It wasn't noon when the fighting stopped. It was sunset."

"Who else was there? Who would dream of this?"

He tore his eyes from the massacre to her look of genuine curiosity. She didn't know. The battle famously only had two survivors. Genesis swallowed harshly.

"Let's turn back." He sheathed his sword and marched back down the ridge. He couldn't confront this here.

He walked like he knew where he was going for long enough that the silent battlefield disappeared behind them. Hawke called his attention and redirected him towards another path. He refused to be shaken and faced it with his head held high.

She didn't ask. He was grateful.

"This way," she said, at the base of a towering cliff. A path of shifting sands lead up its side, exposed and exhausting to labour through. The height gave them a view of the surroundings. Empty dreamscape stretched out below, featureless and grey. It felt barren.

A hideous copper statue jutted out from the cliff face, looming high above them, the only break in the empty surroundings. It was in the shape of a man, nailed to the wall and weeping into his hands. The hairs on the back of his neck stood on end, and he felt his back bowing as he walked, boots sinking into the sand.

"What a terrible place."

"But it's my terrible place," Hawke replied, looking like she'd never been more comfortable. She walked light-footed and with a swing in her step.

"Is this where you dream?" he asked, horrified. He stumbled over what he was going to assume was a rock buried in the sand.

"Mm-hm."

"How is this less melodramatic than a mansion?"

"It's safer." She shrugged. "I'm not a Fade Shaper, I can't control the surroundings, but I can sort of… passive aggressively manipulate it into co-operating. All this," she waved her hand at the path and the statue, and at a campfire that appeared on a ledge cut in the cliff side when she turned to it. "Perspective tricks. They keep the dream from spiralling out of control."

He regarded the humble fire pit and the logs around it. "Tell me how it works."

She did so. They sat around the fire and spoke for what felt like hours. The glow of a long day at its end lit upon the cliff but never darkened into night. He looked out at the unshaped Fadescape beyond the cliff's edge, making more sense of it as she spoke.

"So this emptiness is unnatural, without Shiva and her kind."

She prodded at the fire with a stick. "It would be where I'm from, but maybe it was always this empty here. I don't know."

"Shiva will know," he said. He didn't reach for the materia.

She looked up from the fire and they studied each other for a long minute. She reached out a hand and he passed her the materia with some relief. In the real world he would never do such a thing, but he had felt the strength of Shiva's meltdown last time pierce through him. If the whole point of this was to keep it under control, he would rather Hawke be the summoner.

She studied the red orb for a long moment. Without so much as standing, she gestured with it at one of the empty logs.

"Will you sit with us at our fire, Wisdom?" she asked quietly. "We seek your counsel."

There was no explosion of ice, no triumphant twirl.

One moment the log was empty, the next Shiva materialised upon it, her long legs crossed loosely beneath her. Cold mist whispered around her log and her silver gossamer clothes swayed in a cold wind that rose with her arrival. She sat with her eyes closed for a moment, and her shoulders slowly sank with relief. Icey tears dripped steadily from her shackles.

"Why would you seek out wisdom now, when you never have before?" the spirit asked.

"Better late than never?" Hawke offered with a self deprecating smile.

Shiva levelled a look at her with a shapely eyebrow raised. Hawke cleared her throat sheepishly and looked at him for back up.

"You said you walked the earth during the age of the Ancients," he said.

Shiva tilted her head. "I walked the Fade."

"What was it like?"

She cast her gaze beyond them and breathed out slowly. "The Children of Gaia filled this realm with wonders. Nomads in the waking world but natives of the Dreaming. Almost spirits. They delighted in creating and exploring: their artists were unmatched and their curiosity boundless. They looked upon the Elvhen and did not know to be afraid."

"Are you one of these Elvhen?" he asked, as fascinated as he was alarmed.

She shook her head. "I am a Spirit of Wisdom."

He narrowed his eyes. "Are you a child of Gaia?"

"No. We visited this land… were welcomed and grew within the stream." Shiva flickered out of focus, like a film skipping a frame, a full body stutter. "I gave counsel to matriarchs and clansmen and learned from them in turn. We walked together…" she stuttered again, then grew still, "…for a time."

"What happened then?" Hawke asked gently.

Shiva took her time answering. She flattened her hands on her knees and held herself taut.

"I do not know. They did not trust me to know. Not the Cetra, not the Elvhen. The People warred with Gaia's Children. I tried to return but a wall had risen. The way was shut, only the mirrors remained, and they were too closely guarded." She flickered again, and grief flashed across her face, carved deep into her features. She looked unfathomably old. "Leashed. Corrupted. Forced to fight…" Her body lost its definition, an uncertain thing his eyes couldn't fathom, pulling against her shackles.

"Wisdom." Hawke's voices cracked through the air.

The struggle halted. Shiva looked like herself again. She closed her eyes, pain engraved in lines on her forehead.

"'The People?'" he asked, too curious to leave it alone. "Do you mean humans?"

"No," Hawke replied. "That's what the Elvhen, the old elves, called themselves. They were like the Ancients of Thedas."

"What did they want? Why did they attack?"

"I don't know," Shiva ground out, her eyes still closed.

"Who started it?"

"Genesis," Hawke cautioned.

"I don't know."

"Who won?" he pressed.

"I don't know!" Shiva cried. Her image fluctuated, flashing with light and stuttering painfully. "It was not Wisdom, this is not Wisdom!"

"Shiva." Hawke's voice called like a whip crack again, bringing a silence to the little camp. The fire crackled between them and a cold wind swept along the cliffside, whistling over their little alcove. It was such a mundane little place that it suddenly couldn't support panic.

"You're safe at my fire, but the wilds are still out there," Hawke said gently. "Don't lower your guard." She sent him a sharp look. "Stop aggravating her."

He drew in a breath. He had intended to come here and ask how to set her free, but she presented a window to a history nobody in modern Gaia even had a name for. He forced his questions back. That wasn't what they were here for.

"Please," Shiva said. Her voice shook. "Do not ask me more about the forgotten ages."

Hawke added logs to the fire and prodded glowing embers. Nobody spoke for some time as Shiva settled into herself again. Genesis rose and reached his hands out to the fire. It felt distinctly like a late autumn night, as though they were taking a short rest on the way to somewhere safer before the true cold set in. That was the trick of it. The setting told the world itself that this a temporary safe haven. Not a fortification inviting challenge, nor a welcoming home with doors designed to open.

"What do you want from us?" Genesis asked.

Shiva's eyes were grave. "You know this already. Asking with new words will not change the answer."

"You want to be free."

She nodded. "Ma ghilana mir din'an."

Hawke shook her head. "How do we do that?"

"Destroy the materia."

"That won't change anything," he said, looking between them with narrowed eyes at the foreign exchange. "A new materia would just grow back in a Mako fountain somewhere."

"Let me shatter it here, in the realm in which it was made. Not the hollow copy you keep in your armour."

"Then you will be free to roam the Fade again?" he asked.

"No."

He frowned. "What else do we need to do then?"

"It's not that," Hawke said, rising to stand by him at the fire. "Ma ghilana mir din'an - guide me to my death. She won't survive."

Shiva remained seated, looking straight ahead with her hands on her knees. "I am broken and corrupting. My form is held in place by my chains, without them... I will crumble away."

He stared hard at her. "Wouldn't you rather be healed?"

"I am not flesh, child. Wounds of the Spirit do not heal over and scar. There is… little left of me."

"You've saved my life more times than I can count, Shiva." he swallowed harshly. "I don't want to kill you. That isn't freedom."

She offered him a sad smile. "Others will spring up from my ashes. Give them the freedom you would have granted me, perhaps they will give you your own in turn."

"And the price?" Hawke asked darkly.

Shiva looked away from them again. "Can the full price of a decision ever be truly known?"

"I know how out of our depths we are, making a decision none of us really understands."

"Shiva is a sentient creature," he said, frowning at Hawke over the fire. "We have no right to choose for her."

"She won't survive to know about it, but we will. We are talking about literally killing the embodiment of Wisdom and unleashing who knows what!" she replied, gesturing vaguely.

"It's a risk I'm prepared to take," he said, shocked at her sudden vehemence.

"You don't even know what you're risking."

"What then? What's on the line?"

"Spirits will be born from her remains. New ones, different ones. They will take back this realm and reshape it entirely, Gaia itself will be changed."

He pursed his lips. "They lived in communion with the Cetra and the Planet once."

"Two thousand years ago, but the world as you know it is built on a foundation without them."

He threw out a dismissive hand. "The world can adapt. The Summon Spirits are a people, with as much right to self determination as any of us."

"There's no un-ringing the bell, Genesis!" She ran a hand through her hair and looked away, out over the cliff's edge, to the unshaped plains below. "I want to free her as well but there will be a price to this, and I don't know who will be stuck footing the bill. But it will be our fault." She clenched her jaw. "For better or for worse."

"There is a price for choosing not to, one that she pays daily," he hissed, pointing at Shiva. "Only we have the power to set her free and end her pain. If we choose not to, that is our fault."

She looked at him, her eyes wide and harrowing. She had a faded old scar right under her left eye, close enough that the initial injury must have threatened to blind her.

"I started a war once. In the name of freedom," she blurted. She sucked in a ragged breath and shook her head. "I just made everything worse."

He paused. She stood in her bloodied armour and didn't try to look away or take it back. The shroud of chaos and mystery fell away and he understood her.

"You can make this better for Shiva," he said, lowering his voice. "Or you can cut yourself out of the story, pretend at ignorance and powerlessness, and let the world rot." He met her gaze and waited for the verdict.

She swallowed harshly. Finally her eyes dropped. "You're a very convincing speaker. You should give Ted talks."

"Hawke."

She scowled into the crackling fire, but couldn't sustain it. Her expression faded into something achingly sad. She looked back up at him. "Set her free. Maker forgive us, we have to set her free."

"You do not have to," Shiva said, finally rising from where she had watched them. "For choosing to do so anyway, you have my gratitude."

Hawke nodded, still looking like she was at a funeral. In a way, she was. She held out the Materia to Shiva.

"I'm sorry," she said to nobody in particular.

"You always are," Shiva replied, taking it from her.

She sniffed. "Fine, I rescind my apology."

Shiva reached down, and cupped Hawke's cheek with one of her giant hands. "Do not cling to regret so tightly it poisons your soul, Champion."

"I will… try."

"Oh, child."

Shiva straightened and looked at Genesis. Convinced though he was of the righteousness of his cause, her attention left him disquieted.

"Dreams of the morrow hath the shattered soul," he said softly.

"You will make yourself weaker by granting me this."

"I don't want power taken from those in bondage. The decision is yours, regardless of my opinions."

"The world will be changed," she said, her voice a haunting chorus.

"The world changes every day." He lifted his chin in spite of his trepidation. "I am not afraid of playing my part in it."

She bowed her head. "Thank you."

The blood red orb looked wrong against her blue skin and silver glow. She retreated from the fire until she stood on the cliff's edge, then turned back to look at them.

The two mortals faced her, side by side.

She held the materia in both hands. It's glow grew brighter. The red shone against her, and the light within it churned. She looked up at them with a pained, triumphant smile. The materia cracked in her hands.

Shiva cried out, her teeth clenched. She shattered. Light and ice exploded, underscored by a bone deep sigh of relief that sang out across the Fade.

Genesis awoke to weak sunlight leaking in through his windows. He rolled over, pushed his blankets aside and reached into his bedside table. The materia inside it did not glow. It was cold, grey, and cracked in two.

Chapter Text

Hawke got out of bed like nothing had happened.

She got ready for a day of selling vegetables at the market and didn't think of Shiva's final moments. She didn't think about the sigh of relief that rang out, staining the Fade like ink. She didn't think about the icy shards that fell backwards off the cliff, swept away in the Lifestream's currents to disperse and grow into new, free spirits. She didn't think about what she had unleashed.

She didn't think about it so hard she gave herself a headache before she'd even finished her morning shower.

Shiva's look of terrible relief and triumph stared back at her from the water cascading from the spout. It reminded her so starkly of Anders, in the moment he blew up the Chantry. A moment she took great pains to never think about at all. He had been so proud of himself. So resolved to this terrible thing for mage freedom, and all its consequences.

It reminded her of herself. She'd felt that flood of relief, terror, and triumph as she struck down Knight Commander Meredith later the same night, spilling Templar blood across the steps of the Gallows.

The resemblance was probably intentional. Spirits were always doing stuff like that.

The water ran cold. Shiva was dead and so was Anders. What did it matter?

She stood under the spray for a moment longer before she shook herself and went back to not thinking about it.

Aerith was already waiting for her by the time she made it to the stall. It was a cold and wet day, with oily puddles filling the potholes.

"You're late, missy!" Aerith sang out. "Wait, what's wrong?"

"Nothing," Hawke said, plastering her customer service smile across her face. "Come on, we've got a market to conquer."

Aerith gave her a sceptical look but didn't call her out.

They had become a staple at the Saturday market and people were happy to see them. The crop wouldn't last much longer, but they had no lack of business. The two threw themselves into it and the cash box filled up.

It was approaching noon when Hawke noticed Aerith was acting oddly. Her head was slightly bowed and she kept looking over her shoulder. Her voice lowered as she spoke to customers, less of the over-the-top friendliness of her usual salesman act.

It took her a good few minutes before she caught sight of what Aerith had already picked up on. A Turk was watching them. One Hawke hadn't seen around before. Aerith must have, many times, to have noticed him so quickly. He lingered in the eaves of another stall nearby, being just visible enough to be intentional. He had dark hair pulled back in a ponytail and a black tilak on his forehead.

They kept working through lunch, and late into the afternoon.

The Turk remained. He didn't carry himself with Reno's scrappy persona or Rude's tendency to loom. He looked confident in his authority, understated, and setting off a dozen alarms in Hawke's mind.

Eventually he approached and spoke quietly with Aerith. They weren't close enough for Hawke to eavesdrop, Aerith kept her head down and her voice low. Her body language didn't say she was nervous. It said this was normal. Everything about the interaction screamed illegal mage and a Templar who had decided today he would be lenient.

Hawke weighed and bagged produce on autopilot. Aerith said something with a shake of her head and the man laughed quietly in reply. Hawke wanted to go deck him. She wanted to set the stall on fire and disappear in the chaos. She wanted to tell him to stop wasting their time and just arrest them already.

She took a deep breath and did none of those things. When he walked past she kept her head down.

He was long gone by the time they finished for the day, having melted back into the crowds.

"Alright?" Hawke asked quietly.

"Mm-hm," Aerith replied, tight lipped. "Are you?"

Of course."

Aerith snorted, which was probably deserved.

They packed up and said their goodbyes in the growing gloom.

Aerith walked away with her staff loose in one hand and a money box in the other, every inch the defiant mage. Hawke watched her go and all her thoughts of the Mage-Templar War slammed back into her from where she'd left them that morning. She sighed, dragged a hand down her face, and set off back home.

She hadn't even been that involved in the war after it's explosive start in Kirkwall. The Circle Mages who took up the banner of freedom didn't want the association of the Champion, let alone the man who had blown up a Chantry. Hers and Anders' decades of skill and experience didn't matter, only her willingness to fund them.

She braced herself against a cold rain sliding off the plate. She pulled her fur hood up over her head, but couldn't stop the water running down her bare arms into the insides of her gloves.

They'd killed Anders in the end. A dagger in the back, from some coward who hid in the crowds of rebel mages. If the others had known who it was, they covered for them. She wished it had been a Templar. At least then she could have been righteously furious over it. In the end, all she felt was cold.

She had built his pyre in silence and walked away from the lot of them. The rebellion had already been faltering. The thousands of Circle mages floundered in a world they had no idea how to adapt to, they bled their allies dry, pandered to the Chantry, and stole from the impoverished. When desperation finally squeezed them too tight, they sold themselves into Tevinter's slavery, in the name of Freedom.

By the time the Inquisition swooped in, bought out Tevinter and leashed the Mages anew, it wasn't a war anymore. It wasn't even a rebellion: just scared men and women looking for someone to tell them what to do again.

And who could blame them? They didn't ask for Hawke and Anders to start a war on their behalf. Maybe they were happier locked up in their towers then starving through a Ferelden winter with no shelter or survival skills.

She climbed the stairs to her apartment, haunted every step of the way. She unlocked it and stood on the threshold, looking into the cold and dark room. Water dripped off the edge of her hood. She braced herself for a long night of trying not to think about the Mage war, before going to bed and trying not to dream about it, in a Fade no longer empty of prowling spirits.

She turned around and went to the pub.

Hawke woke on a couch.

She cracked an eye open, very gently, and met with the thick grain of mustard yellow upholstery smooshed against her face. She wasn't sure where the rest of her was just yet. She only knew it was a couch because of a hangover based sixth sense. She wiggled her fingers and toes. All clothed and accounted for. Excellent.

Her head wasn't even swimming and her stomach felt fine too. Maybe she'd gotten away with it. She risked turning her head and opening her eyes a little more. So far so good.

This was Reno's apartment. Dimly lit, thick curtains held back any unwelcome sunlight. She'd never seen it before but the signs were all there: a row of fresh suits hanging in dry cleaner bags, clusters of old take out containers on most flat surfaces, and a pervading stench of cigarettes that had sunk into the carpet and spat in the face of the best efforts of the cleaners. An expensive place, treated cheaply. Her sense of self preservation was waking up far quicker than she was and told her she shouldn't be here. It was one thing to share drinks with the jackboot but you didn't follow it home.

She pushed herself up, maybe she could leave he noticed- her hangover slammed into her.

"Ngrf," she groaned. She squeezed her eyes shut and braced her temples, sinking back onto the couch. The brick lodged in her head rolled around, bumping into all the walls. Oh, last night was a mistake. Whatever she did, she shouldn't have. It wasn't worth it.

Ah, regret. Aged like a fine wine. Her specialty.

Behind her someone kicked open a door far too loudly, grumbling all the way. Reno came into her line of sight, wearing a crumpled and stained suit and staggering his way to the clean ones. He looked about as disastrous as she felt.

He stopped and blinked dumbly at the sight of her.

She blinked back.

He looked around her, obviously weighing up the risk of her incongruous presence in his house. She wondered if she was sober enough to attempt going into stealth while he was staring at her.

Then he shook his head, muttered something under his breath, and continued along his previous trajectory.

"I'm never playing darts with you again, yo," he said, grabbing a suit and then disappearing back behind the couch somewhere. "Where do you even hide your Materia?"

She carefully parsed this new information. "In my bra."

"I knew it."

She looked down at herself. There were shallow cuts and fragments of broken glass in the thick cloth of her gloves. At least half a pint's worth of beer stained her trousers, and big blocky bruises trailed up her arm. The forensic evidence of a bar fight. Damn.

"Wait." She narrowed her eyes, reclaiming details through the syrupy haze of her memory. "Did you make a pass at me?"

Reno reappeared, looking barely any better for having changed. He gave a lopsided frown.

"Is that why I have a black eye?"

There was a dark sheen around his left eye. She pointed and laughed.

"You're so lucky I was drunk," he grumbled. "I'd have kicked your ass."

She snorted. "You're lucky I was drunk."

"Or what?"

"I'd have kicked your ass and nicked your mag rod. Would've fenced it before sunrise."

"The hell you would." He collapsed next onto the couch with a yawn, jostling her. He picked up a half empty beer bottle from the carpet and took a sip.

She winced at the sight, at the sensation churning in her stomach, at the universe as a whole. "I'm getting too old for this." Was this what used up blotting paper felt like?

"I'm not." He pointed at her with the bottle. "No moping on my couch, yo. If you're gonna feel sorry for yourself you can get out."

She huffed a sigh. "Yeah, yeah."

She leaned forward, elbows on her knees. She rubbed her forehead and slid a sneaky healing spell into her temples, easing the pressure a little. She sighed again. At least she hadn't entered the Fade. Small mercies. She scowled at nothing.

"What did I just say?" Reno snapped.

A smile curled across her face. She tilted her head. "Was it something about breakfast?"

It wasn't but they pretended it was. They walked down to a nearby food truck for overpriced coffee and underwhelming bagels. It was far too bright outside, on account of being above plate. They complained about it extensively.

There was no time for regret around Reno. Whatever the subject matter, he didn't care and was viciously opposed to any attempts to try and make him. She felt no obligation to be a functioning human around him, and that was quite nice.

They stood on the sidewalk, cradling their hot drinks. The news played on a large flatscreen overhead, a group of anti-Shinra activists got caught trying to ice the engine blocks of freight trains. Footage of their arrest played out behind a politely disapproving reporter.

Reno shook his head and knocked the ash off his morning cigarette.

"Why make life worse for yourself?" he muttered.

Hawke gave a wan grin. "There's an easy way and a hard way, is there?"

"You know it."

They watch the footage in silence. The rebels looked well equipped, but not early enough for the overwhelming force Shinra brought down on them.

"Amateurs," Reno said.

"Should have distracted the dogs first," Hawke replied, returning her attention to her bagel.

"Na, they should have gone during the day. The crowds would've distracted the guards."

"MPs will still fire into a crowd."

"Yeah, but they're not gonna hit you, are they?"

Hawke looked at him. He took a drag of smoke.

"You're a bad person, Reno."

"So are you. Like you're not breaking bones to get out of protection rackets."

She shrugged. "They started it."

"You're just mad I get paid better."

"Winning side usually does," she replied.

He gave her a sidelong look. She balled up her rubbish and tossed it into a bin.

They returned their attention to the screen, neither really watching it.

"Condor rebellions?" he asked lightly.

"No, I fought for the rights of oppressed wizards." She crossed her arms. "Buy me another coffee."

He rolled his eyes.

Hawke kept herself busy over the next few weeks with mercenary work. She had graduated from the Athenril school of smuggling and gotten her post grad degree at the Isabela institute of getting away with it: she sidled easily into a reputation for being reliable, professional, and disinterested.

She guarded smugglers and emptied out monster nests, hunted down missing people, and did some dead boring hired muscle gigs. She received some offers she couldn't refuse from a couple of warring local gangs, both of which she refused. Aerith nagged her for more magical training, and she came up with a plethora of excuses for why she couldn't just now.

Shinra raised the fare prices after the train attack and closed down two of the smaller stations. People complained but all attempts at protesting were promptly quashed.

Hawke slept lightly and managed to knock herself back out of the Fade before she fully entered most nights. She caught sight of her heavily pregnant neighbour one morning, stalking up the stairs with lots of heavy breathing and clutching at the small of her back. Hawke looked at her third trimester belly and knew, in the face of all logic, that the child would be a mage.

Which was impossible. There was no magic in Gaia's unenhanced human population. Or there hadn't been, back when it's Lifestream was empty of spirits.

She moved out the next day.

Her phone vibrated with a message from Genesis that night. She was sitting on a stained mattress, leaning against the bare cinder block wall of her new, tiny apartment. The entirety of her worldly possessions sat on the floor in a corner. The lightbulb blew when she turned it on, so she opened the curtain and sat in the dark of the slums' lights.

She hadn't heard from Genesis since they shattered Shiva. Maybe she could just not open the message.

What if he needed healing again? The war was over but he was still SOLDIERing about, he or Angeal could be injured. She flipped the phone open.

'When the war of the beasts brings about the world's end,

The goddess descends from the sky,

Wings of light and dark spread afar,

She guides us to bliss, her gift everlasting.'

She contemplated the poetry, sucking her teeth. It was pretty verse, but she had no clue what it was supposed to mean. If it was a cry for help it was craftily hidden.

'That's beautiful,' she texted back, hoping for clues.

'It's Loveless.'

She'd heard of that one. Wasn't there a street named after it?

'I thought it was longer.''

'Of course, that's just the first stanza,' he replied,

'Where's the rest of it?' she asked. Who recited half a poem? Strange man.

The 'typing' symbol flashed on and off a few times. She pulled her knees up to her chest and pulled her cheap blanket tight around herself. The last of the summer heat had abandoned them entirely, and the window didn't close fully. A draft sighed in through the gaps.

The screen glowed in the dark. 'Haven't you heard it before?'

She pulled a face. 'I'm new here.' It wasn't her fault, she'd been busy.

The phone rang.

"Oh." She blinked and accepted the call. "Hello."

His voice came through the speakers, bringing a little life to the dark room, as he launched into a recital with no preamble. She leaned back against the wall and let it flow over her. It was lyrical and mysterious, recited with a steady, building rhythm. She had no idea what it was supposed to mean but he said it like it meant a great deal to him, like a Chantry sister reaching out for the Maker Himself with each line of the Chant of light.

He fell silent. She held her breath. It hadn't reached its crescendo yet, the final notes were left hanging.

"The final stanza," he said quietly, "has been lost to history."

"What!" she exclaimed. "You don't know how it ends?"

"Nobody does. The world has been left in suspense for the story's conclusion for centuries. Who won the duel, were the lovers reunited, was the world saved? None can say."

She furrowed her brow at the ceiling. Was that what it was about? "Surely we can say with some surety the world was saved. It's still here."

"Only if you assume it to be an historical text. Perhaps its allegory. Or myth."

Not like the Chant of Light then. "Or a tall tale."

He harrumphed. She smiled into the phone.

"Reminds me of the Hunt of the Fell Wolf," she said. "Although that one has a definitive ending."

"I'm not familiar."

She closed her eyes, leaned her head back against the wall and recited the epic. It flowed from whichever pocket of her mind it had lodged itself into, stilted in places and improvising a line or two where memory left her hanging. She wasn't a natural storyteller, she didn't have Varric's gift for diction and suspense, but she could put on a passable performance when pressed. The rhythm of the tale was uncomplicated and made for pleasant telling.

"As night passed into day, the two, did tales of valor spin,

And to this very day, each claims that he alone did win," she finished, after the heroes triumphed.

Outside the city lights glinted up at her.

Genesis was more impressed than she thought was deserved. Any bard would have turned their nose up at her performance. He peppered her with questions, who the two hunters were, what of the wolf's role, and was it all a metaphor?

"You can interpret it that way if you want," she replied, burrowing into the blanket. "You could say it's a metaphor for the stolen recognition of elven accomplishments, or how no one person can save the day. But it is about two real people who fought a big dog monster that one time." She gave a lopsided smile. "It's a very Ferelden sort of tale."

"Fascinating," he replied, with an open curiosity she'd never heard from him before. "Is this an important story to you?"

"Not especially. I probably heard it in a tavern somewhere. It's the kind of thing bards love."

There was a pause. "Just the once? You know it by heart after hearing it somewhere, once?"

"It's not very long," she said with a shrug. "The Chant of Light fills multiple door stoppers and people memorise that all the time."

He gave a suspicious hum. She stretched her legs out, letting her feet dangle off the edge of the bed.

"Yours is an oral culture, isn't it?"

A slow grin stretched across her face. "There's a joke in there somewhere, but I assume that's not what you're asking."

"Information is handed down by storytelling traditions," he said, blissfully ignoring her, "shared aloud and committed to memory, instead of by writing them down."

She blinked. It hadn't actually occurred to her the extent to which it wasn't like that here. But of course it wasn't, nobody told stories in the same way, Varric would be out of a job here. There were no bards. There were no drinking songs. There weren't even any buskers. Nobody seemed to remember anything, Aerith was forever surprised at the depth of details she had memorised.

"I... suppose," she said, feeling self conscious about it. "We do write things down too."

"How common is literacy?"

"Probably rarer than here," she conceded. Her shoulders drooped. "People don't really sing or share stories and poems here, do they? Outside of TV."

"Alas, no," he said gently. "We're a performative culture, but not in the literal sense."

She sighed and rested her chin in her hand. She hadn't even noticed how much she missed it. Void take them all, she was homesick. What a disgrace.

"Wutai is more poetic than the other continents," he said, after the silence had stretched out long enough to be maudlin. "I saw this decorating the walls of a tea house:

I look beyond,

flowers are not,

nor tinted leaves,

On the sea beach,

A solitary cottage stands,

In the waning light,

Of an autumn eve."

She sighed in appreciation. He had a good voice for it, the words rolled over her and filled her with an acute longing for something, she didn't know what. The Wounded Coast after a storm? Her humble childhood home in Lothering, on the edge of the river, windswept and stony? A resentful knot of tension deep inside her loosened.

She committed it to her memory, uncaring for how gauche it was to go around remembering poems.

"It was in kanji of course, I had a copy commissioned," he said.

She asked what that meant. The conversation drifted to Wutai's linguistic traditions, winding, thoughtful, and increasingly sleepy. She lay down and curled up around the phone, yawning and nodding, and eventually drifting off to a deep and peaceful sleep.

Chapter Text

Sephiroth sat on a grassy hillock and enjoyed the sun's warmth on his face. The breeze was warm too, lifting his hair and making the grass sway in waves across the rolling hills. A lone cicada chirped by a fallen tree to his left.

Further down the hillock an upturned tank ticked as its engine cooled. Bodies spilled from its bisected shell, bleeding into the grass. A Wutaian captain lay face down next to him. The wind picked up the torn sash of his uniform and blew it down the hillside, fluttering in silence over the countless dead. He closed his eyes and thought about the warmth of the sun again.

Sephiroth always dreamed of the Da Chao massacre. When he was younger the dreams had been frantic, stumbling over bodies and waiting for the next attack. He spent long nights standing at the ready, sword drawn, waiting for a blow that never came but was always on the verge of descending.

It grew normal. He realised it was a dream. The bodies never ran out of blood or turned stiff, no matter how long they sat in the dirt. The scene never changed and nothing happened.

Until the night before, he thought, opening his eyes. He had been lying down in the grass then, when Genesis and a woman he didn't recognise appeared on a ridge in the distance. He sat up but they retreated back the way they had come without doing anything.

Immeasurable hours later, a cry had rung out and sparks split the green sky like falling stars.

Nothing had happened since. It stuck with him though, the sound and explosion had come from the same direction as Genesis. It was a meaningless dream, of course, but it made him curious.

He rose from the grass and began to walk. The hills and craters rose and fell as they should, and the uprooted birch trees lined the destroyed valley as his memory dictated.

Then it all ended. The grass stopped with a sudden cliff, with nothing below it. The green of the sky stretched down with no horizon to interrupt. The sparks of light had both come from beyond this point. Interesting. His dream battlefield was on a floating island. There was another further down, and several more in the distance. Off to the side there hung a thick patch of darkness, too dark for his eyes to see.

In reality the Da Chao valley had been surrounded by temples he had bombed into rubble. He didn't want to see that either. He turned back from the edge to look at the fields of destruction.

Irritation flashed through him. Why was he stuck with this? He didn't want any of it, it hadn't been his idea to fight here, to lay waste to this sacred grove. Shinra told him to. He scowled. He wished he could pave it all over, seal it in.

He blinked, and it was gone, replaced by concrete. In fact he wasn't sure he did blink, it was like the world blinked, and the green of the valley with all its dead disappeared under a flat expanse of concrete. It looked like little more than a car park now.

He let out a breath. That was better. Could he have done that at any time? Of course. It was his dream, who was to say what it would hold, except for him?

He strolled away from the cliff's edge, contemplating the matter. Time slipped away from him.

The sash of a Wutai uniform blew against his leg. He looked up. The bodies of Da Chao were surrounding him again. The concrete remained, the ruined trees hadn't grown back, but the dead had returned, in accurate numbers and positions too. Interesting. What were the dream's mechanics that made them materialise?

He studied the surroundings. Against the grey concrete it had an effect that looked very much like Midgar. A smile tugged at his lips. He concentrated.

The surroundings warped again and he was standing in the foyer of the Shinra building. It was imperfect, the lighting was wrong, and the foyer was never this empty, but the layout was perfect. He concentrated on the lights, and they resolved from a weak and watery yellow to the harsh spotlights of the real thing. He nodded, satisfied with the result.

Now for the test: he closed his eyes and let himself relax.

After sixty seconds he cracked an open. The bodies were back, bleeding all over the foyer, in the exact positions he remembered them, where he and Genesis had put them. It felt different in the foyer.

He sat up on the big marble counter and spent the rest of the dream polishing Masamune.

The notion of his dreams didn't mean anything to him when he rose the next morning. He didn't consider it all as the week stretched on.

He fell asleep in his living room one night, sprawled out on the couch with a book.

He opened his eyes in the Shinra foyer, surrounded by bodies. It was the first time in a decade he hadn't dreamed of the valley. It shocked him so thoroughly he woke again. The tv was on, muted, shining obnoxious colour across the room.

He turned it off and went to bed, shaking his bed at himself. Chances were he wouldn't dream again that night, he barely slept anyway. He lay awake, staring at the ceiling, and wondered why he felt unsettled.

He closed his eyes, breathing out through his nose. He opened his eyes in the foyer again.

"What do you hope to achieve?" a voice asked.

He spun around.

An elderly Wuteng woman stood in the foyer, watching him with an inscrutable look.

He had no idea what to say. Did he have to say anything? She wasn't real, and yet there was something quietly confronting about her. She wore humble clothes of the sort he had seen all over southern Wutai, but she didn't look out of place in the foyer. She felt incongruously more native to his own dreamscape than he did.

Her eyes lowered to the carnage. Her expression didn't change, if she was afraid she hid it perfectly. The silence stretched on. He wished the bodies weren't there.

"But they are," she said, with a wispy, inhuman voice. "And you can't make them go away."

Unease slid down his spine.

She raised an eyebrow at him. "Perhaps because you don't really want to."

He drew himself up. "I am not ashamed."

"No?" She approached, moving so lightly she seemed to float.

"Who are you?" he asked.

Her brow furrowed and she thought about it. "Reflection," she finally declared, savouring it.

"What are you?"

"Reflection," she said again.

She stood between him and a light bracket. The yellow beams shone through her. Was he translucent too? He looked down at his hands: no, he was not. He knew full well that dreams were simply a side effect of the mind processing old memories. By all logic she was simply a product of his imagination. His instincts said otherwise.

"Where did you come from?" he asked.

She hummed. She was short next to him, slightly shrunken but her back was straight. He studied her face and found it incongruous with her supposed age. There was something incredibly young in her eyes, even the weathered typography of her wrinkles looked somehow fresh.

"She watched the flowers growing over her mother's grave, watered with tears and regret…" she said quietly, her gaze unfocused. "Would she have approved? Was it enough? Would she be proud? …And so I was."

"I see," he replied, even though he didn't. "And what are you reflecting on now?"

"Blood on marble tiles." Her eyes snapped up to his. "They suit the foyer better than the valley soil. No grass to grow over them and disguise what was. Would those who shelter in silk suits and behind chrome desks be ashamed? Would they step around the bodies and try to keep their shoes clean? Or would they walk through it, proud, trailing red through the halls?"

"Stop!" he ordered. He took an aborted step forward, jolted by hearing his own thoughts parroted back at him. He had felt the very words being parsed out of his mind.

She gazed up at him, placid and thoughtful. Reflecting upon him. He sucked in a tense breath.

"Don't do that again," he warned.

"You called and I answered."

He shook his head and turned away from her. He stalked out of the foyer and found himself on the flat island of concrete. He picked an unexplored direction and started walking.

Reflection followed him, sedate, silent, and observant. He didn't acknowledge her.

The concrete came to an end and he halted at the bizarre sight before him. He had expected perhaps to find the valley again when the concrete ran out.

Half a pearly white tower stood on the island's edge. It was slender and graceful, built of a moulded material that glowed faintly. It must once have been part of a much larger structure, his instincts said it had likely functioned as a watch tower for the building proper.

Where the building must have once stood, there was a black hole. He didn't know how else to describe it, even though the description couldn't possibly be accurate. It floated slightly above the ground, its pull distorted the air and ground around it, constantly sucking everything into a whirling vortex. The island itself curved away from it, as though carved away by its presence. Only a single wall of the tower remained, the furthest from the anomaly.

"What is this?" he asked.

"Life, tapped," Reflection said. "The power that flows in your veins."

He raised an eyebrow. "It's... Mako?"

That made no sense.

It required investigation. He cast a barrier over himself and approached. Reflection did not follow.

The air around him warped and lost colour saturation. It was like heat distortion, but far too close and swirling in a spiral towards the epicenter. He squinted at it. He could see in the darkest night, but there was nothing to be seen within.

He reached the tower and braced his back against it. The glowing barrier rippled against the pressure. He could feel it tugging on his magic and making the little hairs on arms stand up.

He knocked at a crumbling segment of the wall. A piece came loose and shot into the anomaly, arcing through the air. The masonry disappeared without a trace. It had to have gone somewhere. So either it was a wormhole transporting matter and energy, or a transformer changing matter into energy.

Or it was neither of those things, because the laws of physics didn't apply to dreams. He shook his head at himself for getting drawn into the illusion. This was little more than a simulation, he knew that.

It was time he woke up.

He dropped his barrier and stepped out from behind the tower's wall.

The pull caught him immediately. It yanked his feet out from under him and hauled him forward. The green surroundings disappeared in a flurry of darkness. The tingling along his skin turned into a vice and he couldn't move. He expected an approximation of physical pain.

Instead it tore at something deep inside of him, shredding his thoughts. His mind, spirit, self began to crumble, splintering. Panic gripped him. Unable to move, unable to think, unable to be-

He lashed out, blinding casting ultima. The darkness roared like collapsing heavy machinery and then blinding light exploded.

He woke with a splintering headache and drenched in sweat. He sat up and examined himself, needing to reassure himself he wasn't injured. The strain of that tearing sensation stung deep in his chest. He put a hand over his racing heart. When was the last time a simple nightmare had unsettled him so badly?

He rubbed his fingers together and felt the numbness of intensive magic casting. But there was no magic in the air, he hadn't actually cast anything.

Maybe he was ill. He would have to report to Hojo for a physical. Dread joined the list of his symptoms.

The shrill ring of his phone disrupted his line of thought. He snatched it off the bedside table. He answered and the Director cut him off before he could say anything.

"There's been a catastrophic meltdown at Reactor four."

Genesis was having a very strange week.

Breaking Shiva had been tumultuous enough of an event, with its many implications for the world, not to mention the rest of his summon spirits. Then Hawke panicked and went into hiding and he had coaxed her back out with a most unexpected and endearing conversation about foreign literature. He woke the next morning to a reactor meltdown. The president was convinced it was a terrorist attack.

He met Sephiroth at the scene of the incident, and stared up at the mess.

Meltdown wasn't really the right word. The Mako had crystallised. All of it, violently, and in every direction. He stared up at the giant Mako crystals piercing through every pipe, reservoir and reaction chamber. He tried to theorise what could cause such a thing, but came up empty. Sephiroth stared at the wreck with narrowed eyes but offered no opinion.

They checked it over for signs of sabotage and found nothing. And really, what were they expecting? Genesis couldn't comprehend how anyone could have intentionally achieved what Shinra's experts hadn't even thought possible.

"It shouldn't be possible," he muttered, staring down at the solidified main reservoir. The entire reactor was unsalvageable. Sector four was without power until they could reroute reserves from one of the others.

"It happened. Therefore it is possible," Sephiroth replied at his side.

"Which means almost everything we know about Mako is wrong."

The only other person with more Mako running through their veins than Genesis did not look amused.

"Do you think it was sabotage?" Genesis asked, when Sephiroth held his silence.

"I don't know."

"That will sound very convincing on our report."

"The Science Department will decide what happened," Sephiroth said, squaring his shoulders. "There is no evidence of tampering here." He turned and stalked away.

Genesis watched him go, nonplussed by his sudden need to be mysterious. But his conclusions were correct, and ultimately there wasn't anything to be done about it.

The Science Department declared it a rare natural phenomena, which was code for 'we have no idea'. The news had already reported it as an attack, and the President decided they needed a greater military presence to reassure people.

He worked long pointless hours and felt a familiar weakness gnawing at his bones. Hawke offered to heal him but he simply didn't have the time until everything calmed down. They agreed to meet up afterwards, but for the moment he had no choice but to push through.

As consolation, he messaged her requesting poetry from Thedas at the end of day, when he finally returned home, tired and frustrated. She would reply with anything from sprawling epics to bawdy limericks, and it improved his mood significantly. He got the feeling it did hers as well.

It was a development he could not have predicted. He hadn't expected to even have a real discussion on Loveless that night on the phone. He didn't generally quote more than a line anyone besides Angeal and Sephiroth. He was well aware most people had no interest in it and he had no interest in exposing something so precious to him to disdain and mockery. Hawke did mockery so very well.

Her genuine interest shocked him. Her wistful understanding and comfort with the medium even more so. She wasn't conscious of the snobbery of academia, the feverish reverence of Midgar's theatre scene, or the disdain of the rest of the world. They sank into a comfortable back and forth that lulled him into a place without pretense that seemed fully the antithesis of her smirking, apathetic facade. He sat in his library nook, a glass of wine in hand and the crumbs of some cheese and crackers on the table nearby, and waxed poetic late into the night.

What a contradiction of a person she was. He wondered at it before finally a gap appeared in his schedule.

He waited for her at the top of the steps of the Midgar Museum of History.

Around him people in business attire walked by or sat eating their lunches in the weak sunlight. It was a large stone building of the classical style for this sort of thing, despite being only twenty years old and all the stone imported. It was beautiful nonetheless, and not even Shinra owned. It was Shinra approved though, naturally.

He was delighted to be out of uniform for five minutes, and wore a casual charcoal vest over a burgundy shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. He was attracting all the usual looks of admiration, but that was his burden to bear.

Hawke arrived looking distinctly less feral than normal. He spotted her before she did him and watched her climb the stairs in a flattering high waisted black skirt, a billowy blouse in copper, and large opaque sunglasses. He had strictly informed her that armour wasn't venue appropriate, as she gave him the impression that, much like Sephiroth, if left to her own devices she would wear pauldrons and a sword to the dentist. She had grumbled about it, thus proving him correct.

"So, am I sufficiently disarming?" Hawke asked when she reached him, taking off her sunglasses with a flourish. The sun was high in the sky, shining in her black hair and casting their shadows in sharp relief down the stairs.

He looked her up and down appreciatively. "Do you mean disarmed?"

"I do not," she replied with a smile.

He chuckled. "Then yes, to anyone who doesn't know better."

"You look quite disarming yourself."

"Oh?" He raised an eyebrow and placed a hand on the small of her back to guide her towards the entrance. "Are you going to lay down your weapons for me?" He felt at least one knife strapped to her back.

"Only the ones you can find," she replied with a saucy wink and a laugh.

She turned a blinding smile to the greeter before he could respond and then they were buying tickets and making their way into the halls.

After Shiva's mention of a war between their precursor peoples, he had intended to bring her here. In truth he doubted there would be much of anything to find, but if the historical record held any mention of Thedas and its people, this was the place to look.

He was also incredibly curious to see what someone from a pre-industrial, largely oral culture would make of the historical exhibits.

The answer swiftly proved to be fascination.

He had been here before, he was friends with the curator, but he had never studied the displays with the intensity Hawke did. She read everything, she asked questions, and she theorised as she went: building her knowledge base as they passed from room to room. She understood the functionality of some of the older exhibits, but was woefully ignorant in other areas. She consulted with him and listened intently to his answers, replying with information mentioned in passing on some tiny placard three rooms ago. He watched with wry amusement as she tried to make sense of a diagram on early Mako production. She was an information sponge with no apparent saturation point.

He shouldn't have been surprised. She wouldn't have integrated so swiftly into Midgar's culture if she wasn't an insatiable learner.

She was also an insatiable flirt. He rose fearlessly to the challenge.

They passed through Shinra's early years and Midgar's founding, then further back through the Eastern migration, the feudal era, and reclamation period. There was nothing Hawke recognised as hailing from Thedas, not even in the Cetra wing.

They came to a halt in a room of glass cabinets, each full of painted amphorae from Mideel. Hawke looked surreptitiously over her shoulder. The only other person was a high school student scribbling in a notebook by a distant cabinet.

"May I?" she asked quietly. Half a second later the slightest touch of healing magic brushed against him, like a knock at the door.

He held out his elbow for her and continued what he was saying about the use of colour in Mideel artwork.

She nodded along, tucking her arm into his. The warm weight of her healing magic sunk into him at the touch of her fingers against his skin. Physical contact made for greater depth and precision, she had explained to him. The tide of magic sanded away the rot, leaving him raw and clean. His breath hitched and she picked up the conversation without pause.

There was something tantalising about doing it in public. He could not be so much as suspected of needing medical attention, it was utterly unacceptable. But there was something intriguing about how smoothly she could cast with nobody noticing. How triumphant it felt to pull it off under everyone's noses. He stood taller, stronger, and tossed his hair back.

She squeezed his arm and let go when she finished. They reached the end of the exhibit and her shoulders fell.

"Don't despair just yet, I've one more idea," he said, touching her lightly on the arm. "I'll be right back."

Hawke watched him go speak quietly with the nearest custodian. They turned and led him away somewhere.

She'd had a lovely time, even if she had found nothing that truly helped.

Genesis was charming company and very well educated, which made him the perfect companion for this kind of reconnaissance mission. And he was wearing the tightest jeans in existence, inarguable proof that there was still good in the world.

The truly ancient relics had proved to be thin on the ground. A large part of the Cetra exhibits were recreations of items too fragile or broken to be displayed. Some of it was outright fabrication, fanciful artist's renderings of what might have been. The theorising about how cetra magic worked gave her a good laugh. It was interesting, she would definitely bring Aerith here, and it was good to know what the official story was. Not remotely connected to Thedas, was what it was.

She looked through a display case of arrowheads. Somewhere out there Varric was still fighting Corypheus. Hopefully. Surely.

Somewhere out there her brother was still dying of the Blight, same as Genesis.

She had promised herself she wouldn't get her hopes up. She was a dirty liar. She heaved a sigh.

Genesis reappeared with a tall woman of Wutaian descent in a tailored suit and heels that tapped sharply against the tile floor. She carried herself like a monarch in the heart of her domain. Hawke smiled.

"Hawke, this is Ettie Lackner," Genesis said with a gesture when they reached her. "She's the museum's curator and an old friend."

"Oh, I read your book," Hawke blurted, shaking her hand.

Ettie blinked. "Did you?"

"Well, I perused it," she replied. "Northern continent… matriarchal grave goods?"

"One of my earlier works." She nodded, satisfied. Long, thin chains of silver moons and stars dripped from her ears and shimmered with her every move. "What did you think?"

"Very insightful," Hawke replied, scrambling. She had read the book, it was the least racist and fanciful of those she'd found at the library, but she hadn't been expecting to report back on it to the author. "I found your thoughts on alchemical equipment fascinating."

"Really? Are you a chemist?" Her eyes narrowed. "Are you from Shinra's research department?" She cast Genesis a scathing look.

"No!" Hawke held up her hands, "Andraste, no, I just... travel a lot. You see things like that in the wilderness, it's a part of good bushcraft. I've calcified remedies on similar setups myself."

"Have you?"

"I'm not an expert," she hedged.

Ettie studied her with alarming intensity.

Hawke glanced at Genesis for clues. He looked tremendously amused but declined to offer her a lifeline. The bastard.

"I have a working replica in storage," Ettie said brusquely, drawing out her phone. "Would you care to come back and give me a demonstration? I'm available next Thursday at 10am or the Tuesday after, same time?"

"Sure, why not. Tuesday?"

"Tuesday." Ettie tapped the appointment into her phone. "This way, please." She turned on her heel and cut a path to a nearby staff-only door.

"You had better think of a decent cover," Genesis said quietly, trailing behind with Hawke for some marginal privacy. "She's going to hound you until she's satisfied why you're familiar with thousand year old equipment she had to piece together from scraps."

Ah. She probably should have deduced that much.

"Old journeyman traditions?" she offered.

He raised an eyebrow, far too amused. "I wish you luck."

Damn. It was all his fault, he was so engaging a conversationalist she was liable to let her mouth run and just say any old thing. She was about to lay down her accusations, before deciding he would likely be far too pleased with himself if she admitted it.

"Where are we going?" she asked instead, while Ettie keyed in a code for the door.

"To behold the works not on display," he said.

"Too hot for the general public?"

"Oh yes, simply salacious," he drawled.

The door swung open and Ettie led them behind the scenes, through offices and corridors until they reached what felt like a workshop.

Now this was more like it.

Dirty and broken artefacts were being cleaned and documented at workstations around the room. It wasn't the smooth, perfectly posed performance of the public area, and the relics were the kind of things Hawke was used to finding sticking out of the dirt on Sundermount, and in about the same condition. Cracked pottery shards and rusted metal sat in baked clumps of dirt in large plastic tubs, wedged between cold coffee mugs and various brushes and tools Hawke couldn't name.

The handful of people at work looked up and called out various greetings. The people were friendly and seemed to know Genesis already. Most of them looked like their lunch breaks had ended too soon and they were eager for a distraction.

Ettie explained that they were processing the last of the artefacts from a recent dig on the Northern continent and led them around the room making introductions. Hawke didn't think she'd ever get over seeing the kind of enchantment equipment she had once browsed markets for, haggled over, and then hauled home on her back, in crumbling ancient pieces and being talked about like it was a rare mystery. It was familiar, so much of it she understood or could intuite the functions of, but all of it was slightly off. Unmistakably Gaian.

She had learned from her blunder back in the public area and kept her mouth firmly shut from anything but open ended questions. One of the younger workers was a student on placement who was eager to goof off for the rest of the afternoon and latched onto Hawke.

She was telling her about what she was working with, a tray of assorted metalwork, and picked up a piece to show off the scoring.

At the bottom of the tray sat the broken tang of a curved dagger, still caked in solid earth.

It was a dar'misu.

Hawke's heart skipped a beat. The traditional knife of an Elvhen hunter.

The handle and hilt had rotted away and the blade was rusted and snapped in two, but she knew it on sight. One of her earliest daggers had been a dar'misu and the unusual shape had thrown her knife work off for months.

She looked up and made urgent eye contact with Genesis. She didn't know what he saw in her expression, but he looked shocked. He came around to her side of the table.

The woman telling Hawke about the style of belt buckles they'd found faltered at the sudden shift in attention.

"What is this one?" Genesis asked, pointing down to the portentous relic.

"We think these are human crafts brought to the site later," Ettie said, joining them.

"What makes you say that?"

"The Cetra didn't bury their dead with weaponry, and what we have found is not in this style."

Hawke bit her lip. She wasn't supposed to know anything, wasn't allowed to recognise it, and she didn't know how to ask if it had been an elf's grave.

"Was it inside the structure?" Genesis asked, placing a supportive hand on the small of her back.

"What remained of it," Ettie replied. "The grave mound was opened and looted by later human settlers."

Hawke nodded. Some things were the same no matter what world you lived on. "Did they take all the grave goods?"

"And the remains. Cetra bones were said to be powerful talismans."

The conversation proceeded from there and Ettie led them onward. Hawke gave the knife one last wistful look.

She was so relieved to have seen it. It was nothing she could use, it solved nothing, but she felt lighter. She wasn't cut off forever and she wasn't crazy, there had been others. However many thousands of years ago it may have been, her people had been here.

It was enough.

She followed the other two into the next room and stopped dead in her tracks.

A full size Eluvian Mirror stood supported by wooden struts. Every inch of the frame was carved with halla and dragon sigils. The most Elvhen spear in existence pierced through its centre, surrounded by smashed glass.

Chapter Text

Aerith strolled through the Fade, her head held high and a trail of flowers blooming behind her, pushing up through the shifting sands.

"And the mirror was definitely elven?" she asked. "Not a Cetra equivalent?"

Hawke shook her head. "It was covered in halla carvings, do you even have those here?"

"What's a halla?"

"It's like a deer."

"What's a deer?"

"Antelope?"

Aerith grinned. "What's a-"

"Oh don't start that," Hawke cut her off with a laugh. She walked with her staff in hand, stabbing it into the sandy earth. Fade islands floated overhead.

They were debriefing Hawke on her trip to the above-plate history museum. They had already decided that most of the conclusions about Ancient Cetran society were very high handed and presumptuous, because it made Aerith feel better and Hawke was always ready to discredit authority figures. That left them with the matter of the magic-portal-mirror.

"It did have a squid motif I didn't recognise though," Hawke said. "So maybe it was a collaborative effort."

Aerith hummed. "The Fade city has some sea creature designs. Were there any squid on the other Cetra exhibits?"

"No, but there were a lot of seashells. They've got some dating issues I think, they said the mirror couldn't possibly be from the Ancient era because the materials wouldn't last that long, not in that state."

"But it's magical."

"Exactly. There's no carbon dating Fade-touched ironbark." Hawke huffed a sigh. "Apparently they've found three other Eluvians around the globe and they just dismissed them as unimportant. Some of the most powerful and complex magic ever invented and they think it's just pretty human decor."

Aerith slowed to a stop. "There are more? Can you get home through one of them? Can... can others get through to Gaia?"

Hawke shook her head. "They're in even worse condition apparently." She stopped a few steps ahead and looked back. "Ettie showed me photos, they've all got spears through their middles. Well. Half spears."

She tried to picture it. It looked ridiculous. How could the glass hold it up? And why only half? "Where's the other half?"

"On the other side of the connecting mirror, I assume. The sharp metal end was bursting out through the glass on the front, but it didn't go through the wooden backing." Hawke snorted a laugh that wasn't terribly amused. "It's the most blatant 'and don't come back!' I've ever seen. They could have just changed the locks."

"Aw." Aerith patted her on the arm and kept walking. The Fade version of the church came into sight, spilling thick ropes of flowers out of every opening. "Maybe you can fix it. Magic it back up again."

"I wish I could, but I'm useless at that kind of thing. I had a friend who rebuilt one from just a shard once, and even with her expert guidance I couldn't do anything. My magic is geared towards high power release, not delicate crafting."

Aerith sent her a commiserating smile. Hawke had been sad lately. It was uncomfortable. "Maybe I can fix one for you, then."

Hawke chuckled. "Sure. Go nuts."

Aerith sniffed and tossed her braid back off her shoulder. "Just watch me."

The sandy ground gave way to cracked concrete and cheeky flowers peeking up between the slabs. She climbed the first step of the church.

"I might just leave you to it," Hawke said, from beyond the concrete.

Aerith let out a gusty breath and looked up at the flower packed church. The door was shut but foliage crawled out through all the gaps around it. The windows held no glass, only bunches of wild lilies in white and yellow and green, pouring through like waterfalls.

"Why do you hate lilies?" she asked. It had become a comfortable and familiar exchange of deflection.

"To spite you."

"I knew it."

"Why do you like them so much?" Hawke asked with a grumble.

"To spite you," Aerith replied. She climbed the last few steps and reached for the door. It was so tall and heavy in her dreams, it would take all her strength to push it open.

"They remind me of my Mother," Hawke said.

Aerith's breath caught in her throat. She looked back.

Hawke was staring at the ground, her jaw locked. The silence stretched on, as Aerith studied her, unsure if she wanted to ask more questions or run away from the broken look haunting the woman's expression.

Hawke refused to meet her eyes and looked out across the dreamscape. Some disturbance of lights trailed away down a nearby slope.

"Want to go meet some baby spirits?" she asked, her voice too bright.

It took her a moment but Aerith plastered on a smile. "Okay."

She let Hawke lead her away from the church and down through the sandy pathways. The lights danced in the distance, like whirling magical glow bugs in colours she couldn't quite pin down.

She took a step and suddenly she was in the street market. Their produce stall was packed with stock and there were so many customers, barking questions at her. She couldn't focus on any of them, she just knew she was falling behind, she had to move faster.

"Surely you can't fill all these orders?" a voice asked on the other side of the stall, calling from somewhere in the crowd.

"Oh, yes, I can!" she called back, bagging some cabbages.

"But how?"

"I'll… I'll take orders and deliver them later," she replied. "I'll hire more help." She put the cabbages down and swept off to weigh some carrots.

"What about competition?" The speaker emerged from the hubbub, it was just a child, standing on their toes to see over the top of the counter.

"My food's better," Aerith replied. "I can do more variety. I could… I could make a hothouse. I could get into hydroponics!"

"What if you can't keep up with demand?" They looked at her with greedy, curious eyes. A crafty slum kid, she figured.

"Demand drives up prices. We'll adapt. Just watch us," she said, handing them an apple with a little wink. Wait. When did she grow apples? She looked around. What was going on?

Hawke was leaning against the back of the stall, watching the exchange with an indulgent smile.

"Who are you, kid?" Hawke asked.

They smiled, bright and curious. One of their front teeth was missing.

"I'm… Innovation," they said, tasting it, embracing it. They nodded, satisfied with their claim. Then they turned and ran off, disappearing into the crowd.

Aerith watched them go with a frown. Strange kid.

"You're being careless," a cold voice said.

Aerith stiffened. She spun around and there he was: black suit, long black hair, and tilak on his forehead. How did he get so close without her noticing?

"That's my problem, Tseng," she said, squaring her shoulders.

He looked down his nose at her. She hated it when he did that.

"If you're neglecting your safety, then it's my problem."

She pursed her lips. "I'm not. I'm allowed to be here."

"It's more freedom than you can be trusted with."

"That's not up to you." Her fingers brushed against the wood of her staff on her back.

"Who is it up to, Aerith?" he asked, his voice low.

Her grip on the weapon tightened.

"What can we do for you, sir?" Hawke suddenly butted in between them, emptying a bucket of green beans all over the counter. He stepped with a frown as the vegetables fell and rolled over his shoes.

He fixed her with a stern look. "Close down your stall."

Aerith opened her mouth to object.

"Alright," Hawke said. "Sorry, everyone, we're closed."

"What! What are you doing, Hawke?" Aerith hissed.

Tseng's stern expression stalled oddly. She wasn't going to let him get away with this.

Hawke shrugged. "Not making any trouble."

She shook her head. "We can't just let Tseng push us around, we've worked too hard for this-"

"Where are we?"

"We're in the market!"

"What colour is the sky from the market?" Hawke asked. She raised a pointed eyebrow.

"Green, of course!" Aerith said, stamping her foot in frustration. Her mind registered what she'd just said. "Wait." She looked up. Fade islands drifted slowly through the green overhead.

Her shoulders sank. "You're not Tseng at all, are you?" No wonder he didn't look right. And Tseng would never just start threatening her in public, it was ridiculous.

"What are you?" she asked.

"This," said Hawke, "is Rebellion."

Aerith frowned at him. "Tseng's not rebellious."

"But he provokes it in you. It has nothing to do with the Turk himself."

The illusion started to wobble and then it wasn't really Tseng anymore, it was just a generic figure in a suit. It looked at Hawke, and the suit turned into a jacket with feathered shoulders. His hair turned blond. There were dark marks under his eyes and a staff on his back.

"Don't you care, Hawke?" he asked, sounding as haggard and exhausted as he looked.

Hawke crossed her arms and said nothing.

The spirit wavered, and then gave up and wandered off.

"Who was that?" Aerith asked. Another Mage?

"Rebellion." Hawke's voice was hard.

Aerith raised an eyebrow at her but got nothing in reply. "Is it always like this?"

"They're usually more subtle." Hawke slumped down onto a chair. "These spirits are still young and clumsy."

"So it's going to get worse."

"Try not to let them get under your skin." She tipped her head back. She was starting to turn translucent, probably waking up. "They're not all bad, and they can teach you more about magic than I ever could. Just don't trust them. Give them nothing."

"Good morning, Hawke."

"Morning, Aerith," she said with a smile before disappearing entirely.

Aerith looked around. The street market looked a lot less convincing now that she looked at it clearly, it was just ramshackle stalls and umbrellas arranged in a nonsensical order. There was nobody else there, but it somehow felt crowded. She wandered through the winding street and out the other side. It didn't fade away or lose cohesion. Had the spirits built it purposefully to trick her? Spirits were like Fade shapers, Somniari like the Cetra had been, they could permanently and intentionally reshape the terrain.

Aerith herself wasn't very good at it. Hawke hadn't been able to teach her much beyond practical tricks anyone could do. Aerith had been trying to replace the shifting sands outside of her house with a nice path of cobblestones she had seen in a housing magazine. Try as she might all she could get was cracked concrete and snapped rusting girders, inevitably swallowed back up by the sands.

The sand swept across her feet as she left the market behind.

She concentrated on arriving at her destination, walked for a stretch, then she looked up and there it was: the soaring towers and floating bridges of pearl. She smiled at it. It always made her feel calmer.

She climbed a bridge up to one of the higher islands, where a beautiful tower shaped like a spiked sea cone twisted gracefully into the air.

Movement half behind one of the tower's ridges caught her eye, ghostly white flickering in a breeze. Another spirit?

She approached quietly, they weren't going to take her by surprise this time. She rounded a corner, and the rest of the spirit came into view, a black coat under a curtain of white hair.

The spirit was wearing General Sephiroth's face. What kind of spirit would do that? Combat? Victory? Great hair?

The spirit raised an arm and a metal suspension bridge rose up from the island, soared high in the air, and planted itself on a distant island, one occupied by a much smaller seashell tower.

Aerith clapped a hand over her mouth. He made it look so easy! The slender poles of the bridge shone in the light of the city, chrome and slate grey. There was a beauty to the simplicity of the design, for all that it was ridiculously out of place.

"Are you going to come out, little spirit?" he called. He looked over his shoulder straight at her. "Or are you going to keep cowering in the shadows?"

She straightened her back. "I'm not cowering."

"Spying?"

"Watching," she corrected. "I want to learn how to build too."

"Hn." The spirit turned back to study its handiwork. It flicked its arm again and the bridge evaporated. It clenched a fist and a new bridge sprung up, soaring higher, thinner, and with more supports and cables. It planted itself further inland on the opposing island, smashing through the cetra tower.

Aerith gasped. "What are you doing?"

"I'm building bridges," he replied, calm and unmoved by her outburst.

"Why?" she demanded. It was probably a spirit of destroying things that belonged to someone else. That justified the face perfectly.

"I thought you wanted to learn."

"Not how to knock down millennia old wonders and replace them with tacky suspension bridges!"

He looked at her blankly. The spirit wasn't very good at emoting.

"It's a tied arch bridge," he finally said. He shrugged a moment later. "It's just a dream. A simulation. This isn't real."

"Of course, it's real." She crossed her arms. "You're here and you're real, aren't you?"

"Deeply flawed logic."

"Those buildings are as real as you are," she said, pointing angrily.

He narrowed his eyes. "Prove it."

She opened her mouth, ready to start justifying herself. Hawke said not to give the spirits anything. She snapped her mouth shut. What did it actually want from her? What was the point of this little play it had set up? She didn't know.

She narrowed her eyes at him. "It's a shame you're not clever enough to build bridges without disturbing what's already there."

He raised an eyebrow at her blatant manipulation attempt.

"It's not even a very good bridge," she said lightly.

He looked out at the gap between the islands. He raised his arm against and up rose another bridge, taller and more magnificent. This one she was pretty sure actually was a suspension bridge. It landed on the opposite island without disturbing any buildings.

"Let me see you do better," he said.

She pursed her lips. She didn't know how. Didn't have the first clue how to drag steel and corded metal out of the earth. She tilted her head and studied the new bridge, its slender cables hanging with perfect balance, relying on gravity to pull everything into place.

The Fade was a perspective trick, Hawke had once told her.

She smiled, drew her staff, and twirled it in the air dramatically.

Sephiroth scoffed.

Plants burst out of the side of the bridge's platform, growing horizontally. She concentrated her command and a row of tall stems reached out. Sunflowers bloomed, their beautiful golden faces all looking sideways.

The bridge groaned and swayed. The cables pulled sideways, away from the sunflowers.

Sephiroth threw out his hand, reinforcing the struts, but the sunflowers were acting as a sideways gravity well and throwing the physics of the structure into chaos. He reached out with both arms and caught it, twisting the whole bridge around the focal point. The bridge stayed standing, but it looked like a mangled nightmare of a roller-coaster.

He dropped his hands and looked at her with his brow pulled down.

Aerith laughed. Now that was a bridge that belonged in the Fade.

"What did you do? How did that work?"

He stepped cautiously out on the flat surface. It held his weight and he stalked around the loop. She bit her lip and skipped along after him, refusing to be bothered about floating upside down a moment later. You had to believe you were in control, or you wouldn't be.

He stared at the guilty flowers, still happily blooming off to the side.

"What did you do?" he asked again.

"Sunflowers always point up," she replied. "The flowers say that your bridge is sideways."

He frowned at her. "No, they don't. They point to the nearest light source. The city in this case."

"Oh." They did, didn't they? Which meant the gravity well wouldn't work.

The mangled bridge fell out from under them.

Aerith woke up with the jerk. She burst out laughing a moment later.

Genesis threw a trio of fireballs. Sephiroth spun and deflected every one of them.

"Dreams of the morrow hath the shattered soul," Genesis declared, raising his sword again.

Sephiroth stalked towards him, through the craggy cliffs of the VR room's rendition of the Midgar wastes.

Genesis leapt forward and they traded blows. Dust rose up as they danced around each other. Lightning cracked through the dry air and flaming comets fell from the sky. Tremors crawled up his arms with every parry. Sephiroth was fighting harder than normal today.

Genesis leapt back, letting a rocky outcrop take a blow for him. The rock collapsed. It was unreliable terrain that against any other opponent would have played to Genesis' light footed advantage. It was completely wasted on Sephiroth.

He called on the fire runes along his sword. Sephiroth descended.

After what was not nearly enough time, Sephiroth held Masamune to Genesis' throat.

Genesis scowled. "Fine. You win." He slapped the blade away.

Sephiroth stepped back. His expression had been thoughtful for the last five minutes of the fight.

"What is it?" Genesis asked, vexed that apparently fighting him didn't even demand the man's full attention.

"Do you... know a woman who wears a single clawed gauntlet and carries a bladed staff?" Sephiroth asked.

Genesis froze. How did Sephiroth know Hawke? What did he want with her? The first thing Hawke ever asked of him was to tell nobody about her. She had asked for his secrecy before she asked for a way home.

"No. I don't know anyone by that description."

Sephiroth gave him a hard look.

"Why?" Genesis asked, refusing to feel bad for the deception. Hawke was his secret.

Sephiroth banished his sword and looked away.

"Where did you see this woman?" Genesis pressed.

"I didn't."

He sheathed his own sword and crossed his arms. "You're being very mysterious."

"So are you," Sephiroth replied, his tone suspiciously neutral.

"I'm always mysterious," Genesis said. He narrowed his eyes. "Whereas you have been acting oddly ever since the reactor meltdown."

Sephiroth's shoulders tensed. "I don't know about that."

"Neither of us knows anything, apparently."

Sephiroth did not reply. Genesis shook his head, this was pointless.

"I have a special delivery of dumb apples arriving soon," he said, steering the conversation to safer waters. He offered a smile. "You never did try them, did you?"

"No." Sephiroth stalked away, giving barely a wave of goodbye, and left the VR room.

Genesis stood alone in the sudden silence after the door thudded closed.

Hawke dreamed.

Genesis' mansion stretched out around her, rolling hills studded with apple trees, and golden afternoon sunlight. She was in an upstairs room with a bar and a balcony, a warm breeze blew in through the doors, smelling of sun baked grass and fresh fruit.

Everything about the atmosphere said these were the relaxed final hours of a mid-day party: indulgent, safe, and well sated. Empty wine glasses and a well picked over cheese spread covered the low tables. The muffled notes of a lute played in another room.

Hawke stood in full armour and stared down the bar. All she wanted was an Ostwick stout. It didn't have to be a good one. She would have settled for a Starkhaven malt ale even, but the Fade was being a nuisance. No matter which bottle she picked up or which glass she poured it into she got nothing but Antivan white wine.

She was wrestling with the atmosphere and losing. She'd been nonsensically opening bottles for possibly hours, and yet she felt like she'd just come in from a stroll through a vineyard at the height of summer. No, not a vineyard.

"Did you grow up on an orchard?" she called out, shoulders slumping. Fine. She'd given in.

Genesis looked up from where he sat on the porch, sunning himself on a deck chair.

"Look under the bar," he said.

She reached beneath the counter and pulled out a tall bottle with a swirling cursive label. 'Golden Hills Banora White Apple Cider' it read.

"My family vintage," Genesis said.

"I've seen this in specialty shops." It was appallingly expensive. She snatched up a couple of highball glasses and joined him on the porch. She popped the cork and poured out two glasses of Antivan white wine. She sighed.

It was nice wine at least.

"Is the real stuff good?" she asked, taking a sip of the imposter.

"It's exquisite, naturally." Genesis accepted his now stemmed wine glass without complaint. "It's my recipe."

"Is it?"

He blinked then looked suspiciously at the empty glasses around him. "This is making my lips loose. I never talk about that."

Hawke shook her head. "You can't get drunk here, it's the house. It feels so safe and comfortable, it's hard to be reserved." She picked up the bottle again and examined the label. It had some purple prose describing the tasting notes and a little map of the Mideel peninsula on the back with a dot to represent Banora.

"You made this?"

He sighed and tipped his head back in the sun. "I was fourteen and I wanted to try my hand at it. The majority of the apples are turned into cider and I'd seen the mulch disappear into the giant tanks all my life. I stole a tub and all the necessary ingredients, and meticulously copied the farm hands ...with a few select alterations."

She leaned her back against the railing "What did you change?"

"Trade secret." He winked. "I submitted the end result to a local competition and won first place."

She raised an eyebrow. "With your first attempt?"

"There were a few false starts, perfecting the process," he said with a dismissive hand wave and she snorted.

He looked into the golden depths of his glass. "My parents were so proud of the result they began to make and sell it themselves. It's outsold the original product every year since."

"That's remarkable."

"Yes," he drawled and raised the imposter's glass to his lips. "I peaked early as far as my parents are concerned."

Hawke nodded slowly. That explained the mess of the mansion, stark Midgar architecture cutting off the old countryside decor, apple trees invading just about every room. There was a splendid one growing just behind the bar. The details of when Shinra had gotten to him, when they had infected him with Blight and turned him into a SOLDIER were still hazy. Was he the spoiled son of landed gentry or tortured slave of an empire?

"Your parents. I thought that Shinra…" She let it hang.

"Bred me like a racehorse?" he replied archly. "Yes, and with unsuccessful results, hence my being handed off to someone out of the way." He stood and joined her at the railing. He leaned his elbows forward on it and looked down upon his domain. "I had always known I was adopted. I simply never thought to ask if they were paid to take me."

She watched him in silence.

He scowled, shook his head, and turned his back to it all.

"Tell me about your world," he asked with a pleading note. "We've spoken a great deal of the Cetra, what of the other side of the equation?"

She tipped her head back and looked to the vast green sky. The black undersides of distant islands floated by.

"Long ago, when the world was young," she said, lifting her hand like a great actress on a stage before thousands. "When the Great Dragons still flew, before the Fade was held back by the veil, and the Titans fell into slumber beneath the earth, Thedas... was ruled by elves."

Soft lute music wafted in on the breeze and made her words sound wistful and easy to accept, as opposed to impossible knowledge she couldn't possibly have. Genesis' shoulders relaxed in spite of himself.

"Go on," he said with a soft smile.

"Pretend the rest of it is just as whimsical," she replied. "The elves built floating cities and mighty spires of crystal, and all kinds of fanciful self-aggrandising monuments, but no highways connecting them. Instead they had-"

"-the magic mirrors," he finished, embracing her distraction wholeheartedly.

She nodded. "The Eluvian network, a series of portals linking everything together, all over Thedas."

"How do they work?"

"In direct violation of one of the most foundational laws of magic there is," she said, laughing. "You can't teleport."

He raised an eyebrow. "Then the laws are wrong."

"They generally are."

"This species of law-breaking, teleporting, immortals was governed by a family of generals, turned kings, turned self-proclaimed gods. They called themselves the Evanuris, and they waged war against the Cetra. According to Shiva," she finished, undercutting herself just to be safe.

The Fade felt defiantly cheery, the sun too bright and the air too warm. She leaned into it, before her own trepidation swallowed her. They were on a relaxing picnic on a Sunday afternoon and there was nothing to worry about.

"Curious." Genesis leaned back on his hands, and refused to give her the suspicious look she deserved. "Is there no memory of the Ancients on Thedas? Was the war fought purely on Gaian soil?"

"If they fought across Thedas, then they've been forgotten," she replied. "Oh. Ha. The Forgotten Ones. Merrill must be smacking her forehead somewhere." She left the balcony and went back inside. "The Evanuris fought against a rival group literally called the Forgotten Ones. No one knows who they were or where they came from, or anything really. But we're all quite certain that they were the guilty party."

Genesis chuckled, following her in. "Naturally. The dreaded Other."

"Foreign and therefore inherently evil." She settled on a bar stool. He took up his station on the other side, beneath the apple tree.

"How do they say the war ended?" he asked, leaning forward on his elbows, glossy red hair falling forward to make shadows play on his face. His leather coat had disappeared somewhere leaving him in a sleeveless SOLDIER shirt. "Assuming these Forgotten Ones are in fact the Cetra?"

"They say the trickster god locked the rulers of both sides away in the void but that's…" She twitched. "...Not reliable intel."

"Is any of it reliable?"

"Probably not."

He looked closer to how she had imagined the trickster wolf than the disappointing bald reality. She breathed out a very slow and careful breath. Maybe if she focused on the light dusting of freckles over his biceps she wouldn't spiral over the invasion her mind had suffered.

"In time, the Evanuris turned on each other, the Empire came crumbling down and its secrets were forgotten," she said, her voice light. "The humans moved in, enslaved the remaining elvhen population, and built a new empire from the ruins of the last, before crumbling away in turn. Which brings us to the modern era, where the continent is a fractured mess of warring kingdoms and city states, with the last of the elves either living in ghettos in human cities or in nomadic clans in the wilderness, trying to recapture the knowledge of their glorious forebears."

"Pride is lost, wings stripped," he said, forlorn and sympathetic. "There are no dreams, no honour remains."

"I'm not convinced there ever was much honour." The Dalish clans would have no interest in a human soldier's pity.

He stood up again. "Tell me about this pantheon of generals. Who dared invade my planet?"

She snorted. "Gonna tell them off?"

"I shall hold them in scathing contempt."

"There were nine of them, and I'm sure they would repent of all their sins if they knew of your censure." She steeled herself and plunged in. "First: Mythal, motherhood and justice. Then her husband, Elgar'nan, fatherhood and vengeance, who leads the pantheon because Mythal said he could."

"No wonder the Cetra turned on Shiva," he said. "She was an advisor to the leader of an enemy state."

Hawke shrugged. "Then you've got all your classics: the crafter, the farmer, the hunter, the hearth keeper, the rebel, so on and so on."

"Was there a patron of war?"

She smiled, sharp and probably a little mad. "They were all patrons of war."

The music played on, calm and lazy. The perpetual golden hour stretched on unending, and Genesis poured them another glass.

"Were they truly gods or did they simply fancy themselves so?" he asked, thoughtfully focusing on his pour. In his hands the cider bottle turned into a rich red wine.

"Who am I to say? Magic is a function of belief, and they lived in a magic drenched world, worshiped by an entire empire."

He tilted his head. "Is that enough to claim divinity?"

"It was enough to make them absurdly powerful. I'm no theologian, make of that what you will."

He paused and looked at her with curiosity. It shifted into suspicion.

"Before Shiva confirmed it, did you believe in them?" he asked gently. "Is this your faith?"

She shook her head. "I'm Andrastian, more or less. The Maker, the Chantry, Chant of Light, that whole thing." And only slightly ex-communicated, she thought snidely. She picked at the varnish of the bar top. It was high quality and refused to be picked at. Damn.

There was a pause that stretched for far too long.

"You are very familiar with the elven gods," he said, at long last.

"They did exist," she replied, focusing on the grain of the wood. Aged chestnut if she had to guess, very nice. She preferred kauri wood. "The ruins of their civilisation are everywhere. And I'm old friends with people who worship them still."

He raised a polite eyebrow, holding his glass up and his expression still deep in the realms of suspicion. "Oh, yes?"

"And I met Mythal a couple of times," she said, as light as she could. Her mind hitched around what she had just said.

"I beg your pardon?"

"Well, I met what's left of her. Who she's become." The breeze was light and reassuring, the alcohol cool on the palate, and her mouth entirely bypassing its filter. "She calls herself Flemeth these days. She picked up a human body somewhere."

His eyes narrowed. "Are you just making all this up?"

"I wish I was." She was stuck in the immovable, friendly atmosphere, the smooth treacherous music and wrong golden light.

He drew back and looked down at her.

"Did she tell you all this? Is that how you know about them?"

She shook her head. "She never told me anything."

"But you met her? A goddess?"

"Not anymore," she forced out, stilted and rough. "She's a haggard swamp witch now, who turns into a dragon. Or a dragon who turns into a swamp witch. It's unclear." The Fade told her sense she was safe, but she was in full armour for a reason. Nothing was safe. "She saved my life… So I owed her. Then I saved her life and we were even."

"How do you know it was truly Mythal?"

She held her breath. She put her hands flat on the bar. The words stuck in her throat. He narrowed his eyes, the lute struck an off chord and she felt something inside of her was going to snap if she didn't force it out. If she couldn't have a witness.

"I got here by falling through a broken Eluvian," she whispered. "But I got stuck in… the in-between." She shook her head, refusing to remember that terrible place. "I didn't know Flemeth was Mythal, before that. I didn't know a lot of things."

A hand covered her own. She looked up to see Genesis' impossibly blue eyes staring at her with deep concern. She didn't deserve it, when had she ever stepped in a pit she hadn't dug herself? Wasn't he suspicious of her?

"What happened to you?"

"There's a void, beyond the Fade, beyond anything. I can't explain. I don't even remember it very well, it's all a mess." The lute trailed, no longer playing music, just wandering discordant notes. She wanted to panic. She wanted to snap and run away, to wake up and vomit. She could not.

"How did you escape?" he asked. He stayed in the centre of her vision and she couldn't look away.

"Someone... pushed me." Her voice lowered. "And now I have someone else's memories."

Realisation dawned in his eyes, and it was terrible.

"Memories from thousands of years ago," he said, his back straightening in understanding. "What else do you remember?"

She shook her head. "I can't. This isn't secure territory, if I remember more here, the Fade will start to reshape around it, and then there will be no escape."

He stared her down, then finally withdrew. She heaved a sigh, feeling like she'd been released from something.

"Infinite in mystery," he said, like a decree, "Is the gift of the goddess."

Maker, she felt like she was bleeding.

She mustered a jagged smile. "Flemeth doesn't give gifts. She buys debts."

"She wasn't a kind goddess?"

All she could do was laugh, thin and strained.

What a lovely world she had landed in, where the gods could be kind.

Chapter Text

Genesis met Hawke outside Shinra HQ.

She had suggested they do something a little more adventurous than visiting a Museum and he had just the thing.

She wore full armour, with her bladed staff strapped to her back and spiked gauntlet on her right arm. She was looking up at the towering skyscraper when he found her.

"Impressive, no?" he asked.

She grinned. "It's the ugliest thing I've ever seen."

"It is, isn't it?" He looked up at the bulbous monument to greed for a moment. "Shall we go inside?"

"Will they let me back out again afterwards?"

"You'll be safe with me," he said, his hand over his heart.

She flashed a toothy grin. "Lead on then."

He led the way back in and up to a level civilians and non-employees were strictly prohibited from. The Director would sigh and give him a slap on the wrist later. Hawke lifted her chin and fixed her fringe in the reflection of the 'SOLDIERS ONLY' sign.

He opened a door for her to a large metal room with nothing in it.

She looked around, a scarred eyebrow raised.

"Well," she drawled. "I'm simply gobsmacked."

"Give it a moment," he replied, pulling out his phone. He tapped into the VR room's controls and selected the jungle setting.

With a snap thick green foliage replaced the plain metal, the harsh white lighting turned to dappled sunlight falling through the canopy and damp and spongy moss appeared underfoot.

Hawke yelped and jumped at the change.

Genesis threw his head back and laughed. She looked around, flustered and wide eyed. He hadn't dared to hope it would work quite so well. After all the rude and unexplained surprises she threw at him in the Fade it was a sweet, sweet victory and he savoured it.

She relaxed at his laughter, her hand falling from her staff.

"Alright, that was pretty good," she said, a smile tugging at the corner of her mouth. She tugged on a thick green vine and watched the movement shake back up to tree. "It's like the Fade but..." She swatted a hand through the air. "It's not magic. Fascinating."

Genesis recollected himself with a satisfied sigh.

Hawke spun around, her eyes still wide to take everything in. She zapped the air a couple of times to check he couldn't guess what. She kicked some shrubs and waved her arms in the air some more.

What tremendous range she was capable of, from a grim, arcane woman hunted by the gods themselves, to a laughing, whimsical dumbass. It was devastating how endearing she was. He took a surreptitious photo on his phone.

He tapped on the controls again and summoned a mid-level monster.

She moved from flailing into a combat roll without hesitation. The beast's claws sliced through the air where she had been. She leaped back to her feet behind it. She flicked her hand, lightning flashed, and the beast collapsed with the smell of burnt fur.

She drew her staff and flashed a smile. Genesis tossed his hair back and drew his sword.

The enemies came in waves. It was a training simulation that started slow, barely a warm up to him, but would escalate endlessly. What he really wanted was to see what she was capable of. She was obviously magically powerful and he had briefly seen her fight before, but for all her magic she was not enhanced. He had no information on what combat looked like on Thedas, how dangerous its monsters were or how thorough their martial training. He hung back and let her take the lead.

They fell into an easy rhythm, stalking through the jungle. She obligingly let him have every other monster and felled her own with just one blow more often than not.

"If I set off an explosion will it break the illusion?" she asked quietly, her eyes roaming the surroundings. "Will it tear through the walls?"

He shook his head. "We use these rooms for materia training. They're designed to take damage." He smirked and spoke just loud enough to draw the attention of a feline monster slinking through the nearby underbrush. "If you think you can destroy the illusion, you are welcome to try."

She gave a crooked smile and sauntered on. The feline monster leapt out at them. She swung her staff straight into its chest, then slammed it onto the ground. He frowned. She was adept at physical combat for the unenhanced, but for all her talk of explosions she hadn't fired off a single spell since the opening volley.

The flicking tail of another beast appeared in the brush. He gestured for her to take it, but she held up a hand.

"Oh, I couldn't possibly, it's all yours," she said, like it was the last cracker on a cheese board.

He threw a fireball with a graceful flick of his wrist. She watched his technique with sharp eyes.

"There's actually something of a stigma against this sort of thing where I'm from," she said, looking at the burning mess. It faded away a moment later. The system didn't bother simulating dead bodies.

"Against hunting?" he asked.

"Magic." She swung her staff and set off back into the jungle. "Technically, it's illegal. And blasphemous."

"Why should using magic be illegal?" What nonsense. The more he heard of Thedas the less he understood her desire to return to it.

"Having it is the illegal part," she replied with a crooked smile. "'Magic exists to serve man and never rule over him,' so sayeth the Chant of Light, and thus mages are kept under lock and key by divine order." She hauled herself up onto a giant fallen log. It was taller than she was and covered in moss.

He leapt up after her. "How did you escape?" A pack of giant spiders was slowly following them through the trees, if they stood still they would close in. The difficulty was about to spike.

"Heh, I was never caught. I'm the archetypical wicked apostate, I'll have you know. Damned by the Maker himself, a prowling wolf amidst the sheep, a scourge upon society, a terror to children, and so on, and so on."

She said it like it was nothing. She flicked her hair out of her eyes and surveyed the surroundings. The nearest spider hung from a silk line over the other end of the log. The slender legs of others tapped along tree branches and peaked out amidst the foliage around them.

Genesis stared at Hawke in appalled silence. "You've been told your entire life that you're damned for the way you were born?"

She shrugged. "What do they know of magic, except that they don't have it?" She turned away, her voice losing volume. "Who are they to speak for the Maker?"

"My friend, do you fly now, to a world that abhors you and I?" he murmured.

"A little on the nose."

"This is why you're so set on hiding." he said, ignoring her. "Why you hold yourself back so much."

She chuckled, brazenly flipping a knife in her offhand. "Do I act like I'm holding back?"

"No, you act like all your confidence is just hot air and you're secretly harmless."

Her eyes widened and she fumbled. "Well don't just come out and say it!"

"It's a good act." He caught the knife. "But there is no one here to condemn you. You don't need to convince me you're not a dangerous mage."

She studied him, her expression turning hard and unreadable. "I am a dangerous mage."

"I know." He flipped the knife and offered her the handle. "I wouldn't have brought you here if I didn't think you could keep up." The nearest spider set a sticky leg on the side of the log.

"Keep up? With your materia?" She took her weapon back. A smirk tugged at the corner of her mouth. "Genesis, I had no idea you were considering a career in comedy."

"Show me what you can do, then."

She spun the knife around her fingers, tossed it up into a spin and caught it again. She stretched her arm and threw it into the body of the spider. Lightning exploded out of it, splitting into multiple bolts and leaping to new targets, where it split, leapt, and split again. The wave of power washed over the whole pack in the blink of an eye.

A dozen spiders fell from the trees. They sat twitching in the undergrowth. She flicked her hand and the knife leapt back into her hand.

"Your turn," she said.

He smirked and back flipped off the log. She laughed and followed him down.

The enemy level ramped up, in numbers and in difficulty. He stopped hanging back and Hawke tentatively began to cut loose.

"Is that what you call magic in Thedas?" he called, watching her summon a string of fireballs from the sky. "How charming."

"It's because this is so very challenging," she called back, with vexing calm. She hadn't taken a single hit yet. "No wonder you SOLDIERs are so dangerous."

He narrowed his eyes. She summoned grasping vines that latched onto a monster and pulled it down into the earth to suffocate.

"I should get the new recruits in here," he said, brushing a fallen leaf out of his hair. "They would find this interesting."

A dualhorn charged through the trees. He threw out a hand and knocked it over with the force of his lightning blast. A whispering green glyph rose up beneath it and then there was no dualhorn anymore, just a pile of whispering dust.

"Do you know why your Materia-free magic always misfires?" Hawke asked, bouncing lightly on her feet and waiting for the next opponent. There was no need to hunt anymore.

"It doesn't always," he replied, waspish. He raised his sword to a high guard.

"Yes, it does."

"Why then?"

Above the canopy a dragon roared. Hawke's expression turned delighted.

"If you can outdo me," she said, casting buffs on herself, "I'll tell you."

"Please," he drawled. "I have yet to see anything that rivals what I can do with Materia, why should I bother?"

The dragon crashed through the trees.

She showed him precisely why. She cast a glyph that looked similar to Apocalypse. It held the dragon in place and scorched it with electrical and entropic magic.

"Hang on, let's try that again," she said, rolling back and lifting her staff again. The spell recast, but this time with more entropy, swapping the electricity for ice, and at nearly twice the power. He leapt in to finish it off, a volley of comets descending from the heavens.

The dragon fell and the simulation immediately spawned another, bigger and stronger than the last. They stood in a flattened clearing now, and the fighting was messy and loud. He was slinging the kind of magic that he never got to use in his normal sparring, that Angeal would have called reckless and Sephiroth too indulgent, but here it was just for the sake of it. It was glorious. The both of them were slamming back ethers and he was casting from that heart-pounding place just above empty, where every spell was high risk.

With a cry he severed the beast's spine.

Two winged shadows appeared over the clearing.

Hawke laughed like a madman. She was moving with the eye blurring jitteriness of someone who had learned to stack speed spells. He had no idea what she was casting anymore but she grinned wickedly and her hair floated in the tides of magic pouring off her. She was scratched and bleeding and didn't seem to care. What else could she do? How far could she go? What would she look like at her wildest, most powerful?

"Is that all you've got?" she called out.

He barked a laugh. "Why, are you falling behind?" Planet, he couldn't remember the last time training had been so much fun.

He charged the fire enchantments on his blade.

She swung her staff and runic glyphs lit up the battlefield.

Two dragons crashed upon them.

Chaos reigned. One dragon breathed fire and the other ice. The clearing was awash in magic: shields, blasts, rays, and glyphs. Scaly limbs clawed and stabbed and massive jaws chomped, narrowly missing them. He was drunk on it, and Hawke was too. She fought without reserve, in a savage revelry of her own strength. It was breathtaking.

The room glitched. Jagged pixels tore through the surroundings.

Sparks popped from four walls and the VR collapsed under too much pressure. The simulated dragon beneath Hawke disappeared and she landed with a thud on a hard metal floor.

He lowered his sword, breathing hard. His side ached.

"Oh, that's right," Hawke said, her cheeks red from exertion. "I forgot." Her movements were still jerky with an irresponsible number of buffs. She deactivated them and slammed back into her normal self with a gasp.

"It seems I underestimated you, Hawke." By a significant margin.

The room continued to spark around them, not merely deactivated but fully blown. He had no idea which of them threw the final spell but she had pushed him further and further and kept up blow for blow.

"Ah. Well." She scratched where her simulated injuries had been, turning sheepish.

He sheathed his sword and held out a hand. She let him pull her to her feet.

"I probably shouldn't have done that," she said, glancing around them.

"Why not?" The director would not be impressed, but the consequences would be mild and solely his.

She bit her lip. The wildness hadn't fully left her eyes, but now it looked jumpy. "Cameras?"

He shook his head. "I turned them off before we started."

"Oh. Thanks." She shook herself and squared her shoulders. There was a giant scorch mark on the upper half of the back wall that she avoided looking at. "It's not that big a deal anyway. I doubt anyone would think much of it."

Of an unenhanced civilian hurling magic to rival his? They would most certainly think something of it. He could see her instincts to hide and make small of herself rising again. He didn't like it, she ought to be able to stand tall and unashamed, but he understood the necessity now. Shinra only had one response to power that wasn't theirs.

"Who would care enough to even look?" he said, offhanded and casual.

Her shoulders relaxed slightly at his reassurance. "They'd assume you did it anyway."

"It wouldn't be the first time I've destroyed a training room." Just the first time he'd done it with anyone besides Angeal and Sephiroth. He clapped his hands together. "Lunch?"

Hawke wasn't sure what she had expected when Genesis said to wear her armour and meet him at Shinra HQ. It certainly had not been to get the most exhausting and exhilarating workout she'd had since Kirkwall.

She understood the fuss about SOLDEIRs now. She had thought they might have had a Qunari's strength, or maybe even as much as Fenris with his lyrium enhancements. There was no comparison. Genesis was stronger than a dragon.

He took a direct hit from its claws once and just walked it off. Without even trying, he was faster than her when she had more speed spells stacked on herself than the human body could strictly handle. She didn't understand how anyone could believe they were injected with nothing more than Mako. It was absurd.

The only area of combat he wasn't wildly overpowered was magic. He was still very good, with respectable reserves, just shackled to the limitations of materia. She could only imagine what absurdities he would be capable of when he weedled the techniques of actual magic out of her.

She spent the rest of the afternoon pale from magical overexertion. Her mana channels still ached the day after when she met Reno at the pub.

They were at the Duck and Cover that night. The name was curiously inaccurate, it catered to more dangerous individuals than the surly drunks of the Fat Chocobo, and as a result only rarely descended to fisticuffs. It was less seedy, more illegal, and the clientele firmly believed in minding their own business.

More importantly, it had a snooker table. Neither she nor Reno understood the rules of the game, except for 'knock ball off table with stick' and 'be fancy about it', at which they both excelled.

Hawke was lining up a trick shot and feeling pretty good about her chances. Reno leaned forward on his elbows against the other end of the table, picking from a bucket of hot chips.

"Didn't know you liked red heads," he commented. He was looking especially greasy today.

She took the shot. The cue ball jumped the first ball and bumped into the one after, rolling it towards the pocket. It stopped right on the edge. She swore.

"You think I put up with you for your conversation?" she replied, sulking.

He leered. "That what you and Rhapsodos were doing in the VR room? Making conversation?"

He lifted his cue and took the easy shot. She stole one of his fries. Genesis had said he cut the cameras. That didn't mean nobody could have seen her going in, or that they wouldn't want to know why.

"Of course," she said, letting her most self-satisfied grin stretch across her face. "He has such a clever tongue." Genesis probably wouldn't mind the insinuation.

Reno made a face. "I didn't ask."

She laughed and rounded the table, looking for her next shot. "Yes, you did. And you're going to ask again. Or are you going to dance around it all night and miss half your shots to soften me up first?" She took aim and sunk two balls handily. "You can just hand me all your gil now and save us the bother."

"Touchy."

"Nosy," she replied, leaning against the cue against her shoulder.

"It's my job to be nosy." He lined up a shot, slow and focused. "Thing is, if he just wanted kinky VR shit he's rich enough to get it somewhere specialised. And you're too shy to act out in public like that."

She snorted, little alarm bells chiming in her head. "I can't remember the last time someone accused me of being shy."

"Shy. Private. Shifty. Cowardly." He shrugged. "Pick one."

"Hn." She picked up his beer and poured it into his bucket of fries.

He scowled and stood, not taking the shot.

She leaned back against the side of the table, tapping her cue against her shoulder. "So what's your point?"

He walked slowly around the table, hunting for opportunities.

"What's so interesting about some nothing cabbage vendor that made a SOLDIER go through all the hassle of taking you up to the First Class training sim, cutting the cameras, and frying the room?"

She raised an eyebrow. "Take a guess. Hint: it's dumber than you think."

His leering smile dropped. "I think it's pretty fucking dumb already."

She paused. He came to a stop next to her and adopted the same pose, leaning against the table and slightly too close for comfort. She refused to react. What did he know? What was he trying to learn? Was it about her or was it about Genesis?

She looked around the room. It was impossible to see who was sitting in the high-backed booths, or how many people were hiding in the back rooms. She didn't know this place that well or any of the staff, likely why Reno suggested they come here.

"Do you know why we watch the flower girl?" he asked, his tone troublingly friendly.

Her eyes narrowed. "For her excellent gardening skills."

"Yeah. A one of a kind gardener." He leaned back with his elbows on the table, casual and unguarded. "'Course, if she wasn't one of a kind, that'd be different. We might not be as careful if we had a spare lying around."

Decades old caution and resentment joined her alarm, settling in her stomach like a brick. A Templar was questioning her about mages. She knew how that worked.

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"Good. Keep not knowing." He picked up her beer and took a swig.

She crossed her arms. That wasn't enough. Was he making the accusation because he knew or because he suspected and wanted her to confirm? Her knowing about Aerith's power wasn't damning.

"You're wrong by the way," she said, light and indifferent. She turned and looked back at the spread on the table's felt.

"Doesn't matter. It'd look good on a report and it'd keep the security budget down."

She nodded.

"How do you know Rhapsodos?" he asked, when she didn't say anything. "What am I gonna put on my report?"

"I met him during the ceasefire," she said, with a shrug. The best lies were just the truth misrepresented. "Bumped into him again a couple of weeks back. We went to the museum last week, then yesterday he got to show off and I got to have a little fun on Shinra's dime." She raised an eyebrow at him. "What mystery are you trying to solve?"

He had a damn good poker face.

"Something doesn't add up," he said like it was a threat and she had better start talking.

She let her head roll on its side to look at him. She grabbed the number 8 ball and put it in the nearest pocket.

"Depends on how you phrase the report, doesn't it?"

Reno watched her with calculating eyes. Then he scoffed, smiled, and he went looking for the next shot.

Reno's warnings left Hawke jumpy. She wanted to go check on Aerith but didn't dare risk it. She was going to be watched for the next couple of days, she assumed, in case she outed herself and anyone she spilled her heart to. So she went home.

She took no detours, walked at a relaxed pace, and said nothing of note to anyone. She behaved exactly as she normally would. She might not add up, but that was still fine so long as they could imagine the missing pieces to be something they understood and controlled.

She sent Genesis a text.

'The turks wanted to know what we got up to in the VR room.'

He replied immediately. 'What did you tell them?'

'The truth, of course,' she sent, followed by a picture of an eggplant and several emojis of water droplets.

He replied with a winking face and she breathed out a sigh of relief. He flirted openly enough but she didn't want to use him as a cover without his knowing or being alright with it.

'Do you have much interaction with Turks?' he asked.

'On a daily basis,' she replied.

'Do you suppose they've hacked your phone?'

'Almost certainly.'

She hoped somewhere a Turk analyst was frowning at his screen.

Genesis had the sense not to enquire further and they left it at that.

There was nothing more to be done. She couldn't think of anything to send to Aerith that wouldn't be remembered and utilized by the Turks. She went to bed, an obedient Midgar citizen under Shinra surveillance.

She sat up in the Fade and set off immediately for Aerith's house.

She doubted anything had happened, but it had been a couple of days. She needed to reassure herself that she hadn't put Aerith in harm's way with her recklessness. That Aerith hadn't been threatened and squeezed for information in turn. Maybe they could talk about overthrowing Shinra some more.

The Gainsborough house was empty, so she set off for the church. It was always easy to find.

She approached and marched up the stairs with great confidence.

It wilted with every step. The stone church towered, flowers and light pouring from its windows.

The doors were shut.

Maybe she could just knock and head off if nobody replied. Maybe Aerith was wandering around the Cetra city; she should probably check there first.

She didn't move.

Aerith didn't really need her. She was a perfectly capable mage at this point, and more adept at handling the individual Turks than Hawke was. Hawke only drew attention and burned things down.

The Chantry doors remained shut.

What right did Hawke have to open them? She was just some damned apostate with nothing but failure in her wake, pretending she belonged. Did she really think she mattered?

Her shoulders sagged.

Aerith mattered. And Hawke needed to make sure she was alright. Damned imposter or not, that mattered.

She steeled herself and pushed the door open.

Flowers spilled out. It smelt like lilies. She sucked in a breath and stepped inside.

It welcomed her in.

It was nothing like a chantry indoors, there were no pews or smokey candles. It was awash with flowers and climbing vines: they lined the walls and trailed across the floor. The air was perfectly still, only a gentle looking spirit drifting through the rafters disturbing the beams of steady white light. If the physical version was haunting, this was engulfing.

Aerith knelt in the flower patch at the front.

Hawke drew closer, her voice failing her. Her previous mission fell from her mind.

Like a veil lifted, it was suddenly so very obvious that the lily patch was a grave.

"Why do you hate lilies?" Aerith asked, tending to her flowers. She refused to look up. "What happened to your mother?"

Hawke lowered her head. She let out a dusty old breath.

"She was murdered." It wasn't a struggle to say. No revelation she had been hiding from, it was knowledge that always sat near the surface.

Aerith's hands stilled in the earth.

"By a serial killer. An apostate. He was a necromancer trying to rebuild his dead wife, you see, and Mother… had a similar face. His calling card was a bouquet of lilies." Her shoulders sank. "Which I knew before he took her, because I'd been tracking him on and off for years. Thought I'd finished off him too, but I… I got the wrong guy."

Aerith looked up at her, horrified.

Hawke smiled sadly at the sea of blooms. She was helpless to look away.

"A trail of beautiful, fragile flowers all across the city, that ended in a vase on my kitchen table," she said, quiet and resigned.

"I'm so sorry."

"You know, beforehand, I would have said that lilies don't have any particular scent. But we live and learn. Most of us." She couldn't maintain her tragic smile. Her eyes dropped from the flower patch. "Eventually."

"I'm sorry, Hawke."

"Don't be. It's nobody's fault but mine."

"You didn't do it. It's not your fault."

Aerith stood. She looked like she wanted to say something, but couldn't get past opening her mouth and shaking her head.

"They really are such beautiful flowers," Hawke said. "I don't blame you for liking them."

"I buried mine. My..." Aerith's voice left her. She hiked her shoulders up and looked away from Hawke. "She's under the flowerbed. That's why it matters. That's why I keep them."

"Your birthmother?" Hawke carefully closed the distance between them.

Aerith's eyes didn't leave the lilies. She puffed a breath. When she finally spoke her voice came out numb and matter of fact. "Shinra killed her. We were escaping the labs. The Turks shot her leaving the building. She made it as far as the trains." She shook her head, still terribly calm. "I didn't know what to do. We went round and round the city loop. She got so cold."

"How old were you?"

"Four. Five?" Her numb exterior cracked. She forced a smile and a shrug. It looked weak and broken. "I don't really know how old I am now."

Hawke put a gentle hand on her shoulder.

"Elmyra found us and brought us here." Aerith's shoulders trembled. "These are her flowers. My mother's."

"You've taken such good care of them."

"Have I?" Her face scrunched up. She sniffled. She tried to force that broken smile back on her face.

Hawke didn't know what else to say, for all her experience.

"Are there prayers for the dead here?" she asked.

"I don't know them." Aerith finally looked up at her. "Are there any back in, from…"

"Yes. Would you like me to?"

She nodded, her eyes glassy with unshed tears.

Hawke steeled herself and sank to her knees before the flowers. The lines of the Chant she'd said for her own mother came to mind. She would omit what wouldn't fit and fudge what wouldn't mean the same thing. She wasn't good at this, but better it be said clumsily then not at all. She couldn't not try. Trying was all they had. The words halted on the tip of her tongue nonetheless.

"What was her name?" Hawke asked.

Aerith closed her eyes. "Ifalna."

She sank to her knees next to her. The spirit drifted down from the rafters, a wispy and hooded spirit of Loss. It sat with them and it became easier. The grief was still monumental, and it was… alright.

"I have heard the sound, a song in the stillness. The echo of your voice, Ifalna, here where your memory will endure."

Beside her, Aerith finally broke.

"Though before me all is shadow, your memory shall be my guide. I shall not be left to wander the drifting roads of the beyond. There is no darkness in the planet's heart, and nothing has been wrought that shall be lost.

"Cross the veil with joy, my friend. The light shall lead you safely, through the paths of this world, and into the next. Rest at Gaia's side… and be at peace."

Aerith wept. Hawke put out an arm and they held each other in the pit of lilies. Loss sat with them until the weight of it eased.

"Do you think…" Aerith asked, hiccuping and messy. "Do you think she'd be proud?"

"Yes," Hawke replied fiercely, holding her tighter. "You survived. In the face of everything, you're still going." She pointed at the impossible wealth of flowers. "You've come so far."

Aerith sniffed and wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. "I have, haven't I?" She relaxed and pulled away, sitting up on her own strength again.

"Loss is still watching, isn't he?" she asked.

Hawke looked up. Loss was gone. A tall and serious spirit stood guard by the flowers, head bowed in honour of the grave.

"That," Hawke said, smiling, "is Pride."

Chapter Text

It was a crisp autumn morning and Hawke set off for the Midgar Museum of History.

She had promised the curator she would show her how the Ancient Cetran alchemical equipment worked, aka, the standard herbalism kit every mage used. A bag of every reagent she could find hung from her shoulder: she wasn't sure what kind of demonstration Ettie wanted. She was tentatively excited.

She had asked Aerith if she would like to come along but she had turned her down, apparently Zack was bringing her here on a date later in the afternoon.

The museum was an hilarious imitation of the kind of stone buildings Kirkwallers thought embarrassingly dated and were forever trying to replace. It struck her as oddly appropriate: inside the young building pretending to be old were ancient relics pretending to be new.

A cold wind smacked Hawke in the face as she climbed the steep steps. Then the doors enveloped her in a wave of warm air and reverent silence. The crowds were missing today, probably because it was 10 a.m. on a Tuesday.

She approached the front desk. The greeter looked at her like she was a giant spider that had just dropped from the ceiling.

Genesis wasn't here to dictate the dress code so she had worn her regular armour. The swirling globe of her staff's head bobbing over her shoulder seemed to be of particular unsettled fascination to the lady.

"Hi," she started, as friendly and non-threatening as she could. "I'm here to see Messere Ettie Lackner?"

"...Really?"

Hawke choked a laugh down. She hadn't gotten that reaction in a while. She kind of missed it. Of course, she didn't have Varric here to step forward and play the friendly peacemaker to her threatened chaos, so she couldn't afford to indulge. She really was built for double acts.

A door behind the desk opened and Ettie made her appearance, saving them all from further embarrassment.

She looked just as immaculately tailored as last time, in a pencil skirt, matching blazer, and heels that may as well have been tap shoes given the sharp staccato of each footstep, announcing her entrance across the echoing entrance hall.

"Ms Hawke," she greeted, extending a hand. She didn't so much as blink at Hawke's fashion choices. "Thank you for coming. Shall we?"

"Of course," Hawke replied. She followed her through to the back areas.

The historians and archivists were all hard at work today, a studious quiet reigned over the space. A couple she recognised from the other day smiled briefly at Hawke as she passed by.

"Are you a treasure hunter, Ms Hawke?" Ettie asked, not looking back as she typed codes into a door.

"Just Hawke, thanks. I'm a mercenary."

Ettie looked at her critically as the door slid open. "Did you work at the Bone Village?"

Hawke shook her head, unsure of the question. She'd seen the name on a map and in her research but didn't understand the tone behind it. "That's the digsite on the Northern Continent, right? By the Sleeping Forest?"

"Yes. It draws a lot of hobbyists," Ettie said, in what struck Hawke a very carefully neutral tone. "Most of it is privately owned land. They sell whatever they dig up."

"You would prefer it be sold to the museum?"

"I would prefer it not be sold at all. I would prefer the site be protected and preserved in its original context."

Hawke nodded and decided not to mention that she'd pilfered the staff on her back from a nine hundred year old Magister's tomb. In her defence, she was pretty sure he had been a dick. Conservation wasn't really a thing on Thedas, not for anyone but the Dalish.

They passed the store room that held the Eluvian. Hawke resolutely didn't look at it. It was dead, and therefore useless. There was no point getting worked up over it. She felt like it was mocking her, with its broken glass and dragon carvings.

Ettie brought them to a work room where a band of large open windows let in the natural light. A plastic and glass herbalists' kit was set up on a desk. It was slightly different from what Hawke was used to, but not so much she couldn't recognise the function of all the pieces.

Hawke slung her satchel off her shoulder and rubbed her hands together.

"Shall we?"

Ettie sat with a notebook by a camera on a tripod, and gave her a nod. "Please begin."

Hawke dove in.

She explained every step as she went about brewing a basic health potion, then a stamina potion, and a couple of poisons and antidotes just for fun. The process required magic in order to heat and chill the concoction swiftly enough, so she named the materia she was pretending to have equipped. It was a complex process but one Hawke had done so many times she found it meditative.

Ettie watched with unspoken scepticism at first, but it was swiftly displaced by unfettered curiosity. She stood to watch and stare at each process, peppering Hawke with questions whenever there was a lull in activity.

Hawke was not a chemist by any stretch of the imagination and didn't know half the words Ettie used, but she knew how this worked and did her best to explain.

After three hours of work a neat row of bottles sat in a wire rack.

"These two need to sit out overnight before you can use them," Hawke explained. "That one will be good to go in an hour, and the antidotes are ready now and will only become more disgusting the longer you leave them."

Ettie flipped her notebook closed with a snap and studied the end results.

They all turned out rather well, Hawke thought. One of the poisons she wasn't sure about, she'd had to substitute a couple of the ingredients. The biggest issue with the rest had been to not accidentally use Thedosian names. Elf root was named silver leaf here and she was pretty sure Ettie had caught the misnomer.

She didn't call her out, and instead she asked if Hawke wanted to get a cup of tea. She most certainly did and they relocated to the Museum's attached cafe.

"Did you want to look at the mirror again?" Ettie asked as they walked past the store room in question.

A 'yes' stuck in Hawke's throat. "No. No. That's alright."

Ettie didn't say anything.

"I've already seen it," Hawke said, just to reassure herself. "But thank you."

"It is an unsettling item," Ettie said. "I keep it in the side room because some of my staff don't like catching their reflections in it in the main store rooms."

"Are you going to put it on display?"

She shook her head. "It takes a lot of space and there isn't much interest in Western Continent human history, not from that era. I may lend it to a more specialised museum."

"Right. Human history."

They claimed seats in a corner of the cafe and made friendly conversation. Ettie was a straightforward person with no interest in drama. It was nice to speak with another woman around her age.

"How do you know Genesis?" Hawke asked, while Ettie poured two cups of mint tea from a ceramic pot.

"He's a long-time supporter of the museum. We house the world's oldest Loveless manuscript."

"Now that does explain it. I can't believe he didn't show it to me."

"It's on tour, currently on display in Costa del Sol." Ettie took a dainty sip. "He doesn't usually visit us when it isn't here."

"How mercenary of him," Hawke said with a small laugh. It matched what she suspected of him. She thought he did genuinely enjoy her company, but she didn't think he would be making time for her if she suddenly lost her magical healing ability. She couldn't hold it against him, she was a well documented hassle.

Ettie gave a careless flick of her wrist. "I let him turn a page or two and he mentions our latest donation drive in his next televised interview. How do you know him?"

"Oh, about the same. Minus the interviews."

"Hn," Ettie raised her cup and carefully rerouted the conversation.

They spoke about the cetra, the museum, and eventually Shinra's role in both. There were numerous roadblocks in the conversation, whole branches of discussion cut off by professional necessity. They adjusted their heading as necessary, but it was public knowledge that Shinra had the final say on what could and could not be published. Occasionally they confiscated items or sent Turks to observe on a dig site.

"For the public good, of course," Ettie said, her voice the definition of neutrality.

"Oh, of course," Hawke agreed. She took a careful sip. "You can't just go telling the public things, they'll get confused."

The very corner of Ettie's mouth rose, then straightened out again. "There was a famous case some thirty years ago. Shinra took over an entire Northern Crater exploratory expedition."

"What's in the Northern Crater?"

She blinked in surprise and put her cup down. "Nothing is in the northern crater. Nobody has ever settled further north than Icicle Inn and even that is very recent."

"Oh," Hawke said. She took a gulp of tea before she could say anything else stupid.

Ettie looked at her from under a furrowed brow. She leaned back in her seat.

"Hawke, could you please name three Cetra eras for me? No, I'm sorry. Just name one."

Hawke scrambled. Had they mentioned that in the museum displays? No, everything had been dated according to the modern calendar. Maybe it wasn't common knowledge. The baffled suspicion staring back at her said otherwise.

"The era... of... The Spear."

Ettie looked at her long and hard. Maybe she'd gotten lucky.

"The four eras of Cetra history are the First era, the Second era, the Third, and Fourth eras."

Hawke sank in her seat a little.

"I'm appalled you apparently didn't finish high school."

"Home schooled," Hawke grumbled. "Where I learnt how to make potions from scratch."

"From who?" Ettie asked.

"Other mercenaries."

"With Ancient herbalist kits?"

A polite interrogation followed.

Genesis had warned her to come up with a cover story, good advice she had completely neglected to follow. Ettie was determined to get to the bottom of it, but Hawke had no convincing explanation to offer and was very good at being uncooperative. She put up her own roadblocks in the conversation.

Ettie grudgingly withdrew. Her passion for her job was clear though, she wasn't simply doing a job, she was chasing after something she believed in wholeheartedly. Having the truth arbitrarily withheld aggravated her. It unsettled Hawke and put her on the defensive.

The silence stretched out after her stubborn refusal to cooperate.

"Why?" Hawke asked. "Why does it matter how people thousands of years ago brewed their potions? Or how they dressed or where they lived or what they thought? Maker knows they didn't give a rat's ass about us."

Ettie leaned back in her chair and crossed her arms.

"A bizarre question from someone who spent hours going through every single exhibit on display. Why do you continue otherwise lost herbalism traditions if you don't care about the way things were?"

"It's not because I'm a traditionalist."

"Neither am I. But why should it be strange to want to remember the past?"

Hawke crossed her arms and leaned them on the little table, suddenly aware of why the conversation unsettled her.

Ettie raised a perfectly plucked eyebrow, still waiting for an answer.

"I asked you first."

She pursed her lips and gave Hawke the 'you've got issues' look. It was funny how universal it was.

"The past grounds us. How can we be anything but lost in the wind if we don't understand what brought us here?"

"And what if the past is terrible?"

"That too is worth knowing."

Aerith was hanging off of Zack's arm and grinning widely.

They climbed the steps to the museum, and she caught sight of Hawke having an intense looking conversation with a woman who had to be the curator in the cafe off to the side. She matched Hawke's description perfectly and looked thoroughly distracted. Perfect.

"They're supposed to have some artwork from Gongaga," Zack was saying as they made their way in. He wasn't really interested in all this but he had been game to try it out anyway, since it was her idea. She appreciated him making the effort.

They got their tickets and walked through the entrance just like a normal couple, doing nothing suspicious. Her heart was already thundering with excitement in her ribcage.

They strolled through the halls, looking at displays and offering 'oohs' and 'aahs' where appropriate. The Cetra exhibit was underwhelming and entirely too Shinra approved.

She lingered at a display case near a locked door to a staff only area and waited. There weren't many staff around. She made light conversation about the traditional Kalm funerary clothes.

After a few minutes a young man carrying a cardboard tray of takeaway coffee cups walked through the area and stopped at the locked door. He punched a code into the door and Aerith watched his fingers from the corner of her eyes.

"Should we keep going?" Zack asked.

"Yup! Let's go this way," she said, grabbing his arm and guiding him out of that area.

Zack laughed at her sudden energy. "Where are we going?"

It had taken a lot of carefully questioning Hawke to get the information she needed without giving the game away. Fortunately the museum printed the floor plans on the back of their brochures.

Her heart rate sped up and she bit her lip. The exhibit hall she led them into was empty. She headed straight for the staff only door and typed in the code.

"Aerith! What are you-" Zack spluttered.

The light turned green. The door slid open. He blinked owlishly.

"How do you know the code?"

She took his hand and pulled him through. "Come on! If anyone asks, we're on Shinra business."

He let her tug him along, his mouth hanging open for a beat. He snapped it shut and tutted.

"Why, Miss Gainsborough." He gave a nervous laugh, but didn't stop her.

"Let's go, let's go, let's go!"

"What are we doing?" he asked in a terrible stage whisper. He adopted a stealthy tip toe. She knew he liked to think he was a wild rule breaker. He also thought not paying for the train was scandalous. It was very cute.

She found the door she was after and hurried them both in, closing it after them.

The magic mirror dominated the room. It was so much taller than Hawke made it sound. The spear was more imposing than she had imagined as well.

Zack looked between it and her, another question in his open mouth.

She winked at him. "We're robbing the museum."

"Um. Why?"

"For fun," she said. She could hear her own heart pounding in her ears. "And because I'm the last Cetra so all this is mine anyway."

He shook his head, confused. "What are you talking about?"

She opened a hand and a little burst of creation magic spilled out, blooming in a flower of energy. She closed her hand a second later and the light died.

Zack's eyes were wide. "Holy Planet," he mumbled, awed.

She held her hands behind her back and dropped her eyes, a little shy now that she'd done it.

"Aerith. Is that... is that why there are always Turks hanging around your house?" He took a tentative step closer.

"Tseng didn't tell you?" She looked up. She had always wondered if maybe he had orders not to know. "You didn't ask him?"

He shook his head.

"I didn't think it was my business," he said gently. He reached out a hand to touch her arm, then got shy and scratched the back of his neck instead.

It was impossibly cute.

"Hey." She poked him in the chest. "Kiss me."

He flashed her a smile and did as he was told.

After they pulled apart, when she was feeling giggly and Zack somehow looked even cuter with his dopey smile, she turned back to the mirror.

The glass around the spear's shaft was the loosest. She couldn't risk touching it and cutting herself though. She sent the slightest kinetic spell at it. A long thin shard separated from the frame and fell.

"Are you actually stealing?" Zack asked.

She brushed it up from the ground into a handkerchief and tucked it into her pocket.

"Of course not." She stretched up onto her toes and gave him one last peck. "Silly."

They finished their date, heist free, and had a lovely time.

She didn't tell Hawke about it afterwards. She didn't tell anyone, until she entered the Fade and found the little shard of glass glowing in her pocket.

She set out for the Fade city and looked for the spirit wearing Sephiroth's face.

She still hadn't figured out what kind of spirit he was, but he was surprisingly friendly for the face he wore. He didn't seem to know very much, but he shaped the Fade like it was the simplest thing in the world.

He could also be incredibly unsettling, but that was normal for the Fade. So far the spirits didn't seem any more dangerous than the unshaped Fade on its own. She suspected Hawke was exaggerating how threatening they were to stop her from taking any silly risks.

The Fade itself was getting stranger. Every day there was some new oddity, and terrain she thought she had mastered pulled a new trick on her. But every day her understanding grew and she had a new trick to throw right back. She followed a trail of highly unlikely suspension bridges down to a field full of dead bodies.

The Sephiroth spirit was polishing his sword in the middle of it.

She paused some distance away. There was still a chance that Hawke wasn't exaggerating.

"Hello, little spirit," he called.

"Hi, big spirit," she called back.

He put his sword away and threw his arm out. The bodies disappeared under stone like a tomb. He looked up at her expectantly. She followed the bridge down to his level.

"What do you think of this?" she said, holding out the mirror shard, wrapped in a handkerchief that wasn't fully corporeal.

"What is it?" He gently took it from her, as though she too might be made of glass.

The shard glowed purple, but a second later she would swear it was green. Fade shenanigans. It was undeniably magic and not as dead as Hawke thought, regardless. He didn't touch it directly, careful to only grasp it through the white cotton. He held it up to the light of the nearby city and watched light refract through it in changeable colours and shapes.

"It's from a magical mirror. Can you help me fix it?"

He looked down at her. "What?"

"You can make more… stuff, right?" she gestured vaguely at the surroundings he had conjured. "You made those bridges grow out of nothing. Can you make more of this?"

He raised an eyebrow and looked intrigued at the challenge. He turned the shard around in his grasp.

"I suppose I could. What is it for?"

"It's for a friend. I want it to be a surprise."

"What does the magical mirror do?"

She put a finger to her lips. "It's a secret."

He nodded and promptly pushed it back into her hands. "I don't like secrets."

She harrumphed. "Oh, come on."

He crossed his arms. She pouted.

"It's a doorway," she said. "You step through it and come out somewhere else. Happy now?"

"That doesn't make any sense."

"It does if you say it does." She pushed it back into his hands. "I believe in you."

He shook his head but smiled slightly. He examined the shard again.

"A doorway to what?"

Elsewhere, Hawke stood on the edge of the Fade City, staff in hand.

She'd trekked to the far end of it, where the memory that held it together was weakest. Even the soaring metal bridges that the spirits had started erecting for some reason hadn't made it this far yet. She walked between ghostly towers of spiraling sea cones, magnificent palaces, fountains, and a great wall running around the perimeter.

The whole had existed in the physical world too, even the floating islands. So long ago even Ettie's brightest minds couldn't find its ruins, but once, before the humans came.

Nothing but shreds of memory pressed into the very fabric of the Fade held it together now. If she stuck a hand out it would go through the wall.

Unless she too remembered it.

It was so dangerous. The Fade would take whatever she brought and run with it. You could make the Fade remember something, but you couldn't make it forget. The young spirits would see and learn. That was why she was so far from the others, she couldn't risk it bleeding out.

Ettie's conviction had shamed her. She knew she held knowledge of the past, but she was afraid of it and locked it away from herself. It was easier to go looking everywhere but inwards for answers and judging the rest of the world for not having them.

She had tried to remember that afternoon in the real world. It was more than she could handle. Likely drawn from a mind so overwhelmingly more powerful than hers that trying to do it alone had left her retching blood.

She steeled herself. There was a chance, of course, that she just didn't have any memories based in the Cetra's Midgar.

The weight pressing against her mind's door said otherwise.

She latched her staff onto her back and let her shoulders relax.

She remembered the wall, it's glowing pearl steps, and walked up it. It was solid beneath her feet, all the way up to the top.

She stood facing the city. She took in a deep breath, and let herself remember.

The City was so beautiful. Three mighty islands bristling with towers stood taller than the rest, but supported the others in a complex system of buttresses and supports. Anchored on both sides of the Veil, it shone with colour and life. The river of light glowed like the sun. The walls and towers glittered with shields and the metal tips of spears. Banners snapped in the wind and magical defences topped every tower and the ends of the sea-cone spikes.

She saw lines of Certa warriors, tall, strong, and proud, stretching away from her in both directions along the outer wall. They were also faint, none were in focus or had faces, they were more the impression of people. They stood, waiting. Watching.

She didn't dare turn to look. She kept her eyes on the city.

A thin trail of light sailed into her field of vision. It blasted into the side of the highest floating island with a burst of red magic and a crash so loud her ears popped. The city's magical defences fluctuated like ripples on the surface of a pond. Another blast hit, another and another. The warriors stood unmoved on the wall, but within screams of terror rang out.

The siege weaponry atop the towers returned fire. The warriors on the walls lifted their staffs and began to cast. Personal shields sprung up all along the perimeter.

The bombardment continued. The highest island wobbled.

A dragon roared. Hawke's head snapped up.

Two high dragons, impossibly large, one gold and one red, spiralled down from the sky.

Warriors on the wall turned and slung magic. The siege weapons focused on the two magnificent beasts, but the dragons spun and dodged and soaked up fire without slowing.

The golden dragon shot straight for the tallest tower and crashed bodily into it. It crumbled under the weight. The dragon spun and breathed a blast of fire down onto all the buildings below.

There was a third roar, and a giant serpent rose up from the city. It was blue and lithe, no wings, but it flew like a dragon nevertheless. The red dragon fell upon it. The serpent blasted white watery magic and the dragon's fire turned it to steam. They fought in the air, claws tearing and teeth snapping. The serpent coiled around the dragon, trying to restrict it. One of its wings snapped. The red dragon roared and writhed. Its jaws found the serpent's spine and there was a terrible crunch.

They fell from the sky, the serpent unraveling. The dragon smashed it's broken spent body upon the wall.

Magic warped and the red dragon soared overhead, its wing healed. Fearsome volleys of magic Hawke couldn't even identify lit up against its underside and were snuffed out like the candles. It opened its mouth and breathed a line of fire along the wall that vaporised all the warriors in its path. The Cetra fought bravely, with cunning and skill, and it made no difference. The dragon changed its trajectory and swung around to smash into the outer wall's side. The wall toppled.

Another blast hit the highest island's base and in slow motion the island fell. There were two other islands all covered in buildings floating beneath it. The golden dragon took to its wings again and flew in a circle around the collapsing city, batting aside any attempts at magically propping it up.

It crashed through everything below. The city fell. Thousands of elves rushed in through the gap in the wall. The river of light fractured and died. Smoke rose from the wreckage.

The red dragon upon a remaining stretch of wall, near to Hawke. There was a flash of light, a twist of magic, and something Hawke had seen twice before took place.

The dragon changed, and there stood Mythal, queen and goddess of the Elvhen Empire, looking upon her handiwork.

She was a commanding figure, tall and broad shouldered. Long silver hair caught in the bloody wind, half of it bound up in great red horns that reached back from her head. Her ears were pointed and her armour magnificent beyond belief. Even here, at her height, hard lines dug across her brow and at the corners of her mouth. She looked on in silence, her expression unreadable.

Hawke looked towards the city still, observing the queen in her peripheral only. It was just a memory and could not see her, and yet she wouldn't risk looking straight on. It wasn't Flemeth exactly, but from the corner of her eye she could see the broken woman she would become. She had none of the bitterness yet. This was a woman who did not know what it was to be mortal.

Hawke focused, ignoring the goosebumps running down her arms and the hairs on the back of her neck all standing on edge. Her stomach turned. She focused on the memory. It felt uncomfortably like they were standing together.

After a time the gold dragon joined her upon the wall. It too changed in a twist of light, and there stood a woman Hawke had never seen before. Nevertheless she knew, deep in her gut, that this was Andruil, goddess of the hunt.

She was taller than her mother, and bulkier too, her muscular biceps were bare and bleeding. Her skin shone like gold. Her silver hair was braided into a thick and complex plait that swung down her back. Some of the strands had caught on her onyx armour and made it clump up.

She approached Mythal and they embraced upon the wall.

"Here, your braid," Mythal said, gesturing at the strands of hair caught on Andruil's pauldrons.

Andruil tried to wave her away. "Oh, don't fuss, Mother."

"Permit an old woman, won't you?" Mythal said, before unknotting the clumps of hair with incongruous gentleness and yet the same cunning and focus she had observed the toppled city.

"You were hit?" Andruil asked quietly.

Hawke risked a look. The Hunter's eyes were so dark they might have been black. Sweat streaked down her face and through her hair. She looked at her mother with her brow furrowed.

"No." Mythal straightened and crossed her arms. "But I saw you drop a building on yourself."

Andruil smiled and lifted her chin. "Did our troops see it?"

"And cheered at your strength. Well done, child."

The voice was so familiar. A chill ran down Hawke's spine.

Andruil turned away. "They knew we were coming."

"Yes." Mythal looked down the wall, her eyes passing over Hawke. "And still they fell."

The memory lost focus. Whatever they said next was just a murmur and the colours and shapes bled into each other. The wails in the city lost coherence and twisted into the sighs of the wind, before rejoining the green of the Lifestream.

Hawke shook her head, and squeezed her eyes shut. The Fade lost grasp of her mind and all sensation fell away. She forced herself to breathe.

She opened her eyes to the ghost of the Cetra's City as she had first seen it, silent and dead.

Chapter Text

Shinra functions were boring. It was a fundamental truth of the universe.

Genesis stood trapped between the hors d'oeuvre table and President Shinra and one of his old golfing friends who was the head of consulting. Or maybe auditing. It didn't matter, the conversation was the most profoundly uninteresting thing he'd heard since Palmer's speech on the Air and Space Department future thirty minutes ago. He shoved a pastry in his mouth to escape answering an inane question.

It was Air and Space's party. Blown up satellite photos of the other planets in the solar system decorated the room, and the table cloths were dotted with little stars and galaxy patterns. It was a little sad really. The space project was finally dead: they would keep launching unmanned satellites for military reasons, but to the moon nobody would go. Air and Space would become just a subset of the air force and the failed rockets would rust where they stood.

The President asked if he agreed. Genesis nodded and said that he did. The conversation trailed on. It was too soon to excuse himself. These were networking events, a certain amount of suffering was necessary. He nursed a gin and tonic and kept a politely interested smile anchored to his face.

His eyes trailed over the planets. Gaia's photo was a stunning display of green and blue in high definition. They had edited it so that Midgar looked larger and you could see the Shinra building. The others were less clear, with the furthest planet little more than a smear of orange.

Even the planet closest to Gaia, Sukra, was blurry. Brown and blue swirls dominated the photo, the ridges of what might have been mountain ranges edged with green on one side.

It looked oddly familiar. The President told a joke and Genesis laughed on autopilot, but his brow furrowed. The largest landmass on the visible side of the planet had a thin line of ocean splitting it through the middle. He tilted his head.

There was a scraggly looking hook of land on the northern half of the thin sea. He had seen it before.

Hawke had drawn him a rough map of Thedas. A tapestry of it had hung in his mansion in the Fade ever since.

He was looking at the harbour of Kirkwall, on the northern shores of the Waking Sea. Hawke's homeland was the neighbouring planet.

"Considering a career as an astronaut, Genesis?" the consultant asked, with a mocking laugh. "I've got bad news for you, friend."

Genesis forced a smile. "Yes, a great shame."

The president clapped him on the shoulder and launched into another boring anecdote. Genesis nodded along, too shocked to do anything else.

The damning photo loomed in the corner of his eye. Now that he knew what he was looking at, it was obvious. The coastlines and typography were identical. The blue smear of a lake sat in the middle of her homeland, next to the mountain range that marked the border between them and the empire Hawke held a grudge against. The dark patches of forest, the large islands to the north and the curling bays in the south.

It dawned on him that he hadn't actually believed he would find any concrete sign of Thedas. Not outside of the Fade or a museum.

What was he supposed to do with this information? What would Hawke do with the information?

She couldn't teleport, and even if she could, the distance was surely too great. The Space program was over and had never so much as gotten a man beyond the atmosphere anyway. He could not get her there.

Maybe she would grow despondent at the impossibility of returning. She might no longer see the use in helping him when there was no way for him to uphold his end of the bargain.

She had made it very clear that her help was not quid pro quo. She reiterated it in fact. Perhaps… the lady doth protest too much. Her offer of help had been made before he gave her the hope of the magic mirrors. What would happen if he crushed that hope, now that she expected something?

He pursed his lips. How important was this new knowledge anyway? She hadn't asked him to find Thedas, she asked for a way to get there. In that pursuit he had discovered nothing.

The conversation ended, the little group broke up, and he walked away.

Sephiroth and Angeal found him and they sequestered themselves away from the bulk of the party. People looked at the three of them and assumed they were talking about important SOLDIER business.

"I liked the little pastries," Angeal said. "With the dill sauce."

"Too salty," Sephiroth replied. "I prefer the egg sandwiches."

Genesis shook his head. "There aren't any baby quiches. You know the ones they always have at Weapon's Dev parties?"

"Maybe they'll bring some out later."

There was a thoughtful silence as they pondered this mystery.

Genesis and Angeal had a rare mission together to the Bone Village coming up soon so they talked work briefly, before Angeal turned to Genesis.

"Did you blow a training room the other week?"

"They really should have made them tougher by now," Genesis replied, taking a slender glass from a passing water. "I was thinking of speaking to Lazard about the designs, they contain magic well enough but the rate they dispel the energy is woefully insufficient."

"Tell the engineers that," Sephiroth said. "I've been trying to get the limits increased for years."

"But you fried the room by yourself?" Angeal asked.

Genesis narrowed his eyes. He knew that tone of voice, that feigned innocence in his expression. Anyone who thought that Angeal was stoic and humourless was blind.

"Why, can't you manage it?" he replied.

Sephiroth looked at him, his head tilted. "You don't normally train that hard on your own."

Genesis flicked his hair and ignored them both. He should have known he'd gotten off too easily with only the Director's reprimand.

Angeal cleared his throat and used his best stern mentor voice. It hadn't fooled Genesis since they were children. "It was reported to me that you brought a civilian woman up to the SOLDIER levels."

"You shouldn't gossip, Angeal, it's dishonourable," Genesis replied. "And I can see you trying not to laugh."

"Breaking regulation is dishonourable," Sephiroth chimed in.

"That woman from the market, wasn't it? The green grocer?"

"She had some fascinating opinions on poetry," Genesis said, sipping on his champagne.

Angeal raised his eyebrows. "Must be some dangerous poetry, if it needed to be in the high energy VR room."

"Thankfully I was there, so it was perfectly safe."

"Inappropriate use of company property," Sephiroth added.

"But it was so gracious of him to help train a civilian," Angeal said, crossing his arms. "We're glad to see you taking an interest in public safety, Genesis."

He glowered at them both. "Infinite in mystery is the gift of the goddess," he ground out.

Angeal snorted. "I can't believe you."

"What? I don't have to justify myself."

"Or the destruction of the good training room?" Sephiroth drawled.

"What's going on, Genesis? Since when do you bring civilians into the building? Or, for that matter, miss an opportunity to boast about your…" Angeal hunted for a word, wearing an uncomfortable expression, "...female friends?"

Genesis scoffed. "Please. There's nothing to boast about. Nothing is going on."

Genesis and Hawke sat together in his private box of the Grand Borealis Theatre, clapping for the final curtain call. The actors bowed, then the orchestra, and the curtain dropped for the last time.

The lights came back up and he looked over at her, blinking a little at the sudden light after being in the dark for so long. She was smiling and stretching her arms up over her head, twisting her neck.

She looked delicious in vibrant, swirling peacock colours shot through a dress of black silk. It matched her eyes and made them flash in the light. It was a dramatic look that demanded to be seen, and made for a contrast he rather liked next to himself, in a rich burgundy suit over a black shirt and bowtie.

"You were saying?" he asked. He was not especially impressed with the production and had already seen it twice before. Had they not been in a private box they probably would have been asked to leave for all the whispering.

"I'm as entertained as the next punter by people dancing around on wires, but by that point it was just padding."

"Dancing isn't padding."

She waved a hand. "Papering over a contrivance, then. They didn't know how to move the plot along so they did a little jig and said that fixed it."

"It was symbolic for the goddess favouring them on their journey," he said with faux outrage. He was picking a side purely for discussion's sake.

"Then they should have said that," she replied, amused.

"And here I thought you were distracted by the pretty lights and spectacle."

"Spectacle would have been seeing how the Hero got to the finale with a broken leg and a dead chocobo."

"Details, details. The injuries were as symbolic as his victory over them. 'Even if the morrow is barren of promises, nothing shall forestall my return.'"

She wrinkled her nose. "Too pat. I still enjoyed it, mind you, it was lavish and lovingly crafted." She stood, turned, and leaned back against the balcony. "I only wish it could have been messier."

"Of course you do." He crossed his legs and looked up at her thoughtfully. "Perhaps you would enjoy a more bare bones performance. There was a stunning one-man show last year, an independent production, very experimental, fiendishly well written. You would have liked it, the Hero died of his injuries before he could make it to the climactic duel."

She laughed. "So who won, the Wanderer or the Prisoner?"

"Neither. As I recall they couldn't bring themselves to fight each other so they faced the goddess together and the ending was ambiguous over whether or not the world survived her wrath."

She raised an intrigued eyebrow. "We should go to something like that. I like my stories a little ambiguous. Don't hand me everything, make me work for it."

He smiled and tucked that little piece of information away. "The bigger productions usually play it safer, of course, more inclined towards public-friendly, feel-good endings."

"I do feel good, no complaints there." She fixed a suspicious look upon him. "But you're being very neutral. Don't tell me you don't have an opinion."

"It was fine."

She narrowed her eyes. "Merely fine?"

"The actor playing the Prisoner was atrocious. His delivery was flat and stilted. Did he have a cold, why was he so nasally?"

"And he had all your favourite lines too."

"He had all the best lines and he wasted them." He joined her at the balcony. "How can you declare 'there are no dreams, no honour remains, the arrow has left the bow of the goddess,' and sound bored? Don't tell me you found him compelling."

"Oh, he had a certain melancholy to him," she said, wearing an enigmatic little smile. "I believed him as a tragic figure, but I didn't get the impression he cared to fix the situation very much."

"Resignation in the Prisoner, appalling. What's the point of his storyline if he's content to lose? Even if he knows he can't win, he should at least have the drive to try."

"Quite," she said. She looked out at the theatre spread out below them.

It was a large and modern hall, with soaring stacked balconies and black leather seats. He preferred the mystery of it in the dark, with only the light of the stage reflecting off metal detailing. The rest of the audience was filtering out, the murmur of conversation reaching them only faintly. They were quite separate from them up in the box, curtained off and invisible in their own little world.

"How goes the hunt for the Blight?" he asked, his voice hushed.

She turned her head and reached out a hand with a brush of healing magic.

"That wasn't what I was asking."

She raised an eyebrow. "Nothing has changed, Genesis. Unless you have some new information for me, I've got nothing. I don't even have a trail to follow."

He nodded and looked down. "If I dig up the documentation of the original project would you look it over for me?"

"Of course."

He felt her eyes on him.

"How goes the hunt for Thedas?"

He shook his head. "You would know better than I. How was Ettie and her magic mirror?"

"Didn't even look at it. We talked about herbalism the whole time."

They conversation trailed through her recent escapades and they made their way out of the theatre. The hour was late but the night clear, and he drove her home.

"Weren't you living in some cinder block abomination in sector four?" he asked as she directed him through the crumbling streets of sector three. He pulled up outside a tall and thin wooden house with an uneven porch.

"Yes, but the guy across the hall invited me to his sister's wedding."

He failed to follow that progression of events. "So?"

"So now I live here," she replied, like it was obvious.

He studied her for a moment. She met his eyes, shameless. Funny how someone could put up such a convincing facade of fearlessness while in the middle of running away.

"And when will it be my turn to look for you and be met with only an empty apartment?" he asked.

"Does Thursday work?" she replied.

"Friday would be better."

"Can't do Friday, I'm getting my hair done." She opened the door and got out. He followed.

"Saturday then, so I can track you down before I leave on Monday," he said, rounding the car and joining her at the bottom of the stairs. "Granted, of course, that you can manage not to run away again before the next weekend."

Her shoulders hitched up slightly. "I'm not running away."

He raised a sceptical eyebrow.

She lowered her eyes. "You're betting on a lame horse, Genesis. Or chocobo."

"So fix the race. Isn't that you're style?"

"I would if I could." She looked up again, eyes hooded and hesitant. "Perhaps it would be kinder if I got out of the running's altogether."

He stepped closer. "Then why haven't you?"

"I'm sucker for bad odds," she said, with a helpless shrug.

"This metaphor is confused."

"Perhaps," she whispered, the light of the nearest street light shiny and bright on her eyes, "the metaphor is itself a metaphor." She licked her lips.

His eyes followed the flash of tongue. Glass smashed in the distance and the moment crashed to a halt.

"'The metaphor is a metaphor'?" He pulled back, outraged. "That is the stupidest pick up line I've heard in my life."

She laughed. "Worked though, didn't it?" She climbed the shallow steps up to her front door.

"Debatable," he muttered. "Hawke. Am I going to come knocking one day and find nothing but silence and abandonment?"

"You need me desperately, don't you? If I disappeared you'd just track me down again."

"I would, yes."

She looked down at him. "I don't abandon people. Not even the presumptuous and demanding."

"And… after I'm healed?" he asked, slowly climbing the steps until he was level with her again.

She blinked, then narrowed her eyes. "Let's assume either I'll have found a way back home or you'll have come to your senses."

"I never lost them."

"You're standing on a porch propped up by milk crates."

"And yet you think I'm not serious," he said, closing the distance between them.

She gulped but stood her ground. They were perilously close again.

"You shouldn't be," she whispered.

"Hawke," he said, quiet, close, and intimate. He trailed a finger along her jawline. "Don't tell me what to do."

He turned and swept away, calling "goodnight," over his shoulder as he returned to the car.

"Dirty tease," she muttered. He smiled to himself.

The next week Genesis set off with Angeal for a monster hunting mission.

The Shinra transport dropped them off on the outskirts of the Bone Village. The air was crisp and the wind biting, whistling over the plateau. A line of snow capped peaks dominated their view to the north, and the bright blue sky fell interrupted down to the horizon behind them.

It had been some time since they had a mission together, just the two of them. Genesis let Angeal lead, happy to follow his burly childhood friend on the trek to the village. He looked healthy, Genesis was glad to see. He hadn't lost any of his muscle mass and moved without hesitation or bowing under the weight of the thick slab of a sword on his back.

They reached the Bone Village, and realised the name undersold it. It was in a craggy ravine, cut into the plateau. On the other side was the dark green mass of the Sleeping Forest, but dug into the cliffside itself was the settlement and digsite. They stared at it in silence for a moment.

Little buildings and platforms were wedged into the stratified rock, linked by scaffolding and skeletal staircases. Overhanging it all and only half excavated loomed a spine and ribcage so giant the buildings were set in the gaps between ribs. It was bigger than Bahamut, bigger than anything still roaming Gaia. The skull was further below, disconnected from the rest and cracked and partially missing. It's massive teeth remained.

The length and body shape suggested it might have been a serpent akin to Leviathan once, but it was at least twice the width of the Leviathan summon. They had both seen photos of course, but they didn't do the reality of it justice.

"They say the Planet once created mighty living weapons to defend itself," Genesis said.

"From... what?" Angeal asked.

"Nothing I want to ever want to face."

Angeal agreed with him on that, and they continued across the bridge. The Sleeping Forest overhung the edge, roots and moss creeping across the cliff's lip. Their mission took them down into the ravine, but Genesis looked at the impenetrable mass of trees. It was dense and dark beneath its boughs, and perfectly still. No birds sang and the wind, sharp and howling everywhere else, didn't disturb the forest.

Legend said the Ancients once built great cities within. It, too, was inaccurately named. The forest didn't feel like it was sleeping, it felt like it was watching.

He shook himself and focused on the mission.

It proved to be quite simple. There were monsters nesting in the bottom of the ravine too tough for the local muscle to handle. The two of them finished it all off before the sun had even begun to sink in the sky.

They reported back to the town hall afterwards. It functioned as such at least, it was pulling double duty as both the administrative centre to the village and the sole watering hole. The overseer exchanged their summation of the monster problem for beer and stew.

Genesis asked him about the Sleeping Forest.

A handful of mercenaries and treasure hunters at the only other occupied table hushed and looked over.

The overseer shook his head. "No monsters come down from there. Nothing comes down."

"They say the Ancients themselves cursed it," a scarred old old treasure hunter said.

"Don't the stories say they blessed it?" Angeal asked. "So only the holy could enter unharmed."

The overseer scoffed. "Or it's filled with dangerous monsters, same as every other dense forest on the planet." He scoffed again. "Cursed. What are you, children?"

"What kind of monsters?" Genesis pressed.

"Dunno." The overseer shrugged and scowled at him. "I'm not going in, Shinra."

"Do you know anyone who has?"

There was silence for a moment.

"Nobody who came back," the treasure hunter said.

Genesis raised an eyebrow at Angeal. Angeal frowned.

Ten minutes later the two of them stood on the lip of the forest. The cold wind tugged at Genesis' coat and threw dust from the dig site into his eyes.

"This is a bad idea," Angeal said,

"It's just a forest."

"Which nobody ever comes back from."

Genesis flicked his hair. "Then we shall be the first." He plunged in.

"Genesis…" Angeal sighed, then followed him in. "Why do I keep letting you drag me into these things?"

"Because I make your life so much more interesting."

The bright afternoon sun disappeared entirely beneath the canopy. The wind died as suddenly as the light was cut off. The ground and tree trunks were covered in spongy, damp moss. The air was warm and humid, and it smelt sweet: old leaves decomposing in the underbrush.

Genesis held his breath and soaked it in. It felt old. Ancient. The veil was thin here. He tapped one of his materia, certain that if he were to cast any magic it would be quicker and more powerful.

They both drew their swords and set off, following a grown over pathway further in. It was perfectly quiet, and they used all their expertise to avoid disturbing it. Angeal for all his grumbling looked around just as tentatively as he did.

And nothing happened. Nothing jumped out at them. No great magics assaulted them, nothing. They had been walking for thirty minutes before Genesis lowered his sword in frustration.

Was the thinning of the veil truly all the fuss was about? Perhaps to a non-mage the close press of the Fade was alarming enough to inspire such fear. He saw worse in his sleep every other night.

"Or I would be making your life more interesting, were this an actually haunted forest," he muttered.

"It seems it wants to keep its secrets to itself," Angeal said, looking both relieved and frustrated. "You of all people should understand that. We may as well turn back."

"We haven't found anything yet. Do you want to go back to Sephiroth and tell him we stood on the edge of an unknown, untamed danger, and were too afraid to confront it?"

"I doubt he'd care." Angeal returned his sword to his back.

"Probably not," Genesis conceded. "I don't want to tell myself that I was too afraid to confront it." A tree trunk creaked. He spun to face it. It was just a tree trunk.

"Even though you're injured."

Genesis stiffened. "Who told you that?"

"I'm not an idiot, Genesis." Angeal crossed his arms.

He frowned at him. "When did I get injured?"

"How should I know, you didn't tell me." Angeal shook his head and dragged a hand through his hair. "You ask me to watch your back but you won't tell me where you need support or why."

Genesis felt cold. It was his job to fix it. Angeal would be broken by the knowledge. He trusted Shinra too much, he trusted himself, his own heritage. He couldn't know, he didn't need to know.

"It's none of your business."

"Really?" Angeal laughed, a short hollow exhalation. "Caring about my friend is not my business? Being concerned about the fact that you've done nothing but lie to me for over a year now, is not my business?"

"That's not what I said," Genesis snapped. Angeal didn't back down and he felt shamed by it. He shook his head. "I keep things from you because... I'm concerned for you as well."

Angeal's expression hardened. "It's for my own good, is it?" He turned to the nearest tree and sat at its base.

"What are you doing?"

"I'm tired, Genesis." He dragged a hand through his hair again and leaned against the trunk, his eyes turned to the skies. "You don't want me to know anything or do anything." He crossed his arms and rested them on his drawn up knees. "Am I wrong? Is that what you want?"

"No." Genesis scowled. It wasn't that straight forward. "You trust Shinra too much. There are things that if you knew… it would make everything worse."

"So we'll just stay stuck here forever, will we?"

It was all wrong. Genesis scrapped a hand down his fair and made a noise of frustration. "Fine. If that's how you want it to be."

He sat against a tree opposite Angeal and crossed his arms.

Angeal scoffed and looked away. Genesis pursed his lips and refused to say anything.

He wasn't just being petty, he had very good reasons for not telling Angeal. He had planned to originally when he intended to desert and burn shinra down but it just wasn't feasible now. In the face of any number of war crimes and cover ups, Angeal had always found a way to convince himself Shinra weren't as bad as they looked, there had to be information they weren't privy to, or some angle they weren't considering. If shown that they had betrayed him from the very beginning, what would he do? Would he refuse to believe it, as he had everything else? Or would it break him?

Or was Genesis just too attached to his comfortable life, and the delusion that he could fix it without losing anything. Telling Angeal would upset the apple cart and destroy any hope of quietly resolving the problem.

Could you fix a life that had been rotten from the beginning?

He closed his eyes and let out a slow breath. Finally he opened them again, resolved to come clean.

Angeal was asleep.

"Goddess, are you really that tired?" he exclaimed.

It came out weak and quiet. He hadn't realised how tired he was too. He was comfortable against the tree and the bed of soft moss, so comfortable he could sleep in his armour. The forest was so warm and quiet. It was never this quiet in Midgar.

He narrowed his eyes. This wasn't right. What were they doing?

He felt the same way he did when the Fade played tricks on him. He tried to stand up. He couldn't.

Angeal was too still.

Magic washed over him. He bared his teeth and cast dispel on himself.

A haze fell away from his eyes, and a hulking, fleshy spirit towered over him, reaching out with long clawed fingers.

He cast fire. It's hands wrapped around his face.

Everything went dark.

Chapter Text

Hawke held a finger to her lips. The other two smugglers stood unmoving in the shadow of the Shinra checkpoint. Floodlights cut harsh lines on the cracked pavement.

The three troopers inside the control booth chattered happily about a chocobo race, their voices drifting out through an open window. Hawke leaned back against the booth's outer wall and narrowed her eyes.

It was a sturdy wall of reinforced cinder block. Her breath slowed and her magic sank through the concrete, the iron supports, the insulation, and into the booth.

The voices slowed and then stopped. The knuckles of the smuggler closest to Hawke were turning white around the sack he held. The woman behind him was biting her lip.

Hawke cast again, electricity burning through her veins and sinking into the booth. There was a pop, a BANG, and the flood lights died in bursts of sparks.

Hawke grinned at her companions. "That's your cue."

They rushed out from behind the building, hauling their loads, and leapt the checkpoint's barrier. Hawke brought up the rear, staff in hand.

The troopers in the booth were sleeping peacefully in the dark. Hawke wished them a restful night.

Past the checkpoint they walked through the winding streets of the slums and arrived at the back door of a clinic. The two other smugglers, nurses by day, unlocked the door while Hawke stood guard.

Shinra had tightened security under the plate and raised the prices across the board, making some things all but impossible to legally get a hold of. They said it was a security measure in face of the recent terrorist activity, which was a charming way of saying 'we're punishing you for complaining'.

The nurses hid the insulin and painkillers inside. Hawke had already taken her heavily discounted pay in a couple of health potions so she didn't hang around to risk drawing attention. She twirled her staff and wandered home.

She hadn't heard from Genesis since he left for a mission a few days ago. It wasn't an unusual silence, presumably he was occupied by secret Shinra business. She texted him the filthiest limerick she could think of and hoped he got a laugh out of it when he finished up.

She went to bed and slept peacefully, undisturbed by dreams.

She went about her week. The supplies for the market stall were reaching their end, but there were always more smuggling jobs around the place. Aerith had learned enough magic that their 'training' consisted mostly of experimentation and discussion now, and they spent long hours talking in the church. The Fade had been quiet recently, so they practiced their dreaming too. She told Aerith off for not taking Spirits' seriously enough.

A few more days passed. Genesis didn't reply. Must have been some serious secret Shinra business.

Hawke bought a trumpet. She thought she might learn to play but the neighbour who lived downstairs threatened to burn the house down if she didn't stop, so she sold it again.

Ettie messaged her the next day, to her endless surprise and they went and got a coffee together at some snobbish place up plate. The weather was bright if cold. A chill wind swept through Midgar, moving all the rubbish around.

The city held a protest. Shinra crushed a protest.

Hawke and Aerith met at the church in the afternoon. Zack dropped Aerith off. He looked like a kicked puppy as he gave her a hug at the door, picking her up off her feet momentarily.

"What's with him?" Hawke asked, locking the door after he'd left.

Aerith shrugged, a puzzled frown on her forehead. locking the door after he was gone. "He's worried about his teacher."

"Angeal? What's wrong with him?"

"Classified," she said with a wink and a stage whisper. "He's away, I think. Or missing? I'm not sure. Maybe he's ghosting him."

Hawke snorted a laugh. She swung her staff off her back and started tracing glyphs onto the floorboards. "Genesis is away too. It was the same mission, I thought."

"Huh. I hope they're alright."

"They're big boys, I'm sure they're fine."

"I guess so. Zack was really worried."

Hawke shrugged. She'd seen what Genesis was capable of. She remembered him slicing through a VR dragon's spine like butter, and couldn't help a smile.

Aerith broke into a grin at the sight. "Speaking of Genesis, how was the opera?"

"It wasn't an opera."

"Was it good?" she asked, with suspicious innocence. "Was it exciting?" She waggled her eyebrows. "Was it… satisfying?"

"The acting was a little obvious."

Aerith threw a leaf at her. "You're no fun."

Hawke laughed. "It was satisfying, actually, though not as scandalous as you're implying." She sobered. "But I've been meaning to ask: how's your healing magic coming along?" If Genesis and Angeal were on a serious mission then she'd likely be called on for healing afterwards. She was all too aware of the limitations of her skill.

Aerith tilted her head. "It's great, why?"

"You can do things I can't. I wonder if…" Could a Cetra heal the Blight? It was too much to hope for, but may as well try. It was an unfair burden to put on someone so young, but she wouldn't do her the disservice of pretending not to see her growing skill.

Aerith's brow furrowed. "Is something wrong?"

"Nothing. Not with me at least, but I might need your help with something soon."

"Anything."

A smirk tugged at Hawke's mouth. "Don't say that, you don't know what I'm going to ask for yet."

"When you're done being mysterious then, you can ask again."

That agreed on, they got to work on their glyph work and parted after the light outside had faded.

"I'll see you at the market tomorrow!" Aerith called, waving over her shoulder.

Aerith was not at the market.

Hawke set up by herself, and figured she would arrive in time to make the money. Customers arrived and the morning sped by, and still there was no sign of her. Hawke frowned and checked her phone. Aerith hadn't even texted. Unusual for her. The Turk who usually spied on them showed up but got bored and wandered off.

The market was slow and business middling that day. Aerith was better liked by the customers and the produce was starting to look a bit sad.

She had resolved to pack up early when her phone rang.

"Hello Hawke, it's me," Elmyra said. Her voice was steady, with just the hint of a tremor running through it. "Uh, would you mind coming over? As soon as you can. I'm sure it's nothing serious, but I would appreciate your… expertise. Please."

Hawke's spine snapped straight. "I'll be right over." She knew better than to ask out in public.

She closed the stall and walked with painful, forced normalcy to the Gainsborough house. Elymra was too rational and experienced to panic over little things. Hawke liked to think she was too. She could think of a great many things that could have gone wrong. The Turks were behaving normally and that was her only solace.

She knocked on the door and Elmyra let her in with a tight smile.

"What's-" Hawke started as soon as the door was shut.

"She isn't waking up. I don't know why."

Her jaw clenched. "Let me see."

Elmyra led her up the stairs. "I can't take her to the hospital. She doesn't have an ID, and the Turks… Her temperature is fine. She was fine last night, everything about her is fine."

The house was too bright and cheery, as always, and Elmyra opened the door to Aerith's room. She was lying in bed, curling locks of hair falling across her face and healthy colour in her cheeks. There was a single white lily sticking out of a green filled pot on the windowsill above her head.

Hawke crossed the room, knelt, and put a hand on her forehead.

"What's wrong with her?" Elmyra asked, her face pinched.

"She went to sleep last night, same as normal?"

"Yes."

Hawke scowled. She sank her magic into her, looking for something to heal, but there was nothing. Nothing wrong, and nobody home.

"She's still in the Fade," she muttered. Same as so many other Mages she had seen. Sometimes they never woke up again. Sometimes the one who woke up wasn't the one who had gone to sleep.

Aerith's chest rose and fell steadily. Her eyes didn't move under her eyelids, she was more than just dreaming.

"What does that mean?" Elmyra asked.

"She's caught on something in the Lifestream."

Elmyra paled. "What?" she rasped.

Hawke realised a second too late what that implied. She held up her hand. "It's alright." No, it wasn't. She rose. "I'm going to go get her."

"How are you going to do that?"

Hawke pursed her lips. She was no Fade shaper, or powerful elder mage like Marethari, she couldn't just enter the Fade at will. She really only had the one option.

She went back to the spare room where she first woke up on this strange world, made herself comfortable on the bed, and she went to sleep.

She couldn't sleep for an hour or so. She lay awake, her eyes closed against the sunlight streaming in through the gaps in the curtains, and wondered what could have happened. She remembered Feynriel, the only other Dreamer she'd ever met before Aerith, and the dreams he was plagued with. Spirits loved Dreamers, loved their strength, their potential. Most dreamers were overwhelmed and died in their sleep before adulthood.

It had been a day and a night since Aerith had last woken. That was still within safe timing. More than three days and her body would start to atrophy and waste away. Then it wouldn't matter whether or not she escaped the spirits: there would be nothing left of her in the physical world to wake up.

Hawke opened her eyes in the Fade.

Her little campfire on the cliffside burned low. She looked out across the plains of the lower islands but couldn't see any telltale signs.

She drew her staff, put her head down, and went hunting. Aerith's house was empty, and so was the church. Spirits that normally danced happily and tried to play games with Hawke ducked out of her way. She knew full well how strongly she must have been projecting intent upon the Fade, that naive young wisps that hadn't yet learned to fend for themselves sensed she was dangerous.

She questioned those who had grown faster. The spirit of Reflection did not know where she was. The spirit of Loss knew she was missing. The spirit of Pride was nowhere to be found.

She searched far and wide, but for all her resolve to discover Aerith, she found nothing. Genesis' mansion was empty. A curious web of tangled, modern bridges hung around one side of the city, but they were all empty. The city itself showed no sign of life.

Hawke stood on a small, high island and clenched her jaw.

"I know where the young mage is," an unfamiliar voice called from behind her.

She turned and saw Rebellion, wearing the face of Tseng of the Turks. He was tall and thin, with Wutaian features and black hair pulled back into a ponytail. It was a better imitation than the last time she had seen this particular spirit attempt it.

"Where is she?"

"She went looking for your missing soldiers…" he said, wistful, and not quite convincingly human. "Perhaps she found them."

Missing soldiers? Her brow lowered. Genesis and Angeal leapt to her mind. She hadn't known they were missing, but the spirit could have just as easily been planting fears to exploit as giving her information.

"Where?" she asked.

"You must give me something first."

She smiled and narrowed her eyes. "And what is it you want?"

"You have known me for years." Rebellion drifted closer. "I demand a memory in return for my knowledge."

"I see." Hawke nodded. "And if I refuse?"

"Then I will give you nothing."

She hummed. Then she lifted her staff and hit him with three lightning bolts in the chest.

He recoiled, but she chased him down, sweeping his legs out from under him. She didn't know how Tseng fought so neither did the spirit, he threw a gout of flame at her from the ground. She called up a flat barrier. Flames poured off the edges on all sides. She forced the barrier forwards and bludgeoned Rebellion with it, crushing the false face and choking the flames.

He collapsed backwards. She swung her staff and tucked the blade under its throat.

The spirit froze. She leaned down.

"There's your memory," she hissed.

Rebellion smiled up at her. "The trade is complete."

She stepped back and let him up. He adjusted Tseng's form, straightening his tie and shortening the length of his face. He looked entirely too satisfied with her refusal to be cowed. He turned to a pathway leading off into the depths of the Fade.

"This way."

The night before, Aerith had wandered the Fade with a frown on her face.

Zack said Angeal was missing. Well, wherever he was, he still had to sleep.

She had a hunch. She knew the Fade, the Lifestream, wasn't simply a place she went to when she dreamed, it was the substance of the Planet itself. It was life. And that meant even non-mages like Angeal were connected to it.

And what was a Cetra for, if not listening to the Lifestream?

She had thought it over with great conviction at dinner time and while getting ready to go to bed. Then she sat up in the Fade and wasn't entirely sure how to transform that conviction into results.

She tried praying. it didn't produce any results down in the plains. She looked up at the giant copper statue of a slave weeping into his hands and nailed into the cliff overhead, and figured the atmosphere wasn't really conducive to it. She wandered up into the city and climbed the tallest tower she dared.

She knelt and prayed again.

Where was Angeal? Was he hurt? Was he still separate from the Lifestream?

The viscous substance of the Lifestream flowed around her. The tower hummed with life and the very air seemed to glow.

No answers came to her. She blew a lock of her fringe out of her eyes.

"I know where they are," a familiar voice called.

She looked over her shoulder, eyes narrowed at the speaker.

Tseng stood, his hands clasped behind his back and a placid expression on his face. Rebellion, she recalled, being particularly nasty with its choice of face. It wasn't quite right, but she supposed the spirit was young.

"They?" she asked.

"Your missing soldiers. Genesis and Angeal."

She stood. So both of them were missing.

"They're in the Fade?"

Rebellion nodded.

"Where are they?"

"Trapped in an ancient net," he said.

"Ancient, as in, ancient ancient?"

He smiled at her. Maybe it wasn't such a bad imitation afterall. She'd been looking for that face over her shoulder her whole life, she resented how comforting he was now. "Yes. Ancient ancient."

"Where is it?"

"You must give me something first," he said.

"Oh, don't be like that." She pouted at him. "I don't have anything."

"Then I will not help you."

She huffed. It didn't usually work on the real Tseng either. She changed track.

"I am an Ancient, you know. Isn't helping me payment enough? Surely it's your duty to lead me."

He smiled placidly.

"What do you want?" she groused.

"I require a memory."

"What for?"

He drifted closer. "To remember."

She pursed her lips, not liking the request. "A memory of what?"

"Myself. Rebellion." He tilted his head. His dark eyes were reprimanding. "We are not strangers, you and I."

No, they weren't. She'd known him so long she couldn't remember not knowing him. Couldn't remember a time she hadn't looked out of her window and seen him lingering in the shadow of a house across the road. Sometimes he would look up and nod at her. She would poke her tongue out at him when she was little. Then she started flipping him the bird. He would smile back, stiff and professional. She got the impression he enjoyed it though.

So she stopped reacting. She knew he was there, but she didn't need to look. Didn't grace him with the look she knew he liked. Didn't acknowledge him and the walls he put up around her life.

He had gotten more obvious in his hiding spots after that. She told him off for it.

The spirit gave her the exact same smile Tseng had given her that day. She thought maybe she hated him. She didn't know what she would do if he ever left. He was like Shinra in that regard.

"A memory of Rebellion?" she asked. She chewed the inside of her cheek. She didn't want to share a memory of Tseng with the spirit, that would please it far too much.

She thought of a night out under the stars, leaning against the warm body of a chocobo. Her closest friend next to her, as she looked at the dark shadow Midgar cast against the stars. She remembered feeling wild and powerful, and bold enough to break the chains that defined her whole life.

The moment she steeled herself to being the last child of the planet, and resolved to tear Shinra down. Hawke sleepily looked up at her from under yellow feathers and agreed to help.

She breathed out. "There."

Rebellion smiled, and he didn't look anything like Tseng.

The memory slipped from her mind.

"Wait!" She panicked, realising what it had done.

She knew they had ridden home on chocobos, they spent the night in the wilderness, and she had taken the third watch. She scoured her mind for what had happened that night, but she just, she didn't know. Had she done anything? Spoken to anyone? What did the stars look like?

Rebellion stood taller, stronger, smarter. "The trade is complete."

Fear gripped her like it never had in the Lifestream. The spirit knew her in a way she didn't even know herself now. She swallowed thickly and felt her cheeks grow warm. She felt violated.

The spirit turned from her.

"This way," he said, and walked down the steps of the tower.

She didn't want to follow him. A breath hissed in through her lips. The trade was done, and there was no undoing it, she couldn't miss out on her end now. She wasn't weak and she wasn't afraid, she told herself.

She straightened her shoulders and followed at a distance. Tseng's dress shoes tapped against the stone.

The surroundings changed. They left Midgar behind, and crossed whole continents of the Fade. She felt like they walked for an eternity, and that it would go faster if she put her head down and concentrated on just arriving. She couldn't bring herself to take her eyes off of Tseng's straight back.

Empty stretches of clay passed them by. Shifting barren lands occupied by nothing but occasional black holes of Mako reactors.

The mages and spirits living in Midgar had terraformed it, and it felt lived in like a warm and messy kitchen. The emptiness of lands untouched by spirits or dreamers was shocking. She had forgotten how different the unshaped Fade used to feel.

It was a relief when something different arrived on the horizon.

Rebellion raised a hand at it. "The soldiers are trapped within."

It was a palace, surrounded by thick forest, and it was bursting with life. Spirits roamed and gave shape and texture to the Lifestream, magic streaming every which way.

All of it was encased in a giant bubble. It looked like a barrier spell, but on a magnitude that defied reason. It was the size of the Fade City in Midgar.

The palace inside it was only a fraction of the size of the city, a solitary palace in the middle of dense green. It's seashell shape was similar, but it was solid and glowing with life. Her stomach quailed at the sight of so many spirits.

They stopped at the very edge of the bubble. The line of trees started on the other side. She had never seen so many before. Somehow it had never occurred to her how dark it was inside a forest. A shapeless spirit she couldn't name flittered overhead, bright streaks of orange dripping from its edges.

Rebellion watched her quietly.

"Will you rescue your friends?"

"How do I even know they're in there?" she asked, even though she knew it was far too late to be questioning the spirit's intentions.

He shook his head. "I am not Deception."

She faced the wall that only her people could have made. She straightened her shoulders.

She walked into the bubble.

Chapter Text

Sunshine drifted through the leaves, golden and warm on curling dumbapple trunks. Dragonflies hovered over the lush grass and a soft wind carried the cheery bubbling of the nearby creek.

Genesis sat in the grass, his face turned up to enjoy the warmth of the sun. His knees and hands were scraped from tree climbing. Mum and Dad would be mad if they saw, they said he would damage the fruit and he was too old to be clambering about like a monkey anyway. He grinned. The best dumbapples were the ones at the top of the tree, soaking in the sun all day. How was he supposed to steal them without climbing?

He bit into an apple. It was so crisp and crunchy, and juice spilled down his chin. He wiped it away with the back of his hand.

"Can I please try one?" Sephiroth asked.

Genesis hummed while he chewed. "Maybe."

Sephiroth looked at him with wide, hopeful eyes, as green as the cloudless sky overhead.

He was such a scrawny thing, Genesis thought. Far too little to be a war hero.

"Don't they have dumbapples in Midgar?" He knew they didn't.

Little Sephiroth shook his head. Silver bangs shook on either side of his face as he did so. The rest of his hair was in a little ponytail running down his back. Genesis' hair was in a ponytail as well. He thought it looked better in red.

"I suppose you've never tried dumbapple cider either, then?"

"I've never tried any cider," Sephiroth replied.

Genesis stood, and tossed his half eaten core off into the grass.

"Come on then." He held out a hand.

Sephiroth took it and let him haul him up. "Where are we going?"

"To get you your first taste of alcohol, of course," he said, smiling. He turned and headed for the barn.

They climbed up the rickety stairs to the little loft area where Genesis kept his secret brew. A grimy window let in sunlight to shine over the heavy keg of cider. It sat on top of two wooden planks he'd scrounged up, next to all the bottes he had painstakingly sterilised when mum and dad weren't looking. He'd burned his hands so badly the first time but nobody noticed.

Sephiroth looked at the product of his labour with fascination.

"Did you do this yourself?"

"Oh yes. I've perfected the process." It had taken so much trial and error. This was, what, the twentieth batch? The twenty fifth? He stopped counting after the tenth.

"Wow," Sephiroth said. "That's impressive."

Genesis tilted his head. He hadn't thought the kid would be so impressed. "They might not have Banora-White apples but I know they have alcohol in Midgar. And in Wutai."

Sephiroth shrugged. "But I couldn't do all this. You're so clever."

Genesis frowned. For some reason it didn't sound right. "I am, aren't I?"

He shook the doubt aside and picked up a bottle. It was golden and cloudy within, with just a hint of pink from the apple skins. He brandished two wine glasses and poured three finger's worth in each.

He raised his glass. "To the Hero of the Dawn, Healer of Worlds."

Sephiroth raised his as well, a curious and eager smile on his face. "What does that mean?"

Genesis winked. "It's rude not to drink after toasting."

He threw back his own glass. The familiar taste spread across his taste buds. It wasn't sweet enough. He had let the batch ferment too long, there was too little sugar left. It was bad cider.

Sephiroth sipped his with his eyes closed and a look of concentration. He opened his eyes and looked at the golden disappointment with awe.

"It's delicious," he whispered. He looked up at him with admiration. "You're amazing, Genesis."

Genesis let his glass drop. It smashed at his feet.

"You're not Sephiroth."

The silver haired boy tilted his head. "Yes, I am. You invited me here, remember?"

"Do you think I'm an idiot?" he hissed. He slapped the glass out of the boy's hand. "You're not real."

Sephiroth frowned, irritated and disdainful. It suited his face more than the admiration did.

"You're talking nonsense, Genesis." He stepped forward and he wasn't a child anymore. In a black leather, silver pauldrons, and long loose hair, he towered over Genesis and seemed to fill the whole room. "You're always talking nonsense."

Genesis, with scraped knees and gangly teenage limbs, refused to back down. He couldn't keep up, couldn't rival Sephiroth let alone impress him, but it didn't matter. He looked out the window. The sky was green. He was dreaming.

"You are a shallow imitation of the real Sephiroth," he spat.

"So are you."

His face fell.

The spirit advanced on him. He clenched his fists. The spirit drew it's sword.

Reflex took over and Genesis threw himself forward. He was unarmed, but he was strong and clever and he'd been fighting Sephiroth all his life, it felt.

The spirit was strong and vicious, but it couldn't compare to the real thing.

He ducked under a swipe of the blade, swept up the broken stem of the wine glass and lunged forward. He sidestepped the spirit - not nearly as fast as Sephiroth, he would have caught him - and leapt onto its back. He plunged the glass into his neck. The spirit staggered and gave up the shape.

It grew taller, lankier, and a second set of pale arms sprung out and scrabbled at him. A cold hand grasped the back of his head. Cold seeped into him and something seized in his chest. Was it cold or was he cold? Was there a difference? He gasped against the invasion and stabbed it again, and again, and again. It couldn't have him. He refused to let it.

It screamed. His ears popped. It tore at him. He pushed the glass in deeper.

Living green light pulsed under his hands in place of blood. There was a crack and crunch of crystal grinding against itself. A high pitched whine split the air, the body he was holding onto staggered, and then shattered into sparkling light.

He landed on his knees. He put a shaking hand to the back of his head, and then to his chest. He was breathing so heavily. He gritted his teeth and pulled himself together. He stood and he wasn't a child anymore. He was in his own body, his own armour, and he hadn't scraped his knees in decades. The illusory surroundings looked feeble and paper thin now.

He glanced down at where the spirit had been. With its essence shattering under his hands he had glimpsed it for what it was: a spirit of Envy.

He bowed his head and stalked away.

Hawke stood on the edge of the giant bubble in the Fade, encasing a dense forest, a cetra palace, and the most powerful spirit domain she'd ever seen. Maybe the Nightmare's domain over Adamant Fortress was stronger, but it was a close call.

"Aerith's in there," she said, just to be sure.

"Yes," Rebellion replied.

"And Genesis and Angeal."

"Yes."

She sighed. "I'll be honest with you, I was really hoping you'd take me somewhere nicer."

"Perhaps you can make it nicer."

She stared straight ahead at the sheer power on display within the shield.

"Shut up, Rebellion."

It was probably delighted at the thought of seeing her try to defy whatever reigned over the region.

From what she could see, the bubble kept them anchored to this particular spot. It must have saved them from the harvest that caught Shiva and all the other Summon spirits trapped in materia. Within the bubble they had free reign, and given the way the tiered islands were arranged, the density of spirits and magical activity, they had established a hierarchy and something very, very powerful presided over it all.

Kirkwal's Fade had been dominated by a couple of powerful spirit domains: a Despair demon reigned over the bulk of the Gallows, a Rage spirit over the floating islands corresponding to Darktown, and a Pride lorded over them all from Hightown. Getting caught in any one of the domains meant that something else would probably wake up in your skin the next day.

Hawke grimaced.

No sensible mage would ever enter such a thing. It may as well have had 'Welcome to Death and suffering,' emblazoned across the face of the bubble. Or perhaps the ever popular 'Abandon hope, all ye who enter.'

This was going to be such a bother.

She held her staff lightly and stepped through the bubble.

Illusions and temptations met her. It was all thoroughly unpleasant. She walked out of a burning Kirkwall, away from death rattles and screamed accusations, the shards of shattered spirits tinkling off her staff.

She searched methodically through the islands, trying not to engage the spirits where she could. After she cut through a few of the weaker ones they withdrew from her path. They were all old spirits, content to watch until she gave them an opening.

She stalked through thick forest. She saw no sign of anyone else here, but the air was so thick with power and illusions that it didn't mean anything.

She stepped out of the tree cover onto a soaring tree branch connecting the islands.

Genesis stood in the middle of it. He had his sword drawn and he was looking up at the island she'd just come from.

She squinted at him. Then her shoulders relaxed and relief flooded her: it was the real thing. The Fade pulled smoothly around him from the confidence of someone who fully believed he could reshape the world if he tried hard enough. Spirits moved with the Fade, they didn't cut through it.

"Thank the Maker," she muttered, closing the distance. He had gained enough of a grasp of his presence that he didn't summon chandeliers anymore: a crying shame in her books.

He stepped back and lifted his sword.

"Stop. How do I know you're real?" he said.

She raised her hands, startled. She shouldn't have been, he was right to question her.

"You don't," she said. A spirit playing a part would be reassuring.

He pursed his lips.

"Tell me something I don't know about you."

"I'm... naturally blonde," she blurted.

He lowered the tip of his sword. "No, you're not!"

"I'm not. I panicked."

"Planet's sake, Hawke," he said, pinching the bridge of his nose.

"Alright, alright, something you don't know. I'm a dog person?"

He raised a perfectly threaded eyebrow. "Every dog owner in Midgar knows that."

She huffed. "Fine! Crabs freak me out, they scuttle too much. They used to call me a hero. There's a scar on my thigh from sitting on a curling iron but I tell everyone the Arishok did it. I taught myself to speak with this accent because no one in Kirkwall would hire a refugee." She shrugged, running out of steam. "I'm self-conscious about my nose."

He lowered his sword, an unreadable expression on his face.

"Why?" he asked. "It's a charming nose."

"It's big and crooked," she said. She refrained from putting a hand over her face.

He studied her, a smile breaking across his face. "I think it adds character."

She snorted. "I'm not suffering from a lack of character. What are you doing here?"

"We were trapped," he said, all business again. "A spirit tricked Angeal and I into sleeping in the Sleeping Forest."

She nodded slowly. She stabbed her staff into the bridge and leaned on it. "You fell asleep… in the Sleeping Forest."

He closed his eyes. "Don't."

"I can't help but think," she drawled.

"I don't deserve this."

"That, maybe, you might have walked into that one."

"Yes, fine. I fell face first into its trap. Happy?" he demanded. "Why are you here?"

She grinned. "I'm rescuing you."

"My hero."

"You're not the only one who got caught." She looked at the islands spread around them. Some were dominated by forest, some glowing pearl and cold silver. Spirits fluttered on all of them. "This is very dangerous territory, and Aerith's out there somewhere."

"So is Angeal." He pointed across the way. "I've looked across those four islands. There are aggressive spirits everywhere but I haven't found anyone else."

"I've looked on the higher levels and the one with the squid statue."

"Will it change as soon as we turn our backs? The path keeps doubling back."

Hawk sighed. "Probably. There are so many spirits and so few dreamers to anchor it all down. This whole place is a maze."

His brow furrowed and he turned to her. "What is all this? What's the point?"

"A predatory spirit presides over this place and rules the others." She thought back to what it's lackeys had tried on her, the angle it's temptations had taken. "Sloth I think. It's locked in here and feeding off of us. All of them are."

"Sloth? It didn't feel slovenly to me. What illusions did you see?"

Her expression tightened. "Home."

He looked hesitant. "Was it nice?"

"Like a stiletto between the ribs," she said with a weak grin. "What did you see?"

"The same." He looked away. "And the same."

There was an awkward silence.

"I told you spirits are dangerous," she said quietly. It wasn't how she would have wanted to find out, personally. There didn't seem to be a pleasant route to that knowledge.

"Which way from here?"

They settled on a direction and set off to go rescue their friends.

Aerith wandered the woods.

She'd been on her guard ever since she'd entered the bubble. Since she'd made her poor deal with Rebellion, really. The Lifestream didn't feel as welcoming as it always had. But she was here to rescue Angeal and Genesis and she wasn't going to give up.

The trees were perfectly silent, watchful and tense. She followed a wandering little path of moss, moving as quietly as she could. She looked back over her shoulder. There was no path back the way she had come.

She refused to be shaken.

No spirits spoke to her, but she saw their light and shadow forms moving between the trees at a distance. She tried to leave the path but the trees were too thick, roots caught at her ankles, large, sweet smelling flowers with sticky looking petals rose up and bloomed where she intended to go. She didn't step on them.

She lifted her hands and sent out her earth magic to make the plants move. They decline to do so.

Maybe she was a little shaken.

She followed the path. May as well see where it was leading her. If things got bad she could just wake up. She wasn't sure how she was going to do that, but she figured it'd come to her if she needed it.

After what felt like an eternity of walking, the path grew wider. Silvery stone paving replaced the moss. The trees on both sides pulled apart to let in cold white light, like that of a chilly early morning, directly down onto the path. It's glow on the stone seemed to draw her further in, beckoning her.

The trees parted and graceful Cetra hall stood before her. She didn't remember seeing it from outside the bubble, but it wasn't the great palace. It's shape was like a pair of angel wing seashells, laying ajar on the long edge, forming a long and thin hall.

Spirits wearing faces and armour flanked the path between her and it in a still and silent guard. She couldn't identify any of them at a glance. At the path's end the tall white doors were open to her.

She quailed. Who did they think she was? What were they expecting from her?

She told herself off a second later. She knew who she was. Nothing else mattered. The Fade was a matter of perspective, and from her perspective she had nothing to be ashamed of and every right to be here.

She stood tall, planted her staff on the stone tiles, and walked between them all. She didn't hesitate at the threshold. She passed into the hall.

It was bright inside, soaring ceiling dripped chandeliers that fell like the fluttery tentacles of a jellyfish. Balconies filled with spirits lined the walls.

At the far end of the hall a female spirit sat in a resplendent chair atop a dias. She rose at Aerith's appearance.

Aerith halted three steps inside the hall.

The spirit took the form of a tall woman with a human face, long navy blue hair curling down her shoulders and back. A wreath of horns sprung up from her head and swept up into the air like a crown.

She walked to the end of the dias. Panels of pink silk covered her body from collarbone to ankle, it fluttered and caught the light independent of any movement of her or the air. Her skin was gunmetal grey and her expression haughty.

She descended the stairs until she stood level with her. Then she bowed.

Aerith blinked.

"Be welcome in this place, Aerith Gainsborough," the spirit called when she rose again.

She bowed back, though not quite so deep. She didn't trust the display. She was so outnumbered and in what felt like a royal court. Were they playing games with her? They knew who she was, but she didn't know anything about them.

"What are you, spirit?" she asked.

The spirit raised an eyebrow. There was infinity in her unmarked face, untold age in her bright eyes.

"I am called Aega. My domain is Pride." Her voice rumbled with depth like a chorus. The spirits in the balconies and around the hall sighed with languages she didn't understand.

"What do you want from me?" Aerith asked. She'd met a Pride spirit before. It had been a month old.

Aega looked quizzically at her. "Nothing. I am honoured by your presence alone. Gaia's children have not walked this path for an aeon."

Aerith grinned. "Appealing to my sense of pride, I see."

"And why should I not? You have much to be proud of, daughter of Ifalna, daughter of Talita, of the line of Blessed Matriarch Coerla, of the Shearwater Clan."

Aerith sucked in a sharp breath.

"Perhaps... you want something from me?"

She pursed her lips. How convenient. "What do you know about my mother? My grandma? My… clan?"

"You hail from a matriline of great honour, child," Aega said, serious and reverent. She threw out a hand and the hall melted away, the audience of spirits disappearing into a swirl of colour and a bird's eye view of the sleeping forest and the palace it housed. "Would you see the heights of the past?"

The surroundings changed again and they were on a bridge before the Cetra palace in the forest but it was packed with People. Cetra in brightly coloured clothes and ornaments she couldn't name travelled back and forth upon it, chatting with spirits and leading chocobos.

She put her hands over her mouth. Aega stood, watchful, at her side.

Aerith lowered her hands. A young Cetra in a ceremonial headdress and a coat of feathers walked through her.

"What do you want in return?" She wasn't going to get played again.

"When you leave this place, and you will for I will not try to keep you, I ask that you leave me and mine unharmed."

"You won't try to hold me here?" She hadn't thought to be afraid of that.

Aega looked down at her, knowing and slightly reprimanding. It reminded her little of Elmyra. "No. I won't. Sloth will not relinquish you so easily, him you must slay. But I believe you are equal to the task."

Aerith narrowed her eyes. "Who's Sloth?"

"You walk in his domain. You cannot get out without going further in." Aega raised her chin. "Have we a deal?"

"Wait, so you want me to leave you in peace, but go kill your boss?"

"He will keep your mind here and take your body for himself if you do not, little Somniari."

"Well, I'm not going to let him." Aerith crossed her arms. The image of an old woman carrying a staff studded with emeralds and rubies hobbled by her on the bridge, helped by a young woman with chestnut curls. Aerith watched them go. Every person her eyes landed on was fascinating. No modern day reproductions, no Shinra's best guesses here.

"You only want to be left alone?" She asked. "You won't take anything from me?"

Aega nodded, gracious and benevolent.

"Say it outloud, please," Aerith said, in a coy reprimand.

Aega smiled. "I will take nothing from you."

She bit her lip.

"Please. Show me my mothers."

"I will show you what I remember." Aega held out a hand.

Aerith took it. There was no give or warmth in her skin at all, it felt hard and textured like chitin.

The bridge disappeared and all its occupants, replaced by a large echoing chamber. A flat platform rose from a lake of still, black water. Four women in long intricate robes stood in a circle on the platform, holding staffs and pouring power into a white glyph between them. Aega stood with them, along with two other spirits. The air shook with magic and one of the women began to chant. The others took up the cry, singing in unison.

Aerith didn't understand a word of it, but it shook all through her and made her heart ache.

The glyph grew and grew. It glowed so brightly it hurt her to look. The waters around the platform trembled and began to spin and roar. The whole room was alive in noise, light, and magic, overwhelming all the senses. One woman fell to her knees, and then another, but they kept casting. The glyph pulsed. The roar built and built.

Then it stopped, sudden and sharp. A third cetra stumbled and fell to her knees, clutching at her staff not to collapse entirely.

The glyph held in place for a single silent moment. It snapped in on itself with a crack that split the air. In the centre of the platform sat the white materia.

Aerith gasped. Her hand rose to the top of her braid where it hid.

The only woman still standing, the one who led the chant, stepped forward. Leaning heavily on her staff, she bent and lifted the new materia up to the light.

"What does it do?" Aerith whispered.

"It is a shield around Gaia," the Pride spirit at her side said, "it holds back spirits from other Lifestreams. None can enter Gaia through the Fade while it is active."

Aerith's eyes widened. She thought back at all her attempts to get it to do something.

"Is it- is it active now?"

Aege smiled gently. "Yes, child. No mortals remain who have the strength to turn it off."

The images changed, and the scene reset in the same chamber, but with more casters now. The same Cetra woman led the spell, her headdress was more magnificent and her face older. She wore armour over her robes. The song was louder, sharper, and the glyph glowed black. The spell built and built and built until it reached its crescendo with a deafening roar. A black materia landed upon the platform.

Aerith hadn't even known there was a black materia.

"What does that one do?"

"It calls on debris from space to rain down upon those who attacked Gaia from outside. There are your planet's defences, authored by your ancestors."

"Who was she?" Aerith asked, looking at the leader. She had pale skin and black hair, like the people of Wutai. Her face was round and chubby, with a natural sweetness at odds with the severity of her expression while she commanded the power in the room.

"Matriarch Coerla," Aega answered, quietly. "She was... my friend."

Aerith looked at the spirit. Her face was unchanged. Her eyes looked so very old.

The image changed again. She saw cities drawn forth from the fabric of Gaia itself. Seas tamed, forests given live and mountains summetted.

She saw the same woman, Matriarch Coerla, sew a living braid of Lifestream into a sighing, living song of magic so strong and complex Aerith had to close her eyes. She couldn't shut her ears. Millenia apart, it was still so beautiful. Coerla pressed the tangle of magic into the chest of a young man who looked deathly ill. He gasped with new breath and colour returned to him. As the image faded she noticed he had pointy ears.

She saw queens and priestesses, shepherds, soldiers, and seafarers: there was much to be proud of. And she was, she was so proud of them all. She stood taller just watching.

At last she saw a little girl in purple who she knew in her heart to be her mother. She rode on a white chocobo in front of a woman Aerith had never known. Her grandmother. She was a cunning nomad from the icy north, and she dreamed deeply and uncovered many secrets. She had even entered the bubble as an old woman and spoken with Aega, trading knowledge.

She never left. Aerith watched the memory play out as her cunning and beautiful grandmother fought Sloth, a hideous, fleshy thing in a shadowy chamber from which her ancestors had once shaped the world

Sloth killed her.

She'd grown comfortable watching the images flicker by. The woman collapsed and joined the Lifestream. It hit Aerith like a train.

"He- she died here?"

"Yes."

She felt cold. Furious.

"Thank you for showing me," she whispered.

"Your friends are here. Your time grows short."

She nodded. "How do we get from here to there?"

Aega told her, and then led her back out into the open Fade.

Hawke and Genesis stood opposite a cluster of spirits, their weapons out but keeping their distance.

"No, don't fight them, it's alright," Aerith called. The spirits withdrew at her command, more than the two humans did.

"Come on," she said, "I know where Angeal is. And I know how we're getting out of here."

Chapter Text

Genesis followed Hawke and the Cetra girl through the winding paths of the Fade, guarding the rear.

A living Cetra. Well, that explained why Hawke talked about the supposedly extinct species so much, and with such authority. He had a great many questions about it all, but for afterwards.

First they needed to find Angeal and escape.

Aerith walked with her shoulders set and her staff in hand. The pathways behaved for her in a way they hadn't for him or Hawke, and the trees pulled back to let them through. The great seashell palace rose before them. Spirits flittered over the canopy, and followed at a distance. He kept his sword drawn. He had lost all patience for the spirit's little games and taken up the guarded mode he adopted in enemy territory.

He smelled dumb apples. He looked around, and the forest was gone. An orchard surrounded them. Thick green grass pulled at his boots and he could hear the bubbling of the creek. Curling Banora white trees surrounded them.

Aerith slowed.

"Aega said Angeal would be in this area somewhere," she said, looking around with her brow furrowed.

"This way." Genesis took the lead. He knew exactly where Angeal would be.

He wound between the trees and crossed the little dirt paths towards the creek. Fantail birds bobbed between the branches, trading little chirrups. Despite everything the last dream of Banora had thrown at him and his resolve to stay on his guard, something in his chest eased out under the golden light. It felt like home and comfortable old dreams. He clenched his jaw. They weren't going to trick him again.

The ground sloped away. Laughter rose up to meet them. Angeal's laugh.

The creek came into view, clear water running over a bed of smooth rocks and reflecting blinding light. On the opposite bank lay Angeal as he had been fifteen years ago: chubby faced and slightly sunburnt. He lay on a flattened patch of grass, eyes closed, face turned up to the sun, and bare legs hanging into the creek.

Next to him lay Genesis. Just as young and innocent looking, swinging his feet in the water.

Genesis halted. Next to him Hawke lifted her staff, but he put a hand on her arm. He should stop the illusion, he should cut the spirit down.

But he wanted to see.

"What are we going to do today?" Angeal asked, his hands crossed behind his head.

The spirit wearing Genesis' face hummed. He plucked a dandelion and tucked it into his hair. "Nothing. We're going to sit in the grass and watch the birds."

Angeal laughed. "And then what?"

"Then we're going to come back tomorrow and do it again."

Angeal cracked an eye open and looked at the other boy for a moment. "You don't want to go anywhere else? Do anything else, or talk to anyone else?"

"No," the false child Genesis replied. "I just want to stay here with you."

Angeal grinned and closed his eyes again. "I like the sound of that."

The real Genesis looked away. It had been his idea to join SOLDIER, to go to war, to challenge Sephiroth on his lofty pedestal. Banora had never been enough.

He knew Hawke and Aerith were both watching him, waiting for his cue.

The young Angeal looked so content, with a Genesis who didn't dream of more. Who could be satisfied with things as they were. He swallowed through a dry lump in his throat and tried to keep the hurt off his face.

"What do we do?" Aerith asked, her voice low.

He shook his head. "What is the point of this cruelty? Taunting us with what we can never have, dangling our hearts desires before us?"

"It's not your heart's desire," Hawke said. "It's just what will keep you stationary. He's never going to leave here on his own, but that doesn't make it what he actually wants."

Down on the bank Angeal and that innocent, false Genesis laughed.

"It's only a dream," she offered, apologetic.

He bowed his head. He would not have chosen to see this in front of an audience. He would never have chosen to see this at all.

"It feels more cruel to wake him," he admitted.

"How long have you been asleep?"

"Three, four hours"

Hawke's brow lowered. "How long did your mission take?"

"No time at all, we got off the plane this morning. I messaged you when I landed."

She stared at him, her eyes going round.

"You've been gone for a week," she rasped. She grabbed his arm. "You have to wake up. Go, wake him, before you don't have bodies to go back to anymore."

She didn't wait and leapt down the bank herself. He followed close on her heels.

The two boys in the grass sat up at the ruckus.

The spirit wearing his face grabbed Angeal's arm with a clawed hand and tried to drag him away.

Hawke lifted her staff and a blast of energy threw the spirit back.

Genesis threw a barrier over Angeal, still young and wide eyed

The spirit started to morph into something tall and monstrous. Hawke charged and threw herself at it. She plunged two daggers into its chest. It toppled over backwards, screaming and writhing in the dirt.

Genesis focused on Angeal.

"What's going on?" the boy said, eyes wide and roaming like he couldn't really see.

"It's just me."

"Genesis? Where are you? Genesis!"

Behind him the spirit stopped moving. Angeal's form lost some of its cohesion, turning slightly translucent. Hawke stood again, ichor splattered on her armour.

"What's wrong with you?" Genesis demanded. He put a hand on his shoulder, but it didn't feel right, not fully solid.

"He's not really a mage," Hawke said, coming back. "He only has a weak connection to the Fade."

"So we can't bring him with us." He pursed his lips and glanced at the boy. Angeal looked back, unrecognising. He looked away. "Will he be safe here?"

Aerith spoke up. She had hung back before. "If we can defeat Sloth we should all wake up."

Hawke backed her up, and he gave the young, dreaming Angeal one last look.

"Lead on then."

Aerith took up the lead again. The curling seashell palace rose before them. She didn't look back or to either side. The orchard fell away, and the grass was replaced by cold white tiles.

Aega had warned her that if they faltered there would be no escape. That Sloth would be watching, and waiting.

The spirits floating overhead disappeared. The steady footsteps of the other two behind her were the only sound. She gripped her staff tighter.

The doors of the ancient palace stood before them.

She steeled herself, remembering all the great things Aega had shown her, all she knew herself to be capable of. She pushed the door open-

-and stepped into the overbright halls of the Shinra Science department. She faltered.

A Turk in a pressed suit attacked her. She yelped and threw a fireball at him. He dove through the flames, a burning rage spirit. Genesis intercepted it so quickly she didn't even see him pass her. He sliced it in two. The flames died.

A door beyond them opened, and a faceless scientist stood backlit by the green glow of Mako.

They fought their way through, cutting down turks and lab techs and scientists in white lab coats. The spirits fought back, far stronger than those they imitated could have.

Aerith found herself backed up against a Mako tank and glass cell doors. She swung her staff out and knocked a tray of scalpels and syringes to the floor. Her knees shook and the spell misfired, reverberating back up her arms. The Turk brought his mag rod down on her. She yelled and slammed her staff up into his stomach.

Grasping vines leapt up from the floor and latched onto him. They tore him limb from limb. She sucked in shaking breaths and pulled herself back together.

The other two slaughtered the rest, and they pushed on, running through the halls. Genesis led the way now, his face hard. Hawke fried any spirits that followed, and Aerith threw shields over them all. In some of the rooms the spirits didn't play at being humans at all, only unspeakable, mutated monsters that smashed out of the cells and lunged at them with snapping teeth and claws.

"What is all this?" Hawke muttered, as they passed room after room of gurneys and medical equipment.

Neither replied.

They burst through a door, and they weren't in the labs anymore. Dark stone walls hedged them in, and only intermittent torches in the walls lit the way. Thick iron bars closed off rooms where rusting manacles were chained to the wall.

Men and women in full suits of armour with a flaming sword emblazoned on the breastplate attacked them, followed by others in robes who cast spells and wielded staffs like Hawke did. The blows fell harder, and Aerith's defences crumpled faster. Genesis' materia were all but useless against them. The passages were narrow and screams tore through the air. Genesis faltered.

Hawke moved with sudden vehemence. She appeared behind an enemy. Her knife stuck out through the enemy's neck. The spirit shrieked and she jerked the dagger up sharply.

Hawke led the way through the imitation Gallows. She fought quick and dirty, her teeth bared and magic cracking through the air. The spirit's manipulations were wasted, she was numb to it all, more focused on the swing of her blade and the rush of magic through her limbs.

They burst out into the courtyard. A giant copper statue swung a sword down on them. Genesis ignited the fire runes down his sword and leapt up and met its challenge. She turned back and threw a firestorm over the spirits chasing them. Behind her Aerith yelled as she cast and Genesis leapt between the walls.

The copper statue fell in a wreckage of slag.

He landed on the stone ground, breathing hard. Aerith clutched her staff with two hands, cheeks red from intensive casting.

"Where are we?" Genesis asked.

"Don't worry about it," Hawke replied, her expression hard.

Her reserves were holding but she had taken hits of spirit magic and the damage was hard to shake. She swallowed down the pain and spun her staff.

"Oh children, why are you so unhappy? Were you not comfortable?"

The little hairs on her arms all stood on end. A wave of exhaustion washed over her. She shook herself and threw the spell off.

The courtyard lost its shape around them. They stood on a flat platform above a lake of still, black water. The tall form of a Sloth demon stood in their midst: hulking, rotting muscle above a skeletal ribcage.

"You have suffered enough," he said, voice deep and melodic. He reached his clawed hands out to them. "I offer peace."

Aerith and Genesis blinked, and relaxed their stances.

Hawke slammed her staff into the ground. Dispel burst out from her in a ripple.

Genesis snapped back to attention. Aerith shook herself then scowled. Genesis raised his sword to the demon.

"I'll take an honest fight over your false peace."

"That's a no from me as well," Aerith spat.

Hawke ran forward on silent feet while they held its attention.

Sloth closed his hands. The chamber grew dark. "It will only be harder for you if you struggle."

She plunged her lightning-charged staff into its back. Or tried to. It dodged, far faster than her. He swiped a clawed hand, and she rolled out of the way. Genesis lunged in to slice the demon's back while she held its attention.

Sloth's beady black eyes met hers just as it's claw grazed her shoulder.

Her mana reserves emptied. She fell to her knees, gasping.

Wouldn't you like to rest? Are you not tired of having your efforts thrown in your face? Sloth's voice sighed through her head.

Maker, she was tired. Genesis was in front of her, fending off a blow.

Are you not tired of being a failure?

Aerith's restorative magic surged through her. She stumbled back, shaking her head against the voice. She wouldn't survive a second hit.

She brandished her staff and called on as much lightning as she could. A volley of bolts slammed into the spirit. Aerith reigned down fireballs upon it, carving through it at a distance. Genesis was barely making any headway but holding it off them, its arcane form soaking up physical damage easily.

Genesis took a hit.

Hawke rushed in, stacking speed spells on herself. She leapt over Genesis, and jabbed daggers into its face, setting off bursts of ice magic. It snarled and lashed out, trailing entropic magic through the air. She danced around it, flipping, ducking and weaving out of the way.

A burning sword pierced through it's exposed ribcage.

Sloth made a noise of disgust and wrapped a claw around the blade

"Get back!" Aerith yelled. A blinding white glyph lit the ground around them.

They threw themselves back.

The air exploded. The sharp edge of Spirit magic rushed past hawke, making her feel like she'd been turned inside out. The roar subsided, and she blinked hard to get her vision back. She held her daggers up in a defensive stance.

In the centre of the platform remained only a fleshy smear across the floor.

"Oh, yuck," Aerith said

Hawke snorted a laugh. "Good job." She was running on empty and aching all over. Genesis limped over from the other side of the platform. She poked him with a healing spell and got a grateful look in return.

"Quite," said a Pride spirit.

Hawke spun, brandishing her daggers.

The tall spirit walked across the platform towards them, long silken robes rippling behind her. Sloth's remains disappeared as she did, and the chamber itself rearranged around her. Ancient and powerful carvings decorated the floor, and shafts of light fell from the ceiling, landing upon her.

They no longer stood in Sloth's domain.

"Aega?" Aerith asked, her hand still tense on her staff.

"You may leave," Aega replied, inclining her head to the Cetra. "May Gaia bless your path." She turned her eyes to Hawke and Genesis and her lip curled in disdain. "You, agents of the Evanuris, are not fit to walk the Planet's soil."

"Hey!" Aerith stepped forward. "Don't insult my friends. We had a deal. We all get to leave now."

Aega raised an eyebrow at her, a distinctly human gesture at odds with her ethereal form "A deal which I have kept. You said nothing of your companions, who threaten and desecrate the very Lifestream you are charged to protect."

Aerith looked between them, her brow furrowed.

"We do not serve the Evanuris," said Genesis, his voice hard.

"They're gone, the war's over and Arlathan has long fallen," Hawke added. She jerked her head at Genesis. "And he's not even from Thedas."

Aega fixed her with a look.

"Ignorance will not absolve you of the damage you do, Champion. You know this already."

Hawke grew still.

Aerith stepped forward, planting herself firmly between them. "I'm not leaving without them."

Aega approached her, towering over them all. Hawke cast a barrier over Aerith. Next to her Genesis lowered his chin and adjusted his grip on his sword.

Pride looked between them, ancient, fathomless eyes assessing. Finally she looked down at Aerith.

"Do not bring them back here."

She flicked her wrist, and the dream collapsed.

Genesis opened his eyes to a dark forest canopy. The air was still and warm. He breathed in the sweet smell of old rot and new life.

He looked down. He was leaning against a tree and half buried in leaves. Little green vines were growing over his boots.

Opposite him, an emaciated Angeal slept against a tree.

He rocketed to his feet.

"Angeal!"

No reaction. He pulled the vines of him and felt for his pulse. It was light and thready. He had lost fat and muscle mass: his face looked gaunt. His uniform sagged off of him. The lines of his veins were blackened and pulsed oddly.

Genesis cast cure. It did nothing. Still firmly in survival mode, he followed every procedure for an unconscious SOLDIER. Each achieved nothing, and he mechanically worked through them.

He didn't know how to tell if he was still in the Fade, if he had been caught up by the Pride spirit. Even as he thought it, he knew that wasn't the problem. He cast cure again, as powerful as he could, and watched the Blighted lines running up his neck refuse to budge.

He called for an emergency pickup.

He pulled Angeal forward, lifted him in a fireman carry, and nearly buckled under the weight. He steadied himself, and set off for the edge of the forest.

Hawke made her way into the military airport outside of the city limits. She entered codes Genesis sent her and entered areas strictly forbidden to civilians, let alone non company employees. She hid in the shadows of a building and waited while a plane came in to land. An ambulance drove past her to meet it on the tarmac.

Genesis hadn't told her what exactly had happened, only that it was urgent. The cold winds of the Midgar plains whipped her with gritty dust. She kept her head down and waited.

The ambulance drove back the way it came, stopping nearby. The backdoor opened a crack. She slunk in.

A skeletal, ghoulish Angeal was laid out on the table. Genesis barely looked better, but he lacked the stark black lines of taint tracking along his arms.

He closed the door behind her and stepped over the medic sleeping peacefully on the floor.

She got straight to business. She pulled off her gauntlet and stretched her hands. The amount of casting she had done in the Fade still had her limbs aching.

She started by casting a mid level heal on Genesis. She could see the lines of magic tying him to the driver, presumably dictating that he not question any of this.

"Don't heal me, heal him!"

"You're no good to him if you knock yourself out with exhaustion," she replied.

She turned to Angeal and got to work. She poured the strongest magic into him she could, with nothing held in reserve to keep the casting tidy. It glowed so brightly it had to be leaking out of the doors.

Angeal started to shake. His eyes sat half open, but nobody was home. She was building him back up and trying to treat the symptoms, but there was no beating back the Blight. It was so far progressed in him she could hear it singing in his veins, humming against her magic. He threw up bile with fleshy clumps in it.

Genesis held his head and handed her ethers. They worked together in tense and grim silence. She burned through all the ethers she had, and started to sag.

Angeal recovered some colour. His eyes rolled in his head, and he hummed something in his sleep. He was keeping beat with the call of the taint thrumming through his veins.

Hawke's magic died out. She was on the verge of collapse.

Genesis cast a restorative spell on her, and steadied her.

"We're at the Shinra tower," he said quietly.

She nodded. "Just let me out somewhere nobody will see."

The vehicle stopped moving, he cracked the door open, and she ducked out the back.

She stepped onto the flat streets around the back of the Shinra building in the late afternoon. The ambulance disappeared into the backdoor entrance to the Science Department.

Chapter Text

Genesis worked on autopilot. He walked back into HQ, handed Angeal off to the medics, and reported to Sephiroth and the director. Years of procedure had beaten correct behaviour into him and he fell back into it. The incident had been on an official mission, there would be no hiding the truth now.

The director, in his neat little reading glasses and silk cravat, recoiled at the sight of him. He was too numb to care or process why. Sephiroth's face was as yielding as a rock as he debriefed him, as reliant on procedure as Genesis to sort out the mess.

Genesis reported that they had faced a monster in the Sleeping Forest. He dodged the matter of the Fade and Hawke and Aerith, but Sephiroth asked too many questions, and he didn't have the energy to lie about the degradation anymore.

The two of them stared at him. The director didn't sound surprised at the news, only the result. Sephiroth's hard expression cracked, just for a moment, then he was back on form. Genesis was ordered to sleep and recuperate. He nodded, and was dismissed.

He ignored his orders and walked directly down to the science department to find Angeal. He was hidden inside somewhere, they wouldn't let him see him, so Genesis sat on a plastic seat under the bright lights of the waiting room. There he waited.

There was a commotion as doctor Hollander was arrested. He called out for Genesis as the Turks took him away. Genesis watched, motionless, as his only chance for viable desertion was hauled away in handcuffs. The arrest was under charges of falsifying SOLDIER health reports and unethical human experimentation. The thought that Shinra would have called it ethical if it had worked percolated through his fugue, and a cracked smile pulled at his face.

Within him he felt the gnawing ache of degradation. It wasn't buried deep inside anymore, it hummed through his fingers, coursed up his spine into his scalp and down to his very toes. His coat hung off him awkwardly. He took it off, and shivered in the cold office.

Sephiroth arrived. He ground to a halt at the sight of Genesis. His formal work persona was shaking, Genesis idly noted, his forced indifference crumbling. He looked away. He didn't know if he wanted to find out what was beneath it. Disgust probably.

Sephiroth drew closer.

"How long have you known about this?" he asked, his voice low. There was nobody at the desk or down the hall, but the overbright lights and white walls made it feel exposed.

"Over a year," Genesis admitted. "Since my injury in the training room."

There was a long pause. Finally he looked up. He had never seen Sephiroth make such an expression. Like someone had stabbed him.

"You didn't tell me."

Genesis dropped his head again. He clasped his hands together, feeling nothing but weakness and insufficiency in the pull of his tendons. There was no excuse. He had known it then too, he just lied to himself.

It felt absurd now. The idea that everything could just be fine if he played his cards right, that nobody needed to know, that the problem and solution could be his alone.

The silence stretched out longer still.

"Where did it come from?" Sephiroth asked.

"We were born with it. We're SOLDIER's prototypes, Angeal and I. Just not very good ones."

"But you recovered," Sephiroth said.

Genesis shook his head. "I treated my symptoms. The degradation… the contamination has always been part of me. I may as well be in there with him."

"How did you treat the symptoms? Will it work for Angeal? Do the Doctors know about it?"

"It was the first thing I tried. It's not enough."

Genesis looked up at him. His neck strained. Sephiroth looked so lost up there.

"What can I do?" he asked.

"I don't know."

Sephiroth shook his head. "There must be something. Blood transfusions. Gene therapy. Specialists, I know people in the Scientific community outside of Shinra, I could-"

"There's nothing, Seph. There's nothing to do." Genesis could only shake his head. "If I knew of something, I'd be doing it."

Sephiroth recoiled, his brow furrowing.

"Why didn't you tell me?" he pleaded.

"So you wouldn't look at me like that. I don't want your pity," he said, trying to sound scathing and proud. It came out raspy and pathetic.

"Genesis, you're dying," Sephiroth said, lost and helpless. He put a hand on his shoulder.

It was the equivalent of a weeping hug from Sephiroth. Genesis felt his breath leave him. Maybe he wanted someone to mourn with him after all.

"I'm sorry," he forced out. For so much. He tried to recollect himself, feeling he was on the verge of an undignified emotional outpouring himself.

"The arrow has left…" he managed. He put a hand over the one gripping his shoulder. "'…The bow of the goddess.'"

"Loveless. Act four," Sephiroth offered.

Sephiroth finally convinced Genesis to go home and sleep, and he took over the watch in the waiting room.

He sat down on the low seats, leaned back, closed his eyes, and waited. There was nothing else to be done. He felt as though he was being used by both Shinra and his friends against each other. A pawn held in check, and in contempt, by all parties.

Maybe if Genesis had said something earlier there would have been something he could have done to help. But he hadn't and there wasn't. Hours passed. Angeal came out of a surgery, and Sephiroth was allowed to see him from the other side of a glass screen. Professor Hojo had taken over his care, and didn't appear surprised or impressed by his findings. Sephiroth had known Hojo long enough to know there was no point asking for information.

So he continued to wait. It felt like that was all he ever did. He stood motionless at the window, watching over the closest thing he had to family.

Angeal looked terrible, worse than when he had been received into the building. He had been heavily sedated and subjected to a bevy of tests, before being put into an artificial coma. His eyes moved feverishly under his eyelids. He was sweating through the bedsheets. He didn't look like himself, there just wasn't enough of him there. Mako enhancements consumed a lot of energy, if you didn't keep up a high calorie intake you would cannibalize your own muscle mass to keep going.

He looked worse than he had after three weeks on a starvation diet in a Wutaian prisoner camp.

Hojo tutted and scowled at some figures on a screen.

Sephiroth glanced at the old scientist and then back to the bed.

Angeal and Genesis were not his family. No matter what they might have sworn to each other on long nights under siege. Reality did not bend to his wishes. He had to take the world as it was, not as he wished it could have been.

"Come here, boy," Hojo called. "You'll help."

He did as he was told.

By the time Genesis got home he was running on fumes. He had been tired and come out the other side to a surreal place where he felt completely untethered from reality.

He turned his key in the door and stepped inside.

The only thought he could process was what needed to be done next. The list ran loops through his head, picking up tasks with every cycle. He had to write a formal report. He would have to go back to get checked himself in the morning. The director wanted more information about the mythical beast in the Sleeping Forest, he would need to invent the details and forward them to him.

He had to answer Hawke's texts. There was a backlog he had been ignoring.

He stood in the centre of his lovely apartment and felt cold. The list in his head ground to a halt, then evaporated. What did he need to do next? It had to be something. He couldn't think what.

The night had settled in, the lights of the city shone in through the living room windows. The horizon stretched out, a black smudge beyond the end of the twinkling city limits. It was empty, free of all of Shinra's sins.

He wanted to escape. To simply… fly away into the horizon and never come back.

There was a strange ripping noise. He fell to his knees, the breath knocked out of him.

Black feathers rained down around him.

He twisted his neck and saw a big black wing stretching over him. He didn't understand. He stumbled back to his feet, his balance shot and his back starting to scream with raw and torn ligaments. He reached a trembling hand up and felt the sensation of it brushing feathers. His feathers.

There was a knock on the door. Too numb to know what else to do, he went and opened it.

Hawke was on the other side. Her eyes grew wide at the sight of him. Her mouth dropped open and she tried and failed to say something.

"I'm a monster," he said.

She would leave now. Even in his dreams he couldn't believe anyone would be fooled into missing what a disappointment he was. He didn't need the Blight to be broken. He closed the door.

Hawke shoved her foot in the way and pushed her way in.

He stepped back. She followed him, until he stopped backing up. He was breaking and didn't know what to do. She put a hand on his chest and magic he didn't know flared through his ribcage. She stared into his eyes, focused and searching.

He shook his head. "You can't cure me of what I am."

The magic receded, and her eyes softened.

"You're not a monster, Genesis."

She pulled him into a strong hug. He gasped a sob. She held him up and he crumpled.

Genesis had a wing.

It wasn't the weirdest thing that Hawke had seen but it was up there. As soon as she saw it she checked if he had been possessed. After a week in the Fade who knew what might have happened, but the magic came up empty. He wasn't an abomination, there were no demons hitching a ride in his mind, he just… had a wing. Jutting violently out of the left side of his upper back.

He was also a mess. She took charge and started cleaning up the mess.

She had him sit backwards on a kitchen chair, then raided his towel cupboard and got to work. He passed out shortly after. She worked through the night, pulling broken feathers and torn skin out of the gaping wound, and washing it as best she could.

The wing was longer than she was tall and not strong enough to hold itself up. A number of the hollow bones were broken and its musculature not fully formed, missing clumps of feathers leaving tendons and nerve endings exposed. It was sticky with blood and dark body fluids that ran all the way down his back. It was all contaminated with Blight, he would have to burn the towels afterwards. There was one meagre positive in that he hadn't been wearing his jacket: it was much easier to cut his woollen uniform shirt off him than it would have been the enchanted and reinforced leather.

The lights of the city painted the sooty black feathers in sickly greens and reds. She didn't want to risk waking him, so she worked in the dark, only illuminating the details with bobbing mage lights.

She pressed a hand against its base and sent a questing note of magic into the muscle. It brushed against the telltale signs of shapeshifting magic. So he didn't just grow a single wing at random, and it wasn't Blight magic, he had summoned it. Presumably he would be able to banish it again, once he figured out how.

She opted not to think about why a man who could barely cast a single spell without materia would be capable of complex shape shifting magic. She had enough on her plate.

He drifted back up to consciousness after she had reset the broken bones. She had both her hands around the widest part of the wing while supporting the rest of its weight with struts of gentle healing magic, slowly building up the weak muscles.

"Your cure feels like a weighted blanket," he mumbled in the dark.

"Does it?" she asked. "Varric always says it's like being hit with a sandbag."

"A sandy weighted blanket." He shivered under her touch and gave a soft gasp. "Soft. Like old wool."

"Like those scratchy ones, with the little silk edges?"

"Mm. That's you."

"Too irritating to be comfortable?" she asked, grinning.

He made a soft noise of protest. "A textural medley." He pulled his arms up and rested his head on his crossed forearms.

"You're not fully awake right now, are you?" She moved her hands, soothing out the feathers on the tendon she had rebuilt.

His healing rate was not what it had been when she first met him, it wasn't even what it had been back in Junon. It only sluggishly responded as she poked it into working. She took a swig of an ether and added the empty bottle to the pile.

He made a different noise of protest, more of a grunt before falling into comfortable silence. She stretched out her hands, cracking her knuckles, and then got back into it.

"Why are you here?" he asked some time later. He sounded more cognizant.

"Because it's where you are."

"Do you enjoy seeing me weak and broken?"

She raised an eyebrow at the back of his head. He had his shoulders drawn up.

"What did Sloth show you?" she asked.

He turned his head. The wing jostled and he gasped.

"What does that have to do with it?" he forced out.

"I wouldn't be healing you if I liked this, and I think you know that already. And stop moving." She braced it into place again. "I'm not a complete monster," she muttered.

"What did Sloth show you?" he asked.

"I asked first."

He turned his head forwards again.

"They're not some deep truth about you, the illusions, you don't have to feel bad about it," she said, in a stunning display of hypocrisy. "It wanted to keep you passive, not satisfied. It's not Desire."

"I would have preferred meeting one of those," he said.

"No. You wouldn't."

He stayed silent for a long time, and she finished the bulk of the healing. She let out a laboured breath and rolled her shoulders. It was strong enough to hold itself up now. She had learned more about wing structure in one night than she had over a lifetime of hunting and cooking ducks and geese. Her mana reserves were a hollowed out void inside her. She emptied the buckets of discoloured water and refilled them for the final clean.

She wrung out a cloth. Outside the sky was fading from black into stormy grey.

"It showed me Sephiroth," Genesis confessed quietly. "As he was as a child. Or… how I once imagined him to be. How I hoped he might be."

"How did it feel?"

"Degrading. To the both of us." He pressed his forehead into the back of the chair. "He said everything I ever hoped he would, and I couldn't believe a word of it." He gave a laugh, short and bitter. "I thought less of him for calling me his equal. What does that say about me? Even in my dreams I can't believe that I'm..."

"It says the spirit misread you." She focused on the movement of the cloth over black feathers, searching out the last of the filth to wash away. "It thought you would be satisfied with being handed praise and accolades for something you don't think you've earned."

"I have earned it. I'm a hero of Wutai."

She looked at the back of his head. She went back to her work, offering no comment. His shoulders sank and he let out a shaky sigh.

"There. I told you what it showed me."

She rinsed the cloth again and steeped it in the clean water before wringing it out again. She raked through the feathers, focusing on the motion and the comfort of simple repeated motions.

"I saw Kirkwall. The last time I was there."

"Was it beautiful?"

She smiled brokenly. "It was a pile of burning rubble."

"I'm sure you defended it with your all."

The smile turned into a jagged, bitter laugh. He had so much faith in her. The fool.

"I'm the one who burned it down. Those are my heroics."

He turned his head. He didn't look as shocked as she had hoped he would.

Her hands slowed their motions in the feathers. She heaved a sigh, all humour gone. "My Mother was there. Dying in my arms. She wasn't on the day, of course, she was long gone by then. But you know, dreams." The wing twitched under her hands, a strong and stable limb now. She wasn't really seeing it. "She asked me to stay with her until the end... but... there is no end. There's no finish line. No destination, no peace. It never ends."

"What did you do?"

"I gave her an end," she whispered. She held the wing too tight and he gasped. "Sorry," she said, startling herself and letting go.

Genesis turned in the chair and looked at her. She couldn't meet his eyes.

He held out his arms for her. She leaned against him, holding him close. His hands were warm and for all that she'd just spent the night picking him back up he was strong and undeniably real. No Fade trick thrown in her face. She sniffled, and squeezed her eyes shut.

She gave up being strong for the moment and just sat, collapsing onto the floor with no dignity. He kept an arm around her shoulders, and slid down to join her on the floor. They sat slumped next to each other, surrounded by kitchen chairs, soggy towels, and buckets of water.

"What a pair we make," he said into her shoulder.

"Well. We are both heroes."

He snorted a laugh and she joined him, unraveling and absurd, giggling together in the wreckage of his kitchen floor.

Chapter Text

Hawke woke up on Genesis' couch. She was warm and impossibly comfortable. The air was still.

Her eyes drifted open to stripes of sunlight streaming across a mahogany coffee table. The glow caught on the white of a single coffee ring staining the wood. Her sleep fogged mind caught on it, circling around the incongruous detail in the otherwise pristine apartment. Maybe it was an artistic statement.

The events of the previous night returned to her in dribs and drabs. She stretched out a hand from under the blanket and ran a finger over the coffee ring. The magic channels in her hands ached. After the shared meltdown on the kitchen floor, Genesis had figured out how to banish the wing. It hadn't taken very long, he just decided to do so, and then did. They burned the blighted towels, kitchen chair, and the loose feathers out on the balcony while the sun rose.

Hawke sat up, pushing aside a cashmere blanket. She rubbed at her face and looked around blearily. It looked to be around mid afternoon.

The apartment was quiet. The door to genesis' room was open but there was no more noise that way than any other. She hadn't taken any time to look at the place closely the night before, but it was warm and bright in the daylight, with white walls and thick plush carpet that her feet disappeared into.

She didn't even remember taking her boots or armour off the night before but it all sat neatly stacked at the foot of the couch now. She didn't remember having a blanket when she laid down either.

She padded into the kitchen, yawning as she went. Paintings and murals hung on the walls but it felt curiously impersonal. Like an expensive showroom.

The kitchen smelled of the lemony disinfectant they had mopped with, but there was something else. A hint of coffee. She followed the olfactory trail to a slick machine with a baffling number of buttons that she tapped at it until it deigned to fill a mug for her. She wrapped her hands around the hot cup and sighed, shoulders relaxing.

Out of the corner of her eye she spied a folded note standing up on the kitchen bench. She eyed it passively as she took a long sip.

The apartment was very quiet. Genesis technically had the day off to recuperate so he didn't really have to be anywhere. She swirled the coffee in her cup. She wasn't going to begrudge anyone the need to make themselves scarce the morning after. She drained her cup and picked up the note. It held no surprises, except perhaps how utilitarian his handwriting was.

That left her unattended in his apartment. She cast a glance at his library nook. A smile tugged at the corner of her mouth.

She left soon after, pulling the door locked behind her. The rest of the world was still exactly where she left it. She stretched out her shoulders and made her way below plate and got stuck into her work for the day. The previous days of erratic and skipped sleep, immediately after the marathon Fade mission, had left her bone tired and off her game. She fumbled pay negotiations and walked away with only half what a job was worth, before some kid picked her pocket and made off with it all anyway. She shrugged her shoulders and called it a day.

Her phone rang as she climbed the stairs to her house. Genesis' face flashed on the screen: a photo she had taken from an old ad campaign with a fast food company, in which he was pretending to laugh while eating a salad.

She picked up with a mix of anticipation and trepidation. The last few days had been such an emotional rollercoaster she had no idea what to expect next.

"Hawke speaking."

Genesis dramatically cleared his throat and then recited, with a voice dryer than the Anderfels:

"''A bather whose clothing was strewed,

By breezes that left her quite nude,

Saw a man come along

And, unless I am wrong,

You expect this last line to be lewd.'"

A laugh burst from her before she could stop herself. She had wedged that particular ditty into the pages of a very dry looking book on military strategy she found in his library nook.

He sighed with exaggerated long-suffering. "How did you know I would pick up this book?"

She blinked. Her smile turned wicked. "Oh, Genesis…"

"...You didn't."

She snorted.

"Did you stuff bad limericks into all of my books?" he demanded, doing a poor job of pretending to be outraged and definitely not amused.

"Did you leave me unattended in your house?" She had surprised even herself with the sheer number she remembered. Even as voracious a reader as him wouldn't discover them all for months.

"I leave you to enjoy your sleep in peace and this is the reward I get?"

"No good deed left unpunished." She slid her key into the front door lock.

"Alas, I am a victim of great injustice." His voice softened a moment later. "I did need a laugh today."

She smiled. "You're welcome."

She pushed the door open. Two men in black suits stood in her empty living room, watching her.

"Oh, there are Turks in my house," she said into the phone, bright and cheery. "Tseng, Reno, how are you?"

"Been better," Reno replied, unsmiling.

Tseng said nothing. The lack of furnishings made the house look larger than it was and the two intruders stark and unavoidable. Her mind raced, were there others in the rooms? What did they want? They could have jumped her when she opened the door if this was a kidnapping. Reno had his work face on, and she didn't know Tseng well enough to tell anything from his expression of posture.

"I'd better be off," she said, giving them her back as she closed the door and started laying down some of her things on the kitchen bench, keys, wallet, ethers. "They look like they want something."

"Are you safe?" Genesis asked, all business.

"Oh, as much as anyone can be. If I disappear off the face of the planet you know who to take it up with." She winked at the Turks as she turned to rifle through the fridge.

"Pretend to hang up. Leave the phone face down on a table and I'll stay on the line."

"You too, see you next time." She made an exaggerated kissing sound into the mic then tossed her phone onto the pile with her keys and focused on the contents of the fridge again.

"Welcome to my house, gentlemen, I was starting to wonder if the invites had gotten lost in the mail somewhere."

"Ms Hawke." Tseng's voice was colder and less revealing than Rebellion's imitation.

Hard soles clicked on her wooden floor, Reno gait, but with less slouch than normal. He stood behind her, between her and the door.

She cracked a beer open and handed it back to him. He took it on reflex.

"We're not here for a party," he said.

She turned, holding a leftover souvlaki wrap, and kicked the fridge closed behind her.

"Yeah, that's not for you," she said, and took the beer back.

There was no remnant of his jovial street rat persona left. He stuffed his hands in his pockets and jerked his head towards the living room. She took a large bite of cold lamb and tzatziki and wandered past him.

There were only two old dining chairs at the side of the room by a tiny table on which sat a forgotten glass of water and a bowl she'd been meaning to put some fruit into. Barred windows with no curtains let in the cold light of the underplate lamps.

Tseng pulled out a chair for her. She obliged and sat. He sat opposite her and pulled out a worryingly tall stack of papers. Reno lingered behind her just out of her field of vision. She turned her chair so she could see them both, leaned back against the wall, and put a boot up on the table.

"We have some questions for you," Tseng said, unphased by her irreverence.

She smiled and picked the wilted lettuce out of her wrap, dropping it onto the table and making him move his papers. "How can I help?"

An interrogation followed. The questions began plain and routine, who were her parents, what was her date of birth, where did she source her weapons and materia, and then they started jumping erratically between subjects she couldn't follow. They took turns pelting her with questions, united and unflinching.

She kept her smile affixed and refused to let them set the tone, being as harmlessly distracting and misleading as she could be. They kept their faces blank and refused to let her throw them, rarely engaging with her distractions.

Tseng asked if she had ever worked in the Bone Village. Was she in contact with Wutaian insurgents? Had she heard of the Da Chao incident? What did the words Project G mean to her?

"How long have you been smuggling Cetran artefacts?"

"No time at all," she replied.

"Were you an associate of Ifalna Faremis?" Reno asked.

"I don't know who that is."

"What is your prognosis for Commander Hewley?"

She shoved the last of the wrap into her mouth and took her time chewing. She wasn't supposed to know anything about SOLDIER. It wasn't just the degradation that was a secret, everything about SOLDIER was a secret. She swallowed.

"I don't know what prognosis means."

"Prediction," Tseng said.

"Well, I hear he's a virgo, if he can learn to embrace his fun side this should be a good week for him."

"What is your relationship to Commander Rhapsodos?"

"Friends with benefits. Or benefits with friends? Who's to say."

"Do you understand that he has a debilitating and contagious illness?"

She snorted a laugh. "SOLDIERs don't get sick. Everyone knows that." She ran a finger around the rim of the half full water glass, amusing herself with the whine it made.

"Do you have a gun license?"

"I don't use a gun," she replied.

"That isn't what I asked."

She knocked the glass over. He startled and moved his leg to avoid the splash.

"Fine. You got me. I don't have a gun license."

He pursed his lips at her little distraction. She smiled what was probably a very smarmy smile.

"Paid any taxes this year?" Reno asked.

"Yes," she replied, remembering a drunken conversation he obviously didn't. "Have you?"

He glanced at Tseng then shot off a question on a different topic.

Tseng cleared his throat, sparing an infinitesimally brief frown for Reno, and then reasserted his place in the conversation.

"What are your feelings on Mako energy?"

She shrugged. "Does anyone have feelings about the electrical grid?"

"Answer the question."

"Keeps the lights on, that's pretty good."

"How long have you been running the vegetable market?"

"Ask him." She nodded at Reno. "He was there the day we opened it." She tossed him the Sense materia she lifted from his pocket when they passed each other in the kitchen. He caught it with a scowl. It disappeared back into his pocket.

"Who taught you Cetra alchemy?" Tseng asked.

Reno started moving around the room, aimlessly wandering. She tracked him in her peripheral.

"Nobody. Travelling mercenaries taught me how to avoid running out of health potions."

"How did you get the heavy metals out of the Midgar soil?" Tseng asked.

"I... didn't?"

"Then why are there none in the produce you sell?"

She snapped her fingers. "That'd be that lye fertiliser we used. Balances out the acid."

"Do you have a background in biology?" Tseng asked

"Not an academic one."

"Please explain."

"I hunt a lot of monsters." She shrugged, trying not to look at Reno who was weaving his way closer to her phone. "Blood and guts are pretty biological."

"What about virology?" Tseng pressed, crisp and focused.

"There was that whooping cough going around the other month."

He held out a piece of paper for her. "You checked out these books from the local library."

She glanced down at a complete list of every book she'd ever taken from the under plate library, including the one she had put in her bag and forgot to actually check out.

"So I did."

"What is 'the blight'?" Tseng asked.

She blinked. "I don't know, what is it?"

Reno lingered near her phone, rifling through her paraphernalia.

"You were looking for it," Tseng said, demanding her attention again.

"Was I? Mustn't have found it."

Reno flipped her phone the right way up and she turned to look. The screen was bright with an ongoing call and contact photo. Reno flashed her a grin. He flipped the phone upside down again and took the battery out. She felt her stomach lodge in her throat. She winked back at him.

"What were you expecting to find?" Tseng asked.

"I don't remember what I was doing on Tuesday, let alone what I was thinking nine months ago." It came out waspish.

"You were at the Gainsborough residence on Tuesday," Reno said. "Where you slept for twenty seven hours."

She looked between them. She was running ragged and she didn't know how much she had accidentally given away. Genesis and Aerith trusted her with a lot, and neither could bail her out here. She had to be better.

"Nothing to say?" Tseng asked.

She tilted her head. "You didn't ask me a question."

"Do you know where Commander Rhapsodos is?" Reno drawled.

She stood and Tseng's hand moved closer to his jacket lapel. She stretched her arms up over her head. "He's just gotten back from a mission," she said, carelessly cracking her joints. She wandered around the room, moving towards the windows, making Tseng turn to keep her in his line of sight. "Wait, I'm not supposed to know that, am I? Let's pretend I said he's still away."

Tseng gave her a hard look. "Are you telling us what you're supposed to know or what you do know?"

She smiled impishly. "I'm sure you're smart enough to tell the difference. I've never been a very good liar."

"Why do you oppose Shinra?" he asked blandly.

"I oppose those moreish lemon tarts in the foyer café. As for the company itself… the worst thing it's ever done to me was break into my house at dinner time." She crossed her arms and leaned back against the window sill.

Tseng flipped through his papers and held out a photo for her. "Which materia is responsible for this attack?"

She looked down at a black and white photo of herself casting Crushing Prison on a hell-house outside of the Fat Chocobo. She remembered that fight, Reno had been there but not much use. Evidently because he had been taking photos. Her mind ran through materia types, she didn't know that many besides the elementals. If she made a stab in the dark would they produce one and ask her to replicate the attack?

"That's my limit break," she settled on. "I don't carry any materia when I go drinking."

Tseng nodded. "Do you know what Sense materia does?"

She shrugged and took a guess. "It tells you how injured your opponent is?"

"It tells you what materia they're carrying," Reno said. He held out his hand.

She grinned and tossed back his fire materia.

"Do you believe in the 'Promised Land'?" Tseng asked.

"I believe in 'getting through the day'. I have little faith in promises."

He leaned back in his chair and watched her with an odd look. "I'm surprised to hear that. Do you know why we watch Aerith?"

She stared him down. "Yes."

"How do you know?"

"She told me."

"And do you believe you can protect her from us?"

"I don't understand the question," she replied, failing to keep the facetious tone from her voice. "Are her bodyguards not acting in her best interests?"

"Shinra acts in the public's best interests. Sometimes that necessitates personal sacrifice."

"Does it?"

"Please answer the question."

She sighed. What did he expect to hear? There was only one possible answer.

"No, I'm not going to try and single handedly fight off Shinra's secret police." She raised an eyebrow and looked between the two of them. "Have I not been cooperative? Honestly. No gratitude."

Tseng rose to his feet. "Your cooperation has been noted, Ms Hawke." He turned away from her, and gathered his documents back up. "Will you be available for a follow up interview at a later date?"

She looked at his back in suspicion. The interrogation had taken two long and meandering hours, and yet it had been too easy.

"What happens if I say no?"

"We'll take you into custody," Reno said.

She barked a laugh. "Well in that case. I'd be delighted to hold a follow up interview."

Tseng nodded and the two headed to the door. Reno made a detour to her fridge and Tseng didn't wait for him, stepping out into the dark.

She scowled at the Not-a-Templar helping himself to the only quality stout she had managed to track down.

"I'm not buying you another round for at least a month, you rat," she said, shooing him away after he'd made his selection.

He waved off her. "It's just work. It's not personal."

"Yeah, yeah, it's in an impersonal breaking and entering."

He grinned and put the can in his jacket pocket, weighing the whole thing down awkwardly. She just wanted him out so she could sit down and be glad at getting away with it.

"By the way," he said. "You can't trigger a limit break if you're not carrying Materia."

"What?"

"Well, you know," he made a vague gesture at himself and his grin dropped. "Humans can't."

She froze. The relevance of Sense materia dawned on her.

Reno let himself out.

She stood alone in the middle of her empty kitchen, a mage known to the authorities.

Genesis scowled at his phone.

He was in the overbright waiting room of the SOLDIER infirmary again, sitting in the corner until the brief window when they would let him see Angeal.

Hawke's phone call had cut out without warning half way through the interrogation.

He gave it ten minutes but she didn't call again. He didn't want to risk blowing their cover but he couldn't simply do nothing. He called her and it went straight to voicemail.

He pulled off his headphones with a snarl. He knew enough about Turk procedure to know what it probably meant. Sephiroth looked at him curiously from the other side of the room.

Damn them. They had been asking her about the degradation and a laundry list of things about SOLDIER. It didn't sound like they were working their way up to an arrest, or they would have brought her in first and questioned her second, it was an interrogation in the purest sense. She was fending them off well enough, but she was improvising her way around a minefield she didn't know. They had come prepared.

Did she realise the extent to which they were grilling her for intel leaks? The traps they set and danced around, the number of highly classified subjects they name dropped, looking for a reaction?

He had been careful. He only spoke of Shinra's secrets in places he knew to be secure or in the Fade. Not careful enough. They knew far too much and suspected him of leaking more.

He did not have Shinra's trust anymore. And Hawke was facing the consequences on her own. His hand squeezed into a fist.

Damn Shinra.

He sent her a message, asking her to call when she could. What else could he do? He was on the other side of the city, if she was in trouble there would be nothing but the cleanup crew to find by the time he got there. They almost certainly timed the interrogation for when he had to be inside HQ. The Turks were such very good planners.

He bowed his head.

"You can see Commander Hewley now," the nurse at the desk said.

He sucked in a breath and stood.

The nurse gave them the room number and they walked through the halls.

This wasn't a first, going to visit a friend in the infirmary. SOLDIERs got hurt all the time, and he personally visited anyone in his units who was injured enough to justify an overnight stay.

The heavy silence as he and Sephiroth found the door and then waited to see who would open it, that was a first. Genesis shook himself and pushed it open. He wasn't afraid to face the truth.

Angeal slept peacefully in the centre of a pastel painted room. He looked pale and still had those dark purple lines running up his neck, but he wasn't thrashing or humming anymore. They had rehydrated him some, and his body had been given enough nutrients so his enhancements weren't eating him alive anymore. The coma appeared to have slowed the Blight for a moment.

Genesis took Angeal's hand.

"Sleep it off, why don't you?" he said quietly. "We'll take care of the rest."

"But don't sleep too long, Angeal," Sephiroth added. "You always said we get into trouble when you're not around."

Genesis managed a smile at that. "I'm going to commit arson everyday until you wake up."

"He won't, I won't let him."

He squeezed Angeal's hand, then let go and stepped back, letting Sephiroth have a moment.

There was a potted plant in the corner. He rubbed a leaf between two fingers. It was plastic. Angeal would have preferred a real one, even if it did attract bugs. He would get one of the little ones from Angeal's apartment brought in. It would make him smile when he woke up.

He heaved a breath. The scientists would probably kill it. He would be tempted to return the favour.

He crossed his arms. He wanted to set the whole ward on fire.

Sephiroth joined him in the corner. He tapped his bracer and then a very thin, humming shield sprung up around him. Any recording devices would only pick up white noise.

Genesis raised an eyebrow at him, intrigued. Sephiroth had a lifetime of bad blood with the Science and Research Department, but he rarely acknowledged how little he trusted them.

"There was a board meeting. I was asked to sit in," Sephiroth said quietly.

"Yes?"

He looked back over his shoulder. "If Angeal hasn't shown signs of improvement within three month they're going to retire him and send him out to hospice care."

"Three months." Genesis' arms dropped to his side. "A lifetime of service and they give him three months?"

"The war is over, there isn't the same demand for high ranking SOLDIERs."

"So they're cutting their losses." He shouldn't have been surprised. He shouldn't have been hurt.

"Yes." Sephiroth looked down. "The president wanted to give him only one month. Three was the most I could convince him to agree to."

Genesis clenched his jaw. "So what happens in three months then?"

"We support Angeal however we can."

"And Shinra?"

"There will be more work, with one less First."

Genesis stared at him. "Workload. That's your first concern."

"Of course not," Sephiroth's eyebrows pulled down. "I'm being practical. Without Angeal-"

"You're content to passively watch them toss him aside now that he's no longer useful. That's being practical?"

Sephiroth scowled. "What else would you suggest I do?"

"I suggest… we do something about it."

He shook his head. "You said it yourself, there's nothing that will help. I'm doing all I can."

"No, you're not," Genesis scoffed. "I know what you're capable of, don't insult me."

Sephiroth rolled his eyes. "What do you expect me to do, blockade the doors? Cut down the president? Turn on the men we lead, on the scientists keeping Angeal alive? Don't be ridiculous."

Genesis looked at him. It was funny how Sephiroth's mind always ran straight to violence, even if only in denial of it. He had imagined this conversation many times. He had expected it to be dramatic, elaborate, and beset with coy double talk. It was foolish of him to expect Sephiroth to do anything other than cut to the heart of the matter.

"What's ridiculous about it?" he asked quietly.

"Everything." Sephiroth crossed his arms.

Genesis waited him out.

Sephiroth's look turned slightly concerned. "What are you going to do?"

"Shinra isn't going to let me do anything, is it?"

"No."

"And you're Shinra," Genesis drawled.

"So are you," said Sephiroth. "So is everyone."

"Only until it's my turn to be… retired." Genesis put his hands behind his back and looked up at his friend and rival and commanding officer. "Tell me, Sephiroth, what would you do if it were you on the table?"

Sephiroth's expression turned wooden. "Don't ask me that."

"No, I am asking. It's Angeal today, tomorrow it's me. What if it were you, no longer strong, smart, and everything else you pride yourself on, what if it were you counting the days until Shinra decided to cut their losses?"

"I have other uses to the company," he replied, voice dull.

"And if you didn't?"

"Shinra senior is susceptible to the sunk cost fallacy, he wouldn't waste the years of investment."

"Indulge me. Say he did 'waste his investment'." Genesis stepped closer and lowered his voice. "What would you do?"

A muscle in Sephiroth's jaw ticked. "I wouldn't have the opportunity to do anything about it. The decision is not mine. No more than it is yours."

"You want me to die quietly!" Genesis hissed.

"It's better than dying alone over some empty gesture of defiance," Sephiroth snapped back, "shot down by your own troops, leaving me trapped here on my own." He halted and retreated into himself as soon the words were out of his mouth. A blank mask slammed down over his face and turned to look through the blurry shield at Angeal.

Genesis's brow knit together. He shook his head. "It's not fair to put that on me."

"Nothing is fair."

Genesis made a noise of frustration and dragged a hand through his hair. "It wouldn't end that way. Not if you came with me."

"What for?"

He recoiled, hurt. "For… for Angeal, for some little justice."

Sephiroth sighed, his shoulders sinking. "There's nothing else, Genesis. The only medical attention is here, the only answers are here."

"They don't have any answers, can't you see that? There are no answers, only Shinra's ambitions and the consequences we have to suffer for them!"

Sephiroth raised an eyebrow at him. "Do you want to face those consequences alone or here, with people who care about you? There's nothing to be gained by leaving or making some kind of… statement, except making your own life harder." He shook his head. "Don't compromise what little freedoms we have."

Genesis opened his mouth to respond. Sephiroth flicked a finger and the shield died. Genesis' mouth snapped shut. He scowled. Sephiroth marched out of the room.

Chapter Text

Aerith waited for Hawke in the church.

It was a grey morning. Rain poured off the Midgar plate in thick, dripping sheets and tapped against the church roof in an uneven staccato. The hole Zack fell through let in a grimy stream of water onto the flower patch.

She sat on the edge of the flowers and watched the intermittent drips. At least she wouldn't have to do any watering today.

Tseng had told her about his talk with Hawke. That he knew she was a Cetra and that they were both under observation and deemed wards of the state. Obviously Hawke was not a cetra, but the truth was worse, and Shinra wouldn't believe it anyway. Not until they had her on an operating table and saw for themselves.

In the end that was all it came down to: Shinra's whims.

She had frowned at Tseng's careful announcement, his shallow concern for her reaction. She kicked him out of the church. With every dream she explored, every spirit she spoke to, the leash chaffed all the worse. After Aega's visions of the past, Tseng's regretful terms and conditions on her freedom left a bitter taste in her mouth. It always had, but she used to fancy that she didn't mind.

No wonder Hawke was so resentful. Freedom was easier to disregard before you knew how good it tasted.

The door creaked open and Hawke arrived, looking grim. She stood at the edge of the increasingly swampy flower patch. Aerith swung her staff, making the water dance in oily ribbons.

"Remember when I asked for your help with some healing work?" Hawke asked.

"Mm-hm." Aerith looked up at her from under her damp fringe. "Is this anything to do with why Zack can't stop pacing with worry?"

"Most likely."

She pursed her lips. "What is it? What's wrong?"

"The Blight."

Hawke explained what that meant. Aerith's hands tightened around her staff.

"I…" Hawke looked over her shoulder at the door and then back again. "Look. The first rule of dealing with Blight is you don't touch it and you burn anything that's tainted." She reached into one of the pouches on her belt and pulled out a snaplock bag. "That said…"

It was actually three snaplock bags inside each other, and within the innermost bag was a rolled up white cloth. Hawke held it up gingerly, not using her spiked gauntlet.

Aerith took it from her and squinted at the contents. It looked like a bandage, with very slight discolouration, like something darker inside had seeped through.

"It doesn't look like much."

"Neither do you, that's half the trick. Can you try healing what's in there?"

Aerith gave her a flat look then focused. She prodded the bag with her mana, questing out with little curls of creation magic. "Is there anything to work with? I heal life, not-"

There was a pulse inside the bandage. Her eyes widened. She searched it out and it grew louder, like a deep gong, shaking through her chest, seizing onto her breath. It was in her lungs, then her throat, then her mind, hissing deep, deep down into her thoughts.

She yelped and threw the bag across the room.

The pulse receded. She panted and clapped a hand over her thundering heart. It felt like a knot around her lungs had loosened.

Hawke looked sidelong at the plastic bundle where it landed on a pew. "It's disgusting, isn't it?"

"It's alive!"

Hawke nodded. "And unkillable." She retrieved the bag. "Don't worry, it's always overwhelming the first time."

Aerith's heart rate climbed down from trying to escape her chest, but adrenaline made her arms shaky. There was something familiar about it. She shook her head. "Nothing is unkillable. Not even the planet."

Hawke shrugged. "It's as resilient as a planet then."

Her brow furrowed. "I want to try again."

Hawke held it out for her. She was ready for the corruption's assault this time and went in with a blunt blast of healing magic. It didn't do anything. She set her jaw and kept at it.

She stepped back some time later, breathing heavily.

"I've seen this before," she said.

"What? Where?"

"It wasn't exactly like this. And it wasn't in person either. Aega, that Pride spirit, showed me one of my ancestors working some magic on a sick elf. I think she was trying to heal this."

Hawke straightened. "Trying?"

Aerith bit her lip, recalling the look of concentration on Matriarch Coerla's face, the pallid skin of the elf. His gasp as she finished her work. "The patient looked like he got better."

Hawke put a hand on her shoulder. "What did she do? How did she do it?"

"She was working with a braid of… of light. Spirit light?"

"Spirit magic?"

"Maybe. It sang like the lifestream and got louder and louder as she braided it together. She pressed it into his chest and he woke up. I think maybe she was drowning this out."

"Drowning it out?" Hawke looked up at the skylight, with its dripping water. "'As the music plays, so we dance,'" she muttered.

"I think I can copy it," Aerith said. "The cure."

"In the waking world?"

"Does it have to be?"

"How else will you get it to Angeal? He doesn't fully enter the Fade."

She frowned. Could she bring something back from the dreaming world into the waking? It felt like something she should have been able to do, but she had no idea how. "I'll come up with something. Can I keep this?" She gestured with the innocent bag of disease.

Hawke shook her head and took it back. "I'm not even supposed to have it."

"Hey, I'll be careful."

"I mean Shinra would haul us both off to somewhere dark and damp with soundproof walls if they found out I had this." She tossed it up and snapped her fingers. A fireball caught the evil thing and held it in midair. Black smoke billowed up with the smell of burning plastic. It was caught in a bubble shield and the fire burned hotter and hotter until there wasn't even ash left.

Aerith watched it crumple into nothing, disquieted. They were all playing with things they didn't really understand, Shinra, SOLDIER, even her and Hawke.

"Maybe that's why there's no Blight on Gaia," she mused aloud. "The Cetra healed it all."

Hawke's brow furrowed.

"Then why does Genesis have it?"

Hawke rang the bell to Genesis' apartment.

She had actually been invited this time and didn't need to force her way in the door. She felt slightly awkward about it. All sorts of things were permissible during a disaster that she didn't know what to do with in the calm that followed. She shrugged it off. Shame was for Orlesians, she was here because her friend needed her help.

He opened the door and there was no giant wing or catastrophic meltdown in process. Only a tidy row of cardboard boxes taking up real estate in the middle of the living room, and a collected looking Genesis in a button down shirt and jeans.

The first box was open, exposing a stack of yellowing paper with little holes punched down the sides.

Genesis lifted a sheaf of papers. "This is everything I took from Hollander," he said. "Everything I have on the experiments that created me."

"Any information Shinra has on the Blight will be in there somewhere?" she asked.

He handed her the sheaf. "Somewhere."

She studied the first page. It held a bizarre chart of a circle with little blips of alternating colour around the outer ring and again within it. She squinted.

She looked up. "I have no idea what I'm looking at."

"That is my genome."

"I see." She lifted it to the light. "Behold: a genome."

He glanced to the heavens. "I can tell you're going to be very helpful for this exercise."

She rolled her shoulders and cracked her neck. "Alright. Tell me what to do."

He gave thorough instructions and she began to sort through the boxes and photograph all of it. Shinra was suspicious of them both, every page they read they transferred to electronic form and then burned.

A significant amount of it was completely meaningless to her, but she could set aside budgetary reports from behavioural notes. The language was complex and full of incomprehensible jargon, and much of what she could understand was heavily censored.

But she understood enough.

She hadn't thought it possible for her opinion of Shinra to plummet any further, but they had experimented on Genesis before he was even born. Experiments involving the Blight, however accidentally. It made her skin crawl to read about it in a nice and comfortable home at the top of the city, in such clinical language and impersonal reports, like it was all perfectly sane and professional. She had to put a report down before she risked setting it on fire before recording it.

She had tremendous respect for Genesis for being able to stomach it all without blinking, especially since he actually understood it. He turned a page. A muscle in his jaw ticked.

"Aerith has offered her help, by the way," she said, interrupting a studious, hours-long silence.

He looked up. "The last cetra."

"Who, I assure you, loves being referred to by her species instead of her name."

"I was verifying who we're talking about," he said. He got up to turn the kettle on again. "How do you know her?"

"She found me passed out and bleeding on her doorstep the day I arrived here. She took me in and healed me. About three hours before I met you, actually." It was over eight months ago now.

He raised an eyebrow. "And you didn't think to bring up her healing abilities until now?"

"She's sixteen, inexperienced, and in a very precarious situation with Shinra. It wasn't my secret to tell."

He nodded, holding his empty cup. "But she's a healer?"

"Not one who has ever healed the Blight before." She breathed out, aware of how meaningless that statement was. Nobody had ever healed the Blight before. Their sudden burst of industriousness didn't change how very low their chances were. "She'll do what she can."

He gave her a knowing look.

She looked away.

"Do you believe she can do it?"

"I think... even she doesn't know the full scale of what she's capable of yet."

He hummed and turned back to make the tea. She slid him her cup over the island bench. He filled it and slid it back.

"What specific information would help you?" he asked.

"Where the taint came from. It's not gangrene, it doesn't just appear. You have to contract it from something."

He looked over his shoulder. "What if it was synthesised in the labs?"

She shook her head. "The Blight is a magical disease. Shinra doesn't have anywhere near the magic understanding and power for that. Not to mention, it would be a tremendous coincidence. You have a slightly different strain from the one I know, but not that different."

"How are they different?"

"It's moving slower. Or that might be because of the strange way you contracted it. Still, you've had less... side effects."

He looked at her cautiously over his tea cup. "Side effects."

"You still have all your hair," she offered, slightly apologetic. She'd done her time at Ostagar long before Carver contracted it, and ventured through the blighted tunnels of the Deep Roads many times after. There was a laundry list of things that could happen.

He put a hand up to his hair. "What else?"

"Do you want to go anywhere, find anything?" she asked, glancing at him sidelong. "Start digging any tunnels?"

"I want to find the cure."

"Anything else?"

"I want to find whatever gave this to me and do much worse to them."

She nodded. "Had any strange dreams lately?"

Both of his eyebrows rose. "I cannot believe you, of all people, are asking me that."

"Stranger than the regular Fade, I mean."

"Besides being held captive by a demon of Sloth in an ancient dream palace for a week? No, nothing unusual at all."

She shrugged and turned back to the stacks of paper. "I wouldn't worry then."

They spent the rest of the night in study together. She kept his scientific dictionary at her side. As the innate horror of the material settled over her like a shroud, the material had the audacity to be boring. She occasionally stared at Genesis to shake off the inhumane apathy with which the scientists talked about him and Angeal.

The sky was turning pink when he snapped and tore a manilla folder in two. He raged, pacing across the living room and waving the shredded documents in the air. He couldn't sustain it, and he soon returned to brooding. Horrific though it was, none of it was news to him.

She left before sundown to go do a job below plate. She came back two nights later and they did it again. It became a routine, and the burning of documents a nightly ritual of catharsis. Genesis would make her dinner and she kept him company while he had his humanity reduced to numbers and rubber stamped failure. He said she didn't have to keep coming, that he was being very poor company. She ignored him and showed up again the next night.

They started running out of material.

"Genesis," she called, holding out a document for him. "Am I reading this right? These are all the things they injected you with?"

He was curled up sideways on the armchair and sulking over a bowl of stir fried noodles. She knew if she stopped she wouldn't have the nerve to keep going, so her dinner was still in the wok. The curtains were closed and all the reading lamps on.

He finished a mouthful of pork belly and grudgingly took a look at what she was holding. There were lists of things with long chemical names grouped together under different phases.

"It's what they planned, this is only an early project outline. It ended up a lot more complicated as I failed to give whatever results they were chasing."

"What are 'J cells'?"

"I don't know. It's come up in other reports, it's shorthand for one of the active ingredients. Why?"

"I've been thinking." She leaned back on the couch and tapped her fingers idly against her thigh. "Aega called you an agent of the Evanuris."

"Probably because you were there."

"I am nobody's agent."

"But you've had dealings with Mythal," he pointed out, gesturing with his chopsticks between fishing around in his bowl..

"I've had dealings with Flemeth, who is functionally a different person now. But spirits are not so clumsy as to mistake people for one another. Especially not a Pride spirit. They deal with individuals, and she accused us both."

He slowly stopped negotiating with his food. He didn't look up. "What are you suggesting?"

She drew in a slow breath. The more information they sifted through the more suspicious she became. Genesis was a mage in a world with no other human mages. Angeal, who came from the same experiment, had enough of a connection to the Fade to be a borderline case.

"No amount of Mako, or chemicals, or any other inorganic material made you this powerful."

He didn't move. "I know."

"Neither did they give you the ability to shape shift."

His brow furrowed, still staring into the depths of his bowl. "Why does the shape shifting matter?"

"The ancient elves were natural shape shifters," she said. Even the Avvar needed spirits to teach them how to do it.

He finally looked up, startled.

"I'm not- ...look at me. Do I look elven to you?"

She waved him off. "Even half elves rarely look it. Sometimes they'll have slightly pointed ears, or especially bright eyes. Modern elves are short and slender, but the ancient ones were tall and impossibly strong, especially when in magic rich environments."

He narrowed his eyes. "Like Mako."

She tilted her head in agreement. She had no idea how or why such a thing could have happened, but he was, vexingly, correct: she had had dealings with Mythal. And if that was possible, what else could be too? There were Elvhen artefacts in supposedly cetran burial mounds.

He shook his head. "But you're suggesting Shinra had access to the DNA of an elf that has been extinct on Gaia for thousands of years."

"Said to be extinct. Much like the cetra."

He turned to sit the right way in the chair and steepled his fingers in front of his face, his elbows on his knees.

"What else do you know about the ancient elves?"

"I'll show you. Find me in the Fade and I'll... remember what I can."

"Thank you." His lips pulled to the side. "But the spirit was still wrong. I am not their agent, even if your theory is correct."

She frowned. "Neither am I."

Genesis sat surrounded by the last of the classified information he had stolen from Shinra. The last of the information he had about himself. It had raised more questions than it solved.

He was furious at Shinra, but it had burned down into glowing embers. He didn't know what to do with it all. There was no clear solution, no easy target for his fury. He had spent enough time in Wutai to learn the dangers of striking without thinking it through.

The sound of running came from the kitchen. He looked up with a frown and followed the sound.

Hawke was pouring dishwashing liquid into the steadily filling sink.

"Here, I'll do that," he said.

She shook her head. "You cooked."

"Nonsense. You're my guest."

"Should have been faster then," she said, snapping on thick rubber gloves.

He had to settle for drying.

The kitchen was brightly lit and smelled of kimchi and the raw onions he had diced earlier. It was nice to be away from the oppressive, endless papers. Hawke scrubbed and held dishes up to the light, her eyes narrowed as she searched for any survivors of her onslaught.

"You said you started a war once," he said quietly. "That it made everything worse."

The plate she was holding slipped through her hands and splashed into the sink. She stared at him, looking quite put out.

"Just casually drop that into the conversation, why don't you?"

"What was it about?"

She shook herself and dove back into the sea of suds. "Didn't I say?"

"You said 'freedom.'" He ran his tea towel over a plate and added it to a stack. "Mage freedom I presume?"

"Presume away."

He kept drying the dishes and didn't say anything. Her shoulders hiked up in the silence.

"You're more underhanded than people give you credit for, you know that?" she groused.

He smiled, taking his favourite knife from the drying rack. "You're not normally this easy to crack. You held up far better against the Turks."

"Yes. Well. They're Turks. Frustrating their efforts is practically my day job."

"Mm-hm. And the war for mage freedom?"

She sighed. "That was what we all called it afterwards, when it was too late to change course. Or the Mage Rebellions. The Mage-Templar war. Depends on which side you were standing."

"What happened?"

"Do you remember that stone building we ran through before facing Sloth?"

He did. It had baffled him at the time, when he was under bombardment from spirit attacks on all sides, but when he thought about it afterwards it was obvious what it was, and why Sloth had thrown it in their faces. "The mage prison."

"The Gallows," she said, showing her teeth. "When Kirkwall was founded it was where they kept the slaves. But slavery is illegal now, don't you know, so we lock up mages there instead."

He took another plate. "Why do you want to go back to this place?"

"I never could shake a bad habit."

"That's what you call being a second class citizen?"

"Do you want to hear about the war or not?"

"By all means."

There was a very long pause. She reached for a copper bottomed pot that was always a nuisance to clean. She picked up the steel wool and got to scrubbing. He leaned against the bench and waited, for however long she needed.

"So," she said, eventually, focusing on a blackened patch of steel. "An apostate friend of mine blew up the chantry cathedral as a protest."

He raised an eyebrow. "A strongly worded protest."

"They kept ignoring all the letter campaigns," she said, with a flippancy that didn't last. She heaved a breath. "As retribution The Templar Knight Commander Meredith declared the right of annulment. That's when they decide all the mages are too much bother and slaughter them. Men, women, children, elderly. The strong and the weak, the troublemakers and the peacekeepers alike."

"Collective punishment to stop any others from speaking out."

"And it's legal. A Templar's right. It didn't matter that it was an apostate that destroyed the Chantry, that there are thousands of Circle Mages in Kirkwall who had never even heard Anders' name." She finished destroying the imperfections on the pot and handed it to him. She carefully unclenched her jaw. "It wasn't their fault. So I stopped it."

"You killed the Knight Commander?"

"And many others." She let out a breath and reached for the wok. "Of course, none of it would have been noticeably different from any other mage riot, there have been uprisings before, but I was the Champion of Kirkwall. The defacto city leader of an independent city state."

He nodded slowly. He had suspected something similar. She carried herself not just with defiance, but with an air of authority at odds with her supposed life on the fringes of society.

"So when I killed Meredith and decimated the templar forces it wasn't simply stopping a massacre," she said with regret.

"-It was making a statement."

She nodded. "A statement the other Mages and Templars all over Thedas picked up and ran with. The next thing I know the whole continent is on fire and I've started a war."

"And you're a hero for it," Genesis said with conviction. "Your name is a rallying cry for freedom."

"Ha," she laughed, short and bitter. "My name is a cry for a great many things." She handed him the wok and moved on to another dish, flicking her fringe out of her eyes with a sharp gesture. "Most Circle Mages spend their whole lives locked up in those towers. In appalling conditions, but it was all they knew. All their childhood friends, their lovers, their mentors were other Circle Mages who lived and died within those walls. They never had to wonder what they were going to do tomorrow, where the food would come from or how they were going to pay the rent."

She tossed her hair back from her face again, and gave a snarl of frustration at her fringe dripping into her eyes. He reached to help but she shook her head.

"And then one day, their predictable lives are completely upended." She ran out of dishes and stared at her gloved hands in the now grey and sud free water. "They're thrown out into the cold and told that this is freedom while starving to death in a society that thinks they're all inherently evil."

"No war is won without struggle." He crossed his arms and leaned back. "That doesn't negate the worth of the cause."

"But people are easily scared," she said, glaring into the water. "Even the brave ones." Her hands formed fists but then slowly relaxed. Her expression lost its fire. "Sometimes there's no easy escape from a lifetime of brainwashing telling you don't deserve any better. Sometimes a familiar burden is preferable to the threat of what will happen when it's gone."

"I know."

She finally looked up at him.

He heaved a breath that felt like a brick in his lungs. "Goddess forgive me, I know."

"I didn't. I should have, but I grew up an apostate." She pulled the plug. "Before I even knew that I was a mage I knew my Pa was one and we had to keep it a secret or they'd take him away and we might all be hanged for hiding him." She laughed again. It wasn't bitter anymore, just hollow. She shrugged helplessly. "Hating Templars is all I've ever known. It was easy for me to declare war against them, I've been fighting it all my life."

He looked at her, with her jagged hair and soft laugh lines, scared arms and lean muscle.

"I envy you."

She smiled at him, tragic and beautiful. "You shouldn't."

"Your life has only ever been in your hands. I was born shackled, even if I didn't know it yet."

She pulled off the rubber gloves and then yanked up the side of her tunic out from her thick belt. She held it up to reveal an ugly scar over a lean midriff. It may have been from multiple injuries, but the scar tissue was thick and had merged into a solid clump. At least one of them probably cracked a rib, if not impaled her entirely.

"My life is in my hands because I do whatever I have to in order to keep it that way." She let her shirt fall again and started wiping down. "Freedom's not cheap."

He pulled up his button down shirt to show the web of surgical scars on his abdomen. "Neither is subjugation."

She looked out of the corner of her eyes. "Comes with nice abs though."

"I earned those abs myself, thank you very much, Shinra didn't give them to me."

She cracked a smile. "Enhancement doesn't just make life effortless?"

"Please. It takes a great deal of skill to make this look effortless."

She laughed, a genuine laugh, even if it did peter out quickly. He felt some of the weight on his shoulders go with it. There was no more work to be done here, they could return to the damning files in the living room. Hawke leaned back against the bench, her arms crossed.

"Sephiroth doesn't want to risk turning on Shinra?" she asked.

He shook his head. "Oh, my friend, do you fly away now, to a world that abhors you and I?"

She looked down and sighed. "I'm sorry."

"So am I."

She glanced back up at him. "But shouldn't it really be 'that abhors you and me'?"

"No, the common tongue had different rules for the first person nominative at the time this translation was made," he snapped out of habit.

She grinned. "Did it?"

He cleared his throat. She probably didn't know that it was the lowest of low hanging fruit of Loveless critique. He tossed back his hair and draped the damp tea towel over his shoulder. "Yes, it did, as supported by multiple surviving texts and translations made at the time. Not only does 'you and I' roll off the tongue better, it's a perfectly valid translation."

"Oh, I see," she nodded thoughtfully. "So its grammatical inaccuracy in the name of historical accuracy?"

He scowled. No, she knew it was a cheap shot. He flicked the corner of the towel at her leg with a crack.

She yelped. She stared at him with delighted outrage and laughed. She ran her hand along the underside of the tap and flicked some water droplets at him. A shiny magic barrier caught them in midair. He fixed his hair in the concave reflection, his self-satisfied expression shining back at him at a warped angle.

"I've had this argument a thousand times before, you will not sway me."

"Alright, Let it be 'you and I' then," she said, crossing her arms but smiling still. "But remind me to show you how to cast real magic barriers sometime."

She wandered back out of the kitchen. He braced himself and followed her.

Everything was exactly where they had left it. She stood on the edge of the living room rug, considering the remaining stack.

The moment had ended, but he had another question. He wasn't sure she would indulge him, he knew full well that her honesty was something she chose to grace him with, for all her complaints of him being underhanded in his questions.

"Do you regret it?" he asked.

Her shoulders slumped.

"No."

"Even though you lost?"

"I regret not winning," she muttered, staring down at her boots.

"Do you regret making a stand?"

"You mean not standing by and watching a massacre I had the power to stop? Do I regret not letting the Templars slaughter anyone they wanted, unchecked? Do I regret refusing to lay down and die? Do I regret trying?" She straightened her back. She looked at him over a squared and strong shoulder. "No. I refuse to."

She stepped onto the rug and dove back into the work.

"Thedas does not deserve you," he said softly from the edge.

She smiled, a cold and furious thing with no artifice to it. He felt like he could have drowned in it. Maybe he wanted to. Maybe they could burn the world down together.

"On the contrary. I am everything Thedas deserves."

Chapter Text

Hawke sat at a table in the Fat Chocobo. She wore a plastic smile and looked over a hand of cards.

It was a Thursday night, and on Thursday nights she went drinking with Reno. So there he sat, opposite her, holding his cards close to his chest with a smile just as fake as her own.

"-then Fair tripped and spilled his whole drink right down Sephiroth's front," Reno finished up his definitely fabricated story.

Hawke guffawed like she meant it. He grinned in satisfaction, as was required.

She hadn't wanted to come. She could think of countless excuses not to: an injury, a job, the simple mundanity of being mad at him, all of which she'd used in the past. She showed up anyway, with a swagger, a smirk, and a full set of daggers, thirty minutes late and demanding he get the first round. Anything less would have been a concession.

He grumbled loudly and bought the drinks and dealt the first round of cards. The laughter was louder than usual and the jokes worse, but they were pretending hard enough to make up for it. She had learned the rules of Q5 by now and pulled all her nastiest tricks, meeting his cheating blow for blow.

The silence stretched awkwardly. She glanced at him over the top of her cards.

"But what is the deal with airline food?" she said.

He choked on a gulp of his drink.

"Not that desperate, are we?"

She sighed. She was furious at him, not just for being a Not-A-Templar-bastard, that wasn't news, but because she had genuinely enjoyed their drinking nights. They were stupid and relaxing. Bullshitting over bad drinks with bad company was something she could do without thinking, without regret or worry. And he went and ruined it all.

She'd always known he was a dirtbag and she hadn't minded, she was one too, and he wasn't taking it out on her so long as they maintained the balance of lies. Because they could pretend really well that what they did outside of the bar didn't get tracked in on the bottom of their shoes.

He played his hand with a careless toss. She did too, throwing out the only set of cards better than his. He swore colourfully. Her forced smile faltered.

He clicked his tongue and dropped the act for a moment.

"You could've just kept your head down and this woulda still been a good time," he said.

She scoffed and collected up the cards to shuffle. "Oh, it's my fault, is it?"

"Nobody's making you go step into every mess you find."

"You could've not been a jackboot," she muttered.

"Then we never wouldn't've met and we wouldn't be…" He waved a hand vaguely in the air between them, searching for a word.

"Drunk?"

"No, I'd still be drunk."

She cracked a smile. "But you would never have known what you were missing out on."

She stacked the deck and dealt a bad hand for him and a good hand for her. He promptly swapped out his with the illegal cards he kept on his person.

"Neither would you."

"Sure I would." She readjusted her cards, not looking up at him. "There's always another thug."

He was quiet for a moment. She was two drinks past caring about being politic about it.

"At least I aint pretending to be anything," he replied, with his professionally sly tone.

"Then why do you always scuff up your fancy suits and drink yourself to sleep?"

He scowled, and there was nothing professional about it. "That shit's below the belt and you know it."

"I'm sorry, did I make drinks' night awkward?" She leaned forward, both hands on the table. "Did I throw something personal about you in your face? Oh no, how selfish of me."

"Like you're not just fifty hangups stacked in a trench coat," he snapped, throwing his cards at her.

"I'm not wearing a trench coat."

"Na, you're wearing the blood and guts of whoever gets in your way. You're not better than me."

"Because nobody's better than a Turk, right?" she drawled.

He shot to his feet.

"Yeah go on, arrest me!" she yelled, getting up as well. "Will that make you feel strong and powerful?"

"It might, you little rat!"

Cissnei, the little wavy haired Turk girl shoved her way between them.

"Stop making a scene," she hissed, shooting a death glare at the both of them. Reno shot one back at her. The rest of the bar was pretending not to have been listening in.

"Hi Cissnei," Hawke said, still riding high on her indignation, "your colleague is a disgrace to your profession."

The two of Turks stopped their silent exchange of evil looks to glance back at her. She registered that Cissnei was in her barback disguise and had never actually been introduced to her.

"I mean," Hawke coughed, and offered an apologetic smile. "Could we please have another round, waitress whose name I don't know?"

"No, you're both cut off. Now act like adults or so help me," Cissnei said, holding up a threatening finger. She spun and stormed off.

Hawke and Reno sunk back into their seats. They didn't make eye contact. She stifled a laugh, until he snickered, and it escaped her as a snort.

She took the last gulp of her forgotten drink, and he leaned back on his chair, resting a foot up on the edge of the table. She felt the urge to apologise for some of the sore points she'd poked, but she knew full well she wouldn't get on in return. Instead she smiled and raised her empty bottle.

"To none of that showing up on her report."

He laughed and raised his own empty glass. "Not a chance in hell."

Genesis stood on the ledge cut into a cliff face and looked out at the plains of Fade Midgar below. The spirits had been busy, patches of it were growing into structures and typography, little domains. Their lights glowed in the distance, like shredded, ghostly white sheets blowing across the landscape. A cold wind hissed along the cliff face.

Behind him Hawke sat on a log by her campfire. She held her hands out to the warmth. The fire popped and hissed with melting sap, and the kettle above it stubbornly refused to boil. A shame. He would have liked a cup of tea.

They hadn't dreamed together since Sloth, but she and her territory were unchanged. She wore full armour, as usual. He did too, which was not. He was glad for the weight of the sword at his waist, and the security of his coat. The appeal of the sparse and cold little campfire grew on him, with its exposed and wandering path that even spirits had to deal with, all its mundane little rules.

"Recite a poem for me, Hawke," he said, not looking back.

She hummed for a moment.

"In darkest of winter, from foulest Tevinter,

We fled with a lifetime of wealth in the hold.

The ship's hull was breaching, with no hope of reaching

A shore for to live with our murderer's gold."

He turned to watch her, standing opposite her. She didn't move, staring into the glowing embers and reciting like it was a compulsion. The wind howled, and the fire sputtered, but the Fade held steady. Her voice rose and fell with the rhythm of the stanzas, carrying them down, down to the end.

"The captain, they shouted, had cruelly clouted

A servant who died at the treasury door.

He soon grew no older, but slipped on a boulder

And shattered his skull, and was wealthy no more.

"The lady was bathing, her last look was scathing

As I held her down for the key she did hold.

If my fate be drowning, let spirits be frowning,

I'll sit on dry land with my murderer's gold."

The words fell away into silence and he released a breath he had been holding. It was a distinctly Thedosian piece, with their obsession with rhyming sets. As was the openly ominous subject matter, Gaian's prefered to dance around tragedy and tease optimism. He found he enjoyed the lack of pretence.

She glanced up at him with a calculating smile. Her hair caught in the wind and flicked around her face.

"Would fate cast us as the murderers or is it Shinra?" he mused, tilting his head.

"Shinra, naturally. If anything we're the gold, slowly sinking to the sea floor as short sighted powers fight over us."

He hummed, not pleased with that conclusion. "Perhaps we are the wealthy woman, drowned and plundered."

"I'd rather be the vengeful spirits," she replied, rising to her feet. "Striking down the wicked just as they think they've gotten away with it."

"So would I."

She stretched her arms over her head then took up her staff.

"I said I would remember the Ancient elves for you, didn't I?" she said, not meeting his eye.

"You did. But here?" He cocked an eyebrow. "In your little refuge?"

"No! Maker, no, we're going up to the city."

"Lead on then."

He didn't fully understand the mechanics of it, beyond the general malleability of the Fade. She explained how she thought it worked, calling on her borrowed memories to awaken what was already there in the surroundings: old, old memories sunken deep into the fabric of the Fade itself. It made a certain kind of sense, the Lifestream held all the memories of all life that ever rose and fell on Gaia. Why would that not include its attempted conquerors?

She stalked along the cliff side paths with unshakeable focus, stabbing her staff into the sands. He knew she was deeply uncomfortable with the whole thing and probably trying to avoid losing her nerve. He wasn't comfortable with it either, that blaspheming gods from another world had violated her very mind. He thought back to endless lists of things Shinra had injected into him. What else had they violated?

It was better to know the truth than to live in willful ignorance. He pushed through his discomfort.

They climbed up to the pearl city, and then up its fortifications.

He frowned at a chrome suspension bridge intruding on the Ancient locale.

"Where did this come from?"

"I think it's one of the new spirits," Hawke replied. "There's an Innovation out there somewhere."

"But why?" he asked. His experiences were not vast, but what he had seen had always included some kind of purpose. The network of bridges was large and growing, and completely at odds with everything else he had seen spirits make.

She shrugged. "If we run into them, we can ask."

She paused on a stretch of wall, looking around with her eyes narrowed. The floating islands of the city hung serene and still in place. She shook her head and led them further in. The structures lost focus on the interior, glowing walls merging together, widows hanging from nothing, and doors opening to emptiness. He raised an eyebrow at the back of her head but she walked on doggedly, navigating the madness without hesitation.

"What are you looking for?" he asked.

She glanced back over her shoulder, but her eyes didn't meet his, they roamed walls and heights he couldn't see.

"There's.. a lot here. But it's not focused."

"You remember this level? These halls?"

She shook her head. "Not with any focus. I'm chasing down the clear memories."

She slowed in the centre of a mess of curving walls and vague furniture. He stared at what could have been a chair. The longer he looked the more obvious it became that it was a chair. And then it was his chair, his favourite armchair, sitting on his expensive Condorian rug, in the middle of an incomprehensible Cetran city. His heart sank. There was no trace of what the memory had been before.

"This room…" Hawke looked around, raising an eye at the incongruous modern detail but passing over it without comment. "I remember the smell of jasmine here."

She moved to stand with her back to one of the walls, and gestured for him to join her. His heart rate began to pick up and he braced himself for whatever would happen next. She had assured him it wouldn't be dangerous to them. He wasn't going to let it be dangerous.

"I find it's best not to look at them straight on," she said, her voice lowering. "Just let it flow around you, like a rock in a river."

He nodded. "I'm ready."

He tried to hold in check his expectations, to simply see what the ancients of two worlds had to say for themselves.

Hawke closed her eyes and let out a shallow breath. Her eyes opened, unfocused, and the space shifted around them. He didn't realise he had been waiting for the sounds of combat until a tray of tea floated past. It's carrier was less distinct than the smell of jasmine and something warm and buttery fresh from the oven.

Pearly white walls and grey floor changed to the suggestion of ornate blue mosaics. Dappled golden light danced over uncertain lumps and barriers as they became a garden terrace with two reclining couches and climbing vines hanging off its fretwork railing. The cold, dead memorial turned bright and lively. Birds sang, and he caught the quiet sound of a quill scratching over parchment. None of it was truly solid, some of the details hazy and others missing entirely, but there was an unshakable presence to it.

His eyes followed the server out into the terrace proper. They placed the tea on a low table, before two impossibly beautiful women. They were sharper in detail than the surroundings, so vibrant and alive he could have sworn they were here with them.

His breath abandoned him at the sight of them, the sheer magnificence beyond anything a human mind could conjure, something they could only vainly imitate. Surely Hawke was deceived; these could only be the holiest of the Cetra at their height.

He stepped forward to see. Hawke's hand wrapped around his arm, strong and solid.

He swallowed through the dryness in his throat and a strange ache deep in his chest. No, that was the deception, wasn't it? Hawke didn't have memories of Gaia's Ancients, only of creatures that had aspired to be gods and bent the world itself around them to make it so. He shouldn't have been surprised at their glory, or that they dared to flaunt it within a city they had conquered. Disgust overtook his awe.

He let her hand pull him gently back.

"That's Mythal," she whispered, nodded towards the older of the two. She reclined on a chaise lounge in a flowing green dress, adorned with white metal detailing that could have been armour or jewelry. Long white hair cascaded down her back, studded with glowing gems arranged like flowers. She held a quill and wrote into a book. Her golden eyes were narrowed in thought, and she took a porcelain cup from the tray without looking up.

The other was a different matter, tall and imposing in monochrome colours, with dark eyes and silver hair. Clearly younger than the other though she was, there was a confronting age to her gaze. Shiva, immortal personification of wisdom itself, hadn't rivaled the sheer depth of time hiding in her eyes. She was dressed as though she had recently returned from a hunt, riding boots and a fur edged cape pushed up over her shoulder. Her hair was braided up into a beaded and thick rope over her scalp and down her back. She stood overlooking the gardens, a half fletched arrow in her hands.

"And the hunter's name?" he asked, not daring to raise his voice above a whisper.

"Andruil," Mythal called, with a voice reaching down through the centuries. All his hairs stood on end. "Have you made your decision?"

The hunter turned her head slightly. Her voice was strong and cultured as she replied in the negative. He felt instinctively that they were speaking no language he knew, but he understood nonetheless.

He tried to pick up the threads of the conversation, his brow furrowed. Why had this moment survived the long years? Why was this memory in Hawke's head when so many others were not?

"I charged them to never be taken alive," Andruil said. Her eyes were inscrutable as they roamed the garden. "I distrust them more than I do the Cetra's offer."

Understanding dawned on him, as did an eerie familiarity to the scene. They were talking about a prisoner exchange.

Mythal looked up briefly from her work. "If they have betrayed us, better to strategically place them and control the flow of information back to the Cetra. And if they have not then your mercy will buy more than revenge will."

Andruil tsked. "I am not given to weaponising mercy."

"What are you given to then?" Mythal asked, her voice dry. "Slaughtering your own forces?"

Andruil raised her chin and spun the arrow in her hand. "Winning battles."

"What a brat you are." Mythal replied, with narrowed eyes and easy humour, her quill still scratching across parchment.

"Falling behind, mother? Is the weight of the world bowing your head?"

"I'm going to cast you from my empire and give your armies to your brothers."

Andruil laughed. "Be my guest. I should like to watch you try to take Gaia with Dirthamen as your general. Or perhaps Fen'harel, he can dream of victory for you."

"You all have your skill sets," Mythal replied, in a very politic manner. There was a patient cunning in her expression as her eyes roamed over the surroundings, lingering over them. She smiled. He narrowed his eyes.

Andruil studied the fletching of the arrow.

"And this is my skill set." She turned the arrow this way and that, before frowning at some imperfection. She tore the feathers off. "My vengeance will speak for itself. Their orders were to return undetected or not at all. I do not give orders that I am not prepared to carry out myself."

Mythal pursed her lips but inclined her head. "They're your troops, you know if you can spare them or not."

Andruil turned back and looked as though she had something to say, but the memory fractured. The details grew muddied and the figures lost shape, their colours blurring together.

Hawke's hand, which he hadn't noticed was still wrapped round his arm, loosened. She sighed.

"Wait," he said, stepping towards where the terrace had been. It still held the general shape, it wasn't exactly as it had been, but the changes were vague and translucent. "What did they do next? Is there nothing else?"

Hawke shook her head. "I don't have an index. I don't know what's there until I go digging."

He looked in frustration at the surroundings, glowing pearly white again. So those were the Evanuris. Self satisfied nobility who lounged in comfort while deciding who lived and who died, generals who fought wars with no mercy for their own men let alone the enemy's. What were they to do with that knowledge?

"Why this memory?" he asked. "Why would anyone want you to remember this?"

Hawke looked away, through translucent walls to a Fade that offered only questions. "I don't know." She made a noise of frustration and then set off again.

"Come on. I don't want to stir up any more, or the Fade will start to remember without prompting."

Sephiroth looked around the landscape of his dreams.

Something had changed.

He walked through one of the higher islands of the pearl city. The outer wall was crumbling. It wasn't simply fading away, which was common, it was collapsing as if hit by an attack. He studied the damage. There were scorch marks and thick splintered fibers of the material that gave the wall its glowing pearly sheen. Grey bricks spilled out from within. He smelled blood.

The place he dreamed of was always strange, and it had grown stranger still in the last six months, but more than anything else it was familiar. The more he focused on it, the more familiar it became, showing him warped versions of sights he already knew and understood. Whatever else it might have been, it was his dream, and it oriented itself around him.

He traced the blast marks with a finger and didn't recognise it. That wasn't the impact of any weapon Shinra or Wutai utilized. He stretched a hand out and felt the aftershocks of magic he didn't recognise. No Materia he knew did this.

Someone shouted. He looked around and drew his sword. He didn't sense any spirits nearby.

There came a jeering yell in reply.

He walked further along the wall, reaching a place where it was entirely rubble, and two bleeding soldiers crouched behind opposite sides of the debris pile, less than ten yards apart. They were in different uniforms. The closest wore indistinct golden and green plate armour. He had long pointy ears and bright, disconcerting eyes. The armouring over his legs had been smashed in. He leaned back against the wall, dried tear tracks streaking down a slightly blurry face.

The other was in cream coloured leather, lighter, and designed for ease of movement. She didn't look quite human either, although there was no defining reason for it. She was less blurry as well. A dark wet patch steadily grew over her abdomen. She clutched onto the pieces of a broken staff.

Both were slightly translucent. Sephiroth stepped closer to observe, walking over the rubble pile. Neither reacted. They were dyed in the bloody red light of a sunset that did not touch him.

The woman yelled something in a language he did not recognise. The sharp eared man, what he supposed old myth would call an elf, spat something aggressive in reply. He watched them trade barbs, unaware of the words, but the desperation and maddened laughter of hopelessness carried through any language. They were both throwing out threats they had no means of carrying out, waiting to die.

The elf's cries grew quieter, and then stopped altogether. The woman, victorious and alone in the rubble, finally wept.

Sephiroth forced himself to watch. He didn't know why. He didn't know these people, they weren't even real. He watched until the woman expired as well, and then the image flickered away entirely.

Then it began again.

The two dying soldiers were again breathing, leaning against the wall, and yelling the same threats, but now the woman spoke Wutaian. He watched, baffled, as it repeated, and repeated, and repeated, each time losing a little of what it had been to begin with and growing a little more familiar, until the elf was a SOLDIER yelling slurs and threats he had heard countless times and the woman a ninja holding a cracked naginata. He was having an observer effect on his own dream.

But he wanted to see the real thing again, the original, untarnished by his interference.

Was there an original dream? Who were those people?

He frowned, stepped off the rubble and continued on, leaving the dying soldiers to die again.

He had come to terms with the entities that haunted his sleep. Spirits like Rebellion, who was steadily catching up with him as he stalked through the half sacked city. There was the boy Innovation, and the girl with the magic mirror, who refused to name herself but he suspected was something very like Innovation. They were not complex creatures, they each had a quest or concept they sought and rearranged the surroundings in single minded pursuit of it.

No spirit had been responsible for that vision. He would have sensed its presence and its hold over the scenery.

He didn't know why it troubled him. He suspected there was some truth being kept from him, even though he knew, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that he was simply dreaming.

He frowned and stopped walking halfway up the steps to the highest tower. He did not fully understand the situation and it frustrated him. The dreams were obviously more than that, he wasn't a fool, and yet it was as false as a VR simulation. No, that was inaccurate, because VR required a programmer and servers designed to host it. This was simply chaos, that had no bearing on the real world while also being inextricably linked to it.

"The dreaming world is not the waking world," Reflection said behind him, her wispy inhuman voice quiet.

"I know that." He frowned and kept walking, climbing the translucent stairs. They carried his weight because he said they should. They came out on a high turret, with a view of the shifting landscape of islands in all directions.

There were seven black voids in a distant circle around them, far, far below. There was a noticeable gap where the eighth had been.

The obvious conclusion was irrational. It would be even more irrational to deny the evidence. The only real option was to adjust his rationale to accommodate it.

"Are we in the Lifestream?" he asked.

"Yes."

"How is this possible?"

Reflection looked at him from her wizened old face studded with young, curious eyes. "I do not know."

"I thought only the dead returned to the Lifestream. Isn't that the superstition?"

"You do not believe in superstitions."

"I didn't believe in the Lifestream either." He looked up at the thick green air. "Until very recently."

If Mako was the Lifestream, then it wasn't truly so illogical he had access to it. He had more Mako in his blood than any other human on record. Even those who fell into natural fountains and were fished out months after drowning didn't have as much condensed Mako in them as he did.

If he supposed it to be everything the true believers claimed it to be, then his visions of the dying soldiers could only be memories. But there were no people with pointed ears like that, and no such war was taking place and hadn't within recorded history. How old did he assume the memories to be? How far back could they go? How close to the present? How accessible was the information?

The opportunity of the situation struck him.

"Reflection," he said. "You can draw out the memories of this place, can't you? That's what you do, reflect what is already there."

"There is little here to reflect upon." She scuffed at the white floor with her shoe, such a human gesture. "So few dreamers, the Lifestream sits empty."

"Empty? Thousands of people die everyday. Hundreds in Midgar alone. Where are their memories?"

Her face shifted minutely, fathomless and unsettling. "Humans have short memories."

He nodded slowly, guarded. The Spirit stared back. He felt her touch his mind.

"You want to see your mother's memories."

He held his face in check. It wasn't something he would have spoken of when awake, and he didn't want to discuss it here now. But it was true. "She is dead. Where else would I look?"

Reflection hummed. She turned from him and looked out to the sky, lifting her chin. "You cannot reflect on what you do not know."

She didn't say anything else and he released a thin breath. It hadn't truly believed it would be so easy. Not after a lifetime of failing to find any information about her at all. He stood at Reflection's side and let time slip away in silent camaraderie. In the distance the yells of the dying soldiers played out still, repeating senselessly.

He felt a spirit of Pride rearranged his network of his bridges far below, and the girl worked on her mirror down by a lower island. She didn't feel like the other spirits. Curious. Why was she different?

There was a snap of giant leathery wings and a gust of air shook the tower.

His eyes snapped open. His sword appeared in his hand and he leapt up onto the battlement. He searched the surrounding towers for a dragon large enough to displace so much air.

He spied long silver hair on the wind, and a woman disappearing behind one of the lower towers, running at full speed. His eyes narrowed. Nothing was as it seemed in the dreams.

He gave chase.

Air flew past him as he leapt off the battlement. He skidded down the sides, vaulted over a roof, and then ran along the wall. There was no spirit in his path, no trail of intent to follow, only a memory. The woman wore grey armour that made her hard to see in the pearly white. He chased the flicker of movement.

The surroundings changed, the ruined city walls rose again, rebuilt to be grander, taller, more ostentatious. The Woman leapt up with a furious cry that split the Lifestream, and hurled a spear.

A monster of crystalline mako and opal reared up, taller than the Shinra building itself.

The spear struck one of the monsters' arms with a flash of light. The crystal cracked, and the arm exploded. The monster roared.

The woman leapt back with a SOLDIER's grace, and the monster's retaliation smashed through the wall in her place. Buildings crumbled below its feet. Towers shook and fell.

He drew near to the mayhem, but the details escaped him. It was a suggestion of a monster, a smudge of colour in place of texture, and a different number of limbs every time he looked. The woman was tall and grey with flashes of golden skin and pointed ears, but little more. He chased the action, trying to get a clearer look.

The two fighters melted into blurry smears of colour, and then snapped into perfect clarity,: a copy of himself fighting Bahamut Zero through a city in southern Wutai.

He snarled in frustration and stopped running. A perfect copy of himself sliced a wing from the dragon's back. It was a third of the size of the crystal monster.

He forced himself to close his eyes. He needed a gentler touch, a less intrusive presence. He let his mind relax. He didn't know what had triggered the memory of the woman, but he wanted to see it through to the end. He didn't know why, but curiosity burned in him. What knowledge did the Lifestream keep buried deep inside itself? Did she win? Did the monster level the city?

He stopped up the tide of questions. The ring of Masamune faded away. The Lifestream flowed around him whichever way it wanted.

A monster roared.

A woman yelled something in a language he did not speak, but recognised. Overwhelming magic tore through the air.

He opened his eyes and watched from his peripheral. She had retrieved her spear and stabbed it into the monster's leg, tearing it out from under it. Her form was very good. He ducked and weaved out of the way, climbing atop fallen rubble and following at a distance.

The monster toppled onto its back, its remaining limbs lashing out. She leapt onto its exposed underside and stalked up its length.

A ball of magic gathered in its mouth, blindingly powerful. She raised her spear. The ball of magic released with a roar.

His ears popped.

A shield sprung from the spear's tip. It redirected the magic back at the monster in a dome of blow back.

The woman stood panting and bleeding, but unbowed. Her thick beaded braid of hair whipped behind her from the force of the magic released.

The wretched monster groaned in pain. She raised her spear again and slaughtered the beast. She was vicious and terrible to behold. Dark indistinct eyes roamed her surroundings now that her enemy had fallen.

The gaze of the ancient memory latched onto something in his chest, and his breath hitched. He had to shake his head or risk staring too closely. Her eyes moved on and the memory barked orders, but whoever she spoke to had not left enough of an impression on the Lifestream.

She lifted her weapon and walked down off the corpse, stopping meters away from Sephiroth. She looked to the skies. He imagined her expression was searching.

She raised an arm. There was a dim flash of light then a strange sighing sound, and she turned into a giant dragon.

He stared. The memory grew blurry.

Wings cracked like thunder, a blast of air knocked him back, and the memory collapsed into nothing.

Chapter Text

Hawke raised a hand, magic swirling around her fingers. The circular glyph hung vertically at chest height as it built in power. The jagged lines and letters glowed bright white and blue.

She closed her fist and the spell exploded in a rush of power. A barrage of energy projectiles burst out, eight in total, shooting through the air.

They slammed into Genesis' translucent magical shield. The surface rippled under the first, the second, the third. She saw his eyes narrow in concentration, and the shield wobbled beneath the fourth blow. It collapsed under the fifth. He snarled and threw out his hand. A materia shield snapped into place, exponentially more powerful than the one it replaced, and soaked up the remains of the bombardment.

Hawke crossed her arms.

"This is ridiculous," he said, clenched and unclenching his hands at his sides. "I was casting more reliably when I was twelve!"

"With materia." She recrossed her arms the other way. "What does that have to do with the price of fish?"

They were in an abandoned warehouse in Sector 6. The light was weak, filtering in through high grimy windows, leaving them in murky shadows. The place was half filled with piles of cracked old ceramic tiles, forgotten by its owners for decades and too broken to be of any use to the slum dwellers. They had made a clearing in the middle to practise materia-free magic.

Hawke blew her hair out of her eyes then stretched her arms out over her head. In truth Genesis was making very good progress, for someone who could only half cast a single spell beforehand he had picked up the basics in just three days of practicing after work. It wasn't fast enough to satisfy him. She understood, intellectually at least. It was galling to go from a master of his craft to struggling with a basic shield and emptying his mana reserves with every third spell.

For all his determination to learn he was testy about it, and at first she had tiptoed around it, trying to frame the exercise as an opportunity to learn rather than evidence of his ignorance. He only got more uptight about it, so she stopped trying.

"There's no point to any of this if you're just going to keep falling back on materia."

"You're going to electrocute me if I don't!"

"You tell me off everytime I hold back! 'I learn better under pressure,' you said."

"That doesn't mean try to kill me," he groused.

"Energy barrage is an entry level lightning spell," she said, flat. "It's usually done with twelve projectiles."

He narrowed his glowing eyes and lowered his chin. "Then cast it with twelve."

She rolled her eyes. There was no pleasing some people.

"Just wait until I've figured this out, then I'll show you."

Hawke, who had long since taken Genesis off of her 'beware of' list, gave a toothy grin. "I am waiting, kitten. It's boring having all these powers and nobody competent enough to use them on."

He gave her a dangerous, facetious smile and reached for the ether on his belt. He swallowed a gulp and then brought his hands up.

A shield sprung up around him. His shields had started as simple spirit magic, but after a few days work they had turned curiously fibrous, like a woven material. There was some stretch and flexibility to it, and it would rip and fray into nothing when pushed to breaking point.

Hawke stood with her hands behind her back and erected her own shield. It was a fluid and wobbly thing that looked like flowing water, infinitely adaptable, with little structural integrity and an absurdly high level of energy it could absorb.

He moved first, his eyes sharp with focus. He moved his hands carefully through the motions to call on a fireball down upon her. It took him so much longer than it would have with materia, but only half the time it had taken the day before.

It splashed harmlessly against her shield nonetheless. She called on a strong wind to lift a stack of tiles and pelted him with them, chipping away at his shield. He ran, dodging and ducking to save his shield while his mana recharged. Tiles crunched under his feet and the metal walls creaked under the impacts.

Hawke clenched a fist. A bolt shot down upon him and ripped half the shield down. He snarled through clenched teeth and maneuvered the remaining half so it was between the two of them.

She raised her hands and filled the air with a howling blizzard. Ice and chipped ceramic tiles tore through the air. He charged through the storm, relying on his enhancements to handle what his magic couldn't. He leapt up and hurled another fireball, then another, each faster than the last.

"Good!" she called, sidestepping. "Very good!"

She threw another energy barrage. It finished off the shield, but he had another held in reserve that snapped into place, and soaked up the remainder of the barrage. She grinned and sent another on its heels.

They chased each other around the warehouse, roaming over the sliding and crumbling tiles, both braving and weaponizing the treacherous footage. He steadily refined his fire spells, breathing hard but refusing to slow his pace. She pelted him with whatever she could think of.

He dodged a flying spike of ice, moving his hands jerkily through a complex pattern. Nothing was as easy as it looked when under constant bombardment.

A red glyph lit up under her feet. She gasped in delight and leapt back, not quite fast enough. Her shield wobbled and shrank under the force of the blast. He charged in after it, throwing spirit bolts.

"Do that again!" she called, fending them off and backing up onto a stack of tiles. "Higher mana release on ignition than in shaping this time."

He raised his hands, pulling magic into reality with smooth and powerful motions. His hair floated and the magic of his own spells set shadows playing against his face.

The glyph roared to life beneath her. She flipped back off the tiles, but her shield caught in the inferno. It burned out with a hiss. Genesis yelled in triumph.

She landed on the cracked concrete, breathing hard herself.

He looked incredibly pleased with himself. She gave a dainty little two finger clap.

"Not bad, not bad at all."

He smiled and gave a dramatic bow.

"Next time I'll get it right on the first shot," he said, as he went and collected his things from the side of the room. He threw her staff to her and shrugged his coat back on.

"You should be ready to start using your sword as a focus soon," she said.

They headed up above the plate back to his place, discussing theory all the way.

"Why doesn't materia work in the fade?" he asked, sitting next to her on an empty train car.

"I think materia don't just contain the spell, they're also a conduit reaching through the Veil." She leaned back, her staff resting against her shoulder. "When you're already in the Fade, reaching through the veil just leaves you trying to pull power from the physical world."

"You think," he replied.

She shrugged. "Admittedly I have never used them, but I've held a couple. I'm reasonably sure that's how it works."

"My materia did work, the spells all went off as they would in the real world."

"Because you expected them to, and the Fade plays along. That's not going to fool a spirit though, you can't Fade-trick your way around them, or anyone else who knows better."

"I wonder if the sages of Cosmo Canyon have any mages among them. They would surely have their own techniques for these things."

She asked who they were. They talked all the way to a restaurant to pick up the food and then back to his place to eat and keep studying. It was mostly arguing, they were both experts in their own fields and he had some very strong opinions about how magic worked and related to the spirituality of the world itself. She was well versed in the majority of Thedas' theories and could offer up a rebuttal to almost any claim. He was at his most interesting when worked up, and more than happy to get worked up as well.

It reminded Hawke painfully of long nights discussing magic theory with Merrill and Anders. They would bicker until the candles had burned low and all the non mages had fallen asleep. Genesis made an outrageous claim about spirit wisps. She smiled, a battered sense of longing and grief taking a hold of her heart like a thousand tiny needles. She replied with something equally outrageous.

After eating they quietened and retired to his library nook. He was building a grimoire, seeing as each spell needed to be memorised on its own, and sketched out the patterns of the day. He sat at the desk and worked in a lovely hand bound white book that matched his favourite edition of Loveless. Hawke pulled a random book off his shelf and curled up on an armchair, ready to be interrupted every five minutes to answer a question.

The hours drifted by, pleasant, peaceful, and unguarded.

By the time Hawke looked up again the skies were dark and city lights glinting below. It was warm and comfortable in the apartment, even if the shadows of the hour were sneaking in at the edges.

"I should head home," she said.

Genesis looked up, the scratching of pencil on paper pausing. His hair shone in the golden light of the desk lamp.

"The last train left an hour ago."

"Oh. Of course."

"I'll drive you," he said, not getting up.

"Don't do that." A yawn split her face. "It's late. It's a Tuesday."

"Stay then."

She thought about it. Probably not for as long as she should have.

"Alright."

He got up and went to rummage through the linen cupboards. She rose to her feet with a symphony of cracking joints, and stretched down to touch her toes. She wandered over to the couch that she imagined he was probably sick of her monopolising.

"If our cover story is that we're together, we ought to make it convincing," he said, returning with an armful of blanket. "The Turks will think I'm a cad if I keep kicking you out at one in the morning."

"Make me breakfast then."

He gave her a look as he handed her the blanket. She wasn't entirely sure what it said. The dumb joke she'd planned as a follow up died on her tongue.

"Goodnight, Hawke," he said, his voice low.

The look in his eyes hung in her mind as she lay down to sleep, alongside the smooth tones of his voice, and a distinct sense that she was in trouble.

Hawke's mind passed through the Veil and into the Fade, leaving all rationale behind.

Friendly chatter and the crash of distant waves reached her first. Then the smell of salt and roasting nug over a fire of seaweed and driftwood.

She opened her eyes at the campfire cut into the side of the cliff. Reflection sat opposite her on the log, wearing Varric's face.

It was appropriate, she thought, Varric had always lived… lives to reflect and retell.

Reflection watched her and she considered kicking the spirit out. Yelling at her for wearing such a face. For sitting on the log that always sat empty, no matter how many people joined her, because it was Varric's log. She considered throwing her off the ledge.

She studied Varric's familiar face, with his broken nose and tired smirk. Her shoulders slumped. She gave in, and let the dream flow over her, carrying her away with its nostalgic lies. The gaps of the scene filled in, drawing on old memories, and other wisps of spirits joined in the delusion.

Merrill sat next to Varric, egging him on to repeat a joke she missed. Fenris and Aveline were standing guard by the edge, but listening in on their banter with a smile. Isabella poked at the food over the fire.

Hawke felt Anders' hand on her shoulder, warm with healing magic. She rolled out a now injured shoulder. Oh, that was the sting of a crossbow bolt, she hadn't felt that in a while.

"Hawke, think you could flambé this?" Isabela called, stirring a pot of soupy nug meat. She held a bottle of mystery spirits in her other hand.

"Absolutely not," Hawke replied, grinning, "I refuse to be involved in any such Orlesian indulgence."

"It's fire and alcohol, why do they get to call dibs?"

"Because they're greedy bastards."

Isabela poured some of the bottle in and tried to get it to ignite. It did no such thing. Hawke laughed at her disappointed expression. It felt like very slowly cutting herself open with a serrated knife.

Anders' hand on her shoulder gently stopped her from getting up.

"Don't you dare tear this back open again," he said, "How many more times am I going to have to patch you up?"

"As many times as there are stars in the sky," she replied without thinking. "Uncountable."

"The magisters have counted the stars, Hawke, there are only 4,500." Fenris called. "You can't have many healings left."

Hawke winced. Anders scoffed and patted her shoulder. "Don't worry, I could never be bothered counting that high. I'll always be here."

She looked away. "Laying it on a little thick, Reflection."

Reflection watched her through Varric's eyes and didn't say anything. Far below the surf crashed against the rocks, and the scraggly trees on the edge of their camp creaked in the cold wind.

It felt so removed from her new life that she wondered if maybe she was crazy. Maybe she had dreamed them all up, and such a wonderful, terrible, remarkable time and place had never really been.

She let her head hang.

"Did I tell you the story I heard from Chuckles, Hawke?" Varric said from the other side of the fire. He poked the flames with a stick, amusing himself with how the sparks flew. "About the man shipwrecked alone on an island, who whiled away the time making booze from the fruit?"

She stared into the fire from the other side, watching the stick break through embers and ash alike.

"First off," she said, "you didn't tell me about it because I was there when he told you, which is how I know about it for you to repeat it back to me, Reflection, and second, I cannot believe you gave my nickname away. I used to be Chuckles."

Varric rested his chin on his palm. It was such a good rendition of his face, right down to the tiny nicks and scratches on his skin. She thought even the chest hair looked perfect.

"Are you going to keep on brewing your fermented fruit juice, Hawke? Or are you going to walk into the sea?"

"It's a poor impersonation," she said. She brushed the spirit wearing Anders' skin off her shoulder. "Varric would tell me to keep on brewing, he wouldn't mention the alternative. He always was a covert optimist, beneath all the cynicism."

Reflection steepled her best friend's fingers. "Are you?

She refused to answer.

The dream lost its shape, and the spirits faded from view. She slept on, deep and dreamless.

Genesis woke early. He always did.

Sometimes he resented it, he quite liked the idea of an indulgent sleep in, to be the pleasure-soaked layabout so many assumed him to be. But alas, sleep abandoned him before the sun rose, and he had learned to make the most of it.

He got up, dragged a hand down his face, rolled his shoulder through the constant ache in the place where his wing sprouted, and opened his bedroom door.

Hawke resurrected immediately, sitting up on the couch, bleary eyed and crackling with electricity.

He paused, still holding the door knob.

Her eyes latched onto him, registered the non-threat, and she collapsed back into sleep. His lips quirked. The same had happened the night after the wing incident, presumably it was an instinctual response. She had said she didn't need to be out until seven thirty.

He continued past her on his way to the shower, then walked back the other way some time later, freshly scrubbed, wrapped in a silk bathrobe, and biting into a buttery croissant.

She didn't budge this time. He peered down at her over the back of the couch.

The dim grey light streaking between the curtains shone off her silky black hair, it settled gently on her cheek and ran down the curve of her neck.

He thought she deserved more gentle things.

There was a constant tension around her eyes when awake, whether she was smirking or scowling or in the throes of a full belly laugh, she was always holding herself in check. In her sleep it finally eased out. The evidence of the effort it took was carved into her face: she looked vulnerable and tired.

He felt privileged to be allowed to see her like this. If she didn't fully trust him he had no doubt that she would have remained awake and watched from the corner of her eye. She trusted him to keep guard while hers was down.

He wished he could do more. He would have liked to ease her burdens and let her rest, enough that she wouldn't look tired even in her sleep.

What could he do to help a fugitive of a system he himself was a slave to? She was so busy trying to free him of his chains, what could he possibly offer in turn?

Well, certainly more than an uncomfortable couch.

He let that thought simmer for a moment. He bit into the croissant. It was flaky and soft inside.

On the night of the wing incident they had been far too tired to give the arrangement any more thought besides his very recent and severe back injury, and now it had become a vexing habit. She slept on the couch, refused any offer to swap places, and he stretched out on his luxurious king bed and pretended he wasn't hyper aware of the soft sounds of every toss and turn of the woman in the other room.

He wondered if she ever looked at his closed door. If she ever thought about opening it.

He made himself turn away and resume his morning routine.

He donned his uniform, made himself comfortable at his desk in the library nook, and opened his laptop. Hawke was visible from the corner of his eyes but he didn't think about her.

He focused. He had emails to clear. Tseng had copied him into an email chain of concentrated bureaucracy.

His thoughts slid to the cover story she had given the Turks. She sounded very comfortable with the lie.

It was a redundant observation, Hawke sounded comfortable with just about anything, and he had yet to find a lie she couldn't sell with a straight face.

It had amused him at first, the notion that their impossible connection and covert operations could be handwaved with something so mundane as a casual dalliance. It was the sort of thing people often invented about him.

The gossip rags liked to cast him in contrast to Sephiroth's stoicism and Angeal's boy-next-door persona. It didn't matter that Angeal's soft romantic heart had led him through more partners and breakups in the public spotlight than either of the other two, or that Genesis poured the majority of his energy into his career. Public perception had already decided, and he was far too private and disinterested in their insinuations to disprove it.

His only real relationship in the last five years had been a long distance one with a set designer. They spent the summer cheating on him while he slogged through Wutaian jungle. He had always been particular over the company kept, he was even more so after that particular distastefulness.

He deleted Tseng's email and about five others. Outside the sun was rising.

He considered himself a luxury to be savoured, not some everyday mundanity to be exhausted upon anyone who asked.

Hawke did not regard herself as a luxury, nor as anything more than an inconvenience. What he first mistook for bravery in combat he had since learned was a dangerous disregard for her own welfare. When she took something for herself it was either with a self-deprecating cheekiness at having gotten away with something, or spiteful defiance, daring the world to just try and take it back off her.

He looked sidelong at her, at the increasingly bright stripe of light cascading over her face.

It got his hackles up, her dismissal of her own welfare. He wanted to prove her wrong. To inundate her with good things until she got it through her stubborn head that she was allowed to have them for no other reason than she wanted them.

She brazenly told the Turks that were using each other for sex, and everyone believed her.

That vexed him in a way that the lie itself didn't. That they found it so easy to assume that they were just taking advantage of each other.

He frowned. He crossed his arms and glared at his laptop screen, not seeing a word.

He would never take advantage. He only accepted what she offered. His thoughts pulled inexorably to the image of a planet from a satellite photo that only he knew about. Hawke offered a great deal. She said it wasn't dependent on what she got in return. She said a lot of things.

His back ached. So did his knee, he'd landed awkwardly at one point the day before.

He put his head down and focused on his work.

At seven twenty five Hawke snapped awake.

"Good morning," he said.

She looked just as bleary as before, blinking about the room from under comical bed hair. She mumbled something that sounded like it could have been a 'good morning', perhaps in a different language.

Then she shook her sleepiness off and rose like a miniature storm from the stillness of the living room. She threw back the remains of her abandoned glass of water and whatever food she could find within arms' reach. She yanked on her boots, armour, belts, and scabbards, and was out the door with a wave and a smile, hopping to snap the latches of her grieves into place.

The storm had dispersed as quickly as it had arrived, leaving him in the now slightly ruffled silence of her absence.

He smiled and went back to typing up a report.

Chapter Text

Sephiroth wound his way through the infirmary.

Nurses and doctors nodded at him as he passed. He nodded back and avoided conversation. He had always had a strained relationship with Shinra's medical staff, even the ones that had nothing to do with SOLDIER. He could feel their eyes on the back of his head.

He reached Angeal's door, where the mumble of quiet talking seeped through the walls. He entered without knocking.

Genesis sat on a chair by the bed, one ankle resting on his knee and the latest issue of a lifestyle magazine in his hands. Angeal looked as though he were only sleeping.

"They've said to use suet pastry," Genesis was saying, "but if you're going to make beef bourguignon only to hide it in a pie, then I say you have no business not making your own puff pastry."

Sephiroth's shoulders relaxed.

Genesis waved and continued his scathing analysis of recipes. Angeal swore by the Midgar Gourmet and if he could hear them then he was probably arguing every point in his head. Sephiroth listened in as he checked the soil of the orchid he had replaced the plastic plant with, and watered it from a drink bottle.

"However, this porchetta recipe may be salvageable," Genesis said. "Their technique leaves much to be desired but we can fix that. What do you think, Sephiroth?"

"It doesn't sound like part of a well balanced diet."

"Perhaps it'll help put some meat on your bones then."

"I'll take a whey protein shake."

Genesis gave him a mock scowl.

Sephiroth smiled and leaned against the wall. Genesis sniffed and turned the page.

"Better save the indulgences for Angeal," Sephiroth said. He was still too skinny and pale, but he did look marginally improved. The dark lines creeping along his chest had slowed their progress. His eyes roamed under his eyelids.

"Then it's decided." Genesis tossed the magazine aside and stood. "When you wake up we shall have a feast."

"That may be sooner than we thought," Sephiroth said.

"Oh?"

"They're planning to wake him up in a week."

Genesis looked down at their friend, his expression clouded. He looked pale too, the faint capillaries on his neck visible.

"Good. That's good," Genesis said quietly.

They said their goodbyes to Angeal and left together. The elevator ride back to the SOLDIER level was silent and thoughtful. Sephiroth had questions about Angeal and Genesis' condition but he wouldn't bring them up out in the open. He wasn't entirely sure he wanted to bring them up even in private.

Genesis walked with his forehead creased. He followed Sephiroth back to his office unasked and sat on the couch, his arms crossed. Sephiroth stood before the floor to ceiling windows. It was a sunny and dry outside, with high winds bringing in the dust of the wastes and painting it across the eastern faces of all the towers.

"Why were the two of you allowed to be raised outside of the company?" he asked.

There was a long pause. He almost hoped Genesis wouldn't answer, he couldn't imagine any kind of answer that didn't leave a bad taste in his mouth.

"Because we're failures," Genesis replied, at long last. It was dull and with none of the usual anger or indignation.

Sephiroth turned, his hands clasped behind his back. "SRD doesn't hand its failures over to loving families in the countryside."

"You don't know the first thing about my family," Genesis snapped.

"I know you have one," he said, and immediately regretted it.

Genesis frowned. "You've got one now too," he offered.

"Where?"

Genesis gave him a dirty look.

"What did they do to you?" Sephiroth asked, trying to shift the focus off himself. "What parameters did you fall short of?"

Genesis leaned back on the couch and adjusted his fringe. "Sorry, that's privileged information. Family members only."

It was Sephiroth's turn to give a dirty look. "I can ask as your CO if you'd prefer."

"You'll have to submit a E47 clearance request form then."

"You're such a pain."

"Sir, yes, sir," Genesis sneered. "You can't have it both ways."

"Neither can you. You've been ignoring me for months."

Genesis looked away. "You're the one asking for personal information."

"Fine." Sephiroth pulled out his chair and sat at his desk. He heaved a resigned breath. "As someone you once called brother-"

"And still do if you'd stop being so superior about it."

"Where did you... come from?"

Genesis looked straight ahead at a blank patch of wall. "Hollander."

"I mean who were your biolog-"

"I know what you meant."

Sephiroth didn't know what to say. The silence stretched out, long and uncomfortable.

"I see."

He had never noticed any of the scientist's features in Genesis face, not in his build or colouring. Perhaps in the set of his eyes, or the sweep of his brow. Genesis scowled at the wall, refusing to look at him.

"What about your mother?"

He shrugged. "Unnamed. The good doctor purchased the eggs from a donor, but he wasn't about to waste funds on a resource he could provide for free."

Sephiroth made a face in distaste. "Unprofessional. It risks compromising the objectivity of the experiment."

Genesis finally looked at him. "You wanted to know why the failures weren't terminated and their tissue used as samples in other projects. 'Compromised objectivity.'" He barked a bitter laugh and looked up, anger flashing in his eyes. "If I ever write a memoir that will be the title."

"What about the incubator?" Sephiroth asked, uncomfortable with the emotional display.

"Gillian Hewley. Don't call her that."

He paused. "So you and Angeal really are brothers. Does he know?"

Genesis shook his head. "She lied. The closest thing I have to a loving parent and she did nothing but lie to my face."

"It's my understanding that families are like that."

Genesis sighed and looked to the heavens again. Sephiroth picked up a pen and rifled through his inbox. There was nothing that required urgent attention but he needed something else to focus on.

"Do you have any clue where you come from?" Genesis asked.

"Don't you?" Sephiroth found a safe and routine requisition order to look at. "Hollander gave you access to everything else."

"Even he didn't have access to your files."

"It's Hojo," he said, his eyes following the lines and not picking up on a single word.

Genesis nodded. "Yes, he is very protective of his research."

"That's not what I meant."

The pause that followed was terrible. He didn't look up from the paper.

"I am truly sorry."

"He thinks I don't know. Like it's some kind of joke he has over me."

"And your mother?"

He breathed out slowly. He didn't know why he was telling him this. He had never told anyone.

"Her name was Jenova." The name felt strange on his tongue. He had never said it out loud before. "It's all I know about her, other than she died in childbirth."

"I'm sorry," Genesis said again.

"What makes you think I want pity any more than you do?"

Genesis stood and faced him from the other side of the desk. "It isn't pity. I'm sympathising."

"I didn't ask for your sympathy."

He scowled. "Well I'm sorry I'm not enough, but Angeal isn't here to be graceful about it. I'm trying."

Sephiroth looked up and gave him a flat expression.

Genesis made a sound of frustration and spun away. He marched to the door.

"Genesis."

He halted, his hand on the door knob.

Sephiroth wasn't sure what he wanted to say. 'Thank you'? 'You're not a disappointment'? 'You don't have to be sorry'? He couldn't honestly say any of those things.

He settled for, "I know you're trying."

Genesis looked back at him. His frown said that he would have preferred to have simply been stabbed.

He left without another word.

Sephiroth's grim mood followed him through the day and into the dreamscape.

He roamed the shifting islands of the Lifestream. He wanted to find more memories of the woman who had turned into a dragon, but there was no trail. Faint, incomprehensible memories sprung up from the fabric of the dream, only to fall apart into smudges of colour. He concentrated, his eyes closed.

On the edge of hearing, a dragon roared. He opened his eyes. The unformed clay of the Lifestream still surrounded him, but the shadow of a winged beast flew across the ground. He followed, climbing a hill.

More shadows joined it, flying in formation. He crested the hill, and bombs fell from Shinra airships, carving up the soil of the Da Chao valley.

He gritted his teeth in frustration.

Dust and the smell of burning bodies filled the air. A familiar voice cried out.

He had dreamed of the massacre so many times the horror had worn off, but it had never been so vivid, not so alive. In his dreams the valley had always been empty.

He followed the voice. Through the fallen groves of birch trees, the overturned tanks, and the scores of bodies. The light dimmed to a bloody sunset. A teenage Genesis stumbled through the wreckage.

He looked so young.

Sephiroth slowed to a stop.

Genesis searched the destruction, clutching his sword too tightly. His torn Second Class uniform hung ragged and stained off of him. Sephiroth had forgotten how hurt and scared he looked. He hadn't learned how to hide it yet.

"Goddess, your leg, Sephiroth!" Genesis cried.

Sephiroth looked down. His leg was that mangled ruin Hojo got so furious about. One of Shinra's bombs had landed directly on top of him. Genesis stumbled over to him and started casting cure, his reserves so drained it barely did anything. He kept on trying, determined to the point of unreasonable, as he always was when overtired.

He knew it wasn't real, but he let the memory sweep him away. It wasn't complete, he vaguely recalled that more had happened that night, but the details were patchy.

He did remember the awkward height difference as they hobbled away, leaning on each other. He remembered the stench of the fires followed them the whole walk back, the way one of his suspenders had been sliced through, leaving his pauldrons sliding back to weigh against his spine.

"We're going to make it," Genesis rasped. "Just you wait and see. We're… we're going to survive. We'll show them."

Genesis had been poisoned. It came back to him slowly, how he had shivered against Sephiroth's side, despite overheating with a fever. The inclines of the small rolling hills were hellish with his wounded leg, pain shooting up his spine with every step.

"We're going to make it," Genesis said again.

With his experience now he could list a dozen things they had done wrong, but in the moment those thoughts drifted away, and he was left only with Genesis' litany of reassurances.

He hadn't needed reassurance. He focused on moving his legs and remaining upright.

"They're going to give us so many medals for this. They might even let you drink champagne at the party afterwards. Nobody will care you're only seventeen."

It had become background noise the first time, vaguely irritating. Sephiroth wasn't concerned over whether or not they would survive, and the promise of more attention if they did was grating. Either he would survive and be reprimanded for the injury, or he didn't survive and it would cease to be his problem.

"It can't be much further. Just… just keep going. We're almost there."

How had his younger self had missed that Genesis' reassurances were for himself? He had been so afraid. On the verge of tears with terror and fever.

Had he said anything in reply? He couldn't remember. The dream supplied nothing, so silence met Genesis' words. In time, he stopped talking.

Sephiroth shook the memory off, and the whole thing staggered.

He stepped back. He didn't want to dream of this. The green and burning hills blurred. He took hold of the imagery and twisted it back into empty clay. He had entered the Lifestream with a goal, this was a distraction.

Frowning, he turned away. He was trained to show no weakness and require no support, and he always excelled at his training. Genesis always demanded so much.

He hadn't walked home on his own strength, though.

He had always valued Genesis' friendship, even when the man cut him out and hid things from him. Genesis was such a grudge holder.

He lowered his head and walked away. His vindication didn't feel as strong as it had. The dream island faded away, and he walked across dusty plains.

He kept digging for memories of the dragon woman, looking for another life to distract him from his own. There was no dragon cry, no roar or crack of heavy leather wings.

Without sound or visible change, the woman walked alongside him. She moved silently, a long silver braid swaying down her back.

He didn't look directly at her, lest the memory crumble. She looked up at the sun, dark eyes roaming the bleak horizon. She had a bow on her back and a hunting knife strapped to her side. Was that what she was, a monster hunter?

She crossed the plains alone and slipped into a small port city he didn't recognise. He thought it had to be Cetran. It glowed with magic and the people carried materia unlike any he knew. The hunter's ears lost their points, her hair changed to shiny black and her skin lost its golden hues, matching the pale inhabitants. She walked through the thronging crowds unnoticed.

He followed, ducking and weaving and almost losing her in the hazy, churning memory. His curiosity grew with every step. She wove through the lower levels, up through tiered streets and lofty gardens, into a stained glass filled palace that glowed under a golden sunset.

She entered through wide open doors of mother of pearl, drew her bow, and slaughtered the city's rulers.

Sephiroth watched from the doorway, rays of beautiful light shining through him.

The Cetra, for it was undeniable now that she was not one of them, fought well. She spilled their blood upon glowing white thrones. Screams reached him from below, enemies within the walls taking the city.

The memories flowed through him. The hunter celebrated her victory with others who looked like her, family, friends, a wife. Despicable though she was among her own she was loved. He saw years race past, taking ground, losing it, retaking it, moments of soaring triumph and crushing defeat.

He thought he hated her.

He watched her sit in choking grief at the side of a fallen comrade, on a battlefield walked by only scavenger birds.

He watched her slaughter prisoners of war, their blood staining her hands.

He had never ordered such a thing himself. He followed orders but such things were never his idea. She followed nobody's orders, and relished carrying out her own. She was free and unstoppable, bound to no command but her own.

The thought haunted him as he watched her argue with what looked like a brother, silver haired rulers both in magnificent armour. She had no idea what it was to be subject to the will of another.

She walked the killing fields again, shaking off the afterimage of her dragon form. Death rattles carried on the air. The voice of a bereft mother calling for her son rose over them all. Another victim.

She wasn't a hunter of monsters, she was the monster.

He hated her. He followed her until his alarm went off, and he opened his eyes to an apartment bought with Shinra's money.

Aerith stood in-her flower filled corner of the Fade and looked into her repaired version of the Eluvian mirror. It towered over her, impressive in its sheer size, with an eye-catching, rippling glass surface, that didn't do anything at all.

She scrunched her face up in a frown. It didn't even reflect people, so it was failing at being a mirror too.

"Did you believe escape would be so easy?" Rebellion said from behind her. Tseng's face reflected through the mirror, right through where she should have been.

"Shh," Innovation said, a pesky little kid of about 12 with sticky fingers and a couple of missing teeth. "She's still thinking."

She hummed and rubbed her chin. She was thinking, thinking that she was all out of ideas.

The Sephiroth spirit had lost interest in the project after the physical construction was done and she couldn't articulate the rest of her goals. She had spent many nights with Innovation and Rebellion ever since, trying to figure out the rest.

Rebellion kept sneakily changing the surroundings to the Shinra labs, just to be an ass. She saw a glass observation deck rise up from the over of her eyes.

She had picked up a great deal of Fade shaping from the Sephiroth spirit. She flicked a hand, and creeping vines crawled up the glass walls and dragged it back down. It joined all the broken mounds scattered around them, reduced to incomprehensible lumps reclaimed by nature and hundreds of years of erosion. The area felt like a peaceful monument to a lost civilization now.

The only thing that sprung, untouched, from the foliage was the Eluvian.

"How do I make it connect?" she muttered. "Do I have to make two of them?"

"That would get you no closer to the Thedas network," said Rebellion.

"Well, maybe it could help me figure out how the connections work. What kind of magic makes it run."

Innovation cocked their head in thought. "How were the first Eluvians connected?"

"I don't know."

"Maybe you need some mechanism for detecting them. You need to reach out for them." They walked around the mirror, their short legs drifting unhindered through the thick mat of plant life. "Or maybe you need to be there in the flesh. Or maybe the mirror needs to be in the physical world."

"Or perhaps all the mirrors in a network were made in unison, already connected," Rebellion said, his arms crossed. "A closed network."

She shook her head. "That can't be it." If it was, then she was wasting her time. "No."

Rebellion raised an eyebrow at her in the mirror.

"Are you sure you're not a spirit of Contradiction?" she groused.

She studied the mirror again, its framework. As difficult as replicating the glass had been, fencing it in had been nearly impossible. The slippery substance ran where it wanted, fickle and liable to being destroyed with the faintest brush of the wrong magical control. It was sealed in and stable now, but maybe that was the problem, was it meant to be sealed in before it was linked in to the network?

She had no idea. She let out an exhausted sigh.

"I'm copying a broken model. If I had a working mirror to copy from it would probably be easy."

"But you don't," Innovation said, popping up at her side. Their reflection showed a hungry gleam in their eyes. "You have to solve the problem yourself."

"Sorry. I can't think of anything tonight."

Innovation's shoulders slumped, and even Rebellion looked a little disappointed in her. Uncalled for.

"I'm going to try asking Aega," she decided. "She must have seen them when they were up and running. But not tonight." She spun away from the mirror, waving the thought away with a hand. She shook her hands out and stretched her fingers. She strode away from that area to a fresh and empty patch of flowers. The spirits followed.

"...Tonight, we cure the Blight."

Rebellion scoffed. "You do not lack ambition."

"Are you going to help or not?" she asked sharply.

"I'll help!" Innovation chimed in.

"Show me what you're going to do first," Rebellion said.

She pulled her staff from her back and twirled it in her hands, thinking over how to explain it. She lifted the staff and raised a flat earthen platform three feet above the flowers. It was a large circle with the same patterns carved into it she had seen both in the Pearl City and the Sleeping Forest. She leapt up onto it and looked down at the two spirits.

"Aega showed me the memory of an Ancient Cetra twisting a piece of the Lifestream into someone."

Rebellion frowned.

Innovation's eyes widened and their brows rose. "Was it in the dreaming or the waking?"

"In the waking, I thought." Actually, how did that work? To draw the physical substance of the Lifestream into the physical world? Matriarch Coerla must have been incalculably powerful.

"I think…" she started, "that the Blight is corrupted life energy."

"Like stagnant Mako?" Rebellion asked.

"Worse. Much worse. But if I can overwhelm it with healthy life energy…"

"What is to stop the corruption from eating away at that just as easily?"

"Well, that's why the braid has got to be strong and stable," she replied, trying to sound sure of herself. She scowled at Rebellion, who didn't look any more convinced. "Stop nay-saying, I'm doing my best."

The spirit frowned at her, the similarity to Tseng faltering. She forgot sometimes how alien the glowing creatures really were.

"I want you to break the yoke of the Blight, the blanket command of its control," the spirit said. "This is not that."

Innovation shook their head and scrambled up onto the platform. "No, try it. You don't know until you try."

"Thank you, Innovation."

She pushed her braid off her shoulder and spun to face the platform, giving Rebellion her back. Innovation looked to her for instructions.

"So, we're going to pull on the substance of the Fade and twist it into a basic healing spell from the creation school, you know this one?" She opened her palm and let the barebones framework of the spell glow in her hand. "Once we've figured out how to make that work, we'll try again with a more powerful spell, and work our way up."

Innovation nodded and stood opposite her, hands raised, ready to help.

She reached out to take hold of the Lifestream, the Planet, the Mother herself.

She felt a little blasphemous. Technically all magic was using the power of the planet, and the ability to access it a gift born of Gaia's love of her children. Even so, it felt profoundly wrong. It was easier said than done too.

Innovation tutted and took her hands, changing her technique. She took hold of the fabric of the Fade and yanked it. It was thin and slippery, difficult to grasp, and even harder to shape how she wanted it to. Innovation helped, lending her control she lacked. The viscous quality of the air changed, the flow shuddering.

It was spell crafting completely unlike anything she had ever encountered. Sweat beaded at her forehead and her arms shook with the strain. Her mana was rapidly draining. She forced it into wonky shape, then twisted that into a glowing attempt of a braid. The air was completely silent of all sound but her panting, and even that sounded muffled. The glow leaked blindingly out of her hands, making it impossible to see what she was working on. She worked by feel alone.

It slipped and the spell released with a sigh.

The light evaporated and it began to rain. She blinked in the comparative dark. She looked up with sore eyes, trying to cover her face from the water with an aching, shaking hand. The water was falling exclusively over the circular platform.

It dribbled down her arm and her exhaustion ebbed away. Innovation's eyes were gleaming.

She woke up with a start, spluttering through water in her mouth. She sat up. Her sheets and pillow were sopping wet and her hair plastered to her face. She stumbled out of bed and down the hall to the bathroom. She buried her face in a towel, and laughed, more confused than anything else. So much for attempt number one.

She pulled the towel down and examined in the mirror the frizzy disaster her fringe had become.

She slowed to a stop. Her face looked odd. It took her a moment to realise what was different. Her old acne scars had disappeared. She looked down at her hands. All the nicks and grazes to her knuckles, even that ugly one that kept reopening on the back of her thumb, were gone without a trace.

Chapter Text

Hawke sat cross legged on a pew, her staff laid flat across her lap. The hour was late and the church filled with inky darkness.

Aerith paced around the flower patch, repeatedly undoing and redoing her braid. Shafts of green and white light from a nearby liquor shop drifted through the frosted windows and illuminated the flowers. The dust in the air danced in the light, kicked up by Aerith's boots.

"Where is he?" she muttered, snapping the band back onto her braid for the third time. "Wasn't he meant to be here already?"

Hawke waved away the question. Genesis would arrive when he was good and ready and the coast clear, there was no point stressing. She was more concerned with the ritual itself.

Aerith had shown it to her in the Fade, the strange healing spell. She hadn't seen its results in the real world but old scars on Aerith's hands were gone, that was proof of something very powerful. Most healers couldn't affect scars. They were stubborn and undoing them ran counter to a body's own healing instincts.

Aerith had been proud and confident in the Fade.

"Feeling good about it?" Hawke asked.

Aerith swallowed her nervous energy. "Feeling like a spy, I like all this sneaking around."

"We need code names. You can be... Panacea."

She posed in a shaft of light, tossing her braid back dramatically. 

"And I'm Vengeance."

"What!" She dropped her pose and put her hands on her hips. "How come you get to be Vengeance? I want to be Vengeance!"

"Sorry, no swapping code names. That's just how it is, I don't make the rules."

"You literally just made up the rules."

"My hands are tied," Hawke said with a forlorn sigh.

"What's Genesis' name?"

She hummed. "Wrath."

"Are you kidding me?" Aerith threw her hands up. "Panacea. Ugh."

Hawke laughed.

The backdoor creaked. Both women paused and looked over. It was fully dark in that corner, except for two glowing points of light, that resolved into a SOLDIER's eyes.

Genesis emerged from the darkness. His eyes were fixed to the flower patch and Aerith, nearly glowing in the surreal neon light. White flowers and green leaves bobbed in a draught, their little shadows dancing around them. The Veil had always been thin here, and had only grown thinner with their months of magic training. It had been so long since Hawke really bothered to look, she had forgotten how ethereal it was.

"This is a hallowed place," he said, breathless.

Aerith stood straight. "It is."

He drew nearer and Hawke rose from her seat.

The plan was simple. Aerith would enter the Fade, cast the spell with Innovation's aid, and then they would test the resulting healing water. Genesis looked at Aerith with such hope. She let out a single shaky breath then lifted her chin with confidence. Hawke didn't have the courage to voice her doubts.

Aerith laid herself down on the edge of the flower patch, her hands clasped over her midriff. Her breath evened out shortly after as she entered the Fade.

Genesis stood before the flowers, looking across them up to the altar, while Hawke did a control test on him. One hand on his side and the other on his chest over his heart, she let questing magic sink into him. She wasn't healing, just poking around to see what they were working with. His skin was warm and his pulse steady, carrying the hum of the taint through his veins. She could feel its progress leaching through him, taking root in his lungs, his liver, and heart. It festered in a knee injury and a strained muscle in his back.

"Do you think she can really do it?" he asked, his voice a soft whisper.

Hawke didn't look up from her hands on him. "She's confident. The spell itself is… something."

He nodded with a frown and she stepped back. She'd hoped for a miracle cure for years as her father wasted away, wasting money they didn't have on useless remedies. He died all the same.

She shrugged at the accusation he didn't make. "I suppose the proof is in the pudding."

"You have the strangest idioms."

She shrugged again. They stood in watchful silence.

"I'm going to pray," he said. "Perhaps Minerva will smile upon us."

She returned to the pews, giving him some privacy.

Maybe she ought to entreat the Maker. She glanced back at the flower patch. Genesis was on his knees, his face upturned in the light. Would it be blasphemous, here in a garden dedicated to a divine planet? It was probably better not to draw the Maker's attention really, what if He remembered all that other stuff she did?

What were the chances sacrificing herself to save the Inquisitor had gotten her posthumously un-excommunicated?

She shook her head and abandoned that train of thought.

In time Genesis rose and joined her on the first pews. Aerith slept on peacefully. The veil pulled very slightly, giving Hawke a mild headache. She relocated to the floor, stretching her arms out behind her and letting her head roll back.

"It is only her first attempt," Genesis said suddenly. "It isn't necessarily a failure if it doesn't work straight away."

"Hm."

"What?"

"Nothing." She looked up at the murky rafters. "I hope it works."

"...I should hope you do."

"Hm."

He looked at her with narrowed eyes. She felt like a mouse in a field spotted by an eagle.

"What's the problem, Hawke?"

"There's no problem," she said, leaning forward and crossing her arms. She pulled her knees up.

"You haven't made a single bad joke since I got here."

"That's because I never tell bad jokes. I'm a comic genius."

He raised an eyebrow.

She blew out a frustrated breath and scratched her scalp with her gauntlet. "There may be a chance of finding a cure here. After two known cases over, what, a year?"

"A year and two months."

"Right. It's been a thousand years, five wars, and millions of dead on Thedas, and we haven't even come close to a cure."

He frowned. "I can't do anything about that."

"Neither can I. Neither can anyone." She leaned her crossed arms on the spiked armouring on her knees, and her chin on her arms. "You can't blame me for being a little bitter."

"Yes, I can," he snapped. "I don't care about the statistics, I want to live."

"And I don't begrudge you that. But Angeal is like a brother to you, yes?"

"Yes."

"Well, Carver is my brother." She waved a hand at Aerith's sleeping form. "Say she does it. Say she makes the perfect cure with instant restoration and no side effects and you get everything you ever wanted. Carver still dies alone in a cave somewhere."

He started to reply but she barreled on.

"If we find a cure but I can't get back to Thedas, the sixth and seventh Blights will still happen. The taint will spread, the last Dwarven Taigs will fall, more lands will turn barren, rivers poisoned, species extinct, and every day the darkspawn grow in number until sooner or later… there won't be a Thedas anymore." She bowed her head. Her voice dropped. "I want you to recover, I do, from the bottom of my heart. But as long as I can't go home…"

Thick silence followed her tirade. She felt hollow at the sensation of looming failure, at the death and destruction that trailed her no matter what she did. She wished she hadn't said anything. It had been bearable before she put it into words.

"We'll find a way back," Genesis offered. "Once we've got the cure."

She looked up at him in the dark. She couldn't make out his expression in the hard shadows.

She sighed and dragged a hand down her face.

"If I showed up now with a cure for the Blight, it might just be enough to make them happy to see me again," she said, making a sardonic play for levity.

"I'm sure you're missed."

She snorted. "Surety is born of ignorance."

"You don't have anyone waiting for you?" he pressed.

"Waiting with dread, I imagine." She stretched back out again, hiding in her practiced irreverence. "They're probably popping the good champagne and praying to Andraste that it'll last."

"Why are you trying so hard to return to a people who don't want you?"

"Don't worry, the novelty will wear off soon enough." She gave him a knowing look. "Thedas, too, once thought I was useful."

He cocked his head. "You think that's all I see in you?"

"And my stunning good looks, of course."

"Is it all you see in me?" he asked, his voice suspiciously light. "Convenience and something pretty to look at?"

"Of course not." She let her head fall back. "You're also rich."

"And generous," he drawled, "here I am gracing you with my presence."

"Thank you ever so much, messere, the other peasants will never believe me."

He scoffed.

The Veil stretched uncomfortably. Hawke looked to Aerith and Genesis stood. It felt profoundly wrong, like someone tugging on her stomach lining. Aerith rolled over. They waited in tense silence, but nothing else happened.

Genesis sighed and grudgingly sat again.

The vigil stretched on. Outside a car alarm went off and one of the neon lights flickered and died. Still they waited together in the quiet church.

"I've been thinking," Genesis began, halting. "If there was ever any mention of Thedas in Shinra's territory, the recent industrialisation has concreted over its remains."

Hawke nodded. History was like a sieve, it dropped more than it kept.

"So we need to extend our search beyond Shinra's grasp."

She tilted her head. "Is there a 'beyond Shinra'?"

"Not according to the official maps, but in practical terms? Cosmo canyon has maintained an extraordinary library for centuries which, as far as I know, hasn't yet been tarnished by Shinra's sticky fingered censors."

Her eyebrows rose. "Unapproved literature? My my, how delicious. How do they get away with it?"

"It's too remote to be worth the effort. And the towns occupants are derided as backwards and superstitious, what's the use of policing them?"

"Huh. What counts as superstitious to Shinra?"

"Oh, anything that doesn't turn a profit."

She chuckled.

The Veil warped. The air crackled and the shafts of light bent around the flower patch, twisting into a glowing knot.

Hawke leapt to her feet. Aerith slept, her face placid, but her efforts straining the very fabric of reality. The knot tightened and tightened, loose coils of power spinning around it. The two stood at the edge, Hawke ready to cast a shield if it misfired, and Genesis reaching out a tentative hand with wonder in his eyes.

The spell released. A pulse of power rippled out with a deep sonorous echo. A misty rain began to fall over the flower patch, sparkling like crystals and splattering upon the flowers. Within the downpour, Aerith sat up.

Her fringe was plastered for her face and her jacket swiftly turning sodden. She smiled and reached out a hand to them.

Genesis stepped through the curtain of water first, his hands lifted and his eyes upturned. Hawke braced herself and followed. She stepped through the rain and into the sea of flowers.

The water was warm with magic and power. It dripped down her neck, into her armour, and along her arms. Something deep inside of her relaxed. She couldn't tell what. Her questing magic searched through her body and found nothing.

She twisted her torso around and didn't feel anything. It dawned on her and she stopped moving. The old ache was missing, a diffuse hum of pain deep inside of her gut and through her lower back from that time the Arishok impaled her. It had been a constant companion for so long she forgot it was even there, let alone what it was like without it.

She straightened her back without pain for the first time in six years.

Her eyes found Aerith. The girl was standing with her hands behind her back, biting her lip and waiting with sparkling, tired eyes for a verdict.

For the first time Hawke wondered if maybe… they really would cure the Blight.

She looked to Genesis. He had his eyes closed and his expression twisted in concentration.

"How do you feel?" Hawke asked.

He shook his head slightly. "I don't- I can't tell-"

She put a hand at the small of his back and let her magic seep into him. It flowed along his veins, listening for the humming song of the Blight.

She couldn't hear it.

She hunted deeper, scraping her raw mana through him and earning a gasp. She stood at his side, one hand at his back the other on his chest. Her eyes closed in focus.

His knee was fully recovered. The pulled muscle in his back relaxed out as the overworked knot eased away. Nearly choking with hope, she sank her magic deep into his internal organs, his liver and lungs. They were clear. His heart-

His heart hummed with the whisper quiet voice of the taint. It beat in time with his blood, rooted so deep within the organ it felt intrinsic to it.

She opened her eyes. Genesis was watching her with such hope. She shook her head.

His face fell. The disappointment was so thick it was palpable, but he held himself up and hid it away behind a fixed expression. Hawke let her hands drop.

"Well… thank you for trying nonetheless," he whispered.

"This was just a first attempt," Hawke offered, "it's still beaten back the taint more than I ever did."

"Maybe… you could try drinking it?" Aerith offered.

They tried, to the same result. Hawke explained how it's progression had been reversed, and how deeply rooted it remained.

Genesis hid how devastating the failure was with straining composure, but he was nothing but grateful to Aerith for the attempt. She apologised anyway and promised next time it would be better.

Hawke bottled up some of the water before the rain stopped and pressed them into his hands for Angeal.

"She's only cast that spell twice in her life," she said quietly. "And it's already done more than I have ever heard of."

He nodded grimly. She'd wished she had kept the statistics of Thedas' Blight to herself.

They had planned to all leave separately and Aerith slunk out first, wet and slightly dispirited. The night wouldn't last much longer. The rain petered out and the flower patch turned muddy. It felt as though all the mysticism of the place had been spent. Genesis left then Hawke did too, locking up after them.

Faint tinges of blue were leaching into the dark sky as Genesis surfaced above the plate. The green light of the reactors turned it turquoise, distorting the shades of the coming dawn.

He returned to HQ. He walked the quiet corridors that would be packed in a few short hours. His boots squelched softly with each step. His damp leathers squeaked and his hair a mess. He didn't care.

He swiped his security card and the elevator took him to the Science Department's levels. It was the only place in the building with all the lights still turned on and it's patrols as frequent as during the day.

Angeal had been moved out of the infirmary's ICU to a quieter corner of the floor. His room was dark and peaceful. Genesis didn't bother turning on the light, his eyes were just as capable in the dark, and he knew the cameras used on this level were designed for well lit areas.

Angeal slept. Genesis checked his pulse, as he always did first. It was light, with a strange tempo that thrummed against Genesis' fingers. He didn't have Hawke's understanding of magical healing, but he knew enough to recognise what he was feeling. He had done this enough times to have picked up the way it made something in his own blood sing back.

The call pricking through his fingers was weaker now.

He cradled Angeal's head, brushing his hair back and turning him gently to check the black veins pulsing on his neck. They had gained an inch since last time. His eyes moved more frantically under their eyelids. It was the only movement he'd been capable of for weeks. Blight dreams were not Fade dreams, they looked worse, inescapable.

A quote from Loveless came to mind and lingered on the tip of his tongue. He wanted to cling to the comfort of the gift of the goddess, but he couldn't stand the silence that would follow. He said nothing and let him go.

He took a bottle from his belt and poured the latest stopgap measure into the IV bag.

Then he sat and watched. The room grew lighter. The dark lines retreated back down Angeal's neck and his skin grew less transparent. Genesis felt tears slid down his cheeks as Angeal awoke with the dawn.

Chapter Text

The doctors could not understand how Angeal was awake. Hojo pushed the chart of inexplicable changes at Sephiroth and left Angeal's room, muttering under his breath.

Sephiroth studied the chart, tuning out Angeal's embarrassed attempts to ward off a nurse, and Genesis' light goading. The sudden turn was inexplicable. He had been scheduled to be woken from the coma in days' time, but nothing had been done yet. They went over everything that had been given to him, tested the IV just in case the wrong thing had been administered. Nothing.

He looked at the blood test results. Could degradation simply withdraw on its own?

"Infinite in mystery is the gift of the Goddess," Genesis said to the nonplussed nurse.

Sephiroth narrowed his eyes. No. It would not.

"I'm sure there's someone else who needs this bed," A groggy, but definitely healthy Angeal said. "It's alright, really."

"We don't know that." Sephiroth put down the chart with a clack and made direct eye contact with Genesis. "We don't even know why you woke up."

Genesis crossed his arms and raised his chin.

Angeal scratched the back of his neck, tugging on the wire taped to his wrist. There were no black lines on his neck, no discolouration on the backs of his hands. "I don't understand how I could have gone into a coma in the first place. SOLDIERs don't get sick."

Genesis sighed and looked down at the floor. "You and I do."

The nurse bowed out, and they explained the Shinra-Approved bare bones of the situation to Angeal. Genesis left out the details about their parents, but Angeal saw the gaps in the story and asked all the worst questions. The colour drained from his face. He looked to Sephiroth to confirm it.

Sephiroth nodded, mute.

Silence reigned for some time.

"How do you feel?" Genesis gently asked.

Angeal wouldn't look up at him. "Like my organs have all been rearranged."

"You have had a lot of surgeries," Sephiroth offered.

"I don't.. it's a lot to take in."

"It is." It had shocked him too at first, but the more he thought of it the more inevitable it sounded. Of course Shinra would try to breed SOLDIERs. They bred monsters often enough in the labs, and monsters rarely turned a profit. Why draw the line there?

Angeal sucked in a noisy breath. He had never been one to jump to conclusions, he would be processing it for months. He dragged a hand through his hair and reached to his shoulder to adjust armour straps that weren't there. His hand fell loose back to the bedsheets.

"I suppose there's nothing to do now but.. keep going." He sounded so lost, sitting in the spotted hospital gown and looking to them for reassurances. Was that… was that how Sephiroth had sounded when he told Genesis there was no other choice but Shinra?

"What were you dreaming about?" Genesis asked. "In the coma?"

"A dragon."

Sephiroth paused. Were all dreams of the Lifestream?

Angeal's brow furrowed as he latched onto the subject change. "It was...singing. It wanted me to sing along too but I didn't know any of the words and kept screwing up the song."

Sephiroth snorted. Evidently not.

Genesis dragged a hand down his face and shook his head. "I'm so glad you're awake."

"I think I preferred sleeping," Angeal muttered.

Genesis scowled. "Well tough luck. You're awake now, and I've been covering your entire workload while you were indisposed."

"You were covering half of it," Sephiroth corrected.

"-You're back just in time to return the favour."

Angeal's eyebrows rose. "I'm convalescing. Sephiroth, show him the chart."

Genesis waved him off. "I'm going on leave, so someone will have to do it."

"What do you mean, you're taking leave?" Sephiroth asked, turning on him. "Now?"

"As soon as Lazard approves it. I've been under a lot of stress, and you know company policy: we can't have high strung First Classes pushing themselves too far. I might snap and burn the whole building down."

Sephiroth sent Angeal a look. It was returned.

"Well, where are you going?"

"Cosmo Canyon."

Hawke waited at the gates of the military airfield on the city's edge and handed over her more-or-less legitimate ID. The round little officer in the gatehouse studied it through round little glasses.

When Genesis had said they should search Cosmo Canyon for information on Thedas she had thought he meant it in a 'wouldn't it be nice?' kind of way, not a 'next Tuesday' way.

She wasn't about to complain though, the offer had come as a pleasant surprise. Maybe he was taking the hunt for Thedas more seriously now, since Angeal was back on his feet and not showing any signs of collapsing again.

She suspected he relished the opportunity to be out from under Shinra's heavy gaze just as much as she did.

The officer squinted at her ID. She mentally cursed the guy who forged it for her. The officer compared it to a record she couldn't make out at this angle, made a note in a ledger, then snapped the ID book shut and handed it back, alongside a shiny visitor's pass on a lanyard.

The mechanical gate clicked and swung open for her. She mentally retracted all her cursing of the forger.

It was a bright and dusty morning on the Midgar plains. The city hulked like a giant cadaver behind her and the crumbling cliffs decorated the horizon in front. The winds were low for the locale, but still high enough to have her eyes feeling gritty and her armour joints filling up with dust. She snapped her sunglasses on and walked through the gate with her head held high, beneath the towering walls of barbed wire.

She felt the delightful déjà vu of legally entering a place she had previously only entered the other way.

Cosmo Canyon was so remote and uninteresting to Shinra that there was no access to it by commercial flights or sea routes, the only option was to get to Junon or Rocket town then endure the overland trail over half a continent. There was, however, a military outpost on the desert's edge that cut days off the journey. Genesis had organised it all, with what she could only assume was a terrible misuse of company assets.

Various Shinra personnel marched and drove to and fro, looking busy. She was supposed to meet Genesis in a numbered hangar and wandered along the signposted pathways in no particular hurry. Airships in all shapes and sizes with spinning rotors in a dozen different orientations taxied up and down runways. They took off and came in to land with great gusts of wind and roaring of engines. A whisper of alarm traveled down her spine. What exactly stopped them from falling out of the sky? They didn't look like any flying thing she'd ever seen, what happened if they ran out of fuel? Or the wind took a turn? Did they just plummet to the earth?

She arrived at the correct hangar, watching an airship with a great metal belly land so heavily the earth trembled. She swallowed. Flying on Flemeth's scaly dragon back to escape the darkspawn had seemed less risky.

"Ms Hawke."

Her head snapped around, the voice instantly setting her on alert.

Tseng stood outside the hangar. His lapels and black ponytail moved in the wind. His expression was hard and unreadable.

"Where are you going?" he asked.

"On a jaunty countryside adventure. Where are you going?" she asked, pulling on her most grating smile. Her awareness expanded to include the barbed wire fence in every direction, the watch towers, and the untold numbers of infantry around them. "It's crazy the people you run into at the airport."

"You didn't inform us you were leaving Midgar."

She shrugged, anger blooming deep in her chest. "Didn't inform my hairdresser either."

He stepped closer and gestured for her to walk with him back towards the gate. "Your hairdresser won't miss you like we will."

"A real shame." She didn't move. "I'm sure you'll get over it."

He tilted his head like he was disappointed in her.

"Tseng!" Genesis called out, sharp and sudden. He approached from a side door in the nearby building, his coat flapping violently in the wind and a scathing expression on his face. "How good of you to come see us off."

The skin around Tseng's eyes tightened. "Commander."

"What are you doing?" Genesis demanded.

"Turk business."

He smiled. "What a coincidence. I'm here on SOLDIER business."

"Your friend is a person of interest and doesn't have approval to leave the city."

Hawke's breath caught in her throat. She clenched her jaw.

"Of interest to whom?" Genesis asked.

Tseng raised an eyebrow. "The company."

"Oh? Which department? Do you have a restriction of movement order that overrides Lazard's approval?"

Tseng's expression turned admonishing. Hawke felt the urge to either apologise for something or deck him.

Genesis crossed his arms. "I'll need to see the papertrail."

"There's no need to make this difficult."

"You're right, there isn't. We'll see you when we get back."

Tseng frowned. "And when will that be?"

"In a week or two. We haven't decided yet."

He looked hard at Hawke. She didn't risk saying anything lest she disrupt the careful politics with a careless quip.

"Don't stay away too long," he said. "Aerith may miss you."

He turned and left.

She let out a thin breath. Genesis watched him walk away with a scowl.

"Thank you," she said, dragging a hand down her face. She hadn't known if he could actually win that argument, Zack always acted like the Turks outranked SOLDIERs. She hadn't even known that he would try.

"Don't mention it." He put a hand on the small of her back, beneath her staff, and guided the way to the hangar.

"Seems unlike Tseng not to have all his ducks in a row before making threats," she said.

His lip curled. "Turks. They always want to have it both ways: keeping you under their thumb but not in the books. Useful, but only to them."

"And expendable," she added dryly.

"Naturally."

She was only surprised to learn they were actually answerable to some policy somewhere. She frowned.

"He will have all his paperwork in order when we get back."

"Perhaps, if he decides it's worth the cost. But if you meekly give way then they'll take everything and expect you to thank them for it." He glanced down at her. "What does he have on Aerith?"

"Everything." She shook her head. "She's only free because of delays in project funding."

"Likely why you're not in the books," he said, his expression troubled. "I'll see what I can do."

They entered the hangar, and one of the pilots interrupted to pull Genesis away. Hawke let him go and put her bag down by the wall, content to wait out of the wind. Their little airship was being wheeled out into the bleak morning sun.

The side door swung open and silver hair billowed in. A figure in black followed, brushing their hair out of their face.

Sephiroth in all his glory looked around with narrowed eyes.

Hawke studied him, her head rolling lazily on her neck. In spite of all the propaganda and hullabaloo, he had the audacity to look just like a regular human. Not as tall or imposing as a qunari, nor as ethereal as a spirit. He probably didn't even breathe fire or eat children for breakfast.

She assumed he was looking for Genesis. His gaze passed over her and then snapped back. His eyes widened. She raised an eyebrow.

He stalked towards her, adopting an expression she had learned to dread before she could form full sentences: the 'I'm going to get to the bottom of your bullshit' look.

She stood corrected, when marching towards her like he'd spotted a fly to squash, he was imposing enough to rival a qunari, maybe even the Arishok himself. She leaned back against the thin metal wall, her arms crossed and one leg relaxed and swinging. She had refused to tremble before the Arishok too.

She couldn't think what he wanted from her. Where had he even seen her face to know her on sight?

He stopped three feet away. He was very tall, with a somber face beneath a defined brow. His eyes glowed the colour of raw magic.

"You're a difficult woman to track down."

Both her eyebrows rose. "You're not a difficult man to avoid, I wasn't even trying."

"Who are you?" he asked.

"I thought you were looking for me, you don't know?"

His brow furrowed. "If I knew I wouldn't have been looking."

"Do you often go looking for people you don't know about?" She tilted her head, a small smile tugging at her mouth. "However do you manage it?"

He gave an exasperated huff she wouldn't have expected from such a stoic face. "I know you are associated with Genesis, and that your attempts at redirecting this conversation are clumsy."

She scoffed and decided she wasn't going to be cooperative. "You're looking for someone your friend knows and you didn't bother to ask them?"

"That is not your concern."

"Then why did you bring it up?" She cupped her chin between her thumb and forefinger. "Have you tried being more direct?"

His expression turned nonplussed.

"So why were you looking for me?" she drawled with a grin.

He studied her through narrow eyes for an awkward length of time. He was more awkward than anyone let on.

"I dreamed of you," he said quietly.

She straightened. All her plans of keeping silent went out the window. "When?"

"Months ago."

How had she missed him? How had Genesis? The two knew each other so well their dreams should have been recognisable to each other. It dawned on her. Genesis had recognised the dream, he had just refused to engage with it.

"On the edge of Da Chao?" she asked.

He blinked and nodded. Why was he surprised when he had recognised her? Unless he hadn't really believed the Fade to be real and thought it was just nonsense, or something purely his.

Her arms dropped to her sides. "Are you the bridge builder?"

"Yes."

"Oh."

Which meant he was a Fade shaper, like Aerith. Was he a Cetra too? An insanely powerful one if so, and one who didn't really know what they were doing, given the mess he was kicking up.

"Well, stop it," she said, baffled at the situation. "You're clogging up the place."

"I want to chart it, harness it."

"You can't, it's a dream."

"But you're knowing about it means it is real," he said, stepping forward. "Definitively."

She shrugged. "Sure, but it's still a dream. It doesn't have to play by the rules."

"Why do you have access to it? Who are you?" He took another step forward.

She looked him up and down. What had he actually come here for? Genesis alluded to him a great deal but rarely actually named him. The only concrete detail she really had was that he rejected Genesis' offer to turn on Shinra.

She smiled. "I'm the woman you were looking for."

"I am aware," he said, his brow lowering over his eyes.

"Then why do you keep asking?"

"Why do you keep talking in circles? And why do you keep moving your hand like that, you're not carrying any Materia."

She blinked and looked down. She'd been subconsciously holding the frame of a little shield spell around her fingers, not actually casting anything detectable but holding it at the ready. She looked back up at him, her smile turning toothy.

"How do you know? Did you scan me with Sense? Are you feeling threatened by little old me, serah?"

"I am feeling irritated."

"That doesn't sound like my problem."

"I can make it your problem," he said without much heat, though she didn't doubt it.

"Oh, go on," she said, flicking a limp wrist at him. "Make a scene."

He frowned.

"Sephiroth," Genesis called from across the hanger. "Are you haranguing my guest?"

Sephiroth looked at Hawke like she was a misplaced fork in a cutlery draw, confusing the neatly assembled soup spoons.

"I believe I'm the one being harangued," he replied.

Genesis laughed. "Good for you, Hawke."

"Hawke," Sephiroth repeated, staring her down.

"Yes, Sephiroth?" she drawled.

"Did you heal Angeal?"

She paused. "No."

He narrowed his eyes.

She shrugged. "I did try."

Genesis called that it was time for them to board.

"I will have questions for you when you get back," Sephiroth said, in much the same tone Tseng had used.

"Lucky me." She grabbed her bag. "Nice meeting you, I suppose."

"I suppose," he replied. He nodded and left her in peace.

Genesis sat opposite Hawke in the tiny cabin. It was a small model, the middle point between airship and helicopter. The rotors droned constantly, shaking everything. He undid his seat belt as the ascent evened out, relieved to finally be setting off.

Hawke sat tensed, gripping the seat on each side of her knees and side-eying the steadily disappearing ground out the window.

How could someone bold enough to intentionally antagonise Sephiroth be afraid of mere heights?

He'd overheard most of the conversation. He knew her well enough to know that was what she had been doing, between moments of startling honesty. He wasn't sure if he was irritated at her just coming out and saying things the two had been dancing around for months, or relieved at having the band aid ripped off.

Likewise, he wasn't sure how he felt about the fact that Sephiroth had been dreaming in the Fade alongside them all those months. Years in fact. He was glad it happened immediately before leaving the city so he could think it over at a distance before Sephiroth pressed him for answers he couldn't honestly give.

A gust of wind shook the cabin. Hawke held herself so stiffly against the seat's back she nearly toppled over.

Genesis chuckled. She sent him a death glare.

"I've been wondering, what does 'serah' mean?" he asked, taking pity on her and offering a distraction. "And that other honorific you use, 'messere'? They're obviously not gender based."

"It's social ranking." Her eyes strayed between him and the window. "Serah is for people of equal and lower rank to you, messere: higher rank."

He paused. "You called Sephiroth serah."

"Yes?"

He breathed a laugh. "I aspire to your level of self-confidence, messere."

Her brow furrowed. "You don't think you're his equal?"

"Only someone from a different world could ask that."

"You're both First Class aren't you?" She looked at him with a frown, the window forgotten. "I heard that the general thing was just a publicity stunt and not a real rank."

He crossed his arms. "Yes, and it should tell you something that they were prepared to foist upon him a title entirely inappropriate for SOLDIER's command structure. It doesn't have to mean something in order to mean something."

Her frown grew severe. She leaned forward. There wasn't a lot of room.

"Genesis," she said, slow and uncommonly serious, "'messere' is for people you believe to be superior to you. Nobody deserves to ever hear it from your lips."

His breath faltered in the face of her sudden conviction. In that moment he very much wanted her to kiss him.

"Except for you, presumably," he breathed.

"Only so long as it's with scathing sarcasm," she said, and leaned back in her seat, her shoulders squared and her back straight.

He swallowed.

The rest of the flight passed without incident. Hawke's attention to the window lost its fear and became awed as they crossed over the eastern sea through shredded strips of clouds that rushed over them. Genesis slept for a couple of hours and woke to the sight of her still watching the stream of clouds pour over the wings like the lightest silk.

They chased the sun west and touched down in the early afternoon at a Shinra outpost on the edge of a rocky red desert. He'd flown over it but never explored it before. Hawke, in her sleeveless armour and grey and red leathers, looked perfectly at home against the dramatic backdrop.

They took a buggy from the outpost and set out across the rocky expanse. Eroded buttes rose from the plains, striped with thick bands of red and grey stratum. He drove down the side of the plateau the outpost was on and suddenly there was no sign of human activity in any direction, just beautiful, untamed wilderness.

The wind whipped through his hair, cool enough to counteract the scorching sun. Genesis felt some of the tension he always carried around inside him ease away. There was no Shinra out here, and he could almost believe there was no Blight hiding away in his heart either, just him and Hawke, exploring together.

"What is that!" Hawke called, pointing.

A large winged creature wheeled overhead, then dropped down to land atop a nearby butte. A small flock of them lounged on the rock. Two or three looked down at them curiously. They were twice the size of a person, with a wingspan of about four meters.

"Griffons," he said. "Half lion and half eagle according to the legends."

"I know what a griffon is," she laughed, looking back at him with wide, wonder filled eyes. "They've been extinct on Thedas for centuries."

He slowed the buggy to a stop at the crest of a small hill. She leapt out to go watch. He got out and joined her. Two of the smaller ones, with fluffy downy feathers, kept leaping up and catching the wind in their golden wings. Their shadows spiraled and danced along the valley floor.

"The grey wardens used to ride them into battle."

"Really? Like chocobo?" He could see the logic, but was more interested in her open awe.

"If chocobo could fly," she replied with a wide smile. "They helped win the Fourth Blight. Alas, they didn't survive."

A larger griffon stood and stretched its wings, then soon the others were all up and doing the same, shaking out their feathers and watching the surroundings.

"I don't think they've ever been domesticated here," he said. "They can be dangerous to caravans, I expect you could get work around here culling their numbers."

"Lets just stay out of their path then."

The flock took to the air. Graceful and silent across the rocky wastes, they moved together in formation. They caught the air currents and rose higher and higher, away up into the sky.

Chapter Text

Hawke closed her eyes, breathed in deep, and relished the sensation of racing across the desert. Until the buggy made a coughing noise, the smell of smoke tickled her nose, and they were racing no more.

She cracked open an eye. Genesis was glaring at a stream of black smoke pouring from the hood. Perhaps if he glared hard enough it would go away. She grinned. 

“How far are we from Cosmo?” 

“Half a day’s march,” he replied. “At a SOLDIER’s pace.”

The buggy slowed to a stop. 

“I don’t march, I sashay.”

He smiled despite himself and reached for the door. “Then it’s a full day away.”

They climbed out and he popped the hood. She looked over his shoulder at the smoking innards of the buggy. She didn’t know anything about combustion engines, but was fairly certain they weren’t meant to actually combust. It stank like a tire fire. 

She pulled their packs from the buggy’s back. Genesis tried to apologise for the breakdown but she waved it away. They had sufficient supplies and she’d been walking all her life. It was a familiar comfort to set out on her own two feet. Without the shadow of Midgar looming over them she felt in fine spirits and prepared to put up with just about anything.

Cosmo Canyon’s secrets beckoned.

The sun was halfway down from its zenith as they slung on their packs and faced the wind. Heat waves danced upon the horizon and the shadow of the rocky buttes grew longer against the plains.

They had been walking for a couple of hours when Genesis paused. He had long since stuffed his jacket into his pack and wore only a black sleeveless shirt. He brought his left hand up to his brow with a look of concentration, then threw the hand out to his side. His wing exploded from his back with the movement

“What are you doing?” Hawke plucked a downy black feather from her hair.

“I don’t get many opportunities to stretch it out without fear of an audience,” he replied, and started walking again, rolling his shoulders out. 

The wing looked healthier than it had the first time he called on it, strong and with good coverage of silky black feathers. It still lacked strength though: the longest feathers dragged along the rocky ground. He bunched up his shoulder with a look of concentration, and it rose slightly, folding in close to his back. He extended it out again, stretching it to its full length.

It was huge. It looked less unnatural on his back in the rocky, red wastes of the desert than it had in the tight confines of his apartment. The inky feathers soaked up the sun and ruffled in the breeze. She privately decided it suited him.

He repeated the exercise as they walked, stretching it out and folding it in, in groups of twenty. He panted and sweated under the scorching sun.

“You’re going to get heatstroke,” Hawke said. There was no way she could carry him if he passed out.

“Please, what do you think ‘enhanced’ means?”

“Arrogant?”

He smirked, the expression only slightly strained. “Is it arrogance if it’s justified?”

“Yes.”

He sniffed and tossed his hair back.

She laughed.

After a time he stretched it out and experimented with leaping up and flapping. There was much stumbling and muttered curses as he figured it out. She gracefully pretended not to see the more embarrassing episodes. 

“I was wondering,” he said, holding the bridge of the wing in his hands and examining the way the tendons moved. “What’s the difference between a Blight and the Blight?”

“Hm? The Blight, or the taint, is the disease itself.” She adjusted the two backpacks stacked on her back. They both had a floating spell on them so were more bulky than heavy. “ A Blight is what we call the wars that start when an archdemon is infected. Those are the old gods, sleeping deep in the earth. Every couple of hundred years or so the infected hordes find another one, infect it, and it takes control of the horde to lead an assault on the surface.”

He leapt up with a powerful flap and caught the breeze, gliding about four meters above the ground. 

“It sounds like the stuff of legend,” he called down. 

“I was twenty when the Fifth Blight struck,” she said. She watched his shadow shrink, grow, and distort along the rocks. “I fought in the first major battle.”

“Did you?” 

“The king came calling.” She shrugged. “I was patriotic once.”

He landed at her side with an awkward flap. “Did you see the archdemon?”

“No, it didn’t surface until the last battle, a year later. I had already fled with my family to Kirkwall by then.”

“It took an entire year to quell it?”

“The First Blight took nearly two centuries,” she replied. “It turns out only Grey Wardens can kill an archdemon, but they didn’t exist yet. It took a hundred and eighty something years of failing to kill the Maker-damned thing until someone figured it out and invented them.”

“The more I hear, the more I am surprised to hear Thedas has any living occupants at all.”

“We are an enduring lot, you have to give us that,” she said with a grin.  

“Has Mythal been infected yet?”

She paused. “What?”

“You said the archdemons are the old gods.”

“Oh, not those old gods, this is a different batch. The young guns next to Mythal’s ancient elvhen.”

“For planet’s sake.” He leapt up again, catching another gust of wind. “How many pantheons of nightmares are there?”

“Too many.”

He made a noise of agreement from somewhere she couldn’t see against the glare of the sinking sun. She held a hand up to her eyes.

“What happens if one of the Elven gods gets infected then?”

“I have no idea.” She hesitated midstep. It had never actually occurred to her before. She shrugged and kept going. “Nothing good, probably.” 

The cloudless sky turned from brilliant blue to gold to burning red. 

Genesis banished his wing and they made camp nestled into the side of a hill, sheltered from the wind and with a good vantage point over the surrounding landscape. Night came on quickly. The stars lit up one by one, until the entire sky was blazing with them. She gave him a cursory and probably unnecessary healing of his back. It hadn't bounced back from the strain as much as she had expected. She made a mental note to keep an eye on his healing rate.

Hawke sat on a rock, sealing away the rubbish from their dinner so as to not attract any animals. The temperature had dropped but she was still comfortable. The surroundings had turned silvery blue in the dark. It reminded her so much of the Western Approach. It made her wistful with a confused nostalgia. She did not miss the quillbacks and darkspawn this desert lacked, or the venatori, or the traitor Grey wardens.

She was, in fact, having an unreservedly nice time.

Genesis checked their location on a GPS, then tossed the blocky beeping machine aside and looked to the stars and his watch instead.

Isabella had tried to explain to her how you could find your location by the stars, confusing Hawke to no end. Of course, she had used a sextant and a book of logarithms, not a watch.

Genesis stood commanding out on a ledge, his expression focused and critical as he double checked his working. He was so meticulous and clever. The moon was only a wedge in the sky, but the stars were out in full force, shining silver on his face. His eyes glowed soft blue in the dark and the wind made his coat flap and whip around him. 

Her heart arched just looking at him.

She forced her eyes away.

She had once promised herself to stop carving her heart out for people who didn’t ask her to, who were only going to ask her to clean up the mess. Maybe it wouldn’t go that way. Maybe he would take it, be gentle with it, and hold it close. Or maybe he would notice the state it was in. It wasn’t of any use, and he hadn’t asked for it. She didn’t think she could handle another ‘you’re not going to bring feelings into this, are you?’

She remembered Fenris backing away from her, a wounded look in his eyes and his hands raised to ward her off.

No. She was not going to be the friend who made everything weird again. Maker knew they had enough problems already.

She turned her eyes skyward and found her favourite constellation out of habit, ever reliable Draconis, who would never make things weird. He’d probably incinerate anyone who tried.

She furrowed her brow.

“We have the same constellations,” she murmured.

“Do we?” He looked back at her, then up again in interest. “Of course.”

“Look, that’s Fervanis,” she said, pointing. 

He rolled his sleeve back down over his watch. “Which one?

She got up and joined him on the ledge, pointing it out. He put his head next to hers to look along her arm. She felt his body warmth against her.

“The cluster to the right and below the dragon? We call it Ultros.”

“What does it mean?” she asked, her voice hushed at the proximity.

“It’s an evil octopus from old folk tales.”

She frowned at him and looked up at the stars for an explanation. “An octopus? How is it an octopus!”

“It’s got eight tentacles, what else would it be?”

“It’s clearly a tree. Fervanis is old arcanum for oak.”

“It looks nothing like a tree! Where’s its trunk?”

“Those six stars in the middle.”

“Those are Ultros’ fangs.”

“Fangs?” She laughed and headed back to where the sleeping bags were set up. “Your octopus are as messed up as your stars.”  

He took exception to that.

They lay down side by side, looking up at the stars, and bickered for hours.

Genesis was an early riser.

Hawke knew this. Never before had she so resented it. 

“Come on, get up. I intend to arrive today, not next Tuesday.”

“The sun’s not up yet!”

“And our water rations demand we get there before the hottest part of the day.”

Hawke grumbled extensively but could in fact see the logic to it. They set out across the silvery rock, spooking scorpions and hyenas. 

The path widened and grew more distinct. The worn down ruts of cart wheels marked the way, alongside increasingly regular deposits of chocobo and goat droppings. They followed the trail through a tight winding gully, flanked by cliffs on both sides. 

The sun returned, scorching and hotter than the day before. It’s golden rays touched upon the dome of an observatory, high up upon the tallest butte. It glistened with glass. The gully turned a corner and the rest of the village came into view, a spike of rock adorned with windmills and awnings all at different levels. There was no Mako here, no green glow of a reactor. Ladders and steep staircases trailed up the sheer rock face to reach the village perched at the very top. 

They paused  for a moment to soak it in. Then the urgency of the final straight hit, and they plunged ahead, climbing the ladders with renewed energy. 

A great ruckus of noise greeted them before they even reached the top. The village, according to Genesis, was a shared communal home for all the nomadic clans that lived around the Cosmo deserts. The shrieks of excited children and the warks of chocobos drifted on the air. To the side of the stairs a platform on a surprisingly complex   pulley system was lowering those who looked as though they couldn’t handle the stairs down to the gully floor and sturdy wagons covered with cloth woven with complex patterns in vibrant colours. 

The path started to trickle with people and they had to stick to the side to let them pass. They were brightly dressed and occasionally leading herds of goats behind tall and lean chocobos in red and purple. 

The departing caravan had thinned out by the time they made it to the top, roughly mid morning. The multilayered village felt quiet and suddenly empty. 

The guard at the wide open gate was sitting and chatting with the people operating the pulley system. 

They were surprised to see visitors, but welcomed them in with few questions. Hawke and Genesis traded a look. They had expected to have to prove they weren’t here on Shinra’s orders, weren’t harbouring ill intent. The lack of vigilance was... unsettling. Hawke had been getting a Dalish-esque impression of them, but evidently that was inaccurate. 

They were pointed in the direction of visitor lodgings and told to introduce themselves to an elder when they were settled in. 

They rented two rooms and cleaned up. The heat of the day was starting to get unbearable, and it was a relief to dunk her head under a cold shower spout.

The two of them regrouped, no longer stinking of stale sweat, and went to go find an elder. 

Elder Bugenhagen found them. 

He was a tiny old man, skinny and frail with a bald head and a long wispy beard. He peered out from under wiry eyebrows at them.

He floated into the communal room on a levitating ball of green crystal. Hawke looked suspiciously at it, and the gap between it and the floor. 

The ball looked crystalline, similar to materia, but it wasn’t one. The crystal itself wasn’t magic at all, but there was magic all around him just the same. She narrowed her eyes. 

“And what brings you to our little rock, hn?”

“We want to learn about the planet,” Genesis said. 

“Eh?” The wire brush eyebrows bristled as he looked Genesis over carefully. “Since when does Shinra ask others about the planet?”

“We’re not here on Shinra’s behalf.” 

“If there were answers in Midgar that’s where we would be,” Hawke added. 

“Hn.” Bugenhagen turned his thoughtful look on Hawke. She felt magic brush very lightly over her.

She raised a hand and the canteen she had put on the table rose up to her hand. She kept eye contact as she took a sip. 

He laughed, a deep and odd chuckle in his throat, and floated closer towards her. 

“What are you, miss? A Cetra? I knew one once, but I haven’t heard from her since in so long.”

She shook her head. “I’m… searching for answers.”

“Hn, aren’t we all?” He glanced between them again, muttering to himself, and then turned and floated away again, out the door he had come in through. 

Hawke and Genesis shared a baffled look. 

Bugenhagen stuck his head back in through the door. “Well, come on!” 

They startled and followed after him. 

He led the way through the village, up several ladders and staircases, to the observatory on the very highest level. Hawke looked up at the round dome. Hadn’t they come here for the libraries? They had passed them already, she saw the entrance on a lower level, the books were kept deep inside the rock. 

The entrance was a tin-roofed shed. Inside, after she had grown accustomed to the comparative dark, was a bare bones version of the kind of technology she associated with Shinra. It was missing all the pretty finishes, the chrome and glowing touch screens, but it looked no less complex. 

Bugenhagen led them to a platform beneath the hollow dome itself. Above them the walls looked like the same tiling she had seen inside SR VR rooms, but with nine concentric red rings hanging in the centre. The planets? 

Bugenhagen waited on the circular platform. 

Genesis looked up at the hollow dome then back at her with a look she couldn’t decipher. He had gone curiously quiet over the last hour.

“After you,” he said, gesturing. “This is your research mission.”

She raised an eyebrow and stepped onto the wide platform that did not require they enter one at a time. 

Bugehagen flipped a switch and the platform lifted them up into the dome. The VR activated and a holographic version of the solar system light up around them, all the planets spinning in a graceful dance around the sun. 

Bugenhagen began a speech on the connection between life on Gaia and the Lifestream, the same set of beliefs Aerith held to. Hawke watched the glowing representation of spirit energy rise up and sink into the planet in a hazy mist.

Her eyes saw through it to the neighbouring planet, spinning by behind it. 

“Stop!” she said. 

“What? What?” Bugenhagen said, completely thrown.

Hawke walked through Gaia, her heart seizing. She stopped in front of a glowing, slightly blurry representation of landmasses she had known her entire life. She stared at it. 

“The planet Sukra, our nearest neighbour,” Bugenhagen said, sounding a little put out at the interruption but adapting. He flipped a different switch and the presentation paused, all the planets holding still. 

“Hawke…” Genesis said quietly. 

“Do you have some knowledge of astronomy, miss?”

Hawke swallowed thickly. “Your model is wrong. There should be a second moon.”

“Very good, most people don’t pick on that. I only programmed in the larger satellites to preserve processing power. Did you know Ormazd has over 60 moons?”

She lifted a hand, trailing a finger over the rugged brown continent. 

“This is Thedas,” she said weakly. 

She left the VR area in a daze, ignoring everyone’s calls.

She found herself out on a balcony, under a brutally hot sun, assaulted by a wind just as hot. A planet not her own stretched out so far beneath her feet. Her mind caught up with the reality of it all. 

“Hawke,” Genesis said behind her, a hand on her shoulder. 

“You weren’t surprised.”

The silence lasted a damning amount of time. The hand withdrew. 

“I knew.”

“You knew.” She nodded. “And you left me in the dark.”

He gave a frustrated sigh. “Hawke, what difference does it really make?”

“What difference-” She whirled on him. “You kept my home from me!”

“It’s still out of reach. This changes nothing.”

“You let me wonder if I was crazy, if I dreamed up my own friends and family when you knew .”

“They hate you!” he burst out, stalking forward until they were both on the balcony.

“That’s not the point!” 

“You’re a second class citizen to a world that has put a price on your head! It doesn’t want you, doesn’t need you.”

“Maybe I need them,” she said, baring her teeth. 

“You have nothing to go back to! Stop fooling yourself, here you can have anything-”

She fell still, cold bitter fury spreading through her bloodstream. 

“Here you need me.”

He stopped short.

“I brought you this far,” he hedged.

“Now that you think you’re in the clear. I suppose if Aerith doesn’t work out you’ll bury whatever else you’re sitting on.” She clenched her jaw and lowered her voice. “Maybe you can have the Turks bring me in and get your healing on command.”

He recoiled. Anger flooded out the hurt on his face. “I did everything I could for you-”

“No you didn’t.”

“-Nothing will change the fact that you’re delusional and all your friends are either dead because of you or glad to be rid of you.”

She slammed a fistful of magic into his stomach. The kinetic blast exploded and threw him backwards off the balcony. 

Hawke blinked, shocked at her own outburst. 

“Oh shit.” 

She looked over the edge, then leaned back just in time to dodge the fireball swinging back up at her. 

“Son of a-” She bared her teeth and leapt up onto the railing, lightning crackling in her hands and curses on her tongue. 

Genesis stood on the dented tin roof on the level below, fuming and glowing red. 

“Ma!” a squeaky voice called out. “There’s a man on Bugenhagen’s roof!”

They both paused and looked down. A little boy was staring up at Genesis, his head sticking out of the building he stood on top of. 

They made grudging eye contact. Hawke lowered her hands, the electricity cutting out. He stopped glowing. She retreated back into the dark indoors.

Chapter Text

Bugenhagen did not appreciate his guests violently throwing each other off his balcony.

Hawke kept her head down while he lectured and nodded where appropriate. For her sins she had been sentenced to helping in the communal kitchens, grinding down soaked chickpeas in a giant mortar and pestle. Bugenhagen floated opposite her at the work table, chopping up industrial quantities of green herbs. His boney old hands were quick and clever with the kitchen knife, the clack-clack-clack punctuating his spiel.

Bugen slowed his lecture when Hawke didn't offer a response. He sighed and scrapped the last batch of mint into a mixing bowl and reached for a bundle of coriander. Genesis hated coriander.

Hawke scowled and focused on the stone pestle, pounding the pale chickpeas down into a fine mush. The giant mortar shook with the force of the impacts.

"So…" Bugen said, curiosity taking the place of his reprimanding tone, "not a Cetra."

"I already said as much."

"An alien."

"I… suppose so."

He raised a bristly eyebrow. "You didn't know?"

She scoffed because it stung. She should have known. In retrospect it was so obvious. They had different moons but the same stars.

"If you woke up somewhere you didn't recognise would you assume: 'ah yes, this must be a different planet'? 'Surely I have crossed the vast emptiness of space entirely by accident and without even noticing.'"

"I think I would notice."

"Well." She shrugged. "We can't all be infinitely wise planet experts."

For some reason Bugen found this impossibly funny. "Only took me a hundred and thirty years," he said with a chortle and shaking shoulders.

Hawke focused on the repetitive motion of her work. It wasn't easy, her upper arms and wrist were getting a workout. A Midgar kitchen probably would have had a shiny plastic food processor, but she liked this more. It reminded her of home.

"You know," she began, "I once knew a man who tricked a witch into giving him eternal life."

Bugen looked up skeptically. "Really? Did it work?"

"Regrettably, yes. Poor Xenon. He failed to ask for eternal youth."

"Ho ho hoooo, oh no."

"Oh yes. His muscles are so atrophied he can't move on his own and he needs to be given a sponge bath every hour or his skin cracks and flakes off. But he got precisely what he asked for."

Bugen made a face.

"Semantics are important with these sorts of things." She lifted the pestle out and rolled her shoulders, taking a breather.

A plume of gold caught her eye, through the window and in the distance. An arc of red flashed in the sun a second later, cutting through the golden feathers on a neighbouring butte. Her breath hitched.

Bugen turned to see what had her attention. Genesis sliced through the flock of griffons, throwing bursts of fire out to keep them from taking to the air.

"Oh, thank the planet, finally." Bugen turned back to his chopping board. "Those pests have been such a danger to our caravans."

Hawke scowled at the little old man.

"That's not enough coriander," she said.

He shook his head sadly. "Not everyone likes it."

"But it's delicious. And it's very good for you, probably."

"I know! I don't understand them," he said, reaching for a couple more of the thick leafy bundles from the tub.

"Come on, don't be stingy." She tossed two more onto his pile.

He went back to chopping and she went about emptying her mortar and starting again with a new batch. She stood with her back to the window.

"Is the SOLDIER holding you hostage?"

She looked up, startled at the question.

"Did Shinra send him here to keep an eye on you?"

"…I don't think so." She frowned and considered it. Then shook her head. "No. No, he's not, and they didn't. He stood between me and Shinra when he could."

"You said he might hand you over to the Turks," Bugen said, looking at her seriously. "This place is a sanctuary, you can ask for help if you need it."

"...Thanks." She looked down into the soupy paste in the stone reservoir. "I was angry, but he wouldn't really do that. He lied to me and I'm furious at him for it, but he doesn't have anything over me. I'm not afraid of him. He just…"

"He doesn't want you to return home."

She sighed and blew her hair out of her face. "Eavesdropping is rude, Bugenhagen."

"So is throwing people off of balconies."

"I didn't throw him."

Sceptical eyebrows bristled at her.

"He couldn't remember which way to the stairs and was too embarrassed to ask. I assisted him to the ground."

"Tch." He shook his head and muttered something about young people. He looked up at her cautiously. She would bet money he was about to ask something very unpleasant.

"Is what he said true? Your friends are… um."

Look at that, she owed herself money. She was all out of chickpea to smash. Damn.

"If it is, then Genesis is a fool to want to keep me here and inflict me on his own world," she replied, terse. "If it's not then he has even less right to do what he did."

"You know if it's true or not."

She shrugged. She crossed her arms and turned to lean on the bench. Gold feathers drifted by outside. She turned back the other way.

"They're not all gone. They don't all hate me."

Bugen waited quietly for her, eyes focused on his work.

She hung her head and leaned heavily against the bench. "I'm... ashamed of how I left things. If they don't want me back... they're right not to." She shook her head. "I don't blame them for it."

"Decided for them, have you?" The knife clacked against the chopping board in a steady staccato. "You're angry at the SOLDIER for wanting to make you stay, and preemptively hurt your old friends might agree with him."

"It sounds ridiculous when you put it that way."

"What is it you want?"

A lot of things, she didn't say. To help the people she cared about. To not be a failure anymore. To be wanted. To be loved.

"I don't know," she said instead.

He did not look fooled.

"What does he want?"

She narrowed her eyes. "You are a nosy old gossip."

"I am. Nothing this interesting has happened in decades." He paused. "More coriander, do you think?"

"Glad to be of service." She emptied the tub of unchopped greens onto the chopping board.

"What's your planet like?"

"About the same."

"Really?" he looked up, disappointed.

"It's more brown. Or maybe that's just Fereldan and its excess of mud."

He huffed. "Then how did you get here?"

"There was a magic mirror. There was… falling… a lot of screaming, possibly mine, and then I was here. I can't recommend it."

"Hn." He laid his knife down. "There's an old story we tell of a woman, long ago, who fell from the stars. She walked among us and we thought her a friend."

She raised an eyebrow. "Are you about to accuse me of being The Calamity?"

"Well, are you?"

"Would I tell you if I was?" she asked with a grin. "Would I be wandering around acting as suspiciously as humanly possible if I was waging a secret war on the planet?"

He lifted his chin. "A double bluff?"

She laughed. "An inept one." Knowing her track record, if she was going to threaten the planet itself it would be out of the best possible intentions. She shook her head and sobered.

"I'm here because I want to go home. There's evidence my people were here before, long ago, but it's all been steamrolled by Shinra. Your libraries are the oldest I know of, if there's any information left, it'll be here. May I please search your records?"

He looked at her kindly and nodded. "The libraries are always open to searching souls."

They finished up under the instruction of the head chef, then Hawke spent the rest of the day exploring the libraries, buried deep within the rock.

Dinner that night was served in the communal hall: coriander falafel alongside coriander marinated goat kebabs, drizzled with a coriander yoghurt and a little coriander garnish on the side. Genesis excused himself before he could insult the servers and inform them that he would rather eat a raw bar of soap.

He went to bed angry, hungry, and sunburned.

The Fade embraced him. He opened his eyes to a dreamy desert just as hot and sweltering as reality.

Red towering buttes reached up to the green sky, hard and inhospitable. Sand blew off the tops, endlessly swirling and dispersing in gritty waterfalls. There was no mansion of apple trees, no floating islands, and no glittering city. Not even a stray spirit looking to feed.

He walked for hours, looking for something, anything. It was silent and dead.

Sand slid beneath his feet, crunching and shifting. He stumbled and tried to steady himself. It slid faster, pulling him backwards. He scrambled. There was no purchase, his hands fisting sand and his boots slipping. He fell.

He landed on his back with a thud. A plume of dust kicked up around him. He hauled air back into his lungs and sat up.

The buttes towered so high, the swirling green of the sky as distant as the stars.

He gritted his teeth and pulled himself back to his feet. Dust slid beneath his boots, caught in his hair, and clogged up his throat. He tried to climb back out only to slip back into the pit, forever scrambling and drowning in the dust, and getting increasingly angry at it all.

He slid back again and snapped.

"This metaphor is cheap and obvious!" he yelled. He hurled a trio of fireballs up at the surface. They burst uselessly against the rock.

The Fade did not care to respond. He scrubbed a hand down his face and growled deep in his throat. Dust swirled around him, before settling back into the pit of his own insufficiency and failure.

So he had lied to Hawke, but she attacked him. A First Class he may be but she knew better than anyone how compromised his immune system was.

Goddess, he hated it, the fear of injury. Did she think he was dependent on her? That she could strike out at him only to leave him helpless with her abandonment? The Cetra would still help him, her aid wasn't self interested.

The thought tasted like ash in his mouth. He knew it wasn't fair. The excuses for his vitriol crumbled away. Hawke didn't deserve it. She had put his well-being above her own too many times. She had always tried, no matter what it cost her, or how unreasonable the time and place, she showed up and gave her all.

He knew, with guilt-inducing certainty, that if he had gotten injured fighting the griffons and presented the injury to her, she would have been furious with an acid tongue, and healed it anyway.

The wind howled high above the pit. It's cool touch did not reach him.

He remembered the hot press of Hawke's hands against his shredded back. Holding him up and reconstructing his fractured wing. He had tried to stop her from coming in that night, too afraid she would reject him and leave, so he kicked her out first. She'd shoved her foot in the door and forced her way in anyway.

He had burned many bridges in the past, and always found a way to be satisfied with the embers. The fates, after all, were cruel.

But Hawke cared about him. And he hurt her.

He sat in the dust.

"My friend, do you fly away now, to a world that abhors me and you?" he said quietly, into the still air. "All that awaits you is a somber morrow...No matter where the winds may blow."

He bowed his head.

A shadow intruded on the hazy light at the bottom of the pit. He looked up, and saw a bald head sticking over the edge. He shot to his feet.

"Do you need a hand?" Bugenhagen called.

"Yes!"

"Good thing you've got two then!"

The old man chortled, and left.

Genesis looked to the heavens. Neither the Fade nor the Goddess deigned to offer any explanation.

Hawke rose, well rested, after a deep and dreamless sleep. It was early for her, still cold and dark out with the stars hidden behind a wall of mist.

She made her way to the showers, and stepped out soon after to find a little old washer woman making off with her clothes. She clutched a fluffy towel to her chest and tried to negotiate their return. The laundress was not moved. Neither was she especially impressed with the state of Hawke's leathers, pointedly raising an eyebrow.

She handed over a set of things for her to wear in the meantime, and toddled off without apology.

Hawke pulled on the undyed linen trousers and shirt, grumbling the whole way. She bet they didn't do this to any other travellers passing through and were just messing her. The woman had left her a brown and red mohair poncho to throw on top.

She stepped out onto one of the long, thin balconies and sat, her legs between the railings and swinging over the edge. Mist shrouded the canyon below, only the odd butte peeking up through rolling white. There was no wind. She pulled her arms in under the woollen poncho and hugged herself against the cold. Somewhere higher up on the rock a desert owl hooted.

Far off on the horizon, a smudge of light crept into the sky.

A door opened behind her. She glanced at a figure practically drowning in an over-large yellow plaideweave poncho. It clashed terribly with his red hair.

She burst out laughing.

Genesis scowled and crossed his arms. It did not have the effect he probably hoped it would, seeing as it came to his knees and covered his arms entirely. The sloping shoulders diminished his build in the exact opposite way of his coat and pauldrons, making him look short and slight.

"You look like a kid in his parent's rain jacket," she said between guffaws. "Or like you're going undercover as a Fereldan peasant."

"Well, you look like a goat herder," he replied.

She grinned. "Swap my staff for a shepherd's crook and I'm ready for a career change."

"Why do you get the flame motif?"

She looked down at herself. There were pretty little flames stitched into the edges.

"It's because I'm so hot," she said.

"I'm hotter than you."

"Not wearing that, you're not."

He scoffed and turned his head. "I'm still angry at you."

"Oh, you're angry, are you?" she snapped.

"I didn't attack someone with a chronic illness."

She paused. "I didn't mean to."

"Yes, you did!"

"Alright, I did, but I take it back." She huffed and looked away. "I'm sorry. Are you hurt? I'll heal it."

She glanced up when he didn't reply. He looked like his fire had been doused.

"You don't owe me apologies, Hawke."

She raised an eyebrow. Was he playing the victim or not? Her own anger had grown cold with the night. She didn't want to yell anymore.

He sat next to her on the balcony, legs hanging over the edge and shoulders brushing. He bowed his head and was silent for some time. She watched the light on the horizon grow and the mist begin to glow.

"You were… not entirely wrong in your estimation of me," he began. "Your magic gave me hope. You gave me hope. I didn't want to risk losing it."

"Is that why you humour me?"

He frowned. "I'm not humouring you."

"It's alright, I'm not actually delusional. I've had many a friendship built on a bedrock of convenience." She looked at him sidelong. "One day, you too will be glad to be rid of me."

He winced. "I didn't mean that."

She looked straight ahead. "Yes, you did."

"Is that why you endure my company? Convenience?"

"You're not especially convenient."

"That is a great comfort, thank you."

She lowered her head. The truth was his lies and insults had given her an easy out, something to be angry about without facing reality. But she was tired of lying to herself. The mist melted in the light of a new day.

"It's been some time since I truly believed… I would see Thedas again."

"Don't give up."

She raised an eyebrow at him.

He made a noise of frustration and lowered his chin. "Nothing worth achieving was ever easy. I may not understand the appeal but this is important to you. You're not crazy and you didn't dream it: Thedas is out there. And I guarantee you there are people hoping every day that you will come home." His clear blue eyes looked at her with an intensity that made it hard to look away. "If you do give up, it should be because your goals have changed, not because anyone or anything dictated it to you."

She swallowed, slightly shocked at his vehemence. "For a world that hates me?"

"That's their failing. Get back up and try again." He looked at her with absolute conviction. "You are not defeated."

It was news to her. He made it sound so irrefutable she almost believed it. Meeting his gaze she felt… maybe she could believe such a thing.

His eyes dropped. "I'm sorry I kept the truth from you. I will do whatever I can to get you back home, regardless of… of what I would prefer."

"Why?" she asked, breathless.

"Because I was never just humouring you."

She didn't know what to say. The sun had snuck up on them, making the moment warm and relaxed and dying it golden. There were emerald depths to his eyes the glow normally disguised, hiding a vulnerability just as rare.

With no forethought, she leaned forward and pressed her lips to his. He made the tiniest noise and tilted his head to lean into her. For a heady, unsuspecting moment it felt so right. So relaxed and comforting, his tongue hot in her mouth.

She jerked back half a second later, startled at herself.

Still caught in that slow and comfortable early morning brightness, she blinked like an owl.

A slow smile spread across his lips.

"Right. Well." She cleared her throat. "Consider yourself forgiven."

She got up and made a swift retreat.

"Coward," he called behind her.

"Mm-hm," she said, letting herself back into her room.

Chapter Text

Genesis brought up the rear as Bugenhagen led him and Hawke down into the Cosmo Canyon libraries. They wound down steep and narrow stairs carved inside the red rock. It was cool and still, utterly unlike the hot and sandy exterior. They passed halls filled with books and tablets, but still they descended, deeper and deeper into the archives.

Hawke walked with her head held high, no sign of her earlier skittishness, and with all her usual outrageous swing in her hips.

Genesis narrowed his eyes at the back of her head. He had every intention of teasing her relentlessly for kissing him like she was made to be in his arms and then running away, but she glanced back at him with laughter in her eyes and a self deprecating grin. Taking back the joke for herself, the greedy woman. He wasn't going to stand for it.

They left the stairs before they reached the bottom, and walked along a long, wide corridor. He swept forward and slipped an arm around her waist.

"I'll ask him where the exits are in case you need to run away," he whispered.

"Good idea, should I tell him he can stop putting so much coriander in everything now?"

He scoffed. "I doubt an elder has anything to do with the cooking."

"No, he does," she replied with suspicious certainty.

"Oh. You little rat!"

She flashed a brilliant, galling smile.

Bugen cleared his throat. "When you're ready. These are some of our older records, laid down in the early days after our town was settled. We don't usually let new visitors in." He stood before a heavy stone door and gave them a hard look, wiry eyebrows bristling pointedly. "I'm sure you're both honoured."

"Oh, I'm speechless with honour," Hawke said. "I'm incapacticated by it."

"I have never been so honoured, Elder, thank you," Genesis added with gravitas.

"We shall treasure this moment always," she said.

Bugen chortled. "Alright, don't hurt yourselves. Or each other. I'm busy today, you'll have to provide your own relationship counselling."

Hawke cleared her throat and looked sheepish. Genesis narrowed his eyes at the old man who had abandoned him at the bottom of a Fade pit all night.

Bugen pushed the door open to a wide hall full of rows of shelves. It stretched out, tall carved pillars holding up the ceiling. White light drifted down in shafts from windows high in the red stone wall. Genesis' breath caught in his chest. Hawke squeezed his arm in excitement.

"If you want to be allowed into the restricted sections," Bugen started, his voice hushed and conspiratorial, "you will have to convince the librarian you are worthy." He nodded at the desk.

A giant red lion lounged on it, his front paws pulled in under him and his head propped up on a stack of books. He watched them through a single scarred eye, while a flaming tail flicked behind him.

Bugen left them to it. Genesis and Hawke swapped a look. He hadn't expected it to be so big, and this was just one level!

Hawke went and spoke with the librarian and Genesis roamed the nearest shelf. He skimmed a finger over old leather bound spines, many unlabelled, and pulled one down at random. The Dragoon's Guide for the Breeding and Keeping of Wyverns, said the neat calligraphy inside the front cover.

He nearly dropped it. Wyverns had been extinct for centuries, and dragoons were so long gone their very existence was doubted.

They would be hard pressed to stay focused here. He was sorely looking forward to it.

The librarian barked a startled laugh. Genesis looked up to see the creature staring at Hawke as though she had an unexpected number of heads, before the creature shook his head and leapt down from the desk. The two walked back his way and Hawke wove her arm through his.

"We're getting a tour," she said with a wide grin.

The librarian, who offered no name for himself but spoke with a deep and clear voice, explained how it was all arranged, where they were free to go and what they were permitted to do. Ettie had given them both strict instructions to take extensive photos, on pain of never being let through the museum doors again if they didn't. The librarian gave permission for it. They kept the information so that it might be shared, not hidden away.

The two of them set up at a low table in a corner.

He handed Hawke a book, lightly brushing her fingers.

She was still wearing the loose linen shirt the locals had given her, even though they had their regular clothes back. Without the long tails of her tunic to hide such details, her soft fennec-hide trousers were extremely form fitting. She lounged about on the low seats, every movement making the linen drape against her form most arrestingly. He watched without shame.

She winked at him and turned a page. "What were you saying about dragoons?"

He leaned back in his chair.

"They were lance wielding warriors who would never run away from a challenge," he replied.

"Perhaps if they had been more strategic about it they would have prevailed in the long run and would still exist today."

He raised an eyebrow. "Strategic?"

She tossed her fringe aside. "Circumspect."

"The word you're looking for is cowardly."

She sniffed and flipped through a few more pages.

"Or perhaps a little overwhelmed," he drawled.

She cut her eyes at him. "I believe Sun Tzu said something about feigning disorder before crushing the enemy."

"He also said the opportunity to defeat the enemy is provided by the enemy himself," he replied with a smile, selecting a book for himself from their stack.

"How very fortunate, then, that we are not enemies."

"Quite. We shall have to find something else to do with our time."

They poured over the books together and whiled the hours away, flirting and teasing with reckless abandon. The various locals who overheard them rolled their eyes, but Genesis could not have cared less. With the truth finally out he felt lighter, and as though a wall between them had been torn down. Maybe nothing more would ever come of it, maybe their days together were numbered. That wasn't going to stop him from luxuriating in every moment.

If one day he was just another name in her storied past then he was going to make damn sure she would never doubt that his affection for her had been genuine. And if he allowed himself to be selfish, he would concede that he wanted every other man or woman she ever looked at to fall short in comparison to him.

They wined and dined on the terraces then returned to the libraries. Their search yielded mixed results, trails that looked promising but didn't amount to much, so they turned increasingly to the older books, working their way back through the archives.

As they quietly read together Hawke gently ran the sharp little tips of her gauntlet along the inside of his wrist. All of his attention rerouted to the sharp teasing points. He kept his eyes rooted to the page, while the galling lack of pressure against his skin felt like it might increase but never actually did. His heart rate leapt and he wasn't seeing a word, he wasn't even sure he knew his own name.

He took her hand to make her stop, firmly entwining his fingers with hers. She turned a page with a wistful sigh, not remotely remorseful. He narrowed his eyes and let his mana drag against hers, a brazen and alarming thing even on his world let alone hers.

Her breath hitched and she looked at him with rapt attention. It was his turn to play coy.

She harrumphed. He laughed.

Between distracting each other, Genesis found mention of a magic mirror that had one stood where Bugenhagen's observatory now did. The records called it broken, and said guards were posted, lest anyone tried to fix it.

The desert had been no such thing then, but lush grassy plains. Something corrupted it and the ground waters turned poisonous. Everything died and the earth rotted. The Cetra dug the first tunnels in the rocky face of the Canyon then to serve as a library, as their numbers were falling and whole clans disappeared.

They had slowly but surely purged the corruption, but even when gone, life struggled to seep back in. The disease grew in the very walls of their cities and the cetra had to bring them down themselves to stop the spread. The wounds in the land had become scars, cold and dead. So ended the settlement age, and the Cetra took up their nomadic ways again.

He lowered his book.

"This is the tale of the Calamity," he said. Told from a perspective the great legends didn't dwell on when there was a shapeshifting imposter to focus on. The records spoke of the corruption as separate from the woman who fell from the skies.

Hawke nodded and didn't say what he knew she was thinking.

"You think it's the Blight," he said for her.

"If it is… I'd say it was A Blight," she replied. They were standing in the stacks of the agricultural section, Hawke had found the word 'vhenadahl' in a copy of an ancient botanical text and was trying to find any information on the author. She had paused midway through drawing out a tome. "And if it was then they did it." She looked at him. "The ancient Cetra cured it."

"Aerith is already halfway there."

She looked away again. She slid the book back into its place on the shelf. "Forgive me for being a Maferath about it, but I don't think I'll fully believe it until I see it."

He nodded. He could understand that. There had been a time, during his sixth tour in Wutai, when he began to believe the war would never end. They had been pushing through mud and mountains for so long, taking ground only to lose it six months later, that the constant state of tragedy felt like all life ever had been and ever would be.

"I suppose that means they didn't need to defeat the archdemon," Hawke mused. "They must have just healed her corruption away. What a pleasant anti-climax."

"Hmm. If it is the Blight does that mean the Calamity came from Thedas?" he asked.

"I don't see how. The Calamity arrived and ate everyone, what, two thousand years ago?" She turned to face him and leaned back against the stack.

"Give or take a century or two."

"Then she predates the First Blight by a millenia. If there was any cross contamination, you gave it to us."

He scoffed. "Please, mine is not the planet with an excess of eldritch abominations."

"Don't you go calling me the Calamity too, I've already had Bugenhagen throw that at me."

"Well," he drawled. "You did fall from the heavens."

She laughed, low and with a sharp-toothed smile. "Do you want me to eat you, Genesis?"

He resolutely held off his smile. "If you feel so inspired."

"Hm." She reached for his jaw, running her fingers along his chin. He fell still under her touch. Her thumb brushed his bottom lip and she leaned forward to whisper, "you should be so lucky."

He huffed and she gave him an affectionate pat on the cheek, before turning back to the book shelf.

"The calamity didn't literally eat people, by the way," he said, crossing his arms. "She cannibalized their minds, their spirits. Then she wore their faces and spread out to take more."

"If it's not the Blight, it was blood magic on a scale to make Tevinter jealous," Hawke replied. "Or something else I cannot even imagine."

She pulled out the book she had started to draw out before and it fell open to a spot in the middle where someone had placed some papers covered in sketches. He glanced over her shoulder at it. He heard her sharp intake of air half a second before he recognised Avalanche's logo, and what must have been its earlier iterations as the designer refined the idea.

The two shared a look. She snapped the book shut and slid it back into its place on the shelf.

The flirting stretched on through the day, until they woke in the Fade.

Hawke sat up from the dusty, endlessly shifting sands atop a butte, looking up at what must have been the village's Fade representation. Cosmo had only a weak presence, ramshackle builds scattered atop the natural rock formation, the observatory sticking out at an odd angle.

"I didn't see any of this last night," Genesis said, standing further ahead, looking up.

A massive stone piling rose from the butte, a hundred meters higher than the observatory, crumbling arches from what must have been a tremendous aqueduct or bridge reaching across the desert. All that remained was the single sturdy piling.

Hawke stood in her full armour, staff in hand. She traded a look with Genesis and they stalked forward to explore it.

As they approached they could see it must have been a crossroad of some kind, the arches crumbled away in four directions. Dark gold sand poured infinitely from the dry paths, whisked away by the wind.

No spirits lingered, no voices cried. Hawke felt the weight of a presence nonetheless and kept her eyes peeled.

At its base they found nothing but sand. Modern Cosmo wouldn't be there for long until it too was buried by time.

They slung their weapons onto their backs and began to climb. The wind howled and sand scratched at them, until they broke out, up above the lower levels.

Genesis made it to the platform first and helped her up. At the top, there was no sand. Bare rock, carved with old glyphs sat cold and powerless beneath their feet. The remains of ancient anchors for spirits decorated the edges. The platform was bigger than the remaining space implied, very old memory keeping it in place. There were crumbling stables for chocobos, dry fountains, and red canvas covering forgotten courtyards and alleys flapped in the wind.

At the heart of it all, elevated on the highest platform, sat a mirror with a spear protruding through it.

"Look," Genesis said, his voice hushed. It felt wrong to disturb the silence. He stretched out his arm to point at the edge of the high platform.

Two sets of deep gouges cut deep through the stone. Hawke turned her head as she studied it. It reminded her, absurdly, of the kind of scratches her mabari left behind in the dirt when he tensed and then pounced.

The gouges were so big whatever was responsible would have rivalled a high dragon in size.

The weight on the back of Hawke's mind grew.

She frowned. She remembered this place.

They climbed higher, until they stood upon the gouges and faced the mirror. It was larger than the mirror in the museum by many meters with bigger and less detailed decorations. The elven spear pointed directly at them at about head height.

It looked so much more real in the Fade.

Genesis gave her a nod, and she let out a slow breath, and closed her eyes. She opened them a moment later and let the memories come.

The spear melted away, and the memory of power rippled through the Eluvian's surface. Cetran guards stood on either side of it.

A wolf the size of a dragon leapt out through the mirror and passed directly through them. They spun, and saw it spring from the edge of the platform, over the bustling crossroads, over the company of Cetra soldiers, and across the strong stone bridge. In the distance the next way point glowed under the view of a fort.

Complex magic blasted the Dread Wolf, but he blasted it back, his shields impenetrable. The Cetra moved quickly, blowing up the supports of the bridge. Stone cracked and fell.

Heavy wings cracked, and the silhouette of a dragon soared above. The magic turned against the defenders. Mythal's shadow raced along the bridges, guarding the wolf from the air.

It lasted only a moment before the memory collapsed. Hawke heaved a breath and shook her head as the details became smudges of colour, and then there was nothing but stone and sand and wind.

Somewhere in the back of her mind she felt glass shatter. She pushed through the sensation.

Genesis let out a hissing breath and spun back to stare at the mirror.

"Why didn't they destroy the Eluvians themselves?" he demanded. "They knew they were a vulnerability!"

"What would happen to Midgar if all the roads and train tracks disappeared overnight?" Hawke asked, her voice quiet.

He frowned and stared down the spear tip. Gradually he tilted his head in concession.

"The supply lines would all be down. The city would starve. Riots would destroy the people hogging resources, the people thought to be hogging resources, and eventually the resources themselves."

"Nobody's collecting the rubbish, cleaning the hospitals, or delivering medicine," Hawke added. She'd seen Kirkwall under siege enough times to know that Hightown didn't escape just because they were well fed.

"Starvation, disease, panic, and the city tears itself apart in under a week," Genesis said. He made a noise of frustration. "So they couldn't afford to destroy the mirrors. But the other side could?"

"There are still functioning Eluvians on the other side." She shrugged. "It must have been two separate networks."

"Or the elves simply knew how to make more."

"Or that."

Hawke looked up at the towering thing. A crack in the glass ran the length of it from the spear to the very top. Where her reflection should have been was only misaligned glass. She stepped to the side to escape the visual metaphor.

Genesis was still studying the spear. She didn't want to look at it. He ran a finger along its edge. His glove split and blood welled from his finger. He examined it dispassionately.

She reached out and healed the shallow cut, unsettled by it. It didn't pay to go bleeding on ancient artefacts.

"This ended the war," he said, nodding at the weapon.

"You think the elves won?"

"Nobody did, they couldn't have. This is a concession, destroying the only route for anyone to take ground, cut off forever." His eyes narrowed. "Unless they learned to fly through the vacuum of space."

She shook her head. "I doubt even spirits could survive the journey."

"You did."

"I came through a mirror in the Fade. One that didn't have a spear sticking out of it."

He looked at her then back to the spear.

"It's identical to the one in the museum," he said. "Down to the grooves of the hammer blows, the grain of the wood, the metal detailing." He raised a hand to the gold head but she grabbed his hand before he could touch it again. "Correct me if I'm wrong but even the reservoir of spent magic feels the same."

She braced herself, and then finally looked at it head on.

"It is the spear in the museum," she said, and felt the knowledge settle into her mind from both things she could objectively see, and things she couldn't know. She accepted it.

She reached out, hesitated, then brushed her fingers along the gold-hued head. The sheer depths of the magic reservoir stretched out before her mind. It was so obvious in the fade, the void so profound she couldn't find its walls, she could have drowned in the absence of what power had once dwelt there. She knew what it was.

"There was only ever one spear like this, forged from the stars by Andruil. Sundered a thousand times over as it shattered a network of a thousand mirrors."

The cracked glass in the back of her mind splintered, shattered, and green and purple magic curled in at the corners of her vision. There was a flash and for a split second a furious, towering, blood splattered Mythal hurled a spear of light straight at them through a mirror.

The dream came crashing down.

They scoured the library for days after that. Genesis looked to the empty space above Bugen's observatory where the great crossroad's mirror was not.

Teasing mentions of Thedas adjacent subjects kept Hawke digging but never quite finding anything concrete.

There was so much information to sift through. Overwhelming amounts. Genesis would have happily spent months on end chasing every thread, but they had limited time. For every day that passed Hawke skipped more passages and discarded more books. Someone had to have planted the first mirror, and as neither species could travel through the hard vacuum of space, someone, somewhere, had to have crossed the distance magically.

If the archives knew they weren't telling.

Genesis pulled her away for the night when she grew too close to pulling all her hair out. They walked together around the town, Hawke listing the reasons why teleportation was impossible only to turn around and talk herself into it again.

"So theoretically, it could be possible," she said, gesturing emphatically and making her red poncho flap, "so long as you have full belief in a functioning magic system that doesn't contradict the existence of teleportation."

"'Anything is possible,'" he said, quoting her own lessons. The town was quiet and the surrounding desert dark.

"But not everything . If you take the Mortalitasi at their word then my own arrival here from the Fade was a matter of spirit displacement," she said, then she was off on another tangential theory.

He nodded along, arguing when she contradicted his own school of thought.

He raised his chin. "It's a matter of perspective. Or interpretation, if you will."

"Mmm, interpret it for me, Genesis," she sighed.

"Magic is a function of belief, yes? You believe, no, you know the mirrors connected the worlds. Why should they not do so again if you command them?"

"For the same reason the clouds won't rain cheese, no matter how much I insist they should," she replied, looking wistfully out across the silvery plains. "Reality does exist, magic isn't just contextless nonsense. It's all context."

"And the context of your presence here is a definitive connection between worlds. You know your people were here before, and you already made that journey once yourself. So I ask you, why not?"

She shrugged helplessly. "How?"

"...Infinite in mystery is the gift of the Goddess. We seek it thus, and take to the sky."

She laughed. "Not an interpretation of magical theorem, no points awarded."

He rolled his eyes and was about to retort that he could build a magical theory around Loveless if he really wanted to, when a cheer rang up beneath them. They looked over the edge of the walkway to the bonfire at the village's heart.

That explained where half the townspeople had gone, a crowd was sitting on the raised platform around the Cosmo Candle and a single figure stood before them, their words lost over the distance.

"What are they doing?" Hawke asked, before leading them down to find out.

The wind had dropped and the chill of the night seeped in but it was warm by the Candle. Scraggly clouds covered the stars like a lacy veil and the shadows of the townsfolk sitting around the crackling bonfire danced on the surrounding buildings.

The crowd gasped and then gave a chorus of boos as they approached. The voice of the man in the centre rang out, strong and melodic. He was telling a story.

Hawke gasped and looked to Genesis with wide, excited eyes. He grinned back. A living oral tradition! She took his hand and pulled him up onto the wide platform where the crowd sat.

It was bright and hot in front of the fire. They wove through the people to find a good spot. Someone pushed mugs of hot, spiced wine into their hands and threw a blanket their way. They sat together under it and the storyteller spoke on, egging the crowd along.

It was clear they all knew the story well and were waiting eagerly for the dramatic turns. Genesis had never heard anything like it before, both the folktale and the medium unfamiliar. He and Hawke listened in rapt fascination.

The story came to an end: the exiled son of an elder returned home with a beautiful new wife, and the wise old holy man turned into a golden fish and swam away, which he assumed was referencing something from earlier in the tale they had missed. Everyone cheered and the storyteller bowed low, then asked who had made off with his drink. Someone else got up and took his place, launching into another tale.

From what he could tell there were a couple of different nomad tribes staying at the village and they were sharing their stories, the hosting tribe inviting the newcomers to speak. It must have been a well worn tradition, everyone knew everyone else's tales just as well as their own. Logs cracked on the fire and sparks rose into the night. The wine was strong and the atmosphere relaxed and contagious.

There came a lull in the stories, the first speaker was flirting with a young lady and the second and third had sat down and were disinclined to get up again.

"Share with us, visitors," someone called out, and several eyes fixed on them.

Genesis smiled politely and shook his head. He wasn't that kind of performer.

"Go on, tell us of your travels!" someone else called, who sounded suspiciously like Bugehagen.

Genesis looked to Hawke.

She was biting her lip but her eyes turned thoughtful. He gestured with his head at the stage, an eyebrow raised in question.

"It's been a long time. This was normally Varric's act..."

"You'll blow them all away," he said quietly.

She grinned then and handed him her mug. She climbed to her feet, shedding the blanket, and stepped forward to a few scattered cheers.

Genesis leaned back on his hands and watched. A wealth of eyes turned to her with curiosity. He narrowed his eyes at the few hecklers, they were going to sorely regret it if they opened their mouths now.

The crowd hushed.

Hawke stood alone in the centre of the ring of people, before the cracking fire, and lifted her head.

"Tell the tale of Tyrdda Bright-Axe, mountain maker, spirit's bride," she declared, raising her voice to the stars. "Free, her people, forged in fastness, made in mountains, hardy hide."

It wasn't wholly the same as the local traditions and they weren't certain what to make of it at first, but she held steady and the tale built in momentum and grandeur. Exciting verses written to be shouted to a crowd who shouted back. The audience picked up the rhythm and cheered back at her. Sheer confidence glossed over the more thedas-y lines.

There were duels, lovers, and betrayals. Her voice fell soft and husky at the crushing lows and thundered with power at the soaring highs. Hawke carried it all and took the audience along with her. Draped in red before a roaring fire, she raised her hand and commanded their attention.

Genesis watched her soar, her voice strong, her eyes sparkling, and his heart yearning.

He understood how a whole city had been compelled to follow her. Mages to rise up and scream for freedom, Templars to tremble and flee. She was magnificent.

It came to a triumphant, bittersweet ending. Applause and cheers went up around the fire.

Hawke bowed low, and laughed off calls for a second tale. Smiling widely, she came back and sat down at his side, slightly breathless and rose cheeked. He held the blanket out for her. She sat close, leaning into him, and accepting a mug of hot wine. He put his arm around her shoulders. The cold of the night closed in, but they shared warmth together under the blanket.

Someone else stood to speak next. The stars glittered overhead, and the Candle burned on.

Chapter Text

Rebellion walked the streets of Midgar. 

People put their heads down to sleep, dissatisfied with the steel and concrete ceiling over their lives. They woke up angry enough to do something about it. There had always been protests, but in the past they had been small, sporadic, and seen as radical. Now they were daily occurrences, well coordinated marches and sit-ins numbering in the tens of thousands along the pretty streets of the upper city. Shinra called them riots but the MPs were the only ones who brought weapons. 

Aerith sold flowers a couple of blocks over. Not that anyone was buying much tonight, many of the fancy shops were closed and people either rushed home from work trying to stay away from the protests or they gawked at them from a distance. She could hear the loudspeakers ordering everyone to disperse and the chanting almost drowning it out. 

She wasn’t technically allowed this close, but surely in the hubbub and clamour of it all nobody would be worrying about little old her. 

She wanted to get closer. Planet, she wanted to join them, throw a mask on and go scream obscenities at Shinra. Maybe to even tear the mask off and stand up, bold and unashamed, for her planet. She remembered leaning back against a chocobo out in the wilderness under an expanse of stars, followed by a void in her memories. She remembered being brave enough to think she could. 

She hung her head and sold a flower to a fellow on looker.

A convoy of big ugly Shinra vehicles with the SOLDIER emblem on the side rolled down the road and pulled up at the curb. She stepped back.  Another onlooker bumped into her as they scurried away, knocking a bunch of orange lilies to the ground. She scowled and knelt to pick them back up. 

Shiny black shoes stopped in front of her.

“What are you doing here?” Tseng asked.

“I’m working.” She shoved a couple of the scattered lilies into her basket and stood, giving up the rest. “Want to buy a flower?”

He crossed his arms. “You know you can’t be here. It’s not safe.” 

“Ugh. Don’t you have more important problems to worry about right now?” 

“You’re very important to the company, Aerith.” He frowned with that patronising, knowing look he knew she hated. “You know that.”

“But still a problem,” she replied, cheeky as she could. 

“Only when you choose to be. Come on.” He took her arm and redirected her back to the train station. 

SOLDIERs emerged from the black trucks and swarmed towards the protest.

“Wait,” she said, pulling against him and looking back, “what’s going to happen?”

The door of the truck behind Tseng opened and Sephiroth stepped out. His eyes landed immediately on Aerith.

She paused, looking back. She hadn’t seen the spirit wearing his face in some time, but it struck her that the imitation was very good. Better than Rebellion’s imitation of Tseng.

Sephiroth’s brow lowered and he stared at her with recognition. 

Oh. She blinked back at him. She probably should have figured it out sooner. 

Tseng turned around to see what had caught her attention. He and Sephiroth nodded at each other. The general gave her one last ominous look then squared his shoulders and marched off. 

“Let’s go, Aerith.” She let Tseng herd her away. 

The unit of SOLDIERS disappeared towards the protesters. 

  Sephiroth did not draw his sword. He did not need to. The sight of him did what the water canons and tear gas could not, and convinced them to disperse. 

He looked at the fallen signs they left behind, decrying Shinra’s sins. None of the accusations were false or exaggerated, if anything they understated the damage. He wondered what they thought writing it down would accomplish. Maybe there was some catharsis in yelling and shaking their fists at the tower. 

He envied them the luxury. He marched back to the tower. The debrief was swift, then he sat for another psych evaluation, they were growing in frequency since the truth about Project G came out, then he returned home for the night. The next day he would likely be ordered to do it all again. 

Would Aerith be there then too? 

He glowered over his dinner. He should not have been surprised to learn she was real, since the woman Hawke had been too, but Aerith felt more like a spirit in the Lifestream. What was she? What had she done to draw the Turks' attention?

He laid down to sleep determined to find out. He could dream on command now. It used to be a struggle to get any sleep, but now he closed his eyes and transitioned into the lifestream by simply choosing to do so. 

He opened his eyes to the network of sleek metal bridges. Hawke had told him off for it, accusing him of clogging up the place. He didn’t see how, the Lifestream was vast beyond reckoning. He set out upon one of the longer bridges. He passed the hideous copper statue nailed high into the cliff face, with its little campsite tucked in beneath it. Try as he might he couldn’t get any bridges to land at the campsite. He had tried descending from above, but there was some kind of perspective trick frustrating his efforts. 

The bridge he walked finished several meters above the field of flowers, where the sky turned white and nothing could be seen in any direction. 

Strange lumps and mounds were blanketed under the pastel flowers, like vines of kudzu growing over an abandoned township. Only the glowing mirror and the incongruous wooden door stood uncovered. He jumped down. 

The girl sat up from among the flowers, a leaf caught in her braid. She stared at him with more caution than she ever had before. It was a look he was accustomed to getting from civilians.

“Hi,” she offered. 

“You are not a spirit,” he said. “Or a memory.” 

She stood up, straightening out her dress. “Yeah, well, neither are you.”

“What are you?” 

“...I don’t think I should tell you.”

“Why not? I helped you.” He gestured at the mirror. It reflected an empty field of flowers back at them. 

“Because it’s none of your business.” Aerith pulled her jacket tight around herself and crossed her arms.

He frowned, unsure how to proceed. He didn’t converse with civilians outside of the company very often. She was a teenager, about the same age as most new Third Classes. 

“What does Tseng want with you?” he asked, trying a different angle. “Does he know about this place?”

She shook her head. “No, but what about you? You shouldn’t be able to do all the things you do here.”

He shrugged. He had never had an answer for his power level. “I have the same capabilities here that you do.”

“Yes but...” she looked down a moment, before straightening her spine. “I’m a cetra. The last one. Or at least, that’s what Shinra told me.”

His eyes widened. 

A cetra. Like the denizens of the pearl city he had watched the Hunter slaughter? The ancient people who lived in peaceful unity with a planet without Shinra, until the sharp eared invaders cut them down. 

“Shinra lies,” he said.

“Yes,” Aerith replied, her lips pursed.

He thought back on the memories the Lifestream had shown him. It felt as though he had been there at the Hunter’s side across long centuries of conquest, he had felt her grief and triumph alike. He knew full well she was a monster, but he felt no such kinship with those she cut down. 

“I don’t think I’m a Cetra,” he said slowly. 

Aerith shrugged. “Would you know if you were?”

“What is it like?”

“I don’t know.” She smiled. “I’ve never been anything else.”

He couldn’t argue with that. He was a SOLDIER, a ward of the state, a specimen. He had never known what it was like to be anything else. 

She uncrossed her arms and held them behind her back. She wandered off towards the wooden door in the distance. He followed. 

“How’s Angeal doing?” she asked. 

He focused on her. There were very few people who knew what had happened. 

“You healed him.”

She nodded. “As much as I could. Is he alright?”

“Better than he was. How did you do it?”

“I copied an ancient Cetra technique.” She opened the door and walked into the humble interior of a house. 

“Can you do it again?” he asked, stepping through and closing the door behind him. The ceiling was too low for him. She led him down a set of stairs into a dated but scrubbed clean kitchen. Stray vines brushed at the windows and stuck out of the cracks of the drawers.

Aerith sat at the dining table, where a steaming mug was waiting for her.

“Is he not getting better anymore?” she asked.

“His recovery has stalled.”

She hummed. “I was going to try again anyway, but I’ll need your help.” She looked into the depths of the hot drink. “The spirit that showed me the technique is dangerous. I need to talk to her but I don’t want to risk it alone.”

He quirked an eyebrow. “How can a spirit be dangerous?”

She looked up, unamused. “Getting trapped by them is what put Angeal in a coma in the first place. If Hawke hadn’t found us...”

He straightened. There was a lot of implication in that statement. Genesis was going to explain everything he had left off the mission report or Planet help him. The other name Aerith dropped got his lips twisting with distaste.

“ Hawke .”

Aerith struggled to hold back a smile. “I see you’ve met her.”

He grunted and took a seat opposite her. The chair and table should have been too short for him but somehow weren’t. The Lifestream was determined to be homey in this place.

“Tell me about this dangerous spirit.”

“Her name is Aega, she’s a Pride spirit.”

He tilted his head. “The one that lives in the pearl city watchtowers?” It couldn’t have trapped Angeal and Genesis for a week, he would have noticed.

Aerith scoffed. “Of course not, all the spirits in Midgar are less than a year old. Aega is from the days before the Calamity.” She crossed her arms on the tabletop and hiked up her shoulders. “She knows so much.” 

He nodded slowly. He had some questions for the creature himself, if that was the case. 

Aerith let out a nervous breath. “I’m good at dreaming but it's full of traps. I’m not enough of a fighter.” 

He shook his head. “I’ll go with you. It won’t be a problem.” He got up. “Which way is it?”

“Not tonight. We’ll need to start early, it's a long journey.”

They discussed their plans and agreed to set off together in a week’s time when he would have the evening off. She handed him a hot chocolate, and they talked about what she was willing to share on the Cetra. She gave no information on Hawke or Genesis but the gaps their absence left in the conversation were telling. Did everyone but him know each other? She laughed and said probably. 

It was a pleasant night in the Lifestream, if a little awkward. He woke up excited for the mission to the Pride spirit, and pleased to no longer be dreaming alone. 

In the late morning Sephiroth met Angeal in the First Class training room. It was just the two of them in the state of the art facilities. Angeal worked to build his strength back up, doing weighted pull ups. 

Sephiroth ran through kata on the training mats, Masamune flashing under the harsh lights. It wasn’t truly necessary anymore but he found the familiar repetition comforting. It was pleasant to be here with Angeal again. Genesis preferred to work out in the afternoons so the long weeks where Angeal had been in a coma were terribly quiet.

Angeal let go off the bar and landed with a grunt. He was drenched in sweat, but that was normal, Angeal always sweated a lot. 

He picked up his water bottle and fiddled with the screw cap lid. Sephiroth got to the end of his set and then began again. Angeal sighed and sat on one of the benches. 

“I can’t believe my mother was a Shinra scientist,” he said. 

Sephiroth glanced briefly at him so he knew he was listening, but otherwise continued without pause. They hadn’t talked about it, not since the day he woke up and learned the truth. He had been both dreading the possible discussion and dreading the even worse possibility that Angeal wouldn’t tell him anything and only go to Genesis with his grief. 

Angeal passed the water bottle from hand to hand. “She must have had her reasons.” 

“Have you spoken to her?” Sephiroth asked.

“I’ve been meaning to call.” He scowled and ducked his head, strands of damp hair falling into his face. “She obviously didn’t want me to know. Perhaps I should respect that.” 

“She was almost certainly under an NDA. She probably still is.”

“I am too. I can’t legally talk to my own mother about my own birth.”

“Welcome to the Shinra corporation.”

Angeal scoffed. Sephiroth came to the end of another set. He lowered his sword. Angeal sat with his head leaned back against the wall, his eyes looking up. 

“Get your sword,” Sephiroth said. “Come on. Get up.”

Angeal sighed but he did so, drawing out the Buster sword and standing opposite him. Sephirth raised an eyebrow at the rare sight of the family sword at a mere spar. Angeal didn’t meet his eyes.

Their blades clashed, with little heat or urgency. Faster than the average Second Class was capable of, but neither pushing themselves. Angeal moved cautiously, wincing at impacts that shouldn’t have been a strain to hold off.

“Do we really just go back to work?” he asked from the other side of the mats. “Like nothing has happened?”

“What else can we do?” Sephiroth asked, and genuinely meant it. “What is the honourable course of action, Angeal?”

“Honourable?” Angeal gave a weak, bitter laugh and threw himself forward again. “I’m a monster bred for war. How should I know what’s honourable?”

Sephiroth frowned but didn’t say anything. The pace picked up, but they were limited by the low ceiling and rows of equipment lining the walls. Sephiroth focused on defending himself. Angeal wasn’t fighting offensively though and kept backing off, holding up the Buster sword defensively in a two handed grip.

“Maybe Genesis has the right idea, running off into the wilderness for a couple of weeks,” Angeal muttered.  

“Even he will have to come back to reality eventually. Then what?”

Angeal scowled. “We took oaths. This is reality.”

“So what will you do?”

“I’m a SOLDIER,” he said, as though it meant something. “I… there’s nothing else I can do.”

Sephiroth frowned at him. He could handle Genesis' pushback and righteous indignation, he did well when challenged. He didn’t like Angeal’s agreement with his own assessment. It sounded weak coming out of someone else’s mouth. 

“Is that really good enough for you?” he asked quietly.

Angeal mistimed his parry and Masamune’s blunt edge cracked against his off hand. 

He dropped his sword, swearing. Sephiroth stepped forward with his cure materia. 

Angeal tried to wave him off, his fist still clenched and a wince on his face. Sephiroth took his hand anyway and poured a Cure spell into it. This had all started with Genesis’ stupid sparring injury, he wasn’t going to let there be another. 

No, that wasn’t right. Genesis' injury hadn’t started anything, it just uncovered what was always there: Shinra’s first betrayal.

Angeal’s expression crumpled.

“Dammit, Sephiroth. This is wrong!”

“Yes.”

He focused on the injury. He had cracked a metacarpal bone and encouraged it to mend itself. It wasn’t reacting. He swallowed a dry lump in his throat and redoubled his efforts. The bone sluggishly responded, slower than an unenhanced person would react to a Cure. He could feel the hum of degradation in the crack, sinking into the bone.

Aerith had to move quickly.

“It’s not healing?” Angeal asked, not looking at him.

Sephiroth shook his head.

Angeal leaned forward to rest on his shoulder. Sephiroth held him up.

“Is this really it?” Angeal muttered. “Is this all there is for us?”

The answer life had beaten into him was ‘yes’. He wanted to say ‘no.’

“I don’t know,” was all he could manage.

In the Lifestream Aerith sat in front of the mirror. She frowned at it. The beautiful, useless, rippling surface mocked her. 

Sephiroth landed in the flowers next to her. She yelped and jumped. She scowled at him and up at his bridge that she knew hovered up there somewhere, just beyond the reach of her little domain and thus hidden from the ground. 

“Can’t you use the door?” she groused. She hadn’t expected for another six days. 

“Angeal is running out of time,” he said. “We have to go now.”

“ Now ?” She climbed to her feet. 

“Is there any reason why we have to wait? We have the whole night ahead of us now.” 

“It took seventy two hours last time.”

“You got trapped last time. That won’t happen with me there,” he replied, with absolute confidence.

She bit her lip. Both Angeal and Genesis were the same rank and it didn’t help them in the least. Hawke was away and wouldn’t know to come rescue them if something went wrong. Still… Sephiroth was a very powerful dreamer, he had taught her as much about manipulating the Lifestream as Hawke had. What was the worst that could happen? 

She remembered Rebellions’ self satisfied smile as he took her memories away from her.

She steeled herself and took a deep breath. Aega had treated her fairly, more or less. Aerith was wiser now.

“Alright.” She nodded. “Let’s go.”

She led the way. 

Sephiroth walked at her side and they left Midgar’s dreamscape behind. She remembered the route Rebellion had led her, the feel of it and the sense of destination that guided her.  

The path had changed. It had been empty the first time, nothing but unformed clay. Now there was something wild to it, structures rising here and there and the atmosphere altering drastically. Stray spirits passed them, some young and curious, others far too old and clever to have been born from Shiva. 

She put her head down and focused on arriving. Sephiroth moved through the Lifestream with such determination nothing dared try to stop them. 

She looked up when it felt like they should have been getting close. She scanned the horizon for the glow of the giant bubble, the shield that locked all the spirits into the Sleeping Forest. She narrowed her eyes, surely they were nearly there? 

They climbed a hill, and the forest stretched out before them. The bubble was gone. 

Spirits still glowed and swam over the forests, but they were not so densely packed and nothing kept them in. 

She halted. Oh. Oh dear. Maybe killing Sloth had done more than she intended. 

“Is this it?” Sephiroth asked.

She nodded. The dense green of the forest encased the beautiful seashell palace. It looked grander now, the spikes of the shell somehow more ostentatious. She supposed that made sense, for a palace ruled by Pride. 

Sephiroth set off immediately, marching down the slope and into the woods. She hesitated for a moment. It was easy for him, he didn’t know how horrible it had been last time. He looked back over his shoulder with a frown. She braced herself, held her staff in her hands, and took the plunge. 

The path did not wander this time, and they were not derailed with floating islands. 

The trees pulled aside and they walked beneath a shifting canopy. Spirits floated overhead, whispering in languages neither spoke. 

They stepped out from the forest onto a broad bridge and a bare courtyard before the palace. Last time they had been pursued by spirits wearing the faces of scientists and Templars the whole way, swords and scalpels swinging. This time the spirits watched in ominous silence. 

Aerith swallowed. It was so quiet. Sephiroth walked with his head high. It was difficult to feel too afraid standing next to him. He felt dangerous, and the Lifestream put great stock in feelings. 

The palace doors swung open. An airy and coldly lit throne room greeted them. Sheer green and blue curtains like the long fluttery tentacles of a jellyfish fell from the high ceiling along the walls. At the top of a towering dias on the other side of the room sat Aega. 

The Pride spirit watched them walk across the long empty hall, every footstep and thud of her staff echoing off the white marble in the heavy silence. She wore the same form as last time: that of a woman with slate grey skin, curly, navy blue hair, and a wreath of horns reaching up from her temples like a spiked crown. She wore loose pink silk and a haughty, unyielding expression. 

“Aerith Gainsborough,” she called when they were still halfway across the hall, her voice clear and cold, “daughter of Ifalna, daughter of Talita, of the line of the Blessed Matriarch Coerla, of the Shearwater Clan.” 

“Aega,” she replied, with a deep nod, rushing to keep up with Sephiroth’s long strides. She had no idea what was expected of her here. Aega had descended to her level and bowed last time. She didn’t so much as stand now. 

“Did I not tell you not to bring the children of the Evanuris back into this sacred place?”

Aega wasn’t even looking at her. She was scowling at Sephiroth. He looked back with an expression hard enough to rival hers. 

“He isn’t, he’s human,” Aerith replied, irritated. She’s levelled the same ridiculous accusation at Hawke and Genesis. “You’ve been trapped here for thousands of years, the Evanuris are long gone.”

“Who are the Evanuris?” Sephiroth asked, looking between the two women. 

Aega sneered down at him. “Dirthara-ma.”

“I’ll tell you afterwards,” Aerith hissed under her breath, “this isn’t-”

“No, what do you know about me?” He stepped forward, one foot on the first step of the dias.

Aega leaned her chin on the back of a knuckle. “What will you give me for my knowledge?”

Sephiroth frowned. Aerith scowled at the two of them for derailing before they could even get to the subject at hand.

Sephiroth straightened his back and stood fully on the bottom step. “You will have the pride of being allied with the last cetra and SOLDIER’s general.”

“Hn. You must think me very young.”

“What do you want then?”

Aega looked down at him, her dark eyes assessing. She rose from her throne in a flutter of silk. 

“What are you proud of, Sephiroth?” She descended as she spoke, her hands held behind her back. “The nations you have brought to their knees? The little people who cower as you pass? The rank you’ve earned with your sweat and blood? No, these things are nothing to you.” She stopped two steps above him and studied him. She was a foot taller than him without the elevation. 

“The faith your friends have in you?” she asked, her voice thoughtful. “You are proud that Angeal and Genesis call you ‘friend’.”

“What about them?” His back was ramrod straight and his voice curt.

“Share with me your memories of them, and I will tell you everything your father has hidden from you.”

“No!” Aerith cried out.

Sephiroth sent her a harsh look, but she just shook her head. 

“We’re not giving you any memories. You’re not going to trick us like that, it's not on the table. Ask for something else.”

Aega raised an eyebrow at her. “It is not a trick. I will take only what I am offered, and give only what you ask for in turn.”

Aerith pursed her lips. Sure she would, she would just take advantage of any gaps they didn’t specify about. “You wanted me to kill the Sloth spirit last time, we could do something like that again.”

Aega gave them her back, and returned to her throne. She settled comfortably onto it and looked down at Aerith.

“What for?”

Damn. She hadn’t thought of that, they’d given Aega the throne already last time, 

“Aerith,” Sephiroth said quietly, reproachfully, stepping back off the dias. 

“We’re here to cure Angeal. Aren’t we? We can always come back later,” she whispered back.  

“If you don’t trust her then why are we here?”

“Because nobody else remembers the cure. You want to learn about the Evanuris, ask Hawke.”

He narrowed his eyes but nodded and looked back to the throne. Aega watched them with cunning eyes. 

“You have a request?” she drawled. 

Aerith stepped forward. She lowered her head to try and be polite, but then figured that a spirit of pride probably wouldn’t be impressed with humility. She raised her chin and her voice. 

“All I ask is to see the memory you showed me last time, of my ancestor curing the sick young elf with the singing twist of lifestream.”

Aega raised an eyebrow. “Indeed?”  

“Yes.”

Her tilted. Aerith didn’t like or understand the way she studied her. She felt the spirit brush against her mind. 

“You have great faith in your ancestors,” Aega said gently.

“You told me to be proud of them. I am.”

“As you should be. They were more than you know. What do you offer in exchange?”

She raked her mind for something to barter with. She looked sidelong at Sephiroth who gave her a look like she’d ‘forgotten’ her wallet after eating a full meal out at a restaurant with her friends. She didn’t think that was fair, how was she supposed to be prepared when he sprung it on her without warning? 

“I’m offering, um…”

Sephiroth held out a hand, the glint of red materia stark against the washed out room. “We offer this.”

Aega looked amused. “Oh? Very well, I will accept the spirit of Bahamut.” 

She raised a hand and the materia floated up from Sephiroth’s grasp to hover in the air before her throne. She formed a fist, and a terrible cracking sound rang out. The briefest impression of scales and teeth flooded the room before it was swallowed by a flash of light and a deafening roar that died away into nothing. She released her fist with a flick. 

The two halves of a dead, grey materia fell to the ground. 

Aerith stared at it, horrified. Even Sephiroth looked shocked. 

Aega stood. “The trade is complete.” She raised a hand and the surroundings changed, they stood upon a pearly white path. 

“Come,” she called, and walked along the pathway into the chamber where a platform rose up out of a still, black lake. She led them up the stone steps. 

Unlike almost everything else Aerith had seen of Cetra ruins, the platform was not smooth and pale like mother of pearl, it was grey stone. Deep grooves were carved into its surface in complex patterns. She felt in her bones that she walked across something tremendously old, and so very powerful. Hard shafts of light fell from above at a steep diagonal angle. It felt like a hallowed place. 

Aega waited for them in the centre. Sephiroth looked to Aerith and she stepped forward.

“Let me see it.”

The surroundings grew dark and indistinct, everything beyond the platform falling away. Up from the stone rose the shape of a woman and a young man on a bed with pointy ears and a waxy complexion.

Aerith felt her heart clench at the sight. Matriarch Coerla, with her long black hair, chubby cheeks, and a face made for smiling. She stood at the elf’s head, raised her hands above his chest, and the air trembled with power. Aerith grabbed at Sephiroth’s arm, this was it, this was the thing. 

The spell sang. Raw life, living strands of lifestream pulled out from the Planet and into her hands. She twisted them, weaving it into the living energy of the elf. He gasped, unfocused eyes rolling in his head. The song got louder and brighter, more and more complex. It sounded enchanting, seductive almost, with a steady beat to it. Aerith forced herself to look, even when it grew blinding. 

The elf jerked but couldn’t raise his arms. 

Coerla pressed the braid into his chest and the light disappeared into him. He let out a hollow breath, and colour returned to his cheeks. His eyes were still bloodshot, but he focused enough to look up at Coerla. She brushed the hair from his face. The images lost cohesion and fell away. 

Aerith bit her lip. It looked like it had been in the Lifestream, not the waking side. How would she recreate that? The braid itself was so much more complicated than what she had been doing. It wasn’t really even the same thing, she’d been trying to recreate a regular healing spell with the medium of raw lifestream. What Coerla had done… she didn’t even recognise it. 

“Wait,” Sephiroth commanded.

Aega cocked her head at him. “Yes?”

“Show it again, the full image. You’re holding it back.”

“What am I withholding?”

He stalked towards her. “The man on the bed. Show more of him.”

Aega stepped back and raised a hand.

The images rose again, Coerla and her patient. There were more details now, richer colour and texture. Aega stood opposite Coerla, lending her power.

The elf was chained down. He wasn’t on a bed, it was a table. Aerith’s blood ran cold.

The Matriarch brought forth the spell. The sick elf struggled to get away, but couldn’t move. His eyes rolled and he whimpered as the song rose all around him. The song that called and twisted, life bent into a cunning new shape. Across countless millennia it was still reaching out for anything it could touch. The raw lifestream in Coerla’s hands wove around the strands of the elf’s spirit energy, until it was a part of him. 

She pushed it into his chest and corrupted life hummed alongside his heartbeat, a secret little passenger. Aerith clapped a hand across her mouth. 

The elf regained his colour and his eyes focused on the cetra. She looked down at him. Coerla’s face, made for smiling, looked at him without pity.

The images faded away again. 

“Have you seen the full image now, Sephiroth?” Aega asked. 

“You were there,” Sephiroth said, devoid of all emotion. 

“Yes.”

“You made a bioweapon.”

“The Cetra defended themselves. The Elvhen worked horrors upon them without remorse, why should they have stayed their hand in retribution? The Evanuris reached out in pride and were rewarded.”

Aerith couldn’t say anything. She stared at the empty platform.

“And Genesis and Angeal are casualties of your war. Thousands of years later.”

“You are not casualties, you are the intended target, son of Andruil.”

“Stop it,” Aerith forced out. 

“Son of who?” 

“The Calamity. Heir of death and ruination, you are an infection upon the land. You will die as surely as your friends.”

“Stop it,” Aerith yelled.

Sephiroth’s sword flashed through the air.

Aerith stumbled back out of the way. Aega charged him, electrical whips crackling. 

Sephiroth dodged the first blow and grabbed the second strike of the whip from the air, shrugging off the blast of electricity. He hauled the weapon out of her hands and threw it away. He swung and took off one of her arms. Aega snarled, nothing human in her face. She dragged her other hand through the air and magic warped around him. 

He ducked beneath the blast and grabbed Aega by the neck.

“Who is Andruil?” he demanded.

She grabbed at his head and entropic magic roared. He crushed her throat.

There was a crack . Aega cried out with a voice like stone grating against itself before she was swallowed by a flash of light. The spirit shattered in Sephiroth’s hands.

The dream collapsed. 

Chapter Text

Hawke and Genesis sat curled up in a puddle of sunlight, reading. 

It was mid morning in Cosmo Canyon and they had the library to themselves. Hawke sat with her legs stretched out on the floor, leaning against the base of an armchair for back support. Genesis lounged sideways on the armchair, one arm draped loosely across her shoulder. 

She hadn’t heard him turn a page in a while. His hand, which had been a tendency to tap or squeeze her shoulder from time to time, had fallen still. 

She glanced back at him. He had his eyes closed. The book he was supposedly reading was partially slipped from his hands, the pages fanning out. He looked like a cat curled up in a sunbeam, with a pout on his lips and his hair slightly askew from where his face was mushed against the leather back. She smiled. 

She was tempted to join him and nod off in the relaxing sunlight. The book she was reading, a journal of a girl on the first recorded voyage from the western to the eastern continent, was excruciatingly dull. It had been recommended to her as an insightful historical text that illuminated the culture of the time. That was probably true, but as Hawke already knew how looms worked and how to wash her linens in wood ash and lye, it was akin to reading the ingredients list on a shampoo bottle. 

She flicked through a couple of pages, losing what little interest she had. Little Betsy from 1600’s Nibelheim was probably not going to unveil any great magical secrets. 

Genesis muttered something in his sleep.

“I agree,” she said, yawning and stretching her legs. “A fine idea.”

She let the book fall closed in her lap and leaned her head back against his thigh. This holiday had become increasingly indulgent. Returning to reality was going to be a right bother.

Genesis’ hand on her shoulder twitched. His breath hitched and he mumbled something. She looked at him. He jerked, his forehead scrunching up but his eyes still closed. He tossed his head from side to side, and sweat beaded at his forehead.

His grip on her shoulder tightened. He looked paler all of a sudden. 

She slid out from under his arm, trying not to jostle him, and backed away a couple of meters. She’d known enough dangerous people beset by nightmares to know better than staying close. 

She frowned as he breathed heavily. He was a strong dreamer now, with enough composure in the Fade that panicking there shouldn’t have translated to physical reactions here. From the outside it didn’t look like a Fade nightmare at all. Her frown deepened. 

She lobbed a cushion at him. 

He snapped awake, suddenly sitting up and looking around with wide eyes and a red glow in his hands. His arms shook. It reminded her so sharply of Carver trying to shake off Corypheus’ false Blight dreams for a split second that her breath left her.  

It took him longer than it should have to register where he was. His eyes settled on her, wide and confused. His breathing calmed down some. He fell back in the chair and dragged a hand down his face.

“Sorry, I...” he trailed off.

She shook off the apology, suspicious settling into the bottom of her stomach. “Are you alright?”

“Yes. I’m fine. It was just a dream.” He looked away, visibly straining to piece his dignity and composure back together. He leaned forward, his elbows on his knees.  “It was just a dream.” 

“Do you... want to be alone?”

“No,” he bit out. “Please.”

She stepped tentatively closer. “What did you see?”

“Just the Fade,” he said. He looked up at her beseechingly. 

“What happened?” she asked.

“There was... a song. And a drum, like a heartbeat.”

She stepped closer again and put a hand on his shoulder. 

He pulled her closer still and buried his head in her middle, grounding himself. She wrapped her arms around him, a hand in his hair

“There were eyes everywhere, and a hand on my wing. It was trying to tear it out,” he ground out. “It ripped me apart.”

He grabbed her hand and silently moved it to the shoulder where his wing emerged from. She heard the silent plea and flooded his back muscles with healing. He gasped and held her closer, his arms around her waist. 

Corruption pumped through his veins. It throbbed with every heartbeat. She swallowed even though her throat was bone dry.

“It wasn’t just the Fade,” he admitted. 

“No.”

He looked up at her. “Then what was it?”

“Can you still hear the song?”

“Yes. What was it, Hawke?”

She didn’t want to say it.

“Did you see a dragon?”

He stared at her, his eyes glowing in the shadow she cast. 

“...And it saw me.”

The suspicious clawing its way up her throat turned into dread. 

“That was the Calling.”

She held him again. A couple grey strands of his hair came loose in her hand. 

They were interrupted by a call from Sephiroth. Hawke eavesdropped on the strange conversation, clipped and mysterious in a way that baffled even Genesis. 

What mattered was that Angeal had taken a turn for the worse. The rest of Genesis’ leave had been cancelled. The sun soaked dream was over and Midgar called. 

Her own phone rang while Genesis was hanging up. Aerith’s smiling face flashed across the screen. The unease still clogging up her throat made itself known. Aerith never called when a text would do. She turned into their little corner of the library for the illusion of privacy and picked up. 

“Hello beautiful,” she said, making herself smile into the receiver. 

“Hawke! Thank the planet.”

She winced. 

“What’s wrong?”

“I went and saw Aega again,” Aerith said, quiet and dreadful. “I took Sephiroth with me.” 

Hawke froze. “You- what ?” 

Then she spun and locked eyes with a grimacing Genesis. He could hear every word too. 

‘Why ?’ he mouthed. She shrugged back helplessly. 

“Why would you go back? And what does Sephiroth have to do with it? Or you for that matter?”

“He killed her.”

“Oh.” Well, that explained why everyone was awake at least. Her shoulders relaxed, if they’d killed the most powerful spirit than likely they had avoided any possessions. “Better than the alternative, I don’t want to know what kind of abomination he’d make.” She grinned at the phone. “Not what I asked though.”

“Hawke! Take it seriously!”

“...What am I not taking seriously, Aerith?”

“I was looking for information on the Blight.”

“Did you figure it out?” she asked, daring to hope. 

“No.” 

Genesis scowled and turned away. The despair in Aerith’s voice caught Hawke’s attention far more than the denial. She turned back to the wall and cradled the phone. 

“What happened?”

“I shouldn’t say on the phone.”

They shouldn’t have been saying any of it on the phone. Too late now. 

“Are you safe?” she asked quietly. “Are you alright?”

“Yes.” It was a bleak whisper. “I’m safe.”

Hawke narrowed her eyes. “I’m coming home now, I’ll be back in a day or two. Will you be alright in the meantime? We’ll talk it out when I get there.”

“Okay. Thank you. Hawke, I...”

She trailed off, and the silence grew heavy. 

“I’m sorry about Pride,” Hawke offered. 

“She called him the son of Andruil.”

Her back straightened. “Did she?”

“It’s not true, is it? That’s nonsense.”

“No idea,” she said, her brow furrowing. “I’ll see you soon. Stay safe.”

“You too.”

There wasn’t time to be confused, they had to leave as soon as possible. The idea and its implications drifted through Hawke’s head nevertheless. Genesis went to go hire some chocobos and she searched the village to find Bugenhagen. The sun was at its zenith and a scorching hot wind chased her up the walkways.

The son of Andruil. 

She had suspected that there was some old Elvhen blood in the SOLDIERs, their magical prowess was simply too much to get from Mako alone. Genesis’ wing was born of shapeshifting magic, which was outside of even Aerith’s capabilities. 

It was ridiculous though. Unless Shinra had an old god in the basement. 

She regretted the thought the second it crossed her mind. Combined with Genesis dreaming up the start of a Blight, it was... unspeakable. 

What would a Blight be like with Andruil at its head and all of SOLDIER compromised?

She felt a wave of nausea pass through her. She blamed the scorching midday heat and ignored the ball of terror in her gut. 

Maybe it was some other Andruil. Andruil Jenkins, from downtown Midgar. She snorted a thin and unhinged laugh. 

It didn’t occur to her to disbelieve Aega. Pride spirits might lie to flatter or insult you, whichever triggered the most proud response, but Sephiroth couldn’t have known who the Elvhen Goddess of the Hunt was. It was a meaningless statement to any modern day Gaian. 

Or it should have been, according to everything Hawke had found. She’d spent a week scouring the oldest library on the planet and found a grand total of three elvhen words and all used incorrectly. Not a single name.

She reached the observatory at the top of a village and knocked on the wooden door frame.

“Come in!” Bugenhagen called. 

It was cool and dark inside the observatory, compared to the burning outdoors. Bugen was tinkering with the machinery, his legs swinging off the side of his floating seat and a soldering iron in hand. 

She had come to thank him for his hospitality. Maybe warn him, maybe even ask for some advice. She wasn’t good at listening to advice but it was nice to have nevertheless. 

He looked up from his work with a smile and she wasn’t sure what to say. He turned serious at whatever expression she must have been wearing. 

“Ah. You’re leaving then?”

She nodded. 

“A shame. I wanted to show you your planet through the telescope.”

She offered a tentative grin. “Maybe next time.” 

He put his soldering iron down and crossed his arms, burying his hands in the voluminous sleeves of his robe. He studied her under his bristly eyebrows.

“You didn’t find what you were looking for.”

She forced a smile. “No. We found something much, much worse.”

His brows rose. 

She muddled through an explanation. It didn’t sound very plausible and she likely wasn’t making much sense anyway. 

She recalled Carver’s rotting skin. His waking panic as Corypheus’ Blight call grew louder every day. How the Warden Stroud’s focus would wander, listening to a song only they and the darkspawn could hear. 

It had been too much for them. The whole warden army had panicked and turned on the world because the call was just too much. They didn’t know what else to do. 

She grew numb as she spoke. One more disaster, another world on fire. As long as the music played what choice did they have but to dance? 

Bugen’s eyebrows rose impossibly higher as she spoke. 

“That sounds… bad.”

She snorted. “An astute observation.”

“But Gaia has suffered attacks before. She just asks her children to step up and defend her.”

“I am not a child of Gaia,” she replied. 

He waved it off. “An adoptee, for the moment at least. And a welcome one, since you can apparently recognise threats we don’t.” He floated past and patted her on the shoulder. 

She wasn’t sure how to tell him just how far beyond her this was. 

She’d hoped Aerith might be able to cure it, but that was when it was simply two infected. If there was an archdemon in the mix it was too late for healing individuals to change the tide. And Aerith didn’t sound like she was making progress anyway. There wasn’t the infrastructure or understanding for holding off a Blight here. Hawke knew some Grey Warden secrets, but that was all for fighting infected Tevinter old gods, there had never been an Elvhen archdemon before.

She was just one woman. What in the void was she supposed to do? 

Bugen frowned when she didn’t say anything. 

“How bad is it?”

“So imagine the worst possible thing.”

“Mm?”

“It’s slightly worse than that.”

He chortled. “You don’t know that, I have a wild imagination.”

She didn’t laugh. “Not wild enough.”

He sobered. He floated closer, his expression turning concerned. 

“You don’t strike me as a woman ruled by fear.”

“Ruled by it? No.” She looked down. She wished she was in her armour and had her staff on her back. It felt reckless to be without it now. “But I am afraid of this, Bugenhagen. I’m afraid Shinra have done something abominable… and we are not equipped to undo it.” She forced a weak grin. “I’m not great at undoing damage at the best of times.”

Bugen sat up straight. “What did Shinra do?”

She shook her head. It wasn’t hers to tell. 

“Some poisons cannot be purged,” was all she could say. 

He nodded slowly. “Then we must endeavour not to be poisoned in the first place.”

“If it is not already too late.”

He titled his head and studied her. 

“Did you know your eyes look yellow in a certain light?”

She blinked. “Do they?”

“Yes.”

“Huh. Maybe I’m not eating enough citrus.”

“Thank you for telling me.” He patted her on the shoulder again. “May the Planet guide you, Hawke. And that SOLDIER of yours.”

“Thanks.” 

“Now off you go. Save the day.” He returned to his soldering station and picked up the iron. 

“I have some bad news for you on my day-saving record.”

He gave her a stern look over his shoulder. 

“Save the Planet or I won’t let you back into my library.”

She laughed. “Fine. You’ve twisted my arm.”

Genesis rented them two chocobos from the stables. He wanted to move as quickly as possible, so he asked for their fastest mounts. 

Hawke looked up at the towering birds. There was a lean and mean red hen with claws like a dragon, scratching at the rock under her feet. The other was a lazy purple rooster with leucism: patches of ashen white and grey feathers among the purple, and a magnificent crest rising from its head. They were taller and skinnier than the ones she saw on the eastern continent.

“Do you know how to ride?” Genesis asked, handing her the reins of the purple one. 

“Not well,” she replied. It looked down at her from on high. She distinctly remembered swinging into the saddle of a short, plump, and placid chocobo back in Junon, only to fall off the other side. If they’d had the luxury of time they could have shared one chocobo, but it was a two day ride going flat out. It would be too much to ask of any one bird.

Genesis gave her a look. “You can’t ride at all, can you?”

She confessed her ignorance and he assured her it was easy. 

He was a liar. Of course it was easy for him, he grew up with chocobos on his parent’s farm. She grew up with a mabari war hound, which only a fool would try to ride. She could just about make do on horseback, but you didn’t actually sit on a chocobo’s back: you sat on its shoulders, with your legs over its wings. 

Genesis swung up into the saddle, all grace and decorum. She scrambled up onto her bird’s back like a sack of potatoes. If they’d had more time it would have been an opportunity for light-hearted teasing, but they did not. Genesis ruthlessly corrected her posture and movement and everything else she had wrong until she grasped the basics. She gave him a nod when she felt in control. 

With no further ceremony, they trotted out the gates and left. 

Cosmo Canyon shrunk behind them and they zipped across the rocky desert at a cracking pace. The sun beat down upon them and the scorching wind chased them. The purple chocobo between her legs only looked lazy, it loved to run, and the red was excited to be let loose. 

They passed the dead buggy, now partially submerged in sand, and pressed on. They ran in silence for most of the day, both tense and worried. The few times monsters swift enough to be a problem attacked, they call down magical destruction upon the beasts without pausing. 

The sun sank low in the sky, and the heat began to drop. Only then did they slow to a stop and make camp. Genesis fed the birds and Hawke prepared dinner for the humans. They didn’t talk much, but it was comfortable and they worked in uncomplicated unison. They both understood, it didn’t need to be said.

Hawke stood after they had eaten. They were on a plateau, the desert stretched away for miles in every direction, vast and empty. The sun just grazed the horizon, setting the ragged clouds alight and turning the rock a molten red.

“I’m glad we came,” she said quietly, looking out at it all. “Even though we didn’t find what we were looking for, even if we come home to all of Midgar on fire.” She would remember the trip fondly, whatever happened next.

“Why would Midgar be on fire?” Genesis asked, still sitting on a rock. 

“I shouldn’t say. I’d hate to give it ideas.”

“Hn, I doubt it needs the help.”

She glanced at him. He was looking wistfully up at her. He stood, stretched his arms out, and unfurled his wing. 

The two chocobo startled and warked at him. The large black limb stretched out from his back and over his head. The wind made his coat flap around him, carrying away the loose weathers. Under the burning sunset, he held a hand out to her.

“Come fly with me.” 

She smiled and took his hand. He pulled her in, tucking her back solidly against his chest. She turned her head to look back at him as he wrapped an arm around her waist. He met her eyes. 

He stretched his wing out. With a mighty flap and a blast of air the ground fell away. She gasped, despite having expected it. They flew up and up and oh, that was very high. The pointed lack of anything beneath her feet made her heart rate pick up. She latched onto the strong arm holding her up. Still they climbed, higher than the tallest Chantry cathedral, maybe even higher than the Shinra building, until their little campsite was lost in the tapestry of rock and sand laid out below them. They were lost in the endless sky. It was so beautiful and terrifying it made her giddy. She wouldn't have been surprised if Genesis’ hand was losing feeling from how hard she was holding it. 

“Afraid of heights?” he asked, his teasing mouth at her ear. 

“No.” She raised her chin in defiance. “I’m not afraid of anything.”

“Good,” he said, and let her go. 

She plummeted. Air rushed by in a sudden roar, she was too shocked to scream, her lungs empty. A blur of feathers and leather swooped by and caught hold of her again, this time with her facing him. 

She latched on like a limpet, her legs around his waist and her arms locked around his shoulders. 

“You nug-humping blighter!” she wheezed. Her heart thundered so violently in her chest he could probably feel it against his own. That bastard. 

“There, there. I’ve got you,” he drawled. She could hear the laughter in his voice. The wind had dropped and there was no noise except the steady beat of his wing. 

“Are you alright?” he asked. 

She pulled back enough to look him in his stupid, self-satisfied, smirking, handsome face. She nodded slightly, because she was alright and she was going to find this hilarious later. Much later. 

“Do that again and I’ll electrocute you so hard your grandchildren will be twitchy,” she said. 

He laughed, a low rumble in his chest that she felt in her core. 

“Why would I need to do it again?” he asked, squeezing her thigh where he held it up securely around his hip.His other arm was wound around her waist, holding her flush against him. 

She lowered her chin and looked at him through hooded eyes. 

“That was very smooth.” 

“It wasn’t, wasn’t it?” he replied, the slightest hint of self doubt in his eyes. She couldn’t have missed it, there was nowhere else to look. 

It was a step beyond the reckless flirting they had indulged in all week, now without the teasing non-committal and plausible deniability. There was nowhere to coyly retreat to. Alone together in the empty sky, where there was no Gaia or Thedas, no politics or past mistakes. Neither yesterday nor tomorrow, just each other, and the tiny pocket of air between them. The golden backdrop faded into dusk. He was breathtaking in the dying light.

His hand ran up her spine. Intentional and delightful. 

She had never been pursued before. She had always been the fool who went out on a limb and chased her lovers, thus she was always the one turned away. She was more familiar with turned backs than open arms. 

Intense blue eyes, flecked with green, watched her with unveiled desire. Waiting on her. He took her breath away. 

She raised a hand to his jawline, tracing her fingers gently along his cheek. She saw his throat bob and his eyes drift to her lips. Her heart beat fast and giddy in her chest. 

She buried her hand in his hair and kissed him. He sank into her mouth and drank from her lips.

A dark night fell, as the two hung in the sky, lost in each other’s arms.

Chapter Text

Sephiroth sat, mute, at Shinra’s executive boardroom table. 

Opposite him sat Director Scarlet’s newest assistant, a trooper she picked for being pretty in just the way she liked. The trooper kept their head down and made no noise, except to laugh when Scarlet did. 

Sephiroth did not laugh. He sat next to SOLDIER’s Director Lazard and weathered the meeting with steady indifference born of long experience. 

President Shinra spoke at length about Mako production numbers and distribution. Sometimes he barked questions at the table and one of his sycophantic dogs replied, but for the most part he didn’t require much of his audience. 

Unbidden an image rose in Sephiroth’s mind of a pointy eared prisoner chained to a Cetra operating table. Professor Hojo smirked a reply to the President’s question. Director Tuesti retorted with a toothless moral objection. The president ignored them both and continued on with what he had been going to say anyway.

In his mind’s eye the elf struggled, pulling against manacles. His skin was red and blistered from futile resistance. His captors did not care. They didn’t even look. 

‘You will die as surely as your friends,’ Aega’s memory whispered. 

“Obviously Hollander’s boys are a lost cause,” President Shinra said, looking down the length of the table. “The public like them, but they’re costing me more than they’re worth.” 

Sephiroth focused on him. The President was already watching him. 

“They could have other uses,” Hojo said. 

“Sir, Genesis and Angeal bring in countless recruits every year,” Lazard said, removing his glasses in weak outrage. “The rest of SOLDIER looks up to them.”

“The war’s over, boy. Sephiroth brings in enough new blood on his own.” 

Sephiroth did not say anything. Heidegger made an argument that Hojo objected to. Lazard took Heidegger’s side and it fell to bickering. The trooper laughed at something Scarlet didn’t find funny and shrank in panic. 

“No,” the president said, cutting through the racket. They all fell back in chided silence. “They’re liabilities. It’s only a matter of time until they get some bright idea or do something stupid in public. Sephiroth. Take care of them before they do anything that embarrasses the company, will you? 

The president watched him over his steepled fingers, from the head of the long table. 

He could have argued if they were Lazard’s orders, but it had been posed as a question. Which meant it was a test of loyalty. 

“Yes sir,” Sephiroth replied. 

In his mind’s eye the shackled elf looked up at his captors. They gently brushed his hair from his sweat soaked face and sewed disease into his flesh. 

Heir of death and ruination . 

Would Genesis have accepted the orders to cut down his friends? Or would he have publicly refused? Would Angeal? Would it be right to?  

You are an infection upon the land.

Director Lazard and Hojo nodded and looked back at the president. They hadn’t considered it to be a question at all. 

Scarlet looked disappointed at his easy concession. Heidegger smirked at him, like he was a dog beaten and broken. The president turned to look out of the window, bored with it already. 

He was just a weapon here, to be used and discarded when his superiors decided. 

He hated them. He always had, but it had never felt like it mattered before. He was not here for his opinions, they did not respect him. There was nothing he could do. He was nothing, nobody. 

Son of Andruil.

He did not want to be respected by them. He would gladly see them all burn. 

“Tell me about the dead reactor in sector 4,” the president demanded. “How are you going to defend other reactors from spiking fluctuations like that?”

The meeting rolled over him.

Soon Genesis and Hawke would be back in the city and he would have answers. 

Midgar’s smog lay thick and heavy like a blanket, only the sleek spikes of metal and glass skyscrapers pierced through it. Hawke watched from the window of the tiny airship as they descended down into the murky grey of the low cloud cover. The towering spikes rose up around them, and they fell further still, down below their foundations upon the plate and landed on the abandoned ground beyond the city’s walls. 

The airship slowed to a stop on the runway. 

Next to her Genesis ran his hands down his face and breathed in deeply. His thigh pressed snugly against hers, and he made no move to get up despite the pilot telling them to get off his ship already. 

Hawke unbuckled her seatbelt and stretched her legs out in front of her. It was going to be a muggy day, she could feel it. Hot and grey under the lid of smog, like boiling meat in a thin broth. They had planned to both go back to his apartment and from there decide how best to tackle their ‘Blight problem’, as Genesis had taken to calling it. She didn’t feel very optimistic, but optimism hadn’t been a necessary component in any of her previous victories either. 

She peered out the window at the activity on the runway, the workers rushing backwards and forwards around the hangar, unloading and reloading. Under the wing of the plane they were offloading cargo. 

A mop of messy red hair above a black suit caught her eye. Her back straightened. 

The change in posture caught Genesis attention and he looked over too. His jaw clenched. 

“Are they here for me or for you?” she asked quietly, her eyes fixed to the Turk.

Reno tapped his mag-rod against his shoulder and looked patiently up at the ramp which was their only exit. 

“They wouldn’t send Turks out to get me,” Genesis replied in the same quiet tone. “Reno is your handler, isn’t he?”

“I.. suppose he is.” She had known from day one that that was all the drinks and cards added up to, but it sounded so much worse out loud. 

Genesis got up and held a hand out to her. She let him pull her to her feet.

This felt different to coming home to enemies making themselves comfortable in her kitchen. She ducked her head to look out at the hangar roofs but couldn’t spy any figures up there. Of course she couldn’t, Shinra owned the plane, the crew, and the airport. What did they need snipers for? 

She narrowed her eyes and straightened. “This is a performance, isn’t it?”

“Most likely.” 

“Well, I know my lines.” She had been handling Reno right back for a year now. “It’s probably just another questioning.” 

Genesis looked at her with his lips turned down and his blue eyes pinched. The air crackled with the soft hum of his shielding spell blocking out any listening bugs. 

“It might not be,” he said. 

“I think I can talk them down from anything worse,” she replied. She wasn’t entirely sure which of them the reassurance was for, or who she thought would actually be convinced. By the time the Templars marched down the road to your house it was already too late. They’d never taken her yet, but she couldn’t keep burning the house down and leaping to the next roof.

“And if you can’t?” 

She let out a thin breath. “I’ve never known how to lose with grace.”

Genesis nodded slowly. The passenger cabin was empty of anyone else, all the crew and the other military personnel had disembarked already. They stood close to each other in the narrow space between the seats. 

“If you kill a Turk you’ll never know another moment’s peace.”

“If I cave I’ll never know peace again either.” She cracked a smile. “Well, they’ll call it peace, but only in that corporate, euphemistic, doublespeak way, while they slap manacles around my ankles.”

His expression darkened. “It won’t come to that.”

She shrugged. “I suppose if they were carting me off to a damp, dark cell somewhere they wouldn't be standing out in the open where we can see them.”

“I mean I won’t let it come to that.” He lowered his voice. “If you don’t contact me within three hours I will come and get you. Wherever they take you.”

She paused. “Can you afford to do that?”

“I can’t afford not to.” His eyes roamed over her face, before settling on her eyes. “I don’t lose with grace either.”

“Neither does Shinra.” 

He looked out the window again, the angle when standing left them blind of all but the black and white tarmac. Two of the most powerful people on the planet, and it didn’t count for anything. 

“Damn them,” he hissed under his breath.

She put a hand on his chest. He sighed and looked back at her. The blue of his eyes was so light in the cold interior lighting as to completely mute the glow. His heart thudded strong and reassuring under her palm. He ran a hand along her upper arm and they shared a look. She sucked in a steadying breath. 

Then she squared her shoulders. He lifted his chin and pulled himself up to his full height. The thin crinkling shield spell fell away and they turned to the job at hand, pulling down their bags from the overhead compartment. 

“They’ll ask about you and I,” she commented idly, “what am I telling them?”

“Surely you don’t need to ask?” he drawled. They walked together through the thin passages to the ramp. 

“You have a very public career. My professional reputation is already set.”

“As is mine.”

They reached the exit. He slid on a pair of overly large sunglasses and wrapped an arm around her shoulders. 

“I don’t do anything privately I’m not prepared to do publicly,” he declared.

It was such a delightfully bald faced lie she couldn’t help a laugh and a toothy smirk. They descended the ramp with a careless saunter she could be proud of.

Reno looked up at them with a suspicious leer. 

“Reno!” Hawke called when they got to the bottom, like it was some crazy coincidence. “What are you doing here?”

He grinned. “I’m your ride home.”

“Are you?” Genesis asked.

“Hers, not yours. Wanna see the paperwork? Don’t worry, dotted all my t’s and crossed my i’s, it’s all above board.” 

She snorted. “I’ll be very disappointed in you if it is.” 

Genesis squeezed her shoulder and they traded an affectionate goodbye that didn’t even come across as strained, she was pretty sure. Then she slung her little bag over her shoulder and let Reno lead her towards the road. They crossed it, not in the direction of the car park but towards the train station. 

“Wait, you didn’t drive? What kind of ride do you call this?” she asked. Relief spiked in her rib cage as she tapped on and crossed the turnstiles. In a car she had no control. On the ground in a crowd she had all sorts of options. Then again, so did he, he was more of a street rat than she had ever been. 

“Thought you might enjoy the walk more,” he said, with false innocence. 

She rolled her eyes. 

They took the train in silence and got off nearest to her house. They walked side by side through the meandering alleyways and unsealed streets piled with rubbish. There were a lot more signs of rioting and destruction than when she’d left. Boarded up shops, marauding MPS, and spray painted slogans next to Avalanche's symbols. Military checkpoints split up the slums and for the first time she saw SOLDIERs patrolling below the plate. 

They turned down an empty back alley behind a row of cheap restaurants. It stank of old meat and grease. There were a few too many side alleys splitting off of it she couldn’t see the ends of. They were being followed by Turks she didn’t know and hadn’t picked out yet, but she knew they were there. 

“How was your little getaway?” Reno asked. “See all the sights?”

“So much sand. I wish I’d known it was a desert ahead of time, I’d have packed a hat,” she replied. Her eyes jumped from the roofs to the overhead windows, to the little gaps in the wall. “Maybe an extra water bottle.”

“Uh-huh.”

Someone walked across the entrance of the alley behind them and she gave a quick look in her periphery. It was a street kid. He disappeared back into the hustle and bustle of the street. 

“Calm down, yo. If this was a hit I wouldn’t be standing within stabbing range,” Reno drawled. “We’d have started with the long range attacks.”

“That’s not very reassuring.”

“Should be.” He stopped walking. “Bailing on us without warning for ten days and getting nothing worse than the welcome wagon? No gratitude.”

She stopped too. “I’m not a Shinra employee, I don’t need to apply for leave.”

“Na. You’re a person of interest.” He pulled out a cigarette and placed it in the corner of his mouth. “You don’t get leave.”

“Leave from what? I’m not even getting paid.”

“Don’t play dumb, Hawke. You’re no good at it.”

“Then don’t waste my time. Spit it out already.”

He lit the cigarette and took a long drag, watching her thoughtfully throughout. She crossed her arms. 

“You’re restricted to the city limits.”

She scowled. He had given up his smirk. 

“Or what?” she asked, because she had to. She knew him too well for it not to sting, for her to not want to throw it back in his bony face and ask him where he got the gall. 

“Or you’re a flight risk and we have to bring you in.” 

She tilted her head in a mockery of calm understanding. “Assuming you catch me.”

“Yeah, you’re a slippery one.” He nodded back with the same attitude. “If it looks like you’re gonna do a runner, we’ll plant a tracking chip under your skin.”

A dread she knew better than her own name passed over her like a wave. It was followed by anger, so cold and strong it seized in her limbs and clogged up her throat. 

“Remind me to short circuit your mag rod next time we get into a bar fight,” she forced out, with an off kilter smile. 

He gave her a knowing look. “Be glad we’re not limiting you to the sector”

“I’m not.”

“This is the easy way. You know we can make your life a lot harder.”

“I’m supposed to be grateful, am I?” she said quietly, “that you decided to only take away some of my freedom?”

“Yeah. You are.” He blew out a cloud of choking smoke with a scowl. “I had to fight to only threaten the tracking chip, yo, instead of having it waiting for you on the tarmac. Give me a break. ‘S not personal. Just how it is.”

“No it isn’t,” she spat. “It’s not ‘how it is’, it’s what you and yours have chosen to do.”

He shrugged. “Tell yourself that if you want. Complaining ain’t gonna make a difference.”

She looked him up and down, disgusted. 

“Why not just bring me in now? Why the pretense of slowly tightening the noose when you can just kick the stool out from under me and be done with it?”

“Why not have a good time while you can?” He flicked the stub onto the ground and met her star head on, although not for long. “Might never come to that.”

“Tell yourself that, if you want.”

“I will.” He forced his scowl into a bitter smirk. “Thanks for the permission.”

It was his turn to stare her down, and her turn to play along. She knew her part, but the cold, numbing rage made her struggle to remember why she should. Her hands were perfectly still with the strength of her anger. She knew if she threw a knife it would her aim true. There were a million reasons to just quietly take her lumps for now, from the armed Turks following them to Genesis, to Aerith, to the Blight, to any chance of ever getting home. She had to forcibly remind herself why any of that mattered. 

Reno raised an eyebrow and put a hand on his hip, right next to where his mag rod hung from his belt. A reprimand for her letting the act slip. 

If she didn’t play along they would decide she couldn’t be trusted with a simple perimeter and there would be no more second chances. They’d put some technology she didn’t understand beneath her skin, worse than any phylactery, and she’d never be free again. 

She smiled, radiant and spiteful. “Your welcome.”

He smirked, as was required of him. 

She thought he probably really didn’t want to have to bring her in. It was a cold comfort. They both did things they didn’t want to do all the time. 

“Drinks on Thursday?” she asked. 

He sucked his teeth and hesitated. 

Maybe she’d already blown her chance. 

She resolutely did not reach for her knife. He watched her hands. 

Then he spread his arms, “You know it, babe.” 

He turned and sauntered away. 

Genesis got a message from Hawke as he drove through the streets of the upper plate. She was safe, simply grounded. 

She didn’t sound happy. He wasn’t happy either. The lingering joy they’d found together out in the wilderness had been thoroughly stamped out. 

He noticed with disquiet the heavy SOLDIER presence throughout the city. Domestic peacekeeping was normally the job of the military police. Anti-Shinra slogans had been spray painted everywhere and roads were closed through multiple sectors. That must have been why his leave was cancelled. He suspected all SOLDIER leave would be cancelled and the forces last used to crush a sovereign nation were patrolling their own streets, hunting for dissent. 

Why hadn’t he left Shinra when Hollander gave him the chance? 

He had thought maybe he’d get to keep it all. His career, his health, his hard earned reputation. Maybe Shinra wouldn’t strangle them with their own enhancements, strip them of all dignity, and then bleed them dry. He was waved through a SOLDIER guarded check point. His own naivety disgusted him. 

His side had started to ache on the flight back. He was so accustomed to it now he rarely noticed it. His fingers tingled in their gloves as he tapped them against the steering wheel. He couldn’t stop noticing it. It had refused to go away since he dreamed of the infected dragon.

He pulled up outside of Angeal’s town house and let himself in. There was nobody home. It looked dark and empty inside, nobody but the cleaners had been there in some time. The plants were missing too. 

He looked around the place and swallowed down his alarm. 

Sephiroth hadn’t said much on the phone, but he would have said more if Angeal had taken a very bad turn again. Wouldn’t he? 

Genesis shook his head of the ouroboros of worries in his chest, eating their own tails. He locked up again and drove to Sepiroth’s place. The apartment was within a Shinra owned complex. The red logo was plastered on the walls of the foyer. Other SOLDIERS hung around, this was where Shinra tended to house its military people who didn’t want to find their own accommodations, or who it had determined needed to remain within company walls. 

A Third Class sat on the foyer desk, reading a magazine. He was humming something. It sounded familiar, one of those irritating ear worms probably off a commercial. He stalked down the corridor with the irritating tune repeating in his head. 

He passed another SOLDIER who was hanging around the windows to the west facing courtyard. He was humming the same song. Genesis scowled and told him to stop it. 

The SOLDIER blinked at him slowly then nodded.

Genesis left him there with a stupid expression on his face and took the elevators. Unease settled into his stomach. 

He got out on one of the higher levels. There was a SOLDIER standing by the windows. This one wasn’t singing, thankfully. Genesis belatedly recognised him as Kunsel, one of the rare Second Classes with a brain in his head. It was hard to tell under the standard issue helmet. 

He was staring out of the west facing window at a sky full of nothing. 

Genesis slowed down as he passed him. The clouds were low and the smog thick, there was no view whatsoever. 

“What are you looking at?” he snapped. The stupid tune was still running in loops through his head. 

“I’ve been asking myself that for the last thirty minutes, sir,” Kunsel said. 

Genesis narrowed his eyes at him and looked out the window too. Kunsel wasn’t an idiot, but it really was just a churning white void of cloud. Or… was it? Were his eye playing tricks on him? It was still nothing to be seen in the clouds, he knew that for certain.

“There’s something to the west,” Genesis said. 

Kunsel nodded. “The song’s getting louder too.” 

Deep unease settled within him. 

There was no expression to be read on Kunsel’s shiny helmet. 

“Keep that to yourself, SOLDIER,” he said, his voice slightly unsteady. 

How many others were hearing it? Was it all of them or just the higher ranks? Had Shinra covered the entire city in compromised SOLDIERs?

Kunsel went back to staring into the clouds. 

Genesis left him to his vigil and continued on to Sephiroth’s apartment. He swiped the keycard, afraid of what he might find. 

Angeal stood in the semi dark, surrounded by rotting plants.

Chapter Text

Hawke’s house was bugged. 

It wasn’t the first time, after the interrogation when the Turks ‘figured out’ that she was a Cetra, they left behind parting gifts in three light fixtures. 

She stood in the doorway, peering in at the little home she’d found. She hadn’t moved in months, instead she’d acquired a couch, placed it on a rug she liked, and even hung up a couple of thrift-store paintings of rugged coastlines and an angry looking seagull.

It had all been tampered with. There was no visual sign of it, but she knew deep in her bones they’d infected it all to catch her. 

She stomped in, called up a leashed electrical wave and passed it over the couch. The edges sparked and burned , before a hidden listening device threaded into the seams crackled and popped, leaving blackened patches on the thread-worn upholstery.

She scowled and ripped the wiring out with her bare hands. The electrical wave hummed with power and she swept through the entire house, uncaring for the burn marks she left in the walls and ceiling and furniture. She tore out every bug she found, her jaw clenched, and left them strewn through the halls. 

She hauled the couch, the chairs, and table out, pushed down the front stairs, and left on the curb. The other slummers wouldn’t care about the burn marks and torn corners. Maybe the protestors could add them to their barricades. Shinra bullets wouldn’t be stopped by a couch but an MP’s batton probably would. It’d burn well too, when it came to that. 

Exhausted and feeling just as hollow as the cavern of a house, she collapsed onto the now stripped bare mattress.

The Fade closed in around her. 

It was cold. 

The whistling wind over the cliff face burrowed into her ears, and the chill sank into her. She felt the secure weight of her old armour strapped to her body and opened her eyes to the cliffside campfire. 

Rebellion sat on an adjacent log, wearing Anders’ face. He smiled and offered a little wave. She considered punching him. She could knock him backwards over the log. He’d probably get too much of a kick out of it, and she’d have to hear that crunch Anders’ nose made when it broke again. She scowled into the glowing embers. 

He felt stronger than before, more than the vague notion of a feeling he had begun life as. He had been well fed. 

“Is it you? Are you fuelling the chaos in the city?” she asked. 

“Shinra fuels it,” Rebellion replied darkly. “Decades denied the light of the sun fuel it. I merely fan what has already sparked.”

His imitation of Anders had improved. The barely subdued rage in his voice, the bow of his back, and the white knuckled hands clutching the staff against his shoulder, it stabbed at Hawke with familiarity. A decade of old arguments rose in her mind, and tides of righteous indignation pulled her in so many directions. 

“Have you seen the results?” she said, hating herself for it. “Curfews. Mass arrests. Blood in the streets, prices skyrocketing, and the army closing in from every direction.” 

“Further fuel. Rebellion only grows the more they try to crush it.”

“And if Shinra cuts off food supplies?” she demanded. “When they send the tanks in? When they drop bombs, hell, they could drop anything from up there. Then who will feed you thoughts of rebellion?”

He raised an eyebrow at her. “There will always be those who take a stand.”

She scoffed. She dragged her hands down her face. She felt gritty with sand and dried blood.

“You’re not Victory,” she forced out. “You’re not Wisdom, you’re not Strategy, you’re not even Hope!” A lump stuck in her throat but she scowled through it. “You’re just blind resistance, regardless of the cost, or who ends up paying it.”

Anders looked at her pityingly.

“Would you prefer a peaceful subjugation?” he asked. 

“I would prefer to survive.”

“They would prefer you do not.”

She looked away. She knew full well there were no right choices, she didn’t need a spirit only a year old to point it out. 

“You’re very young,” she said. “You don’t understand.”

He nodded. “You are not young. You have seen much and garnered great understanding.” He leaned heavily on his staff, stabbing into the rocky sands. “And yet you cannot leave the city. You aren’t allowed.”

She clenched her fists. Rebellion watched her with his head cocked. 

A knife sank into his chest, wielded by no one as it stabbed through his back. Hawke wanted to look away but couldn’t bring herself to. She hadn’t been there when it happened to the real Anders’. All she had was the aftermath. A glint of metal in his breast. Dark, viscous blood dripped down his arms and along the staff.

“You had the courage of your convictions once,” he spat, with all of Anders’ rage in his dark, shadowed eyes.

“I believed it made a difference. Once.”

Rebellion gave her a reprimanding look. He abandoned Anders’ form and shifted into something smaller. Aerith’s emerald green eyes looked up at her. The same knife glinted in her chest and blood stained the front of her pink dress. 

“What will they take from you next?” she rasped, her mouth red. 

“Stop it.”

“What difference will it make?” 

Hawke’s stood. “Stop it.”

The spirit smiled. “Make me.”

She grabbed the spirit by the back of the neck and threw it over the cliff’s edge. 

The whistling wind caught them and they fluttered away. The blood splatters on the rocks remained, as did the gnawing grief and resentment in her chest. Hawke stood alone on the ledge.

Somewhere, someone was knocking on something. She blinked, and was lying on a stained mattress in the waking world, drooling onto her arm in the middle of the day. Knocks on the front door rang through the empty house. 

She hauled herself up and opened the door. Aerith stood on the doorstep. 

“Hi,” Hawke said, unsteady still. There was no blood running down Aerith’s front but the expression on her face implied a kind of metaphorical stabbing. 

She held the door open for her. 

Aerith looked up at Hawke, in the muddy light of the strangely bare living room. She was hollow-eyed and pale, and in her full armoured get up, despite being at home in the middle of the day. 

It made her Aerith feel marginally better about the flighty and weak heartbeat that kept bubbling up in her throat. 

She’d been swallowing the dread down for days, trying to fake a smile. Elmyra kept giving her those soft, worried looks and tender hugs, and Tseng gave her assessing looks that she just knew amounted to a whole page of analysis in her file somewhere. She wanted to scream.

“You look like shit,” Hawke said. 

“So do you.” 

She smiled like smashed glass and leaned against the bare wall, staring at the ceiling. “I feel like it too.” 

“Same.” 

“What happened, Aerith?”

She hadn’t thought to actually tell her the truth. It felt like her own private shame, like so many other things. Too horrible for anyone to ever know. 

Hawke’s icy blue eyes rested on her, steady and patient, despite her own demons. Hawke could handle horrible things. 

She opened her mouth and the words tumbled out of her. Everything Aega had showed her, how Coerla had corrupted the living Lifestream into the Blight and sewed it into a prisoner of war. The accusations she threw at Sephiroth. How he’d killed the ancient spirit with his bare hands. 

Hawke nodded along. She slid down the wall to sit on the floor, and Aerith joined her on the cold linoleum, under the barred window. She hugged her knees to her chest.

“Huh,” Hawke said, at the Blight’s origin. 

“I’m… sorry,” Aerith forced out. It didn’t feel right, and Hawke shook it off.

“It’s not yours to apologise for.”

“I know, but…” So much damage had been done, so long ago. It was too big to grasp. But Hawke had lost family to it. She was still losing Genesis to it. Aerith had no idea how to fix it. 

“It was self defence. They made the Blight in self defence.” Hawke’s head thudded against the wall. She laughed, weak and unhinged. Her shoulders shook and moisture shone in the corners of her eyes. “Oh, that figures.”

“It’s not funny.” 

She snorted and ran a hand down her face. “They weren’t the first to make a catastrophic mistake with the best of intentions.” She looked down at her gauntleted hand and her amusement drained away. “And they certainly weren’t the last.” 

Aerith stretched her legs out in front of her. The light from the windows cast a long striped shadow on the floor in front of her. She didn’t want to sit like a scared child, hugging her knees, helpless and waiting for someone else to fix it all. 

Nobody could fix it. But she wasn’t helpless. She made her own mistakes. 

“I made a deal with rebellion,” she admitted. 

Hawke’s focus snapped up to her. 

She shrugged. “I kept meaning to tell you.”

“What did you give?”

“A memory. In exchange for the route to the forest.”

“What memory?”

She resisted the urge to hug her knees again. Her shoulder’s sank and she couldn’t meet Hawke’s eyes. “I don’t know. I can’t remember.”

“Oh, Aer.”

“It was something from that night with the chocobos. I don’t know.”

“When we sat under the stars?”

“Maybe. I don’t know what happened, or why rebellion would care about it. That’s why I stopped Sephiroth from trading a memory to Aega. Instead he gave her bahamut, which she shattered. I don’t know what that means. And she gave us the memory of Coerla… I don’t know what any of it means. I’m starting to think I don’t know much of anything.”

Hawke stared at her. She squirmed, hating the pity.

“You looked up at the stars and held your mother’s materia,” Hawke said, with quiet intensity. “The one Coerla made to put a shield around the whole world. You decided you were going to bring down Shinra. You asked me to help, and I promised you I would.”

Aerith stared back at her. 

“You believed you could,” Hawke said. 

“I don’t remember believing that.”

“You believed it… and you were right.”

She swallowed. It sounded familiar. There was a void inside of her where she could believe that conviction once sat. It didn’t fit in now, now matter how she tried to squeeze it in. 

“I thought I had inherited responsibility.” Aerith shook her head and felt too small for all of this. “Now it feels like I only inherited arrogance. And mistakes.”

“You are not their mistakes. You’re not even your own mistakes.”

She smiled bitterly. “We’re stuck with the consequences anyway.” 

“Yeah.”

She sighed and Hawke joined in. Her eyes felt sore and itchy even though she hadn’t been crying. The cold floor was making her bottom numb. She looked around the living room.

“Hawke, where’s all your furniture?”

“The Turks looked at it for too long so I threw it all away.”

A laugh cracked out of her, somewhere between a snort and a giggle. “You idiot.”

Hawke grinned. “Wanna get something to eat?”

They helped each other up, stepped out into the looming, angry city that played jailor to them both, and went looking for hotdogs. 

Above the plate, inside Sephiroth’s apartment, Genesis stared at Angeal. 

The lights were off and the curtains half drawn, leaving the light murky and green tinged. Angeal looked up from his forest of potted plants that had taken over the living room. They smelled sweet with sickness. 

Genesis’ eyes caught on the bandage wrapped around his wrist. Cracks in his skin crawled up his forearm. He looked haggard. Goddess, it hadn’t even been two weeks. 

“You’re back,” Angeal said.

Genesis marched forward and pulled him into a hug. Angeal was slow to react, exhaling hard at Genesis’ arms wrapping around him. Genesis held him tight for a moment. He had stopped losing muscle mass, but he felt different still. It was all wrong. The humming song in his head sounded louder when he was holding him. 

“Good to see you too,” Angeal said, with a sardonic chuckle. He patted Genesis on the back with the pruners he was holding. 

“Your house was empty.” Genesis pulled back. “What are you doing here? I thought you were in a coma again or maybe they’d-” he cut himself off. 

“They’d what?” Angeal scoffed. “What more can they do to me?”

“That’s a stupid question and you know it.” They both knew Shinra was perfectly capable of disappearing failures and embarrassments, no matter how studiously they had pretended not to see it in the past. They had thought themselves untouchable then. 

Angeal looked away. 

“How was your trip?” he asked quietly. “Your green grocer?”

“Magnificent,” Genesis replied, waving the subject away. “You moved in with Sephiroth? Why?”

“I... had a fall.” 

Genesis stared at him.

Angeal refused to meet his eyes, looking down at the set of pruners in his hands. “I won’t be going back to active duty.”

“Angeal…” 

He turned back to the plants, idly snipping off a dying branch. Some kind of pest had eaten into them, turning leaves yellow and oozy.

Genesis hauled in a breath and looked away. 

“Shinra did this to us,” he rasped. Anger was easier than grief. 

Angeal inspected a sprig of tender new growth, and found it damp and sticky with rot. He sliced it off. 

“Did I tell you I had a strange dream while I was comatose,” he said. His voice was quiet and distant. “I was surrounded by monsters, but they all had my face. They spoke with my voice, and had giant white wings sprouting from their sides.”

“What are you talking about?”

“I’m... not really sure. I’m not sure of much these days. What are your dreams like?”

It was a question so unlike Angeal that Genesis didn’t know what to say. The whole conversation in the green half light felt surreal and inexplicable.  

“ There are no dreams, no honour remains. ”

Ange gave a wincing smile. “They infected some animals in the labs with my cells. Trying to isolate the illness.” His work with the plants slowed, until he was just feeling the texture of a dying leaf between his fingers, the pruners waving indecisively next to it. They creaked in his closed fist. “I thought they would die.”

“What happened to them?”

“They didn’t die.” The pruners broke in his hands. The crunch of the metal tearing snapped him out of his fugue and he dropped it. He looked up, suddenly present and desperate. “What honour can a monster have, Genesis?”

“You’re not a-”

“I’ve dedicated my life to SOLDIER. I recruited children to this. I thought I was helping.” 

“You were helping,” replied Genesis, the part of him that still clung to his fame and prestige. It came out weak. 

“I’m a disease!” 

“No! We are not culpable. Shinra spread this Blight, we are not the monsters.”

Ange shook his head, the desperation leaking out of him. His shoulders sunk. “What difference does it make? My whole life is a lie.”

Genesis gritted his teeth. He refused despair or helplessness.

He threw out his hand and unfurled his wing. There was a burst of inky feathers and the now familiar warping sensation growing out of his back. He stood tall and let his hand drop.

Angeal staggered away from him, his mouth agape. 

“ Even if the morrow is barren of promises, Nothing shall forestall my return,” Genesis declared. 

Angeal stared at him, leaning heavily against the table. Slowly the shock drained from his face and was replaced by unabated horror. 

Hawke’s unshakeable acceptance had lulled him into seeing the wing in a poetic and benign light. Shape shifting as an expression of ancient magics. In the face of Angeal’s mute revulsion it stuck him anew just how big and invasive it was, filling the living room and scraping both the ceiling and the floor. It hung over his left shoulder like a looming spectre. He wanted to shrink away now, hide the shame of it from him. His hands pulled into fists. 

“We are what Shinra has made us,” he said, refusing to hide, refusing to apologise. “But we are not dead. Not yet.”

“Genesis…”

Sephiroth opened the front door.

He stopped in the doorway, his eyes anchored to the wing.

Genesis didn’t know what to do. The gut churning shame spiked, but he was even less inclined to hide from Sephiroth. No matter how much he fell short of the man’s perfection. He swallowed thickly and stood tall. 

Sephiroth closed and locked the door behind him, never looking away. 

“So that’s what Hojo meant by mutations.” 

Genesis scowled. “It’s not a mutation.”

“What is it then?”

He snapped his mouth shut.

Sephiroth approached and slowly raised a hand to it. Genesis jerked the wing back before his fingers could brush a primary feather. 

Sephiroth’s hand curled shut, before he dropped it and looked at the two of them. 

“You know that the elvhen were shape-shifters, then?” he said, thoughtful. “Did Hawke tell you?” 

“What?” Angeal asked, with a startled, incongruous laugh. 

Genesis stared. “How do you know that?” He folded up his wing and banished it. Telltale loose feathers swirled in the draft of its departure.  

“So you did know. Do you know about the Evanuris? Who Andruil is?”

“What are you- is this about Aega?”

“This is about what you have kept hidden,” Sephiroth said. “What do you know about Andruil?”

“Nothing.” Genesis shook his head. “I’ve heard the name, nothing more.” She was the hunter god, wasn’t she? The one whose spear broke the mirrors. He had seen her discussing an ancient war with Mythal in Hawke’s memory, in the conquered city of the Cetra, deciding whether or not to slaughter her own returned POWs. 

Sephiroth must have seen the recognition in his expression. His eyes narrowed and he nodded. 

“What are you two talking about?” Angeal asked. 

Sephiroth looked between the two of them. “Hawke will know.”  

“She has nothing to do with this,” Genesis snapped. 

“She knows the full truth, doesn’t she? I want to speak to her.”

“I assure you she doesn’t. She’s just some under-plate civilian.” 

“Don’t lie to me,” Sephiroth said, stepping closer.

“I’m not lying,” Genesis lied. 

Sephiroth’s expression turned calculating. He stepped back. “She obviously has illegal access to classified information. If you’re going to keep hiding her, I will have her brought in.”

Blinding fury ignited in Genesis’ veins, coupled with fear. He fell very still, swallowing down the choking bulk of it. He lifted his hand and let it rest on the hilt of his sword.

“You will have to cut me down first.”

“Genesis!” Angeal cried.

Sephiroth’s forehead creased.

“No! You had the chance to be open about this before and you didn’t want to hear it.” He pointed a finger in Sephiroth’s chest. “You didn’t want anything except quiet concessions then. Why should I give you anything now?”

Sephiroth slapped his hand away. “ I didn’t want anything except concessions?”

“You’re still threatening me with Shinra!”

“We’re on the same team here,” Angeal said, pinching the bridge of his nose and sounding more like his old self.

“Are we?” Genesis demanded, staring down Sephiroth. “We are dying , and he wants to arrest one of the few people who can actually help just to get his own way.”

“You are keeping everyone in the dark on subjects that concern us all,” Sephiroth retorted, his hands balled into fists at his side.

“You’ve known about the degradation for months. What have you done with that information besides lick Shinra’s boots and watch us crawl to an early grave?”

“What do you want me to do?”

“Anything! Anything at all! Except useless silence and throwing blame!”

“Your diseased DNA is not my fault!”

Genesis lunged at him. 

Angeal grabbed him.

“Enough! For planet’s sake, enough!” he yelled, forcing his way between the two of them with strength at odds with his previous resignation. 

Sephiroth looked down at Genesis, motionless, but his hard expression cracked. 

Angeal’s forearm across Genes’s collar bone pushed him back. 

“There’s nothing any of us can do, yelling won’t change that.” His head dropped. “Don’t call our DNA... diseased, Sephiroth.”

Genesis shook his head and stalked away. The sweet smell of the rotting plants was getting to him, just as much as the little song in his head that wouldn’t go away. 

He glanced back at Sephiroth. Was he hearing it as well? 

“What do you know?” he asked. 

“Aega told me what you wouldn’t. The Cetra infected us with a bioweapon.”

“I… I didn’t know that.” 

“Didn’t you? Hawke didn’t tell you?”

“She didn’t know either.” He looked down, trying to put together all the pieces. It made a terrible kind of sense. No wonder Aerith had been so distraught. 

Angeal made a grunt of frustration. “Is anyone going to explain just what, in the planet’s name, you two are talking about?”

Genesis shared a look with Sephiroth. He lifted an eyebrow to say ‘you do it.’ 

Sephiroth’s brow lowered in a deflection. 

“We should hear it from the source.” Sephiroth crossed his arms. “Enough rumour and secondhand information.”

Genesis scowled and turned away. At this point they really did need to bring Hawke in, but he was loath to share her. He exhaled heavily. She was more than capable of handling the pressure, but she was already juggling the Turks. 

“I will ask her if she will speak to us. If - if - she says yes, then we will abide by her terms.”

“That isn’t-”

“No.” He glared over at the two of them. Angeal was giving him an odd look. 

“Hawke’s not a SOLDIER, she’s not even an employee. She doesn’t answer to any of us and I am not letting you put her in danger.”

“We’re not going to hurt a civilian, Gen,” Angeal said.  

“No. You are not.”

Sephioth nodded stiffly. “I don’t want her in Shinra hands either.”

Angeal dragged a hand through his hair. “Why would Shinra even want a…a farmer?”

“Because she’s not a farmer,” Genesis replied. 

“What is she?”

He turned away to call her. A still image of her grinning face looked up at him from his phone, one finger over her lips with her other hand carved a swirling glyph through the air.

“She’s an alien,” said Sephiroth.

Chapter Text

Sephiroth sat in silence in the back of the car, studying a downy, black feather.

Hawke had agreed to speak with them. She even offered her own home as a meeting place and said they could come over immediately. A proffered olive branch he had not expected.

The weak afternoon sun disappeared behind the plate as they descended. Angeal kept tapping his fingers against his leg in an inconsistent rhythm, and Genesis drove with the slight jerkiness of motion he always did when irritated.

A sense of foreboding churned deep in Sephiroth’s chest.

They had all listened in on the conversation between Hawke and Genesis, and the latter had clearly wanted her to delay to give the two more time to scheme. She saw no reason not to just get it over with though, and insisted. ‘Lancing the wound before we slice open another,’ she called it.

Sephiroth’s opinion of her rose grudgingly.

He turned Genesis’ feather over in his hands, holding it by the shaft. It was inky black, soaking up the light and letting none through its vane even when he held it up to the giant lamps under the plate. It didn’t look like a bird’s feather. 

Threatening Hawke with Shinra had been a miscalculation. He had proposed it purely as a theoretical, but the strength of Genesis’ reaction surprised him. It had hurt as well, that Genesis would side against him before being honest with him.

He lowered his face.

He was going to get answers. That was more important. The madness of the last year- the madness of his entire life: it would all be accounted for. He tucked the feather into a pocket inside his jacket, and rolled his right shoulder.

They pulled up on a narrow, quiet street, with a line of houses opposite a defunct canning plant. They got out, and Genesis approached the last house on the row. They were all of a dated style with roofing that implied they went up before the plate did, but the weight of the nearby pylon had impacted the ground and put them all at a slight lean. Abandoned furniture and rubbish sat in piles out the front. Someone a couple of houses down was burning refuse in a barrel. 

He hadn’t expected her to be living under the plate. Why would an alien with untold supernatural power live in squalor? The grandeur of the hunter from his dreams made it look pathetic. But even the heights of Shinra were pathetic in comparison to the ancient peoples and that lofty royal family. Had Hawke been cast out? Was she in exile here? 

Genesis led the way up to the door on the first floor and knocked. The wind pelted them with the grit of the under plate while they waited on the porch. 

Hawke opened the door. She was in the spiky single shoulder armour he had seen her wearing in the lifestream. She looked the three of them over with a raised eyebrow and a quirk in her lip, before letting them in without a word. 

It was an empty box. There were blackened spots on the walls, no furniture, and a low ceiling. Cold light streamed in through barred windows over frosted glass in the large empty living room. It felt like a prison cell more than a home. The olive branch was barren. 

Aerith was standing awkwardly by the window. She waved, and he nodded back. 

There was an awkward round of introductions. 

“I thought you lived here?” Sephiroth asked. 

“I did yesterday,” Hawke replied, and swung up onto the kitchen counter, the only possible seat. “I’ll lock up after we’re done.” 

Genesis tsked and Hawke gave him a flat look. They swapped a complicated series of expressions before she shrugged and he shook his head.

“I take it we can speak openly here?” Sephiroth asked. They were standing in a tense circle around the empty space. Genesis leaned with his hip against the counter at Hawke’s side. He suspected it was in part to hide a lingering injury. 

“It’s been recently debugged.” She leaned forward on her elbows. “So. What shall we talk about?”

Genesis cleared his throat. “Would you bring us all up to speed, please, Hawke? Where you’re from, what you are, and why you’re here.”

She nodded and wove a tale that Sephiroth would have dismissed as utter fantasy only a year ago. She came from a world named Thedas, which was the local name for the planet Sukra. Others from her planet had invaded once, long ago. She considered herself a human, but had a powerset akin to a Cetra, and her dreams connected her to the Lifestream. She wielded power utterly divorced from materia and was of interest to the Turks because of it. Sephiroth listened in silence, soaking it up. She was more forthcoming then he expected, after her caginess at the airfield. 

Genesis and Aerith clearly knew it all already, but Angeal was baffled. 

“This is ridiculous.”

“Tell me about it,” she said, leaning back against the splash board. 

His forehead furrowed and he looked at Sephiroth and Genesis. He looked shocked at whatever he saw on their faces, and he turned back to Hawke. 

“Were you in the ambulance?” he asked after a long thoughtful silence. “On the way back from the Sleeping Forest?”

Hawke paused. “I didn’t think you’d remember that. You were in a bad way.”

“You were healing me? With your… I hate to call it magic, but...”

She shrugged. “You’ll just have to get over it. It is magic.”

Sephiroth assumed somewhere Hojo would be twitching at the superstitious terminology. He himself had destroyed a reactor in his dreams and caused a catastrophic meltdown, he couldn’t reasonably dismiss it now. 

“But I’m not much of a healer,” Hawke continued. “Aerith did the real work after the fact.” 

“...Thank you for trying,” Angeal said with a nod to both of the women. 

“We can try again later, if you like. Maybe make some of the symptoms more bearable.”

They agreed to that, and then she looked to have reached the end of her spiel and looked at them for questions. Sephiroth couldn’t wait any longer. 

“Tell us about the Evanuris.” 

She fixed him with a sharp look. 

“Tell me about Aega first. What did she say, and why did you kill her?”

“She said I was the son of- Andruil.” It was the first time he had said the name out loud, in the waking world. It felt strange on his tongue and he faltered, then rallied. “The Calamity. Surely Aerith told you that already.”

Aerith hugged her arms around herself. “I didn’t believe it. How could anyone be descended from the Calamity?”

Hawke’s expression gave away nothing. Sephiroth did not trust it. 

“You are one of them, aren’t you? The Evanuris.”

A startled laugh burst out of her. “No, I’m definitely not. I’ll take that as an ill informed compliment though.”

“Aren’t you?” he pressed. “Your name comes up in the same breath, and you hail from the same world. You know exactly what I’m talking about.”

“It’s not- Are you a Shinra? You know all about them, everyone associates you with them, you must be a Shinra.”

He narrowed his eyes. “So you work for the Evanuris?”

“The Evanuris haven’t been a faction in thousands of years, all that remains is folk tales. Nobody even remembers the name. Most people don’t believe they ever existed.” She looked down and her face turned oddly cold. “That era is over.”

“How do you know the name then?”

“I... learned it… in the Fade.”

He frowned. “Did you drag us all the way out here to lie to us?”

She glanced at Genesis. He raised an eyebrow.

“Hawke?” Aerith asked with alarm.

“I picked up some of the memories of Mythal, the head of the Evanuris, on the journey over here. Andruil’s Mother.”

Aerith straightened. “What.”

“It wasn’t by choice.” 

“Do you remember the Calamity massacring the Cetra?” she demanded. 

“No. I don’t have much control over it, but I haven’t seen any Blight on Gaia in the old times. I think the war was nearing its end by the time they made it and infected the elves, the Cetra had their backs against the wall.”

She looked embarrassed about it, Sephiroth couldn’t be sure whether or not that was covering dishonesty. The Lifestream hadn’t shown him any of the ancient times until she arrived, presumably reawakening those memories. 

Aerith was still staring at her, her lips thinned. 

Hawke sighed. “I don’t know, Aerith. I didn’t really know any of this ancient stuff before I got here. No more than what the legends say.”

“Why are you here?” Sephiroth asked. 

“I don’t know.”

“How did you get here?” 

“I fell through a magic mirror then woke up in the slums. I don’t know how.”

He tsked. “What do you know?” 

“Ask me some questions. Let’s find out.”

“Who was Andruil?”

She didn’t reply for a moment. She looked down and narrowed her eyes. When she spoke, it was in a low, distant voice. 

“ She took the gathering storm, trapped its fury in golden limbs, and strung it with the screams of the south wind. 

Andruil, blood and force, your people pray to you. Grant that your eye may not fall upon us. Spare us the moment we become Your prey.”

The hairs on the back of his neck stood on end. Even Genesis looked unnerved. 

“She was the goddess of the hunt,” she continued, uncaring for the looks she was getting. “Legends say she was charged with feeding the people and protecting the forests. She married the goddess of animals and navigation.” Hawke took a bracing breath and cast Aerith an apologetic look. “I remember the most feared general of the Evanuris, who slaughtered her way through the Cetra long before she became the Calamity or got infected. Who hunted her own people for sport when she got bored.”

Dreamlike images of a hunter haunted Sephiroth’s mind. The woman who took Cetra strongholds with unwavering fortitude and cunning. Who acted on her own orders, without apology. Who stood on her own strength and made the whole world shake.

“She was a monster,” he said. 

Hawke shrugged. “I’m sure she considered herself perfectly righteous as she enslaved worlds and massacred whoever it pleased her.”

Angeal put a hand to his temple. “How can this be relevant? It was all thousands of years ago, what does any of this have to do with the Blight? What does a dead general from another planet matter?”

“We see a dragon in our dreams,” Genesis said. “Who do you think it is?”

“That’s ridiculous.”

“ When the war of the beasts brings about the world's end, the goddess descends from the sky... wings of light and dark spread afar.” 

“You’ve seen her?” Sephiroth asked. 

Angeal frowned at him. “I’m not connected to the Lifestream, or whatever this is. It’s just a dream.” 

“You know it isn’t,” Genesis snapped. 

“Not everything is some fated premonition.”

“Not everything, no,” Hawke interjected. “But I have bad news for you about that dragon. Although I suppose we don’t actually know its Andruil, it could be some other corrupted old god.” 

Angeal turned back to her with dread on his face. 

It proved to be fully justified. Hawke told them what the degradation really was, what the Cetra in their desperation had made. The image of that chained down elf did not compare to what the corruption had grown into. 

And they were all infected. All of SOLDIER had to be, given what Sephiroth knew of the enhancement process. How many others had caught it? Shinra was not careful with its hazardous waste. How far had it spread, and what horrors would rise up when the hands on the reins of the corruption ordered them to stand? 

Terrible realisation filled the room. 

Gaia had barely survived the first time. 

“It should be my duty to fight this,” Aerith said. She sounded determined. It was laughable. Perhaps it had only taken one Cetra to make it, but it had left the lab now, the testing phase was over. The specimen was unleashed.   

“As far as I know only Grey Wardens can kill what Andruil has become, and even that is not easy or without sacrifice.” Hawke looked grimly at the three SOLDIERs and bowed her head. “Until the song gets too loud and you lose yourselves, you’re the best we’ve got.”

Could they kill Andruil? Sephiroth thought back to the great feats the Lifestream had shown him. He was not equal to those of old. But then… he had never tried such things. How would he know? Genesis had learned to shapeshift, however clumsily, what else could they do? 

“But my ancestors made this,” Aerith was saying, wringing her hands. 

“Can’t you figure out how to reverse it?” Genesis asked. “You were making progress.” 

“I thought I was copying a healing technique but I was just copying the problem. I think I only made it worse.”

Hawke shook her head sharply. “Angeal woke up. If you had made it worse, he would be dead.”

Unease ran through the room.

Genesis put a hand as if to stall the dread. “It made a difference. Whatever the Cetra did is in the past, you made a difference. Would you be prepared to try again anyway?” 

Aerith looked between them, uncertain. 

“Please.” Angeal said. 

“Okay.” 

Hawke hoped down from the bench and ushered Angeal and Aerith towards the centre of the room, telling the other two where to stand to not get in the way. 

Sephiroth found himself standing with Genesis by the window while the two women discussed complex magical technique. Outside the light was dying, the yellow glow from the nearest street lamp drifted through the window, weak and sickly. 

Angeal sat on the ground. Aerith kneeled to enter a healing trance, and Hawke carved support glyphs into the air around her. Power warped through the room in a brazen display that would put any SOLDIER’s materia prowess to shame.

A hush fell over the room. The sense of casting pulled the air taut, making the hairs on his arms tingle. 

“This will likely take some time,” Genesis said quietly.

Sephiroth nodded and together they watched. Aerith muttered something. It wasn’t the same technique she had used last time, Sephiroth felt her brush the Lifestream but she wasn’t fully entering it. Probably just enough to recruit a spirit’s assistance. 

He glanced at Genesis, who was watching Hawke.

“You asked me about summons once,” Sephiroth said. “Whether or not their existence was an abuse, and if we were complicit in it. You weren’t being metaphorical.”

Genesis looked sidelong at him. “As I recall, you said that there was nothing to be gained by refraining, that their fates were sealed so we may as well take advantage.”

“I did not. I said killing them was not freedom, and everyone was subject to some abuse of power, in some capacity.”

Genesis turned quiet and watched the magic display. “Why are we arguing, when we agree with each other?”

“Did you kill the summon?” 

“She asked me to. Shiva’s remains birthed the new crop of spirits in Midgar.”

“Was it worth it?”

“She was in pain, Sephiroth. She had been shackled for milenia, forced into becoming something she wasn’t.”

“Would you have chosen the same? Death if you cannot have freedom?”

Genesis frowned. “I don’t know. Would you?”

“Your friend would, I think. She would choose death before accepting subjugation.” He had seen the type in Wutai often enough. Rows of warriors who fell on their swords before the Shinra war machine could swallow them up. 

“And you?” Genesis asked, more insistently, an eyebrow raised.

Sephiroth closed his eyes and breathed in slowly. “I’m alive, aren’t I?”

“These aren’t the only options. We can make a new path for ourselves.”

Sephiroth opened his eyes again. “‘We.’”

“Just because your flesh isn’t rotting off your bones doesn’t mean we haven’t been painted with the same brush.” Genesis made a noise of frustration. “I’m not free either.”

Sephiroth looked at him. Genesis didn’t look back, instead scowling at the circle of magic. The glow was building.

“Why am I not sick?” Sephiroth asked. 

Genesis shrugged. “Hojo?”

“I doubt it, he had Angeal in his care for months and couldn’t do anything, not even to prove the point to Hollander. Why am I different?”

He smiled bitterly. “If I knew that…” Genesis stopped and shook his head. “Nothing is immune to the Blight. Only inoculated enough to slow its spread.”

“Not even the all-powerful Evanuris?”

“The corruption matches the strength of its host,” he replied. “Not even the Evanuris.”

The spell finished building, and then coalesced around Angeal. It sank into him from head to toe, and then the glow faded away. 

Angeal opened his eyes, and Genesis stepped forward to check on him. Angeal was rolling his wrist around, checking the break. He looked better, but not as well as he did when he woke up from the coma. Aerith checked him over, and shook her head. 

Hawke noticed Sephiroth staring and came over. 

“That wasn’t the technique Aerith used last time,” he said. 

“That one is more intensive, and needs to be somewhere the veil is thinner.” 

He nodded. 

She watched him. “Did you want to ask something else?”