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In her youth, Tifa dreamed—of a fairytale life, of chivalrous knights warding off dragons, of princesses and castles, of anything that wasn’t simple, boring Nibelheim. She devoured the bedtime stories her mother wove for her. When she was no longer alive for storytelling, Tifa read books to satiate the desire.
Maybe that was why she made the promise with Cloud. She was no princess and her humble home was no castle, but if he succeeded, he could rescue her when she needed it. The details were loose and blurry; the peril could lie in a monster or the banal country life. So long as someone swooped in to save her, Tifa accepted it.
They weren’t close friends nor did Tifa recall most of their conversations together, but Cloud had asked her to meet him. The least he could do in return was honor her one, silly request.
Tifa searched the newspaper headlines daily, hoping to catch his name immortalized in black ink. He never surfaced, not even in the neglected articles towards the back. Tifa frowned. Had something happened? Perhaps if she wrote a letter to him… no, it made no difference. Cloud was no knight. They simply grew up in the same town, more akin to ghosts wandering past each other than fate-entwined souls. It was silly to believe he’d rise the ranks and become a hero overnight.
Just as it was silly to believe the fairytales she admired would work in her reality.
No one was there to save her when the town burned, when her father collapsed, when everything she knew and loved was stripped from her heart. She damned the once-beloved stories as she slipped into unconsciousness. But before darkness swallowed her, she swore something enveloped her. She drifted for what felt like an eternity. And in the fog, she thought she heard his voice.
When she awoke, sore and fragile, she found only her martial arts teacher. She rested in a foreign bed in a foreign room. The scent didn’t belong to Nibelheim—because she wasn’t in Nibelheim. Her hometown burned to ash and she was in Midgar recovering and it didn’t matter what she thought or felt, because she was expected to be grateful for to be alive.
But was it life without the things which once sparked joy? As stupid as they were, she missed her mother’s stories. Her idyllic childhood was long gone, but she yearned for the familiar comforts while in the slums.
The people of Midgar cared for fairytales as much as they cared for Shinra and SOLDIER; they prized survival over any simple luxury. Those same people knew nothing of Cloud Strife. Then again, Tifa knew as much as they did.
It pained her, at times—the knowledge that he fled their hometown to embrace the company that brought Nibelheim’s demise. Did he know what happened? Did he care? Tifa tried to contain her ire before it overflowed in the nights she stayed awake thinking of the possibilities. It was beyond her control, much like everything which transpired.
The realization brought forth another sentiment. She didn’t require a knight. Not when she could be her own savior.
I can do this, she thought amidst her physical therapy and clinical checkups.
I don’t need anyone to save me, she thought between part-time jobs that paid under the table.
This whole time, I could’ve saved myself, she thought while counting her savings and eyeing the real estate listing for a rundown tavern.
And I will, she thought as she remodeled what would become Seventh Heaven, from the floorboards to the painting to the shelving to the decorations.
I don’t want to wait for anyone again, she thought when she found a ripped flyer for AVALANCHE left on an empty table after closing time.
This is my life and I’ll make sure I live by my rules, she thought before gearing up with new allies to take on Shinra.
It wasn’t what she dreamed of, but it was hers. Every morning, she woke and inhaled—a reminder she survived to see another day. All on her own. What friends she made—and in turn, gained their support—were highlights along the dreary path she treaded, though the fear of losing them perpetually lingered behind Tifa like a shadow. No sense in growing too attached. Life wasn’t permanent and she refused to piece her broken heart back together again and again.
But then he appeared.
Maybe it was a hallucination or someone who looked like him. Despite their threadbare friendship, Tifa couldn’t forget his spiky, blond hair or blue eyes. Mako stained his gaze now, but it was him. It had to be.
“Cloud?” she murmured.
He slumped against the stairs of the train station, head lolling about like a dead weight. When he looked to her, Tifa hitched her breath. He said her name—he remembered her. Or was it…. No, it wasn’t right. The events he recalled and the way he flinched when she asked questions… it was Cloud, yet it wasn’t. The words to properly express her dread and apprehension eluded Tifa. Nothing left her lips, yet the sensations twisted her stomach until she yearned to scream. Or vomit. It was hard to discern the difference.
What she did know, however, was that she refused to abandon Cloud. They were never close and she… she could have treated him better. He deserved more than a night at the water tower. But she was still a kid and believed in fairytales and wished for him to be her knight to swoop in and save her from reality, because that’s how it worked in the stories—because everyone else had left and he was the only one remaining for her to ask. The truth was she wasn’t entitled to his promise of chivalry after years of childish neglect; no one could save Tifa but herself.
And she did. Seventh Heaven was proof, as was her place within AVALANCHE’s ranks. And so was the scar marking her sternum. She survived again and again, fueled by stubborn spite and hope for something better. Not just for herself, but also others. That could be enough, after all.
Which was why she knelt before Cloud, looped his arm around her neck, hauled him to his wobbly feet, and walked towards the heart of Sector 7. “Come on,” she said for his ears alone. “Let me take care of you. It’s the least I can do.”