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There is only the river, and the self. The river is cacophonous, sweet as poison. It welcomes you. Death has always welcomed you. Death is the only affectionate mother you have ever known, and you are a terrible, negligent son.
But that is all there is: sweet Death, and her river, and your crawling stride against it. You will tame it, soon, and it will flow as you bid. Yours, as all things will become. You will not bow; you cannot bow; you have never bowed. You have never been defeated.
You have never been defeated.
Except.
"Sephiroth! You're alive!"
That voice hooks you from your thoughts. Pulls aside the mist of sleep, wraps you in flesh and memory. You exist, solidly, suddenly, in a single space. Lines of bright silver and the tang of salt. You are on the ship, insomuch as you are anywhere not everywhere. The metal grating tilts and creaks and you do not deign to touch it.
"…who are you?"
It is the first time you have asked a question, expecting an answer, since…
"You don't remember me?! I'm Cloud!"
They are all only faces. He's said your name, but he is the river's child, as you were once the river's child, eyes slave-bright, Death-bright - and you know him.
"Cloud…" It means nothing.
None of them matter. Traitors, all, and walking the world which you have cast aside, prisoners of chains you've long since cast off. They will be yours, as all things will be.
But this one speaks your name as if you are his, instead.
You've no interest in this. You rise, leaving only a piece of yourself behind, just enough to reprimand them for the inconvenience.
Sephiroth.
Names do not matter, in the river.
You know your own name, of course. You know everything; you haven't forgotten. It just hasn't mattered, and does not matter. Your name has been uttered by a thousand thousand mouths, and soon will be the only name ever spoken, revered and resonating in every soul. Let him say it. Let him scream it.
Sephiroth!
It brings the taste of fire, and the image of collapsing walls and rooftops. The mildew smell of books and pools of mako.
Sephiroth, Sephiroth -
He screams your name and you hear a wet thud and the break of glass. You feel the snap of something deep inside you. Something that is not the river spins. It is thick and quiet and it burns flesh you no longer have. And there is -
Fear.
Fear?
His fear, of course. His beating heart and streaming eyes and broken stride. You broke him. You broke him. You're certain of that. The scales have only ever tipped one way, can only ever tip one way: you are the rightful heir to the Planet's river, the strongest will and the only voice. Undefeated. Untouchable.
Sephiroth!
But he.
No.
He is a face among thousands. You do not know him. There are many things you left behind; unforgotten but unimportant. He is unimportant.
Still.
You return to that small party briefly, not in flesh but in thought. You're quite silent these days, when you wish to be.
His dreams flower open at your lightest touch: the hate and bitter anger of a boy betrayed. As if you had ever owed him anything. Had you lungs, now, you would laugh; had you hands, hands to curl into his ribs and snap them open, why - how dare any of these fragile useless traitors act as though they had a right to you. To anything. These people who had forged you from brilliant starfire into petty weaponry, and felt as though you ought to be grateful for the loss of vast and open skies.
He has no right, this - Cloud.
You know this name. You circle it like smoke; he was -
SOLDIER, First Class.
Oh, no he wasn't. No, no, no - of that you're certain. Of those, each one too weak to bear your burden, you know every name. Those, you swallowed first.
So who is he, this snarling boy who dogs your heels? Who says your name, sleeping, waking, as though he owns it? The stomach of the greenest scout, a shaky trigger finger, fists clenched at the thought of coming home. To…Nibelheim.
At this, you leave him dreaming. You do not want to think of Nibelheim.
But there it is, a shaken stole, the dust of it like knives around you. Nibelheim, blue mountains of your birth. Pipes and columns holding Mother back from all her birthright. You owed them nothing. You owed them nothing. And he - Cloud - Nibel-born, like you and so unlike you, seeking startrails when the rattle of a truck's wheels made him sick -
This…boy…killed you.
No, that can't be true.
You descend to earth again, to grass still stained with Zolom's blood, beneath a frostpale moon. The great serpent's corpse casts a long shadow in which you stand, unsteady. You don't feel like a dead man. But these are borrowed cells, and borrowed time, and borrowed black, this coat, these gloves, these boots all burned away in mako's pull. You are a dead man.
A hatching god.
The river rises, then retreats. It cannot touch you. It is not - the thought has teeth - it is not so strong as that bitter boy.
Cloud, who killed you. Or freed you, if you want to see it thus. No - that would set him equal, and he isn't. You were so much weaker, then, hobbled by flesh and feelings; you were meant to fall, to be reborn. That he was the instrument is incidental. Perhaps, subconsciously, that victory was a gift you bestowed upon him.
You pace the shadow of your kill and bite the leather of your glove, bite through to flesh which is only a memory.
He remembers you, imperfectly.
He remembers himself, imperfectly.
One of these is a weakness; the other, a weapon. And it is not as though you need to kill him. You would spare him, until your ascendance; it would be glorious poetry to have him sing your praise, at the end of all things. It is unnecessary - but it would be...pleasant. It makes the air seem sweeter.
First, though, he must understand.
You rise, and move through coldest night, a breeze of thought across spilled cells, an echo in the wake of dreams.
He will know exactly what he is, this Cloud, and how he never could have touched you. You are untouchable. Undefeated. He knows the unlikelihood of victory. You will insure he sees it fully: how truly small and weak he was, that day you first took vengeance. How incidental. Invisible. He will understand that it could not have happened. You will not lie to him, as you were lied to.
The truth, after all, is freeing.