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The wood is hard underneath him. He sits, his back straight, his hands loosely fisted upon his thighs. He’s as stiff as the crate he’s perched upon. The silence envelops him—a welcome contrast to the noises that pierced his ears whenever he stepped away from these walls. Here, there were no audience, no adoring gazes, no beady eyes scrutinizing his every motion with pens scratching on charts and boards and papers. It’s become a custom of sorts after missions, retreating returning to his room to bask in the quiet nothingness. After Rhadore (those brown eyes, fierce yet pleading) he is sent to Wutai. He is Shinra’s Hero. He can’t (won’t) let these deaths affect him. If it’s not them then it’ll be his team, his squad, his friends.
“...th.”
“...phiroth.”
He hears a voice, it’s soft and gentle so sickly sweet as she calls his name. He wants to respond to her (“Mother?”), to reach out and finally hold tight to what he’s been searching for his entire life. But he knows he’s always been alone. The door opens without its usual hiss, the movement startling him from his reverie. But he’s been trained to maintain absolute control over his body, his eyes simply shift towards the disturbance. His eyes widen the moment they land on the woman stepping in from the hall. Her brown hair is tied up with a yellow ribbon, her brown eyes crinkle in joy as they lock on his green. She’s in a white lab coat, but her visage brings calm unlike him. She speaks and her voice is soothing. She’s asking him about his mission (doesn’t she always?) but he can’t shake the feeling that something is wrong. It’s her, she’s wrong.
“Mother? Why are you in my room…?” He’s apprehensive. It’s wrong. And yet, she’s his mother so how could it be?
“What a mean thing to say,” she cries in mock offense, a hand reaches up and rests against her heart. “We’re always together, aren’t we?” Her voice is lilting and loving goading and persistent.
“It can’t be…,” he whispers. Everything is wrong and yet it feels so right. Why is he struggling? Isn’t this what he’s always wanted? His head pounds from whispers he can’t catch, drifting away as they appear. He can’t help the pain that seeps into his voice, onto his face. “I, I’ve always been searching for you…”
She smiles again, warmth cold in her eyes. She reaches her hands down to hold his gently in hers to comfort him. “You must be tired from work. Come now, time to eat.” Her eyes glint, “I made your favorite.” Before he can respond, she’s whisking out the way she entered. He doesn’t move, doesn’t breathe, doesn’t do anything that would break this precious moment. The crate’s cold and unyielding, nothing like the warmth of his mother’s hands. The door hisses this time it opens. She’s holding a bowl and he smells the comforting spices wafting from its contents. The heated ceramic is placed into his hands.
“Pumpkin soup…” He’s pleased at what sits inside it, he can’t help the small smile forming on his lips. “I’ve always wanted this…wanted to try my mother’s cooking...” He can’t tear his eyes from the bowl, from the love corruption emanating from this simple dish. “You’re being silly again,” she chirps in response, “I cook for you every day.” He can’t bring himself to look at her face, “if that were true…,” he whispers, “I’d be so happy.” Her hands enter his field of view to grasp his. “But it is true,” she croons, “I’m here now, just as I always have been.” Her eyes twinkle as she winks at him, “and always will be,” she finishes. There is an air of finality about her words. He stands to set the empty bowl (when did he empty it?) aside on another crate. His vision flickers, it stops as soon as it starts.
“Yes. That’s right. Of course…” He apologizes, “I’m sorry, Mother. I, I was confused.” She reassures him with a tender look and quirks her lips up. “It’s fine, Sephiroth. But promise that you’ll never forget how muchjoyit brings me to cook for you.” He thinks of the soup, it’s bright orange color and cozy warmth, how it feels like his mother’s love. She continues, “I made you a present—a good luck braid, since you work so hard.” She grasps his leather clad hands to delicately place the red cord into his hands. “I hope it makes your work just a little bit easier.” It’s dazzling, vibrant red and intricately knotted, its tassels hang freely below the ornately twisted patterns. “It’s beautiful,” he sighs. Never has he held such an exquisite piece of art. “Think of it as a substitute for me and attach it to your sword. That way, mother will always be with you, Sephiroth.” His breath hitches at the thought. At having a piece of her with him to help him through the chaos of the battlefields upon which he is deployed.
“Always together…” he breathlessly words, “We’ll always be together…” Her face contorts into a wide predatory grin, unseen as his eyes remain transfixed upon the scarlet braid cradled in his palms like the precious thing it is. “My sweet Sephiroth,” she sings, “come here.” He steps into her cozy embrace, her arms wrap slither around his back to hold him as she breathes comfort into his ears. Her fingers slowly card through his short silver strands. “Mother… thank you (for everything)…” His skin crawls but he pushes it down, content in her embrace. It rears its head once more. “It’s as if…”
“It’s just a dream…”
---
Sephiroth smirks from within his crystal cocoon within Gaia’s core. His puppet draws near, present in hand. He thanks Jenova, his dear mother, for all the visions and gifts she bestowed upon him in his youth. She had tried. Tried as hard as she could. Still, as he plunged into the Lifestream that fateful day, into the depths of the planet (his birthright), he learned, grew, absorbed—and now, now the time for reunion and his ascension is soon upon them. As he recovers within the crystallized mako, his body rebuilding, his mind is free to wander. He uses the very emotions, the memories that Jenova herself had used to attempt to manipulate his younger self with against his little puppets. He scoffs at the very thought, of his child self, of the memories time has dredged up as he prepares for his rebirth. Unbidden, the memory forces itself to the forefront of his mind, of some uneventful day after one of many successful missions to Wutai. He had thought it a dream back then, a dream of the mother his child self always craved. The red tassel he once treasured has long been discarded along with the piddly blade it was attached to. He’s moved on. He is a God and Gaia is his. His little puppet, wrathful and furious yet oh-so-clueless. Poor, mindless Cloud, still unaware that his every memory, every dream, every waking moment is dominated the very man he hates. Sephiroth pulls, Cloud follows. He opens his green eyes. His sweet puppet has arrived.