Chapter Text
The clearing was suspended in silence, the clash of light and shadow trembling in the air but holding, as if the entire forest itself had paused to witness. The roses still bled their heavy perfume, crimson petals drifting in the windless night like embers from a dying fire.
Cloud stood at the center of it all, sword in hand, his breath ragged, shoulders heaving as though every inhale were a battle. His gaze—clear for the first time in what felt like forever—locked on Sephiroth.
Aerith’s chest tightened with hope. “Yes,” she whispered under her breath, as if afraid that any louder sound would shatter the fragile moment.
Slowly, Cloud raised the Buster Sword. The steel caught the glow of her staff, gilded in gold, its reflection almost blinding against the darkness. His grip was steady, his movements purposeful—deliberate.
Sephiroth didn’t move. He merely watched, his posture a study in composure. Silver hair gleamed like threads of moonlight, and his expression was unreadable save for the faintest, mocking curl of his lips.
“Ah,” he murmured, voice soft as silk. “So you’ve chosen.”
The words slithered into the clearing, low and intimate. But still, Cloud advanced. His muscles flexed, his sword arced downward—closer, closer to the throbbing heart of the roses.
Aerith’s pulse thundered in her ears. Almost there. Just a little more. He’s breaking free.
The blade descended, its edge nearly grazing the blood-red bloom at the center. Salvation was a breath away—
And then Cloud faltered.
His hands trembled violently, his knees buckled. The weight of the sword seemed suddenly unbearable.
“No,” Aerith gasped, horror clawing through her chest.
With a metallic cry, the Buster Sword slipped from his grasp and crashed against the earth. The sound echoed like a funeral bell, reverberating through the clearing.
Aerith’s staff dimmed as her breath hitched. “Cloud!”
He staggered forward, one hand clutching his temple, his body wracked with shudders. For a fleeting instant she thought he might reach for the sword again—but then his trembling stilled. His spine straightened. His breath steadied.
Before him stood Sephiroth, radiant and terrifying, his outstretched hand promising the answers Cloud had sought for so long.
“Cloud,” Sephiroth said, his voice low and hypnotic, a melody of power and seduction.
“You’ve come this far. You’ve felt it—the truth that no one else dares to see. Why turn back now?”
Cloud’s eyes flickered, his jaw tightening. Somewhere in the labyrinth of his mind, voices battled for control: memories of friendship, of laughter, of promises made long ago. But they were faint echoes compared to the siren call of Sephiroth’s presence.
“You are not like them,” Sephiroth continued, his silver hair catching the faint moonlight.
“They cannot understand what drives you, what consumes you. But I do. You belong here, with me.”
The forest around them seemed to hum in agreement. The shadows lengthened, creeping forward as if drawn by Sephiroth’s will. The air was thick with the scent of damp earth and something faintly sweet—roses, blooming in the darkness.
Cloud’s shoulders sagging under the weight of the moment. He turned his head slightly, his gaze trailing back toward the faint light behind him.
For a fleeting moment, he remembered the warmth that had momentarily pierced the cold. But now, that felt impossibly far away, like the memory of sunlight in a world plunged into eternal night.
When he lifted his face, the clarity in his eyes was gone.
The blue had dulled, clouded over by a familiar haze, and the fire she’d glimpsed moments ago was extinguished as though it had never been.
“Cloud.” Sephiroth’s voice slid through the night, calm, commanding, inevitable.
And Cloud moved.
Step by step, as if pulled by invisible threads, he turned away from the fallen blade and toward Sephiroth. His stride was slow but certain, each footfall striking Aerith like a hammer.
“No!” she screamed, her voice breaking, her staff blazing defiantly. “Don’t do this! You’re stronger than him! You’re stronger than this!”
He stopped a few feet from Sephiroth, his body trembling again—but not in resistance.
Aerith’s light flared brighter, searing away at the roses, burning them black. “Fight it, Cloud! Please! Look at me—look at me!”
At last, he did.
He turned his head, meeting her eyes. His lips parted, and his voice broke the silence like a blade through glass.
“…Farewell.”
Tears streamed down Aerith's face as she reached out, her fingers brushing the air where he had stood. “No! Don't say that—”
But he was already moving, the last spark of defiance drowned. He stepped forward, crossing the boundary between light and shadow. He stepped into Sephiroth’s shadow, into his orbit, as if he belonged there. The darkness seemed to welcome him, curling around his form like a lover’s embrace.
Sephiroth’s hand rose, long fingers curling possessively over Cloud’s shoulder. His touch was firm, claiming, sealing. Emerald eyes gleamed with triumph, his lips curving into a serene smile.
“He was never yours to save,” Sephiroth said quietly, almost kindly. “He was always mine.”
“No!” Aerith cried, rushing forward, but too late.
The air erupted. Shadows coiled around Sephiroth and Cloud, swallowing them whole, a storm of black and silver and crimson petals. The roses tore free of their stems, spiraling upward in a furious gale.
For a single heartbeat, she glimpsed Cloud’s silhouette pressed against Sephiroth’s—his body leaning into the man who had undone him.
They were gone.
Vanished, leaving nothing but silence and withered stems. The air stank of decay, the perfume of roses gone sour. Aerith stumbled to the center of the clearing, falling to her knees beside the abandoned sword.
“…Cloud.”
The staff’s light finally went out, leaving her in darkness.
--
No one in Midgar ever saw Cloud again.
In the years that followed, rumors spread like wildfire.
Some claimed he had been consumed by the Shinra Forest, his soul lost to its ancient curse. Others spoke of a spectral knight who wandered the edges of the woods, his face obscured, his footsteps silent as death.
The forest itself became a place of eerie fascination. Travelers reported roses blooming in impossible abundance, their petals crimson as blood, their thorns sharper than steel. They whispered of a presence among the trees, watching, waiting—a force both beautiful and terrifying.
It was said that if you listened closely, the forest would speak. It told of a knight who walked willingly into the arms of darkness and a bond that defied life and death, love and hatred. A tale of roses and serpents, of light and shadow, woven into a story without end.
And in the heart of that endless night, where the world dared not tread, a figure lingered. Neither wholly man nor memory, bound forever to a bond—a knight who had chosen the rose, thorns and all.
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The prequel: Sword Of Destiny