Today he is dreaming of Lucrecia.
Her smile is bright and beautiful, the kind of beauty that cuts like a knife, slicing a line from throat to stomach with nothing more than an offhand look and an upturned mouth. The kind of beauty that must be embraced, even if your hands bleed from it. The kind of beauty that was his, once, before the darkness and the dream that offered no waking.
Today, he is dreaming of who he used to be.
He is used to the dreams, now; they are his captor's way of taunting. Look, look: see what you used to be. He is all too aware that there are people talking to him; if he struggles, he can even hear his own voice, responding. He has grown accustomed to the noises that come from his mouth, nonsensical syllables that do not make sense to his monster-drenched ears. Whatever he is saying seems to make sense to his listener, however, for he receives a distracted nod and is once more left alone.
Left to remember: to remember what had been done to him. To remember the feeling of losing control, having it slowly slipping through his cupped fingers, only to be replaced by a different kind of control and a different kind of puppet master. To remember what it used to be like, being human.
Today he is dreaming.
Dreaming of Lucrecia.
["...What do you want, Sephiroth?"]
Dreaming of who he used to be.
four and twenty blackbirds
I. the end of the beginning :: the stage is set
II. the middle of it all :: the downfall of a man
III. the beginning of the end :: the birth of an age
hush little baby :: the voice of a father
cradle will fall :: the darkening of the light
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