This is one of two Halloween fills I've been working on. I'm cutting it close, but I'm hoping against all hopes to make it in time with the other one.

For Stellar and Kei (I may have missed your birthdays, but that's no excuse to not gift)

It was early evening when the youth came down the dusty pathway that separated one side of the village from the other. He was lean and wiry, his dark hair sticking up in unruly spikes. His hands – still a little big and clumsy for him, were occupied with keeping a smaller boy on his back. His eyes roamed the rows of houses, searching.

Eventually, the familiar old building – battered and worn – came into view. Turning, the youth started to cross over the lawn when the door opened.

"Zack!" someone shouted in exasperation. "How many times must I warn you about stepping all over my garden?"

The dark-haired youth backed off at once. Straddled on his back, his unhappy passenger mumbled complaints when the sudden moves jolted him roughly. He ignored them in favor of answering the girl who had appeared in the doorway.

"Sorry, Aerith," he apologized, more out of habit than sincerity, "but aren't these just flowers?"

"They're my herbs!" the girl protested indignantly. "And they take time and effort to grow this well! Where else do you think I'm going to get them?"

"Sorry!" the youth cried out again. "My baby brother hurt his leg while we were playing. Do you think you could …?"

The girl huffed and shook her head. The long honey brown hair she usually kept in a neat braid down her back was a little frayed, as good a sign as any that she had been worked hard through the day already. And she knew these brothers well enough – a right pair of harbingers for strife – to know that they could not pay her. They never did. But the older one was pleading with little dignity now, going so far as to make puppy dog eyes at her. She had never turned away someone at her doorstep before, and as tired as she was, she could not turn them away now.

"Alright, Zack," she conceded. "Bring him in."

Grinning, Zack entered the house after her, this time more careful where he stepped. Inside, the strong spicy scents were already thick in the air, mixing together into something more pungent and unrecognizable. Aerith directed them to a bench that smelled like mint, and as the older set the younger down, she clucked at the blood and bruises already mottling the boy's lower leg.

"Oh Cloud, what have you done to yourself this time?"

The eleven-year-old blond refused to answer or look at her. His eyes were red and puffy from crying, and he knew it. It had been Zack's idea to climb all over the ledges, and now he was the one paying for it. Embarrassed and angry at himself, he decided the best course of action was to ignore everyone and just hope all of this would go away on its own. Then he startled and cried out when fingers probed at his tender leg.

"Squall," Aerith called down the hallway, "come help me, please."

"Squall?" Zack asked in surprise. "Lady Raine's little Squall?"

"He wanted to learn how to prepare medicine for his mother," the brunette explained. "And then he wanted to learn how to heal. I've been teaching him ever since."

And then the boy came in, wiping his hands on a clean rag. He was tiny for his seven years, and the patched clothes he wore were too big for him, that he had to roll up his sleeves and secure his slacks with a thin belt fashioned from a strip of cloth. Yet pale and thin and so seemingly delicate as he was, he moved with a defined purpose, powered by hidden strength. Bright blue eyes flashed with intelligence as he looked to Aerith for instruction. As the older girl explained what needed to be done, it was hard to miss the warm pride in her words.

Cloud had not realized he was staring when the boy suddenly turned to look back at him. Meeting those eyes, losing himself in their strange depths, he suddenly forgot all about the reason why he was here in the first place. Nervously, he attempted a smile.

The boy finally smiled back – timid and shy – and then he knelt by his side, his fingers reaching to better examine his injured leg.

There was no fear that did not already exist, even under the disguise of doubt. In the ten years that followed, such fear tightened its hold over the kingdom. It trickled out to touch the lands that had been colonized, slowly spreading over them until it covered like a thin blanket.

It was in that time that Cloud trained to be a soldier, preparing for a war that he was either too early or too late to participate in. Eventually they sent him back to his village, if only because he was, by their standards, one of them. There was no factoring in all that time he had spent away from it; they assumed he would be more familiar with his home than his mates, and perhaps would know better what to look out for.

When the soldier came home, he felt as much like a tourist as the rest of his troop. When he bought a bag of fruit, the vendor picked them out fresh for him – very fresh – and then smiled – polite and wary – as he picked up his purchase. It was different, far different from when Zack came home from his service. Then again, Zack had left and returned as the same person, the same young man that everyone knew and liked.

He had changed. Even he knew that he had changed. Here, in the place he was born and raised, he was a stranger.

And yet, even with the passage of time, some things were still familiar to him.

He recognized her at once: that old building still battered and worn, that had not even seen a fresh coat of paint for all those years. But she still held strong, showing no sign of worm eating her foundation. And her garden … The garden had grown, with the addition of herbs that were not native to the region, and someone had been careful to keep them not only alive in this unkind environment, but healthy and flourishing.

Sitting amongst the plants and plucking leaves were a pair of boys, a brunet and a blond. They were too young for him to have known, let alone recognize, before he left. When he approached, they looked up at him at once, neither moving. One pair of blue was wide and curious; the other was narrowed and wary. He stopped short of the fence – a newly erected barrier separating them that he found himself appreciating – and tipped his head in greeting.

"I'm here to see the healer," he explained softly.

It was then that the door opened – the way that door always seemed to open before anyone could knock on it, as though it could sense its visitors in need – and someone stepped out.

In the span of ten years, the timid little boy who used to duck behind Aerith had grown up splendidly. He was still too thin, any muscle he had on him intended for getting work done – honest, good work – instead of fighting, and his frame still did not quite fill the clothes he wore. But his skin had at least gained a healthier tan, and his jaw had a more masculine edge. He had let his hair grow out, securing it in a thin ponytail that trailed down his neck and ended just between his shoulder blades.

Familiar, yet unfamiliar at the same time. A half-stranger to him. His rolled-up sleeves were a clear enough sign that he had been working earlier, and his calloused hands were wiped clean on an old rag – mindful of the map of bruises wrapped around the length of his left forearm – before this half-stranger lifted his head and looked right at him.

Bright blue, flashing with intelligence, so very inhumanly deep. Those eyes that once brimmed with emotion had become more guarded, less willing to betray his thoughts; innocence of before had been replaced by a quiet wisdom, so efficiently replacing the boy with a man, even if he could not have been twenty yet. Staring into those eyes again, the soldier felt a sense of deja vu. His sudden loss of direction in that instant scared him.

The young man did not greet him, but there was the softest glint of recognition in his eyes. He did not try to be polite, and neither was he being overly wary. In the end, it was the soldier who spoke first.

"You're Squall, right?" he asked. "It's been a while, so you probably don't remember me. I'm-"

"Cloud," the youth answered for him, his voice a rich baritone. "I know who you are."

And what you are, the eyes added. The soldier felt distinctly uncomfortable with their accusation, and reached for his bag.

"Want an apple?"

"Thanks, but no. I'll eat after I finish for the day."

Then the young man turned away, looking down at the boys who had come up to him. His expression softened, warming into something more gentle. He stretched out his hand, showing them two copper coins. Both boys broke into happy grins as they picked a coin each and ran down the street, headed homeward. The healer turned, retreating back beyond the door. The soldier sighed and bit into the apple he had pulled out.

A soft chime reached his ears, and he looked up over a shiny red surface. Held out to him was a ring of keys.

"If you're coming in," the healer offered, "your sword stays outside. Use the trunk over there."

He might have only been a boy then, but he remembered that the house had once been … nicer.

His surroundings still had that warm, protective glow to them, but they also seemed darker. Flowers no longer sat in vases on every flat surface, replaced instead by bottles of odd, misshapen things either dried and withered or floating in liquid. Hung on the walls were not the paintings of before, but papers. Drawings, vivid sketches of the human body with lines and circles etched all over their surface.

Warming by the fire where a cauldron sat boiling, a black cat arched its back and hissed at him. His fingers twitched reflexively, seeking out the weapon that was not there.

"Settle down, Cait. It's not what you think."

The healer passed him and reached the cat first. It calmed, allowing him to pet it, and started to purr as the tip of its tail flicked back and forth. Then, reaching the cauldron, the healer picked up a long stick and dipped it into its bubbling contents. He stirred for a moment and lifted.

Strips of white cloth surfaced at the other end.

"… Your laundry?" Cloud questioned carefully, his eyes following the cloth as the stick moved them to hang between two stands.

"Something like that," the healer explained. "Got to get the bandages clean as possible before I use them, so they don't dirty the blood and cause illness."

Leaving the freshly laid out strips to dry, the healer straightened and looked up at one of the many diagrams he had out. He found one, traced along the lines with a finger, then tapped it twice in silent confirmation before stepping back into the hallway.

As Cloud followed, he found them in a part of the house he knew better. Light from the window streamed in, brightening it pleasantly and warming the old wooden bench sitting in the center of the room. He dimly recalled sitting on that bench before, a long time ago.

"Sit."

He turned in surprise. "What?"

"Sit," the healer repeated, gesturing at the bench. When the soldier finally obliged him, he added, "and show me your knee."

"Why?"

"So I can take a look at what's bothering it," the healer explained.

"I didn't say anything."

"I didn't need you to."

Cloud stopped talking. When the healer tuned to him, pulling up that old worn bucket of warm water, an exposed knee was waiting for him. He looked at it for a moment, then knelt down and probed around it.

"Is it stiff when you bend it?"

"Something like that," Cloud answered. "… it's not the bone, is it?"

"No. Not bone."

And then his fingers jabbed at the back of the knee, and the soldier choked on the unexpected pain that resulted.

"All muscle," the healer confirmed. "This will hurt, but it is necessary."

"Should I be drunk for this?"

"No."

And then the pain started again, never lessening, only intensifying. He could tell that the hands working on the tight muscles were being careful, but that did not stop it from hurting. His pride kept his mouth shut, his jaws squeezed together to prevent traitorous cries from escaping him. He was shivering, his fingers twitching desperately as he tried to ride it out.

"… Anytime, now."

Cloud managed a grunt, and then two pained words: "Say again …?"

"My head," the healer clarified. "You can stop squeezing my head anytime, now."

The soldier looked down, and found his fingers threading through dark auburn hair, kneading at the youth's scalp. Any embarrassment he might have felt for this awkward situation was momentarily lost to residual pain, and he sighed deeply before dropping to rest his forehead beside his fingers. This up close, he could smell sweat and dirt and mint.

"… Ow," he grumbled. There was a rumble in his ear – if the healer had said anything, he didn't catch it.

He had instinctively tensed the moment those fingers touched his leg again, but this time the pain did not come back. They were gentle now, warm and wet, easing him to relax. Reluctant to lift his head again in case this was a trap, he shifted until he could just peek pass the healer's nose. He saw cloth, rubbing against his skin as it washed his leg clean.

Natural healer's touch, Aerith had called it. It wasn't about having the right dexterity or bone structure or anything like that. It was about a person's own desire to help. To soothe. To heal. That alone made the difference.

"… I remember this," he commented. "You did this for me before."

There was nothing more than a quiet hum of acknowledgment, but Cloud imagined that the youth might have smiled. Might have …

"So tell me, Squall-"

"Leon," the healer corrected him at once. "No one calls me Squall anymore."

"Your mother gave you that name."

"My mother's dead."

The hands and cloth continued to clean the knee.

"… sorry."

"Why?" the youth asked. "Did you have anything to do with it?"

"No," Cloud answered, "but I know what it's like to lose the only family you have. And you fought a lot harder than I did, trying to keep yours."

The cloth paused, lingering over his kneecap. Then it was drawn back, dropping with a squelch back into the bucket.

"You don't have to do this."

"Do what?"

"I know why you're really here," the youth – Leon – told him. "Befriending me won't make it easier. If anything, it will only make it harder."

Cloud did not insult the other by attempting to deny it, but he was not about to admit it either. Instead, he conceded with a quiet, "You know …?"

"You're not the first soldier sent here to investigate me for practicing witchcraft."

So he did know.

Leon retrieved a rag from the table and dried his hands on it. His eyes flicked back to the knee he had just seen to, and he conceded with subtle amusement, "I'll admit, though, that you are the first that used a genuine excuse." The rag was replaced on the table, the bucket pushed out of the way with his leg. "Stay there."

Cloud meekly remained where he was. When the healer came back, he was holding a few strips of cloth – different ones, already dry and cool enough for use – and on top of them he had piled a poultice, the strong spicy scent of herbs reeking from it.

"Keep that on until supper," Leon instructed as he halved the mass and applied it to either side of Cloud's knee before binding it in place. "Then I want you to wash it out."

"Or what," the soldier joked, "it eats my skin off?"

"No, but it will seep through the bandaging and stain your clothes," the healer corrected him. "Medicine like this tends to do that."

Cloud huffed in response before straightening out his slacks. Once he got his boots back on, he followed the other out of the room and back down the hall.

"So how much do I owe you?" he asked in the doorway.

"You need not pay me," Leon answered, handing him the ring of keys for the trunk once more. Cloud accepted it, his brow raised.

"You don't charge people for your services?" The trunk was unlocked, his sword retrieved.

"Not on special occasions," Leon clarified, taking the keys back. "Welcome home."

It was the first time those two words had been spoken to him all through that day, and despite himself Cloud accepted them, enjoying that feeling of being allowed to stay, of actually belonging somewhere.

Even the fact that Leon had closed the door in his face did little to dampen his mood.

"Stop staring at them."

Smirking, Cloud turned from the sight of the two boys – whom he learned were called Sora and Roxas – and looked back at where the healer was sitting by the fire. He had a pouch open in his lap, and in the center of his palm sat a small yet perfect sphere of what he assumed to be dark green glass, the flecks trapped within adding sparkle and glitter where the firelight touched it. It was just big enough to look interesting, but it seemed far from valuable – just another odd, childish trinket.

"Care to explain to me," he asked, "why you pay those two to help themselves to your herbs?"

"It's the mint," Leon answered. His hand gently returned the marble to the pouch, alongside a few other orbs of different colors and shades. "When we first planted it, Aerith did not expect it would take over the whole garden. There's more there than I'll ever need, and if the boys' grandmother wants it, they're welcome to it."

"Still, that doesn't justify paying them to do it," Cloud insisted.

"Maybe I happen to really want them gone?"

"You spoil them."

"What child doesn't enjoy the chance to earn his own coin?" Leon countered, no longer protesting the point. "Besides, if their mother knows I paid them, she'd make them either give the money back or throw it away."

"Because she's honest?"

"Because I might have put some curse on those coins." There was a strange lack of bitterness in that sentence. "Their grandmother has been around long enough to not believe the rumors, but the mother has her children to protect – even from hearsay."

The smile left Cloud's face, his light mood darkened by a familiar sense of guilt. "Sorry."

Leon looked up at him, then huffed and looked away again. "You need to stop apologizing for things that aren't your fault, you know."

Cloud did not argue. His eyes watched the youth rise from his seat and cross the room, to set the pouch back in the small chest resting on his mantelpiece. Over time, the bruises on his left arm had slowly faded, and in the darkness of the room they seemed nonexistent.

"Habit, I guess," he spoke at last.

"Then you need to break it."

"Speaking of which," And Cloud crossed from his place by the window into the room proper, stopping only at a respectful distance. "Could I teach you how to fight? So, at least, you can defend yourself when the other soldiers harass you again."

Leon stared blankly back at him. "And give them an excuse to hit me harder?"

"It's better than being defenseless," the soldier pointed out.

"Maybe it's not," the healer countered it. "So what if I start carrying a weapon? My enemies will have more. If I get stronger, they will just bring in someone even stronger for the sake of petty revenge. It's just another endless cycle of violence."

"It's better than waiting to die," the soldier insisted.

"We're all destined to die one day," the healer answered. "Learning to fight does not prolong the inevitable – it just makes it more complicated. You'll train for a war your whole life, and the day your time is up and they come to kill you, you'll die anyway." And then he smiled – a little sad but well meant. "All things considered, I'm better off spending that time doing exactly what I do now. That way, I'd at least have the satisfaction that I've done right by myself and by others before dying."

There it was. That was how different they were, one from the other. Even their personal battles were on completely different fronts. Each of them had chosen a path to walk down, which the other just could not follow.

It was at that moment that Leon's cat came in through the open window and hopped to the floor. It gave Cloud the cold shoulder and came straight to its master, rubbing against his legs while purring at top speed. It meowed in complaint at being picked up, but quickly forgave the boy the offense as it settled comfortably on Leon's shoulders.

It was probably true, Cloud rationalized as he watched. This healer was just not built for war. He had the strong spirit to face any danger, to bear any pain with quiet dignity. But he did not have the hard heart to willfully take someone's life. Those hands that were gentle and wished so earnestly to heal saw no use for a sword by which to hurt and maim. Becoming a killer would break him.

How could someone so unwilling to engage others in violence be accused of dark sorcery?

"Why offer me this, anyway?" Leon suddenly asked. When Cloud looked up, he could see the other had turned to face him. "Wouldn't your investigation be easier if I couldn't fight back?"

The soldier did not answer. The healer continued to look his way, continued to watch the emotions dancing in his eyes – the only emotion on his otherwise blank face – and then he turned away.

"I told you," he spoke softly. "You shouldn't have befriended me."

Just like that it had suddenly become too uncomfortable for him to stay, and the soldier retreated to the door. He found the keys where they had been left hanging on a nail partially embedded into the wall, and used it on the trunk. With his sword – a weight that seemed heavier than before – back in his hand, he turned to find the healer standing there, waiting with an outstretched hand. The keys were returned in silence.

He had made things harder for himself – for the both of them. Cloud understood that now.

… but what else could I do?

Late into the night, the soldiers waited at their post. And Cloud was with them. He tended to the fire, poking sticks into place while staring quietly at the glowing embers. He felt sick, the nausea stirring within his gut threatening to spill over if he attempted to speak to the others. It was a sickness that did not happen to him often, but he would know it anywhere – he had not felt this sick since the last time …

"Hey," the one on lookout called. "He's here."

When Cloud looked up, he could just see the approach: it was the horse he saw first – a massive, jet black beast that melded with the shadows and the darkness of night. To call it a stallion was to give its name praise. To call it a demon was to give its appearance credit. Despite its intimidating size, it followed every guiding tug of the rider, as docile as a young lamb. And then he looked up and saw its rider.

He was clothed in black, each piece tailored specifically to his unusual height. The only bit of light about his figure was the long silver hair he had secured in a ponytail behind him, so long its tip touched his lower back. His lethal sword was longer still, so long it would have been impossible for even him to sheathe it at his side. Instead he slung it across his back in a baldric, such that its long black hilt was a prominent sight above his shoulder, sticking out like a thin, black wing.

General Sephiroth, the one-winged angel of death.

Looking upon that man once again, Cloud felt sick to his stomach. Sick with fear. He could feel it throughout the camp. Every pair of eyes was fixated on the man approaching them. The General was in no hurry to reach them; the horse's steps were slow and deliberate, like a great tree bending in a breeze. No one spoke. No one coughed. No one dared.

And then the General finally reached them. He wore a thin smile that was anything but kind or friendly. His eyes – pale green and gleaming like a predator's – moved from man to man, before he finally spoke.

"One of you has a report for me."

The troop remained trapped in intimidated silence. Until at last Cloud rose carefully to his feet and stepped forward.

"I do, sir."

At once those eyes homed directly on him, and he felt his guts twist. He managed somehow to hold his ground, and then to take another step forward. The others parted to let him through, if only to get out of the way. The General remained where he was, studying the much shorter soldier quietly. Waiting.

Cloud did not swallow, no matter how dry his throat felt. He spoke as clearly as he could, "I have information. About the healer."

"You have found it then," the General spoke. "The source of his magic. Tell me."

"There is nothing."

His twisted guts slammed into his spine when the intensity of that hard gaze burned into him. He felt rather than saw his comrades flinch, wanting to retreat but not daring to.

"You found nothing …?" the General asked quietly.

"There are no artifacts. No special tools. No magic sources," Cloud continued. "He is not a witch."

This time the General raised his hand. With a dismissive wave, he permitted everyone else to back up a wide berth from them. And then, at last, he dismounted and stepped forward, slowly closing the gap between them. He stopped only a few steps away.

"Did you find nothing," the General asked again, "or did you choose to find nothing?"

His chest ached. Cloud was certain his heart was ready to burst from all the stress it was going through. He could not even sweat. If his hand had not been resting on the sheathe of his sword, he was certain it would be shaking.

" … He … is not a witch," he repeated slowly.

That thin smile froze, twitching into something more sinister, more ugly. And then it caught itself and spread a little wider, a little thinner.

"Defying me, boy," he whispered, now that he was close enough to be heard over the tense, silent air. "Sticking your neck out for someone who doesn't deserve it …" And then, there was something else in those eyes that wasn't entirely mean. "You remind me of your brother."

It was reflex, if anything. To hear about what happened to Zack, he allowed his curiosity to lessen the fear a little. Just a little. He did not even need to ask – not with the General still talking.

"He was braver than you, you should know. Bravest man I had ever the honor of meeting," the General commended. "When I gave him this mission, he did not even want it. He was not afraid to tell me, to my face, what exactly he thought of it, of everything behind it. He said many things, but I suppose it could all be summarized well with his closing statement …" And then, with that thin smile, "He told me to go to hell."

That sounded like him. That sounded exactly like his brother Zack. And Cloud wanted to feel proud of him.

"He was a good soldier, perhaps a better man. And sharing his blood, I should have expected you would one day come to act like him."

The General's hand moved.

"I wonder if you can die like him."

Blinding silver light flashed in his vision.

Leon had been unable to sleep. Curled up in his lap and kneading at his slacks, Cait purred drowsily before flipping onto its back to get more comfortable. Taking the initiative, the youth's fingers brushed across that warm soft belly, preparing to scratch it as the cat so politely requested.

Something landed outside, in his garden, with a heavy crash. At once the cat woke up, flipped over, and took off with a distressed meowing. For as long as he had known it, this was the first time the healer had seen the old cat get that upset about anything. But before he could seek out what had disturbed the animal, the answer came shouting through his window.

"We know you're listening! Come out here!"

It was one of those soldiers again, Leon recognized. But there was something different in this one's voice. For once, he did not sound smug or confident. For once, he actually sounded … afraid. What of?

Getting to his feet, Leon pulled on his shirt and stepped into the hallway. Then he opened the door and looked outside. Four soldiers stood just behind the fence, each one carrying a torch. Astride a powerful horse was a figure all in black, if not for the filth that dripped off his once immaculate silken gloves.

And lying in his ruined garden amidst the crushed herbs he had painstakingly maintained, covering them in thick layers of red, lay just one man, his face contorted in pain and the entire front of his chest soaked through in a consistent copper color. There was so much blood on him, that even blond hair was at first hard to recognize. But recognize him he did.

The man in his black attire pulled off his gloves noisily, and then threw them over the fence. They landed with a wet squelch at Leon's feet, a pool gathering under them almost at once.

"Your choice, healer."

No more was said. The soldiers turned and left, leaving their wounded behind. Leaving him to die.

All for what?

For … that rumor?

For that?

If anyone had been awake, they showed no sign of it; no one left their homes, not even to take a look. Sweeping the gloves out of his way with a foot, Leon stepped into his garden. He knelt beside the still form, reaching out first to seek out the wound. One look at it told him all that he needed to know: it was deep. It was bad. It would surely kill him. His other hand reached to cup a cold cheek.

"Cloud …? Cloud, can you hear me?"

No answer. He moved his fingers down, feeling against the man's neck. There was a pulse there, faint as it was.

"… You would go this far?" he whispered harshly, accusing the dust and footprints they had left behind them. "… Fine. You win, you bastards. You finally win."

It was difficult to move the soldier – he had been well trained in combat, both with weapons and without, and his body weighed heavily with solid muscle. By the time Leon had managed to haul him inside, sweat was running down his forehead and soaking into his shirt. The floor was streaked dark red for his efforts, and still more red gathered where Cloud now lay on the floor.

There was little time to think about the mess. Wiping a hand over his brow, uncaring for the blood that followed such a careless move, Leon sought out the small chest on his mantelpiece. The pouch was pulled out, then opened under the light of the fire. He searched, with that little bit of light he had, for the right orb that he needed.

And that was when he found it. A light green marble that sparkled and glittered at him. He held it to the light for a moment longer, hesitating one final time.

"… Forgive me, Aerith," he pleaded with his ghosts. "I promised you no one would find out about them … if there were any choice …"

Then he took the warmed sphere and pressed it against his wrist. At first, there was nothing. And then, as though hearing his silent pleas, it shone with emerald light, smoky wisps traveling upward and disappearing as the orb sunk into his arm and settled within it. It surprised him – he had expected it to hurt. All he felt instead was a touch of heat, followed by a gentle, soothing breeze. And then the orb glowed from within his wrist, promising that it was still there.

Now, to use it.

Returning to Cloud's side, he laid his palm over the entrance wound. He felt the blood gather against his skin, still as relentless as ever. No time. No time at all. Even then, Leon numbly reached to his chest, to finger the small silver cross that sat there.

"… Will you strike me down for saving a life?" he asked, not expecting an answer. Then, squeezing it in his grip so tight that it hurt, he gritted his teeth. "So be it."

An aura of green light – of curative magic – flew from his hand. He could literally feel the bleeding slow and the flesh knit back together under his fingers. He felt the solid, strong thump of a whole heart, restored and working again as it was meant to. When he withdrew his hand from Cloud's chest, he found the skin was unmarred; if not for the blood it was as though nothing had touched it.

Leon was not sure if it was fear or relief that he was feeling, but it was so thick that it choked him. "This mess you left me with," he managed to complain at the unconscious blond. "Maybe I should charge you for it … add that to your tab … Maybe I should just make you clean it up for me yourself … Lord …"

And any semblance of control fled from him, replaced by a fuller understanding for the magnitude of his actions. With a shaky sigh of breath he buried his face in his hand still covered in Cloud's blood.

"This is it," he murmured morosely. "It is finally over. I finally did it, and it is finally all over …"

His hand reached for Cloud's body again, this time searching for something else. Then his fingers closed around the handle of a knife and drew it out. He took one look at the finally peaceful face, and then he turned away.

"… We shouldn't both die here."

Cloud woke to a haze of red pain. Breathing hurt, but not as much as he had expected. Everything registered to him as a warm blur, a wash of color and soft images without focus. Except the stickiness – that he felt precisely. It covered every inch of him like an extra layer of skin, and he itched to peel it off him. It was disgusting, filthy. His fingers twitched to do something about it.

And then he opened his eyes and was greeted by the dim light of a candle. His body felt heavier than he recalled, and he tried to at least prop himself up.

"Stay down," Leon's voice reached his ears. "You'll live, but you still lost a lot of blood. That takes time to recover from."

Cloud groaned and lifted his arm anyway. It took him a while, forcing his vision to focus, but eventually he could see his arm. Running up and down it were faint stains of blood … stains that resembled writing. There was more on his other arm. He could only guess there was even more down his – he just realized – bare chest.

"… Leon?" he rasped, feeling fear build up in his gut again. "What did you do?"

"They're just random lines and shapes," Leon's voice promised him. "They don't mean anything … I just had to make it look convincing, that's all."

… Make what look convincing? Cloud wanted to ask, his still hoarse voice not letting him. Fighting stubbornly against his weakness, he finally pushed himself onto his elbows.

He was lying in the center of what looked like a misshapen circle, with lines coming from its center and spreading outward to form more shapes and more lines and more pseudo-writing. All of it in dried blood. And kneeling amidst all of it was Leon, hunched forward as he curled into himself.

"… You left me plenty to work with," Leon explained softly, as he finally straightened once more. "I just added the finishing touches afterwards."

In one of the healer's hands was the soldier's knife, spotted with copper flecks. In the other was a deep cut, blood still trickling to the ground. Cloud felt himself ready to pass out again.

"… What did you do?"

"What was necessary."

Even with his current weakened state, Cloud could hear the commotion outside. He could hear his supposed comrades at the door, ready to force entry if they had to – if they wanted to. Leon was ignoring it all, reaching with his bleeding hand to his neck. His fingers deftly unfastened a clasp, sliding the chain free. He had to put the knife down before he could reach over. As Cloud watched, Leon settled the silver cross to rest against his collarbone.

"… Take care of them for me," he whispered.

Cloud didn't try to seek clarification; he had no desire to. There were more pressing things on his mind to worry about. "You need to get out of here," he urged. "Before they-"

"Let them." And Leon leaned back once more, his shoulders slumped with an invisible weight. "I'm done."

Cloud wanted to shout at him, to force him to his feet and get him away from what he knew was coming. But he could do nothing. He hated how he could do nothing but lie there, waiting for that inevitable moment.

"… Why do this for me?" he pleaded for an explanation, his voice cracking. "What have I done to deserve this?"

The pounding at the door was getting louder. Leon bowed his head, submitting to his fate.

"… it's just what I do."

And then the door came down.

The soldiers did not look shocked by what they found; they were not even surprised. It was as though they knew, that they had been expecting it right from the start. They just moved right in, all stone faces and hard fists, and went straight for the man they had been sent for. It was, after all, what they did.

Cloud had yet to move before he found a familiar shadow sweeping over him. The General had to stoop a little to avoid the low ceiling, but that did nothing to take away from his presence. Those predatory eyes looked down at him, judging him again.

"You did well, boy," the General spoke. "You have done your job."

That familiar, sickening fear was back, crippling him and preventing him from moving. But somewhere in there was something else, struggling its way through the wall. Rage.

"You cannot be a soldier anymore, considering the circumstances," the General continued, eying the blood scrawls disdainfully, "but you will be well rewarded to last you the rest of your life. I suggest you enjoy it."

And that was it. The General had turned his back on him and walked out, following the soldiers that now had Leon in their custody. Again Cloud was left behind. He had not even been debriefed. He was already no longer one of them.

Struggling, making it to his hands and knees, Cloud felt himself tremble with suppressed emotion. His fist struck at the wooden floorboards, hurting … far from enough to make what he was feeling go away.

There was only one thing he knew that would work.

It took him a while, to get to his feet. He had to lean on the wall to drag himself down the hallway, and numbly he reached to his side for his sword. It took him several pats at the same place to realize it wasn't there. Of course, there was only one place to look. He helped himself to the keys on the nail and limped outside. The trunk, just as he thought, was locked. So he opened it.

There was his sword, waiting for him. Sitting on top of it was Leon's pouch of marbles.

"… the accused female was to sit on a pointed metal horse and have weights strung from her feet, causing …"

It was background noise to him, those words. Nothing but background noise. It was perhaps helpful that the soldier chosen for the task had no sense of drama, reading the text as monotonously as though he were in school. There was perhaps something better about it – it seemed more appropriate, in this atmosphere, that whoever it was take those words as they were instead of giving them some "punch" or whatever those writers for theater liked to call it.

As the General tuned out the words for a moment, he picked up his cup – a heavy silver goblet, finely polished that it shone in the darkness, with murals delicately etched all along its circumference, depicting the tale of a noble knight in his battle against a mighty dragon. It had been a gift to him from the king, a sign of his favor for the tasks he had accomplished. Into it now he poured a generous helping of wine. Raising it to his lips, he sipped the first mouthful.

"… hundreds of spikes and needles that would pierce the skin of the accused everywhere her skin touched the chair," the soldier went on mechanically, without pausing. "While being interrogated, the accused was strapped into the chair and if her responses were not deemed satisfactory, the straps would tighten, causing deeper penetration of the skin."

The General waved his hand, and the soldier fell silent at once. Deliberately slow, the General passed his subordinate and approached the prisoner. And then, when he deemed himself close enough, he calmly squatted to take a closer look.

The healer they arrested had been stripped to his waist, his hands chained and attached to a fixture high above his head, the metal bindings tight enough to cut into his skin. Having lost his tie at some point, his hair fell freely over his shoulders, playing the part of a protective veil as his head slumped limply toward his chest. Though he could not see his face, the General could hear soft wheezing as the young man – still so very much of a boy in his vulnerability – struggled for each breath.

Sleep deprivation, he found, was always so effective like this. Especially against someone who sadly lacked any training for war. Lifting his cup, the General carelessly tipped it over, upending its contents over the healer's head. He saw him flinch upon initial contact, and twitch a little as the thick blood-colored liquid soaked into his hair and streamed down the sides of his face.

"So tell me, boy," he spoke, watching the healer flinch again, "how does it feel, knowing what we did to your mentor during her stay with us?"

In the cold confines of the place, the wine had cooled around his head, and the healer shivered. The General withdrew his emptied cup and set it down on the stone tiles.

"If it helps, she was dead before we burned her," he continued speaking. "Unless you cooperate with us, I feel less inclined to extend that same mercy to you."

The healer did not respond, perhaps too dazed and exhausted to come up with anything intelligent to say. The General watched, from the corner of his eye, as the soldier turned away to instead watch the door. His hand – wrapped in a new glove – grabbed a fistful of wet hair, and as he pulled the healer's head up he leaned in closer. Dull, unfocused blues wobbled uncertainly, unable to meet his gaze for very long.

"… Listen to me, boy," he growled under his breath, so low that only the healer could hear him. "I do not care what you are or what you might have done. What I want is the Materia. Tell me where it is." His fist tightened, squeezing painfully. "Tell me, or I will put you through worse than I did to that girl."

At last, the healer managed to focus on him. As he watched, his dazed expression slowly changed, hardening into what he could only guess was somewhere between grief and anger. Above his head, limp hands curled into weak fists, and then the healer spit into the General's face.

The General blinked, momentarily surprised. Then, slowly, he reached to his face with his other hand and wiped off spittle mixed with wine and blood. He reached down, picking up his goblet again. He released the healer and started to rise. He was not entirely upright before he suddenly brought the silver cup down on the lolling head. He heard something crack, and then the healer was completely still.

Drawing back his hand, the General looked down at his prized cup to find he had dented it, flecks of blood ruining the once pristine white that was the heroic knight's armor. It was a pity, really – he did so very much like this goblet.

"Wake him up," he instructed the soldier, "and stop that reading. He has made his choice."

The soldier understood his instruction. Setting the script on the table, he retrieved a pair of manacles as he prepared to move the prisoner. Returning the cup to stand beside the bottle, the General watched the proceedings closely.

Illuminated in the light of a single torch, his eyes glowed with a hateful, pale green flame.

Holding the marble up to the sunlight, Cloud watched in mild interest as the flecks trapped within the light green orb sparkled, giving the little trinket the illusion of a gem. That was all it seemed to be: an illusion. He saw nothing special about this one, nor anything special in the other marbles lying within the pouch. There were not even enough for him to play a decent game with. To top it all of, he was quite certain that the dark green marble was missing.

"Why give me these?" he wondered aloud. "What is so important about them?"

Returning the marble to the pouch, Cloud secured the bag to his belt. Idly scratching at his collarbone, something nicked at his fingers until he reached for it. Around his neck, the little silver cross was still smeared with dried blood, lending to it a rusty, tarnished appearance.

Cloud remembered having a cross once – his had maybe been a little bigger than this one, carved from wood and secured with twine. Somewhere down the line, somewhere between losing his family members and losing his innocence, he had lost track of it. Having one again felt strange to him. It felt like a collar, or a thin metal noose that threatened to strangle him to death if he struggled against it.

"You could have done something, you know," he accused it tiredly. "I admit, with all I've seen and all I've been taught, my faith in you has been shaken hard, but still I am certain you could have done something for him if you really wanted to. In that entire room, he was the one who truly believed in your judgment and mercy and tried to do right by you … And yet when he needed you most, you were not in that room with him."

If there were a suitable answer by which to dignify that accusation, it did not reach him. Instead the cross shone in the sunlight, radiant as ever in spite of the blood that covered it. It was waiting on him, he knew. It was expecting something from him. He trapped the cross within his fist, and a faint rush of heat tickled his wrist.

"... What do you want from me?" he asked it, his words a resentful grumble. "What would you have me do?"

Silence again. As though it knew how it did not have to say anything. As though it knew … that he knew.

He heard the footsteps long before the man called out to him, and when he looked up, he was greeted by a familiar soldier. Someone whom he once called comrade and friend, only to abandon him at the whim of a superior officer. Any kinship they might have felt between them was gone, replaced by a still tension. Now, the soldier seemed even afraid of him – Cloud had, after all, cheated death in some unearthly way.

"Just say it," Cloud snapped at him irritably, releasing the cross once again if only to show off that he had one, "or leave me alone."

The soldier composed himself, and then shifted his grip on his sword. "I need you to come back with me. To the keep."

"I was discharged, remember? I'm not a soldier," Cloud pointed out bitterly. "Not anymore. I have no more business there."

"Yes, well," the soldier started to explain, "there is still that matter of how you were … revived."

"What about it?"

"We need to know for certain that you are by no means under the control of the witch. If you can prove that your mind and will are your own, and if you are willing to disown your relationship with the accused, then, well …"

"Do not tell me," Cloud growled, "that the compensation I was promised for this … disgrace … Do not dare tell me that I must do all this just to get it."

The soldier fumbled with his sword hilt, his fingers slipping from the pommel in a moment of inattention. Cloud continued to glare at him, playing on the poor man's fear, as his thoughts raced.

The keep.

They wanted him to turn on a young man who had risked everything to save his life.

They wanted him to pretend none of them had stabbed him in the back and happily do his part like any good right-minded civilian should.

The keep was where Leon was being held.

More heat was gathering at his wrist, threatening to surge up into his hand and explode from his palm. He welcomed it.

"Shut up," he told the man sharply, the moment he managed to find his tongue again. "No more talking. Just shut up and lead the way."

Thankfully, the soldier who knew no better was quick to oblige him.

He wanted to die.

Every nerve was on fire. Every drawn breath was a struggle, as though the moment he stopped he would collapse. Every new pain added to the accumulating agony riding in every joint of his body; he did not think he could move even if he were not restrained. By now, his legs were no longer responding to him, his every twitch sending a prickly sensation of pins and needles along each limb. Without his legs' support, his arms were screaming in pain from trying to support his heavy body.

And his mind … there was no longer any concept of time passing. There was no longer a coherent thought that lasted more than a few seconds. There was … a haze. A murky soup of emotion and impulse that swirled and mixed every time he attempted to grab at anything. They could have starved him, deprived him of water, and it would not have compared to this. He could feel it all the way into his spirit – a sole desire to rest. To sleep. If they would not let him sleep, then he wished, at least, they would just let him die. Either way, he could finally rest.

But the man who had ordered for his torture was far from done with him. He thought he heard as that man interrupted the session yet again, bringing a tiny window of opportunity to catch his breath. Then he felt iron wrapped in cloth clamp down on his throat, pushing back until he raised his head sufficiently to meet those fierce eyes.

"Tell me," the man demanded, his voice low and dangerous.

By now, when he said it again, it was no longer so much of a lie. He was too tired to think of what the truth might be. "… don't … understand …"

And then the iron crushed his throat, sending further waves of agony all the way up to his head.

"Do not," the voice growled, "test me."

Just finish this, he begged with what little thought process he had left. I don't know what you want. I don't care. I've just had enough. Just stop hurting me.

"… just … let me die …"

The hand had slackened a little. He wondered if he had actually said that last thought out loud. He wondered if it would work where his silence did not.

The silken cloth was stroking against his bruised throat, a shockingly gentle turn.

"… I promise you, then," the voice spoke to him, also so much more gentle in its tone. "No more pain. I will put you out of your misery. Just tell me what I want to know, and I promise you will not feel pain again."

It sounded heavenly. He was about ready to do anything.

"Tell me," the voice continued to coax in that soothing tone. "Tell me where the Materia is."

As the thoughts rushed eagerly to obey, his lips parted to let him speak.

Cloud.

He remained silent.

The Materia. He had given them to Cloud.

Cloud would take his place. Cloud would die if he …

"… gone."

The iron was back, clenching again. Not as tight as before, but his throat was already abused enough to hurt anyway.

"What?" the voice uttered, harsh and demanding.

"Used … to heal …" he struggled to explain. "… gone …"

He could not tell if the iron had tightened or slackened. It all hurt the same.

"You are lying to me," the voice accused darkly.

"… No …" he found the strength to answer, and the crack in his voice helped. " … gone …"

For a blinding second the iron tightened, and he thought his neck might just snap off his shoulders from the force.

And then the iron was gone. It took with it any support he had, and his head fell forward.

The world disappeared.

"Out cold," the soldier commented. A knife streaked with blood was set down on the table, the hand switching back to the rusty ladle dipped in a bucket of stale water. "Do we wake him again, General?"

The General looked long and hard at the limp figure hanging from the low ceiling by his arms. Patches of purple and black wrapped about his torso from where a club had struck him, long slivers of red crisscrossing his back where the club had been switched for a whip. A thin wound had been opened on one side of his chest, still leaking blood down the side of his body until it dripped from his toes. Any deeper and it would have destroyed his lung, maybe even killed him and brought this interrogation to a premature halt.

There was no longer a means for him to confirm anything. This body would not take anymore.

"No," the General answered at last. "Get him down. And prepare the stake with wet grass and wood. Witch or no witch, I gave him my word."

"… is he, sir?" When the General turned to face him, the soldier swallowed nervously and looked away. "He has not confessed yet, General. And … well … he is in no shape to sign a written document either."

"You saw what he was doing in his house," the General reminded him. "That is proof enough."

"But sir, the Inquisitor …"

The General paused, remembering the authority – the true authority – he would have to answer to if this went public. If. This was simple enough.

"He dies in the courtyard," he ordered. "I am sure he would appreciate the gift of some privacy in his final moments."

"Yes, General."

Normally, an event like this was filled with noise: murmurs of gossip, questions of curiosity, sighs of anguish, shouts of anger – that sort of thing. Yet this day, this one day was different. This one day was surprisingly, eerily quiet.

Only because there was no mob. There was no crowd of spectators. There was only the troop of soldiers, preparing in grim, solemn silence, the air instead filled with the solid thumping and chiming of iron, and the clutter of wood and the rustle of hay.

As they busied themselves, the gates opened to admit two more amongst them – a soldier and a civilian. The soldier led the way, trying his hardest not to look either at the one following him or at what is about to happen. As they walked, the courtyard march too long for comfort, the civilian's eyes wandered over the thick wooden stake so freshly erected, surrounded by a small nest of wood and grass. One of the soldiers was slipping a rope through a metal ring.

The civilian suddenly stopped walking, his eyes trained on the sight of the General, striding with dignified grace from the depths of the keep to take his place amongst his men; already they had his horse waiting for him. A few steps behind him, two guardsmen dragged someone between them. Even from that distance, the way he slumped limply and supported none of his own weight, he seemed already dead. Even then, it did not stop them from binding his wrists in front of him.

The General stopped the guardsmen at the foot of the platform. With a firm gesture, they dropped their prisoner to land in a heap at the man's feet. With an uttered word, one of them knelt to grab a fistful of tattered shirt, forcing the prisoner partway up. A silken glove patched in coppery red reached forward, finding a miry chin, stroking away the remaining drops of water from under it.

"Have you made your peace?" he asked, as though conversing with an old friend. At the faintest of nods, he added, "will you let a lie be the last thing you say before you die?"

The healer stared blankly, and then he closed his eyes and turned away. The General's lips formed a thin line, and then he stepped back.

"Carry on."

The civilian was watching as the guardsmen lifted their captive back to his feet, hauling him that final distance toward his death. The soldier had finally noticed he was no longer being followed, and returned by his side. Before he could even ask, the civilian was walking again. He passed him, headed straight for the center of the courtyard. The General heard the commotion and turned, his expression barely changing upon the familiar sight of his one-time subordinate.

"You have good timing, boy," he commented.

The civilian opened his mouth to say something, then changed his mind. Instead he turned his head sharply, to watch as the guardsmen started to fasten the healer into place.

"I understand he was your friend, once." The voice was strangely pitying, as though the man were actually capable of such sympathy. "I understand if you wish to say goodbye to him."

The civilian continued watching, his eyes on the healer as he waited for the other to raise his head, to notice him. It did not happen. He turned back to the General. "That won't be necessary. I came here to say something. I should get it over with."

At the center of the civilian's wrist, the heat was building up, reaching a point of intensity. He continued to will it into his fist, uncaring what it was and what was about to happen. Something told him that heat was power. Power to fight, to defend, to succeed.

"You sent your man to have me deny any connection I might have with that boy you're about to burn," he continued. Under his glove, his wrist glowed with a soft, dark green aura. "You want me to betray him."

Each of his fingers was prickling at the joints. The aura intensified, so bright and vivid that all could see it now. The soldiers backed away in horror. The General stared with a strange, knowing gleam in his eyes.

"I refuse."

And then, impulsively, the civilian threw his outstretched hand to aim at the guardsmen. At once the energy condensed and shot from wrist to fingers … and then exploded from his fingertips in bolts of silver lightning. They flew forward, forked down the center, and each side crashed into a different guardsman with explosive impact. They were sent flying, the healer they had been holding up dropping to his knees at the foot of the stake.

He heard the blade before he felt the wind shift with its approach, and the civilian turned. His hand shot up out of instinct, catching the sharp blade as it struck at him. Under its edge, leather peeled back, and then the top layer of flesh. The bleeding hand held fast, with more strength than either knew should be there. Behind it, the civilian glared into his attacker's eyes.

Pale green filled with hate and obsessive determination.

Light blue glowing with unearthly green light.

"No," the civilian spoke softly. "Not this time."

Lightning erupted at his fingertips again, sliding down the length of the blade with incredible speed. Immediately the General pulled back, and the civilian let him go. The effort was futile, as thin silver snakes continued down the conducting metal and assaulted the one who was a heartbeat too slow to let go.

Faced with something they could not understand, opposed by something they had not been trained to fight, the soldiers did not attempt to stop the civilian when he broke into a run, coming right for them. Another strike crashed into the ground inches from their feet, driving them back further. Its handler suddenly abandoning it to flee, the hardened war horse stomped the ground and tossed its head, more angry than upset by the events transpiring around it.

Another hand gripped at its reins, and then a weight had launched onto its back. Someone was shouting and snapping the reins, commandeering its attention. It took his lead, simply grateful that someone in this whole mess had some sense to give it instruction.

Downed, still suffering the painful effects of the lightning attack, the General watched and seethed in his anger as the civilian traitor steered his horse, bringing it closer to the platform. A hand reached down, snagging the healer under his arms and hoisting him up onto the saddle.

"Stop them!"

The soldiers were slow to obey their General, their fright of the strange sorcery still fresh on their minds. Hugging the healer to his chest, the civilian pulled at the reins and urged the horse forward. And forward it flew, its hooves thundering against the ground as it passed the scrambling men, passed its former rider, and barreled straight for the open gate.

In a loud clatter of iron, they were gone.

The General started to rise, but pain in his palms brought him pause. He turned his hands over to look, and found his gloves had been seared down the center, where the fabric had touched the hilt of his sword. The exposed skin was raw and wet. Ignoring the pain when it assaulted him a second time, the General squeezed his injured hands into tight fists.

The die had been cast. The hunt would continue.

There was no telling for certain how far they had come before the horse was finally allowed to slow its pace by just a little, to allow him to actually notice where they were headed. And still he had no idea where they were in the country.

Four turns ago, he had spotted the forest and decided to cut through it, hoping the density of the trees would help, that eventually any pursuers would lose their trail. As a measure of insurance, he made a fifth turn. He briefly considered stopping to remove the horse's shoes, to prevent the iron from leaving prominent tracks in the earth. He dismissed the idea just as quickly and pressed on.

Unable to properly lead with the reins, Cloud was appreciatively impressed that the horse took cues from the shift of his weight. He shifted it now, all the while careful with the passenger he held close to him with one arm about his waist. The horse veered left, undaunted by the dense vegetation all around it. A fine animal indeed – if only it weren't the General's prize stallion, and people would eventually notice it if they crossed through any village or town.

The sight of a low branch caused him to duck, his nose tickled by dark grimy strands of hair as his chin came to rest at the top of Leon's head. He could smell sweat, blood and filth, which he expected. He could smell wine, which he had not expected. And under all those layers, even now, there was the faintest scent of mint.

Leaning against his chest, Leon was quiet. He had slipped into an unconscious state at some point, and despite the rough ride he had yet to stir. If he were merely asleep, resting after the suffering he had been through, that would have been understandable. What bothered Cloud was the man's uneven breaths and the cold of his body. He held him a little tighter, trying to warm him, and the added pressure finally elicited a soft moan in protest.

Granting himself some relief, Cloud murmured an apology close to Leon's ear before straightening in the saddle once more. The horse had slowed a little more, as though preparing for his instruction. As they finally broke from the forest, the ex-soldier could see why.

A fork in the road. The signpost that had been erected there was old and battered by the elements, but its text was still readable. The horse slowed to a brief trot, and then halted altogether. In spite of the long and hard run, it had barely even broken a sweat, and it calmly lowered its head to snatch a few blades of grass as it waited for its rider to make up his mind. Cloud allowed it, his attention focused on the signpost.

It had been pure coincidence, that they were actually so very close to their village. It would also be the first place the General was bound to try the moment he caught up. As long as they were hunted, they could never go home again.

The other path was a great risk to take. Yet, when he thought about it, it was worth a try. After all, with circumstances as they were, the soldiers would not be expecting to find them there.

Transferring the reins to the hand holding onto Leon, Cloud reached to his neck, his fingers brushing against silver. It reassured him like it had not done for a long, long time.

With a whistle and shift to the right, he guided the horse toward Midgar, in the direction of its abandoned church.

It was late into the evening when they finally arrived in the outskirts, conveniently also the town's main slum area. It was there that they found the church – left to ruin since funds were poured into building a bigger, grander one closer to the capital. It was deserted now; not even the locals came near it. It seemed the perfect place to hide for a while, just long enough to let them recover.

The doors had fallen to disrepair, leaving a gaping hole for the horse and its riders to squeeze through. Cloud negotiated it down the middle, between the pews, toward the altar. What surprised him was the hole that had been broken through the floor directly in front of it – he had not thought it possible that flowers would be growing there; thriving, even. Its very, remarkable presence among the refuse and the rejected … promised hope.

Taking advantage of Cloud's inattentiveness, the horse proved its lack of imagination as it snorted and snatched up one of the flowers to munch on. It seemed at ease, a good enough sign for the ex-soldier that they were indeed safe for the moment. Releasing the reins – trusting that the black giant was not planning anything behind his back – Cloud reached around his belt until his fingers closed around the handle of his knife.

Carefully settling the blade over the bindings on Leon's wrists, Cloud sawed at them until, slowly, the fibers came apart. "Sorry that took me so long," he spoke quietly as he worked. "I had to get us clear first."

The freed hands fell limply into the healer's lap, and Cloud shifted his hands to get a better grip. Something on his glove caught his eye, and he opened the hand to take a better look.

It was dark with blood. And when he looked down at Leon's chest, he could see the stain that had fanned out over the front of his shirt.

"… No …" he stumbled, struggling to dismount without hurting his charge any worse, "… no, no, no …"

Setting Leon down on the wooden floorboards, Cloud worked through the already threadbare shirt until he found what he was looking for: a long, thin wound that stretched down the right side of his chest. It had missed directly damaging either heart or lung, but it had been left to bleed – no attempts had been made to staunch the flow, not when the healer was about to be executed anyway. All that time they had spent on the run … how much blood had he lost?

"Hey … come on … I saved you, didn't I?" Cloud pleaded desperately. His gloves came off in a second, and he reached to touch a cool cheek. "… Leon … Squall, please. You can't … Tell me what to do. Tell me … please …"

He felt heat at his wrist again. Remembering what would happen, Cloud mentally willed it to stop, to go away. And then he heard something heavy knock against wood before rolling to a stop. When he looked down, he found the dark green orb he had thought missing.

"… the marble …?"

In an instant, Cloud tugged the pouch free from his belt and pulled it open. He could see them: marbles of different colors and shades. He stuck his hand in, searching blindly for the one he wanted. He did not know which one did what, but there had to be one that was used for healing. There had to be.

As though sensing his strong desires, one of the marbles responded to his touch with a low, subtle hum. He picked it up, finding in his hand the light green orb. Going on a hunch, he pressed it to his wrist. In a flash of light and smoke, it slipped in and settled so smoothly he barely felt it. This time, when the heat warmed his wrist, a cool breeze followed shortly after.

But he had no proof that this would work. What if he killed the boy instead? What if …?

Cloud looked down at Leon again, watching the cooling trail of blood touch the floorboards. He felt the magic trying to answer him, no matter what manner it turned out to be. His other hand reached to his collarbone again, searching, then finding. Fingers squeezed painfully around the bloodied cross that had been gifted to him.

"Don't take him from me," he begged it. "I can't let him die. Please, don't let him die …"

His free hand found its way over the wound, touching the cut. Leon did not stir. Cloud could not even feel a heartbeat anymore.

"… damn me, then," he whispered, shivering as emotions choked him. "Damn me to hell, for all I care. Just let him live. If this is the one thing I ever ask of you, just let him live."

At once, magic surged from his fingers beyond his control. Unlike the harsh silver-blue lightning he had used much earlier, he saw soft, green light fill the wound. It glowed warmly, as though it were reassuring him that all was well, and then it disappeared. In its place was a chest of unmarred flesh. Cloud held his breath, not even daring to hope …

A soft flutter. A heartbeat. There was a soft wheezing, and then a raspy voice reached his ears.

"… Cloud …?"

The ex-soldier turned, and as he looked down, eyes of bright blue met his gaze. A strangled sound escaped him as he gave in to his emotions at last and gathered the boy in his arms, hugging him tightly to his chest. Leon– Squall was alive. The danger had passed. Just this once, he did not want to care for anything else. Still dazed, the healer clung to him weakly with one hand.

"… Cloud," he asked again, "what did you do?"

The ex-soldier stifled a laugh, but he was still smiling into the filthy hair he had pressed against. He shifted his grip, but did not slacken. "Nothing much, really – just what was necessary."

He felt cool flesh touch his wrist – the same wrist where the marble was still trapped.

"… I felt myself die," Leon whispered.

"But you didn't," Cloud answered quietly. "You did not give up on me then, and I won't give up on you now."

They were suddenly interrupted by a knocking of iron against wood. When Cloud peered out of the corner of his eye, he could see the horse had not cared for what just happened, and was eating more of the flowers, actually nosing through them for what it deemed the tastier ones. One look at its black hide was all Cloud needed to remember, to sober again.

The General– no, Sephiroth would never stop coming after them. What peace they had now was merely borrowed time.

Even so … even with that knowledge, he wanted nothing more than to hold onto the boy he had nearly lost. He could work out what he was feeling later. He could work out what to do about their future later.

For now, while they could afford to, he just held on tight with no intention of letting go.

"… I want you to teach me how to use these damn balls," he muttered after a moment's thought. "And I want you to let me teach you how to fight with a blade. Even if it's just a knife. I don't care how much you'll complain, I don't intend to lose you again."

The boy did not argue – perhaps because he was still too exhausted for it. He was drifting off again, this time into a peaceful slumber.

"I know. We're all destined to die one day," Cloud spoke to him, "but not now. It doesn't have to be like this. It doesn't have to be now."

Not today.