They say all good blades have the spark of life within them. Sephiroth firmly believes the Masamune holds the spark of God.

It's not that it's heavy and awkward and over-long, and requires height as well as strength to wield. He is certain that somewhere out there is someone with his proportions, someone else capable of wielding the Masamune, were it any other sword, if they so wished.

It's not that the blade has become synonymous with him, and therefore no one will touch it. There were swords before it, and men refused to touch, but that was out of fear of him, of the possessive rage he was capable of regarding the only things he held dear.

With this blade, it is the Masamune itself they fear to touch.

The spark of God, and it knows its master.

Sephiroth likes to watch, when unwary troopers – so young, so foolish, so unworthy – find themselves part of a drunken dare to lift the sword he prizes above all things. Most are willing to allow themselves to be completely humiliated, rather than even try.

Sephiroth uses it as test of mettle. He admires the courage of those who dare to attempt it, even as he finds amusement in their foolishness.

There has never been any that could lift it, and it has never been a matter of physics. Sephiroth knows that were he ever separated from his sword, it would never be lifted again by any other.

Sometimes he bows his head against the blade, and listens, thinking he could hear the murmuring he feels in his veins when he holds it, if only he listened hard enough.

He remembers many times when he was the only one standing, staring into a sky so blue, while the breeze wrapped itself around him, whispering secrets only he could he hear, because he was the only one alive to hear them. Hours would pass as he listened, and sometimes he would try to sing along, allowing his voice to be stolen by the wind, as the carnage around him paled into insignificance.

Other men would have dances with madness, surrounded by corpses, and scream to the stars. Sephiroth would talk to his sword. The Masamune has never replied, but somehow he is content with that.

Sephiroth has heard sword fighting and duels being compared to dancing.

Death is not a dance. Death is a single blow, and Sephiroth knows it. Sephiroth does not dance with his victims. He strikes, and allows another to take their place.

He does not use death as a showcase for his skill. He can dance, certainly, can use the blade as an extension of the dance, can perform feats of stunning beauty and grace that leave others open-mouthed, but he does not do this in battle. To do so would be for him to act like a cat playing with mice, and that has always struck him as somewhat disrespectful to his opponents.

He does play sometimes. Young, brash soldiers, not quite cowed by his reputation, still young enough to think they know everything and believe that the world revolves around them. He plays then, and lets them reveal every petty trick they've learnt, every meagre scrap of knowledge. When they've exhausted their diminutive well of learning, he ends the game and watches as they turn brick-faced with equal anger and humiliation. Sometimes he smiles, and sometimes he cannot prevent himself from laughing outright, and they turn even redder and glare resentfully at the floor, though he has yet to realise why.

He does not demean the Masamune by involving it in his displays of exuberance. Death is not a game. He is only playing.

Sometimes Sephiroth would give anything to be someone else. It doesn't happen often, but as with everything Sephiroth does, his breakdowns are greater and more terrible for it. His dark nights of the soul send him pacing sometimes, makes him scream and beat his fists against the walls, until he breaks the bones in his hands and the blood leaves an indelible stain. His hands heal quickly, and he breaks them over and over again until the blood pools on the floor and they are mangled beyond description and remain so for however many hours that remain until dawn. They are the hands of the monster he imagines he should see in the mirror, when he reaches out sometimes and places his palms against it, wishing he could sink through to that world beyond. Surely if everything was it's opposite, he would be happy there?

He wishes he could cry sometimes, but he doesn't understand how to, but that's all right, because his hands weep for him, crying blood like tears for their disfigurement.

He imagines he's drowning, choking on the scent of blood. He screams on these nights, to drown the calling out. He claws his own throat, trying to breathe. He screams and screams with every breath he takes, and nobody hears him, and he's not sure whether to be grateful or angry with this.

There are nights when the call is too strong, and sometimes on nights of a new moon, he hunts. They are sharp and swift and brutal, and there is no honour to constrain him, and the freedom is exhilarating. He hunts, and the Masamune moves of its own accord, and sometimes he cannot stop it taking too much.

He tries to take only those lives that deserve to end more than most, but sometimes he is drunk on his freedom, and cannot stop the sword claiming those lives he sought to preserve.

They have no names, and by the end they have no faces, but each call to him on those nights he breaks his hands and screams and screams to a crowded city with nobody listening.

He would sell his soul in those moments, to be anyone else. He would not sell his sword.

When he can't breath for the scent of blood, he seeks the sword for comfort. When he holds it, he can breath easy, because he is not Sephiroth any longer. He is a weapon, both less and more than the man, and he holds only the Masamune dear. He can feel it, whispering in his mind, and he thinks maybe it longs for the honourable blood it has so long been denied.

Sephiroth loves the dawns more than anything after such losses of self-control. He feels the day forgives him, absolves his sins and destroys the memories of his weakness. He lets his hands heal and cleans the sword obsessively, wiping away the dark stain on his soul with the smell of polish until the sword shines, and Sephiroth shines in its reflection, and can stand to hold it and be called hero.

There are none that dare to comment on his attachment to the sword. Friends- he has few (did he have any?) of those. There were lovers, but they were prone to all human failings. He could not bear their touch, after awhile. He hates how much they ask of him, and he hates the way they try to consume him. He hates their eyes; the blank triumph there sickens him. The Masamune asks for nothing he cannot provide.

Sephiroth cannot love, but the closest he comes to it is the feeling of contentment, when there is nothing but wind and sky, and nothing living but himself, and the blade held steady in his grasp, though in battle it seeks blood like a live thing. Perhaps it is. He wouldn't put it past it.

He is whole only when he holds the sword, he is complete only when he has it in his grasp. Sephiroth is not afraid of his blade - it is his, and will only ever do what he tells it to - but he is afraid of how attached he is to it. Irreplaceable, but surely he could live without. It scares him he cannot.

Obsession. It's something he knows well, but can ignore even better.

Sword and man are both perfection, both irreplaceable, both synonymous with the other. Sephiroth hopes that when he dies, if he dies, the sword will be somewhere no one would ever dare to look for it. He hopes it is never raised again in battle, or even touched. The sword is his, and even in death he wants to keep it.