Broken Wings - Chapter One

I dreamt that suitors sought my hand, that knights upon bended knee

And with vows no maiden's heart could withstand, they pledged their faith to me.

And I dreamt that one of that noble host came forth my hand to claim.

But I also dreamt which charmed me most; that you loved me still the same

-Enya "Marble Halls"

The night was cold, the moon full, making the freshly fallen snow glitter like powdered diamonds. A lone pair of footprints wound their was through the barren trees, stopping where a young woman stood. She was in a thin white dress, unprotected from the bitter cold. Her skin was nearly as pale as the snow itself, and was marked with bruises and half healed wounds, the more serious ones bound with strips of cloth.

She sat down, ignoring the bite of the cold, and laid her head in her hands. Pale blonde hair spilled over her shoulders, veiling her face and ice blue eyes. Her fingers reached out to touch the monument before her. In many ways, it was a grave, though no body was buried beneath. It symbolized the same thing. There, under the shelter of the trees, he had died.

Just as she did every year, she began to sing timidly in a voice that trembled with emotion. She wondered if he could hear her, or if he did, if he even cared.

She turned her gaze skyward when a lone black feather fell, brushing against her pale cheek before falling to the ground. "No," she said, nearly in tears. "You're dead. Leave me."

He didn't respond, but she knew he was there. She could feel his eyes burning into her. Maybe his Masamune was drawn, ready to strike. "Just go," she cried again.

After an eternity's hesitation, she heard footsteps slowly retreating farther and farther away. She sighed deeply and began to rock back and forth, resuming her song with renewed reverence.

This was the anniversary. This was the only time she allowed herself to think of him.

She had long since stopped shivering, and she knew she should leave lest she be taken by the cold, but she found, not to her surprise, that she couldn't move. Oddly enough, she didn't mind as much as she thought she should. She was nervous, maybe, but not frantic like most of the dying would be. There was no pain; even the numbing cold had lost its sting.

She heard the clashing of swords in the distance, creating a whimsical rhythm that only the warriors could ever follow. Raised voices carried to where she sat, increasing in volume until she could make out their words. Soon she saw the silhouettes of two men in the distance, the taller of the two forcing the smaller into the clearing through a series of elaborate and devastating attacks.

The taller abandoned swordplay and hit his opponent squarely in the chest, sending him flying. He hit the obelisk where the woman rested, but quickly recovering and making as if to charge again. In the shadows, however, the man's foe spread a single wing, and was gone.

The man turned to her, somewhat startled by her presence. He had spiked blonde hair that might have fallen past his ears if it had been straight. His eyes were a deep, ocean blue and he was dressed in black, a massive sword at his side. "What are you doing here?" he asked, not unkindly.

The girl gazed onward at the stranger with blank, emotionless eyes.

"Are you all right?" he asked again.

"No," she breathed, her voice weak and airy. She turned her head away. "No I…I don't think I am."

The man recoiled as he spotted the wounds on her arms, "Did Sephiroth…?"

The girl gave no answer.

"Can you stand?" he asked, kneeling beside her.

She shook her head fluidly.

"Then let me carry you. Let me get you somewhere safe, something to warm you. I'm not going to hurt you, I'm a friend."

The woman hesitated, but nodded her head in consent. He picked her up, wincing as he felt how cold she was. He looked around for something to wrap her in, but found nothing. He gripped her frozen fingers, warming them in his hands as he ran.

"I'm Cloud," he said.

"I know. He spoke of you often."

Cloud decided not to ask who "he" was. "What's your name?"

She hesitated, and for a while he thought that she had fallen unconscious.

"He called me Aralyn," she said softly.

She soon slipped into sleep, and Cloud picked up his pace, afraid that she would fall prey to the winter's cold. Her breathing was deep and even, and her lips touched with blue. As her hand went limp, a single black feather slipped from her grip, and Cloud paled, thinking that he knew just who "he" was.