The time for tears was over.

In the glass cage of the conservatory, Aerith stared out at the horizon, watching the night deepen. One by one, as if they were answering each other, lights came on in the village below. At last, the white line of the far hills faded away into the darkness, blending with the sky.

Another day had ended.

Aerith sighed and turned away, eyes dull. Loneliness gnawed at her, hollow and hungry. Four days, and almost five now, she had spent frozen in time, anguish stuck in her throat like a bone.

The days repeated themselves. The same orange sun rose, tracked its arc across the sky, then fell, burning, beyond the edge of the world. She paced circuits around the tower, her eyes trained outward, desperately searching the horizon, her heart skipping a beat at the sight of every caravan, trader, crawler. Each time she fell back, aching with disappointment, until her eyes stung with bitter, frustrated tears.

No, there was nothing, no word or sign of him, from any source she could glean. Twice a day, morning and evening, she sent Celeste out as her emissary, making the rounds. The stables knew nothing. The other hotel staff, nothing. The county border guards, the workers at the log yards, sapgas depots, distillery works, all the same.

Sephiroth had evaporated into the storm. There were thousands of miles of tundra all around them, most of which had only ever been mapped from the air. He could be anywhere. There was no telling when, or -she swallowed painfully at the thought -if- he would return.

Gathering the throw more tightly around her body, she hugged it to herself, her breaths deep and shaky. Her eyes downcast, she absently rubbed her nose in its slick fur, with the grain, then against it, back and forth, seeking comfort.

It was his arms she desperately wanted to feel around her now, to be enclosed once again within that circle of warmth and protection. The balcony had been her chance, maybe her only chance, for happiness. For a moment she lingered in the memory of it, letting it fill her, for just one buoyant moment, before it inevitably soured.

If only she had been stronger, she thought, raging against herself. If only she had been able to properly articulate the truth, instead of being struck mute right when it counted, a dumb helpless lamb locked into the horror of her memories, hiding behind vagueness and half-truths.

Whatever he suffered, whatever happened now, she knew that for the rest of her life she would always pin it back to that moment, that one evanescent choice, where life had asked her to be brave, and she had failed.

Sick with regret, Aerith went to the chaise and sat down.

So as not to waste a moment searching, she had made it her bed. From the pale predawn, soon as there was enough light to see, until darkness once again swept the landscape, her days took this shape: fitful sleep, listless meals, gazing out onto the snowfields in all directions, searching for any sign of him.

Aerith slumped onto her side, nestling in the blankets and cuddling a pillow to her chest like she used to do as a child. She felt the heavy links of the necklace around her neck shift, falling coolly against her skin.

Her eyes narrowed, her mouth pressed thin and tight. The necklace reminded her. No matter how she felt, she could not forget what she was ultimately here to do. Her body had healed. She had regained her strength, and then some. All was prepared for the next stage of the journey. How much longer should she stay and wait? One day more? Two? A week? A month? Should she go out herself to ask after him again, risk drawing further attention to herself? Should she form a search party and go out to hunt for him, damning every consequence?

He'd told her to go on alone, if anything happened. Your people need you, he'd said. It was a command. You must make it. You must. No matter what.

A cold veil of sadness settled over her, remembering the earnestness in his voice. He had always counted himself so little, with no expectations of her, as if he were a piece of paper she could ball up and throw away without a second thought. But still he loved her. He tried. Aerith put her hands over her face, grief clawing up her throat. Oh Sephiroth, what have I done to you?

Desperately, she clutched the stones of the necklace.

It was true: there had been no sudden, answering bowshock of her people's presence the moment the stones were placed around her neck. As much as she had needed it, that first blind rush of fear and panic, the greedy intensity of her longing, might have prevented her from hearing them, even if they had been there.

There was so very little left of the Tears now, just these few small broken fragments. Perhaps it was no longer enough.

The night stretched before her, just as long and empty and sleepless as the rest. She would try. It was likely pointless, but she would try. There was no time left to be frightened of the answer. If there was anyone left to hear her, she would reach them if she could.

Lying on her back, face to the sky, Aerith settled herself on the fine upholstery of the chaise, the blankets from her bed and the fur throw loosely twisted around her. The last thing she saw before she closed her eyes was the light of the rising moon chasing everything silver, transforming the foliage of her garden into filigree.

The fingertips of one hand rested lightly at her throat, touching the central largest stone of the necklace. She breathed easily. Calmly.

Come to me, she thought with every inhalation, if you are still there.

Time flowed.

Slowly, by infinitesimal degrees, like water seeping through stone, at just a little past midnight, Aerith felt something familiar brush her consciousness, emanating from somewhere beyond she could not place. She waited. For the first time in a long time an expression of joy passed across her face.

The recognition had found her. The slenderest thread, but it was there.

Her being dilated as she felt their faint voices strengthen, their power blooming delicate and slow.

Cloaked in a perfect inner darkness, Aerith sensed their consciousness pull apart and slide together within her, as if they were rocked by waves, like seafoam endlessly forming and reforming.

This uneasy nebulous sense of their presence was all she had. Before she could see their forms and faces, now was only blackness. It took absolute concentration to hear or feel them at all.

Each slow syllable unspooled through the lightless ether between their worlds, unfolding in her mind like lotus blossoms rising out of still water. One by one each carefully chosen word bloomed, faded, then sank back down into the dark, spent.

Wait, they said.

We are still here.

We have found shelter.

There are less of us.

But we are still here.

It is not too late.

Even now, she asked them, Even now? You know my hands are not clean.

The blood she had shed was not innocent, they reminded her.

To understand her own capacity for darkness was a gift. It was to be whole. It was itself a source of secret power. She should not deny or abandon it. Nor let it rule. Only see it honestly and seek what it had to teach her.

Asking her to meditate on this, their voices slipped away and finally left her, echoing away into nothingness.

We must leave you, they said. Be at peace now. Wait, just a little longer. Rest.

Cradled in a beautiful stillness blessed by the music of the stars, Aerith slept, deeply and untroubled.

Sephiroth shifted impatiently as they ground to a halt. The trapper's crawler chugged, idling roughly, surrounding them in a cloud of sooty engine exhaust. His mouth was sour with the taste of hot metal; he wished vainly for something, anything, to clear it, but he had emptied his thermos long ago.

"Why have we stopped?" he asked.

They had reached a timberyard at the furthest edge of town. Enormous stacks of logs were piled around them, punctuated with hissing distillation towers that constantly dripped greenish yellow water out into the snow. The wind changed and the overwhelming turpentine reek of cooking conifer sap burned Sephiroth's throat and made him cough, but the trapper was unfazed. He stared fixedly toward the white blush of the light in the sky, the towers of the Inn.

"This is as far as I go," the trapper said. His tone was clipped, final.

"You were to take me into town."

"Ah, I don't step foot in that den of vipers," the trapper grumbled, spitting into the snow. He began to babble confusedly, suddenly spewing more words than Sephiroth had ever thought he was capable of. From the little he could follow, his grievance circled around disjointed notions of spiritual pollution and the immorality that was rampant in the 'The City' ever since the towers had been built.

Several times Sephiroth interrupted the trapper's rant, offering him more money, jewels, anything, so they could keep moving.

"'Nay, nay, 'tis only a mile, mile and a half,' the trapper said gruffly, jerking his scruffy chin toward the white haze in the sky," that damned place will swallow you up before you know it." He revved up the crawlers clattering engine.

Trying to bargain or argue further with this particular strain of irrationality lead nowhere; all it would do would waste more valuable time and, at the worst, leave Kitrinka's body to rot out on the tundra.

Sephiroth stepped down off the back of the crawler.

"You will honor our agreement, to recover Chases bird?"

The trapper nodded, curtly. "Aye. Depend on it. They can meet me here."

"Do I have your word?"

The trapper grinned, showing worn, stained teeth. "Do I have yours, that I'll get my payment?"

It was as good an answer as he would get.

Sephiroth gave one sharp nod of assent and stepped back before the plume of the crawlers exhaust smothered him.

Without a further word, the trapper threw the engine into gear and turned out into the night. Sephiroth put his head down and began to trudge in the opposite direction. Glancing back, he watched the yellow pinpoint of the crawlers headlight recede, flickering as it juddered away back into the blackness. He turned and looked up again at the light in the sky, calculated.

It was actually closer to three miles. Simultaneously irritated at this pettiness, yet grateful for the help he had been given, he continued into town, his lungs full of burning mist.

Finally, the Inn. Wavering with exhaustion on several hours sleep in as many days, he slumped against the burnished rosewood wall of the private elevator. For a moment he stood, feeling the warm air jetting from the ceiling vents, grateful to be out of the cold. His fingers awkward and numb, it took him two tries to fish the keycard out of the inside pocket of his coat and press it to its reader. At last the light flashed green, a low chime pinging cheerfully. Machinery hummed to life behind the figured paneling. Sephiroth watched the numbers illuminate one by one as he ascended. His body was insensible, like a block of wood. It took all his will to move, to think.

Eternities later, the door slid back, washing him in a familiar earthy humidity. From the other side of the conservatory he heard the palm fronds brushing against each other in the artificial breeze, the water in the fountain running over itself, burbling. The gentle sounds and smells drifted through him, soothing the grief still stuck in his chest.

It had only been a few days but after all that had happened the space felt strange, like he had been wandering for ten thousand years and returned to find it all still perfectly unchanged.

Sephiroth pushed himself away from the wall of the elevator and forced himself to walk. The silver light was dappled, shimmering through the frost covered glass, broken by the overhanging leaves. Like a man drunk or blind, he rid himself of his gloves and the other small articles of his kit, letting them all fall haphazardly as he staggered forward. After a dozen paces he stopped, tugging roughly at the lacing on his boots. Half undone, he kicked them off to join the trail of gear littering the floor, taking his thick wool socks with them.

The stone was cold under his bare feet, but he did not care. All that mattered was that he was here, that he had made it home, to as much of a home as he would ever have, and Aerith was waiting for him. As he moved his muscles warmed, became fluid again.

With his bloodstained parka still shrouding his shoulders, the awkward weight of Kitrinka's collar a grinding burden around his neck, Sephiroth passed through the sea of plants in a daze. Dewy air opened his lungs. Some night-flower was blooming nearby, dowsing him in its sweet musky fragrance.

His breath caught.

His heart leapt up, bright and shivering.

She was there. Aerith.

Haloed in starlight, sleeping on the chaise. More beautiful than he had ever imagined or remembered.

He had not expected her to be here. She must have wanted to meet him as soon as she could, knew this would be the way he would pass.

All he had to do was to go to her now, to close this small distance between them.

Then everything could begin.

Unsteady, his heart hammering with anticipation, Sephiroth dragged himself up the last few steps, and went to her.

Aerith's ropy hair cascaded over the edge of the chaise like a waterfall, the tails of it puddling on the floor. Her skin was moonstone white, blue in the shadows. The opalescent stones that circled her throat glowed weakly, green and pink, casting pale aurora light over her skin.

She wore a batiste cotton gown so fine it was almost transparent, showing the sensual outline of her body beneath, barely hidden by the delicate embroidery. Pearl buttons ran the length of it, glinting in the weak light. Her face was serene, but he could see the thin crease of worry still imprinted on her brow, sadness weighting the edges of her mouth.

He fell down onto his knees beside her, resting his forehead against the supple curve of her hip. All the exhaustion that he had fought so hard to keep at bay over the past several days seemed to pour down on his shoulders like ten tons of slag. For a long while he only leaned against her and simply existed, incapable to do much else but breathe and drink in her scent, absorbing the warmth of her skin and the softness of her body through the ephemeral cloth.

There were a thousand things he had wanted to say to her now, at this moment, but none of them would come. How badly he had dreamed of this, longed for this. His imaginings of their reunion had been so alive and real, driving him on with every step he had taken back across the tundra. But now, in her presence, he found himself unable to speak, unable to act, overwhelmed with where to begin.

"Aerith," he murmured at last, "I'm here. I'm back." He reached up and folded his hand over hers, squeezed it.

Aerith made a soft quizzical sound in her throat and began to stir, shifting in the blankets. Her eyes fluttered open, focused, widening with recognition soon as she saw him. She sat up, frozen for a moment, tears welling in her eyes, disbelieving what she was seeing. Then she embraced him wholeheartedly, clutching him to her with unexpected force.

"Oh Sephiroth, forgive me," she sobbed, "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry. I didn't know if you were ever coming back."

She was shaking. He felt the tremor resonating through her, the warmth of her breath splashing on his neck. Kitrinka's collar was a hard crescent crushed painfully between them.

"I've missed you so much," she said, her voice full of longing. She squeezed him to her again, as close as she was able, smelling on him the perfume of the wilds, all ice and iron and cedar.

"I've missed you too," Sephiroth murmured, but he kept his head down, bowed, guilty. The sensation of her touch ran off him like water, a blessing he could not receive.

He had hurt her, hurt them both with his rashness. So much suffering could have been avoided, if he had only been wiser. Another sin he could not atone for.

Surrounded once again in his voice and scent and presence, Aerith felt the tension she had been holding on to for so long drain out of her.

He had come back.

In a life that had been nothing but loss after loss after loss, this one thing had returned.

Tenderly, Aerith stroked the sleek length of his hair. Sephiroth felt her fingers move down, fumble over the hard high ridge of the collar hanging around his neck.

"What's this?" She asked, sitting back.

In the silver light the bloodstains on his parka looked black, like he'd been splashed with a bucket of ink. He shied away as her gaze ran around the pale leather oval of Kitrinka's collar, noticing it for the first time. Her eyes went back up to him, questioning.

Sephiroth stared at the floor. He could not look at her. He hooked both hands over the collar, pulling its weight down harder onto the back of his neck until it cut deeper into his broken skin. He savored its burn like penance.

"Kitrinka. I..." His throat closed. He could not continue.

Saying the words aloud, telling the story, made it truly real, made it hurt all over again. But he owed it to her. She must know. He wrestled against the unexpected strength of his feelings, then began again.

"We ran to the Western Sea. To the icefields under the Sakaari Flume. There were Sea wyrms in the water. I could not protect her."

Aerith's breath hitched. She pressed her hands to her mouth, shaking her head slightly.

Damning silence filled the space between them.

"Oh. Oh no," she said, at last, struggling to contain the tremor in her voice, "That's horrible."

"I did everything I could."

"I'm sure you did. I know you did."

A few moments passed.

"I shouldn't have left, gone out into the storm. She would still be here if I hadn't," he said.

Aerith was silent.

Then he felt the weight of her hands on his shoulders.

"Here. Come closer." she said.

When he didn't move she leaned towards him herself, awkward against his resistance. She began to rub his back in slow sweeps.

He looked up at her, just for a moment. It was all he dared. To his surprise there was no judgment, no anger in her eyes, only an abiding compassion.

"You don't need to carry this anymore," she whispered. She burrowed under his hair, lifted the collar from him and laid it on the floor. Sephiroth felt her cool hands press on the back of his neck, soothing the raw and weeping skin there.

Aerith looked down. The blue LED of the collars receiver continued to blink in its programmed cadence, dot-dash, dot-dash.

"You got my message," Aerith said.

Sephiroth stared at it, haunted by the smell of singed feathers.

"Yes. By then, Kitrinka was…had…already gone." he paused. "I came as soon as I could. I walked. It took me three days. A trapper found me at the edge of the snowfields and brought me the rest of the way." The words tumbled out of him but they all seemed meaningless, a thousand empty excuses for another inexcusable failure.

"Such a long journey," she murmured. She was looking at him now with boundless sympathy, her lashes dewy. She leaned toward him, and, one by one, pulled apart the outer snaps of his parka. Sephiroth closed his eyes for a moment and pulled away, instinctually resisting.

She persisted. He felt her fumbling at his throat, heard the ringing sound of the zipper as she undid it. She tugged at his shoulders, his wrists. A sudden sensation of lightness, the burden of his coat slipping away.

Surrendering at last to his feelings, Sephiroth wrapped his arms around her waist and squeezed her close. Her body was soft against him, giving and familiar. The scent of her skin was just as magnificent as he remembered.

"I'm sorry, for all of this," he said again, after a few moments had passed. He sighed deeply. "I was a fool, a coward, for not facing you."

"I was, too," she said.

Releasing him, she leaned back and pressed her fingertips just under her breastbone. The dark red color of the scar shone instantly through the cloth.

"It was this," she said, gazing deep into his eyes. "This. When you touched me...it...woke up. All the old memories came back to me at once. It was like they took over. They were all I could see, all I could feel. I was swallowed up, lost in that death. I didn't know what to do, how to escape, how to give words to it, to tell you."

Sephiroth cursed himself. Of course. Caught up in the intoxicating novelty of his own pleasure he had genuinely forgotten, what he had done to her, so long ago.

But she never could. His handiwork was carved into her, forever.

"I can understand," he said at last. He didn't know what else to say. There was nothing he could do that would truly make it right.

"Will you forgive me?" Aerith said, "I was afraid. The memories were so strong. Stronger than me. But I should have just told you, somehow."

He searched her eyes. Their sincerity hurt.

"Forgive you? You know the fault was always mine," he said, "All this pain I have given to you. To this world."

"We can forgive each other," Aerith said, leaning closer. He noticed she was panting slightly, her lips barely parted.

"I just…" she looked down for a moment, then right at him. "I don't want this to come between us anymore."

Aerith took his hand and pressed it down hard over her scar. His touch melted through the insubstantial fabric; he felt the snarled line of it crossing his palm, his fingers following the curve of her breast. Her heart was beating hard and fast, her skin dewy.

Aerith put her hand over his.

She said his name, softly.

He looked at her. It was as if she had been waiting for him, and only him, her whole life.

Set me free from this, her eyes said to him, silently.

Set us both free. Please.

Taking her head in his hands, he bent down and kissed her. It was joy, to feel her instantly respond, her pulse ramping up even higher, the relieved and eager sounds she made as she hungrily kissed him back. There were no reservations in her now, no fear. She was fully present, and she wanted him, wanted this, and would gladly follow wherever he wanted to go.

They kissed until they forgot themselves, until their mouths were raw and they broke apart panting and breathless, only to begin again. Consumed with desire, Sephiroth rolled her head back to devour her throat, her body arching against him in surrender. Clenching her hair, he explored the pink shells of her ears, then bowed to taste the downy skin of her breasts, straining against the limits of what her gown would allow.

Aerith clutched at the thin black thermal shirt he wore.

"Please, "she said, "take this off. I want to see you." She pulled at the cloth, tugging it upward, desperate in a sly and knowing way he had never seen from her before.

Sephiroth sat back onto his heels. The silvery lines of his scars caught the light as he pulled off his shirt and tossed it aside. Eagerly, Aerith ran her hands across his chest, stroked the tight muscles of his abdomen, brushed her palm luxuriously against the supple hollow of his navel.

The intensity of her own hunger was frightening; she couldn't remember when she had last felt this way, or if she ever had.

"You're so beautiful," she said, tasting his neck, his shoulders, anywhere she could reach. His skin was sweet and cool beneath her lips, contrasted with the hard threads of the muscles clenching underneath.

"Oh, no," he growled, catching her hands. Powerfully, he rose above her and eased her down onto her back, "It's you. It's always been you."

Reckless, he kissed her again, hard and quick. He heard Aerith's brief anguished whimper as he pulled away. She reached for him, disappointed, wanting more. For a second he absorbed the sight of her sprawled open before him, the plush outline of her sex showing through the gauzy cotton of her gown, the wanting look in her eyes.

He slipped back down to kneel before her on the floor, enjoying the hourglass contours of her body as he went.

Sephiroth trembled with excitement, his mind clear and light. He knew exactly what he wanted to do. He had always wanted this, to give someone exactly this.

He pushed up the fabric of her gown and kissed one knee, squeezing the creamy skin of her thighs. Aerith's breath came in short, ragged bursts; she stroked him wherever she could reach, encouraging him. He felt the tension in her rising, although whether it was from excitement, anxiety, or shame, it was difficult to tell.

"Please let me give to you, Aerith," he murmured, sliding back the last of the fabric, revealing her, "I want to give to you. Don't be afraid." He stroked her in gentle meandering lines, easing open her legs.

Aerith felt the heat of his breath washing against her. Eternities it seemed he held there, waiting, as her heart threatened to burst out of her chest. She felt the velvet sweep of his tongue, the brush of his lips, as he languidly devoured the inside of one thigh, then the other. He rubbed his nose in her delicate hair, slowly, deliberately, back and forth, until she was a shaking quivering mess.

"Do you want this?" he asked, his voice a low purr. He dragged his tongue across her skin, following the crease of her thigh. Aerith arched her back in delicious agony, following his movement so she could feel it for as long as she possibly could.

"Yes," she begged, "please. Now." Aerith reached for him, her fingers lacing tight in his hair. She would go mad, she was sure, if she was denied much longer.

Sephiroth smiled wickedly and bowed his head to worship. Shamelessly he parted her, tasting deeply. She was luscious, as succulent as an exotic fruit. Sunk in carnal bliss, he adjusted, experimented, exploring all the different ways he could bring pleasure to her. Gradually he began to understand the subtle language of her body, reading its unspoken tensions, its wants, its sensitivities.

As Aerith shivered and cried and murmured his name, Sephiroth ground himself into her, revelling in her musk and salt and seawater, utterly intoxicated, unable to help himself.

Her fingers clenched his hair, Aerith writhed helplessly. No one had ever given this to her before, enjoyed her so generously in this way, although it was something she had always desperately desired. She cried out again as he found the place she liked the best. His skillful mouth devoured her mercilessly.

"Yes, just like that, exactly like that," she whimpered, "don't stop."

Always the good Soldier, Sephiroth did as he was bid, no more and no less, gripping her hips to give her the range of motion she wanted. Unable to help herself, Aerith mewled and moaned with every breath, involuntarily digging her nails into his scalp, raking his shoulders, forcing him down harder into her.

Relentless, he drove her on, involuntarily adding his own sounds of pleasure and encouragement. There was no future, no past, only himself, lit with the power of what he could give, and the wonderful plushness of Aerith's femininity slick against his lips.

He felt her body begin to clench and tighten beneath him, gathering itself. Delirious, Aerith felt an incredible burgeoning pressure building, teetering on the edge of a violent release.

"I'm going to…I'm…" she cried, her words punctuated between anguished gasps.

Yes, he thought, as he felt the first gorgeous tremor crest within her, come for me, only for me.

Losing all control, Aerith's voice broke into a full throated and wanton cry, then another, and another, a sound that Sephiroth had never heard her make before. She thrashed beneath him as the pulse ripped through her, each iteration pitching higher than the one before.

At last, dazed and shaking in the wake of it, she fell back down to earth. Her body felt as if every cell was sparkling, the remnants of a deep aching pleasure squeezing powerfully between her legs and up the entire length of her spine. Even the simple friction of the air in her lungs, in the hollow of her throat, felt lush and delicious, the continuing echo of her release, now slowly fading by degrees.

Sephiroth closed his eyes and tried to catch his breath. His mind reeled, blind with sensation and the intensity of what he had experienced. He laid his cheek against the dewy skin of her thigh, resting. A light sheen of sweat glistened on his skin. Aerith felt the silk-rich weight of his hair draped over her legs. She ran her fingers over it absently, only half aware.

Eventually he sat up, pulling the skirt of her nightgown back down over her legs so she wouldn't be cold. Giving her navel a quick kiss through the gauzy fabric, he climbed on top of the chaise, straddling her hips. He gazed down at her.

It was not wrong, to have this. Hojo's way was not the only way. His body was his to use, in all its aspects, all its carnality. What he could give was not obscene; the obscenity was that he had been denied it for so long.

Aerith roused from her torpor, pulling him down into a deep kiss. With a tart erotic thrill, she tasted herself on his lips, felt the wetness on his nose and chin. Her hands squeezed his legs possessively, raking her nails against the taut grey ripstop of his pants.

"How do you feel?" he crooned when they finally pulled apart.

She groaned and threw her head back, deeply satisfied.

"I can't even begin to describe…my whole body…it's so good. Thank you." she said, looking up at him. Her eyes were dreamy and unfocused. She was still in the floating world.

"Oh, you're welcome. But we're not done yet." He slid back and off her, getting to his feet. "I want to take you to bed properly."

Aerith struggled to form her words. "Good. Yes. But. My legs... I…don't think I can walk."

Smiling slyly, he gathered her up in his arms.

He laid her down on the creamy sheets of her bed. In contrast to the cold silver of the conservatory, the light in this room was low and golden, lit by the fireplace across the room.

He hung back, for just a moment, admiring the gilded glow of her skin. Her hair was spilled out over the sheets in a lustrous disheveled cloud.

This must be a dream, he thought. In no real world he could fathom would he ever have been given something so beautiful to enjoy.

Aerith tugged at the thick webbing of his belt, fumbled clumsily at the metal rings.

"Take these off, please" she pleaded, fresh desire coloring her words. She began to unbuckle his belt, undoing the top button of his pants. Her fingertips dipped into the gap she produced, searching for him.

Sephiroth stopped her, seizing her wrists before she could get any further. If she touched him now it would surely be his undoing.

"Let me do it," he growled. Aerith watched him as he stripped, shrugging out of his pants and the underthermals beneath with some difficulty.

Nakedness had never bothered him before. He knew he had nothing to be ashamed of. But it was different now, in front of her, with the proof of his desire ragingly evident.

But any momentary hesitation he had fell away as soon as he saw her, saw the wanting way she looked at him, full of awe and love and hunger.

"You're gorgeous, you know that?" Aerith said as he laid down beside her. She ran her hands along his side, down the curve of his iliac crest. Flickers of small white needle scars, hundreds, thousands of them, clustered in the hollows of his hips like nebulae. She stroked them languidly, feeling their texture.

Sephiroth flinched and took her hand away. He didn't want to think of the labs, or the past, or anything else but what was before him now.

In one powerful movement he cinched her tightly so that they were pressed together belly to belly. Fully encompassed, locked into his embrace, Aerith felt his hardness crushed up against her, the concentrated heat of him burning through the filmy cloth. She felt him fumbling one handed with the fine pearl buttons of her nightdress, his labored breathing churning against her, then squealed at the sudden hot lash of his tongue as he teased her nipples through the thin cloth.

"I need you, Aerith," he groaned, grinding his face into her breasts, aching to taste more of her skin. "I can't wait any more."

Frenzied, he seized the cloth of her nightdress in his teeth, and pulled.

The fine fabric tore spectacularly.

Pearls scattered, raining off the bed, running over the sheets like quicksilver.

He looked down at her. The stones around her neck glittered against her skin, reflecting the light of the fire. The burgundy gouge of the scar under her ribs rose and fell with her light quick breaths. Aching with devotion, he bent and touched it lightly with his mouth, the thick silver sheaves of his hair sweeping over his shoulders and puddling onto the sheets beside them.

"Do you still forgive me?" he asked, kissing the scar again. "Are you still sure you want this?," he asked. He kissed his way upward, slowly and sensuously, missing nothing.

She reached for him. "Yes. Yes. Please."

"I don't want to hurt you," he whispered.

She trailed her hands down his body, aching with anticipation. "You won't. But it's been a very long time, so please, go slow."

Sephiroth lowered himself against her. She wrapped her legs around his body, opening, guiding him.

Aerith gasped. It was exquisite agony at first. But by degrees she felt the uncomfortable pressure within her bloom into a rich sensation of fullness, completeness. She sighed, closing her eyes so she could feel him more. He was perfect, exactly right. It had been so many years since she had last felt this but it was better than she had ever remembered, better than anything. She had denied herself for so long that she had almost forgotten how wonderful it was, the visceral satisfaction of his weight, the power in his body and how it felt as he moved inside her, raw and masculine.

"Aerith, you're so good," Sephiroth said, his breath jagged. With an involuntary groan, he drew back and slid into her again, slowly, carefully.

Aerith mewled, overcome. Delicious tension had rebuilt itself inside her, now stronger and with an entirely different character.

Taking her wrists, Sephiroth folded her arms out to either side, pressing her hands into his own, lacing their fingers together, palm to palm. He leaned his weight forward and suckled at her breasts, thrusting himself deep into her, lost inside the unbearable luxury and plushness of her body.

That particular pitch was rising in her voice again, he noticed. It wouldn't be long now, if he could make it.

"Yes, more, more," Aerith cried, breathless, moving faster. Heady with pleasure and about to burst, Sephiroth felt the limits of himself begin to blur, lose its borders, his mind pulled helplessly into some higher plane. He felt Aerith flutter around him, then powerfully constrict.

Joyous and lost, she broke at last, a gorgeous flood of oblivion that carried him over the edge with her. All his command, all self control, was swept away in a shockwave of pulsing white fire. His voice was somewhere outside himself, deep and animal and guttural, counterpointed with Aerith's wild and desperate cries. He shuddered, and gave, and gave, and gave; more than he had thought possible to give, and she accepted him, wantonly.

In the space of a few dazzling, scintillating breaths, it was over, and he was left behind in a starry blackness, a shaking, riven, burnt out husk.

Over languid eons their breathing slowed, coming down together. Aerith clasped him for ages, as if she never wanted to let him go, making a soft disappointed sound when he finally withdrew from her. Sephiroth gathered her into his arms, pulling the bedclothes close around them. An intense drowsiness settled over him. His body resonated with a pleasant golden warmth.

"Are you ok?" he asked her.

"Oh, yes," she said. Her eyes were closed, skin flushed. A contented smile played across her lips.

Sephiroth stroked her absently, still recovering. She nestled into him, feeling the pulse of his heart steady under her hand.

"Thank you," she said, her voice dreamy, "I feel so good."

"Thank you," he said, "For letting me love you."

"Let?" She laughed, musically, "There is no let. I wanted this with you." She snuggled closer. As he watched, her breathing slowed further, her body completely relaxing.

"I love you, Aerith," he whispered. But she had already fallen asleep.

Sephiroth lay still in the silence. The sensation of Aerith's head on his chest, the length of her resting against him, was deeply comforting in a way he had never known he needed. He looked down at her with awe and tenderness, absently brushing a strand of stray hair away from her face.

The fire crackled quietly in the fireplace. Moonlight crept into the room from the open doorway. Sephiroth watched it come, painting a bright silver rectangle on the carpet.

There could be no moment more perfect than this, he thought. Nothing more beautiful. Everything was right. Complete. Whatever happened, even if he was never given another thing in this life, he could cherish this memory, and no one could ever take it away from him.

Aerith woke to pale grey light, the small dry sounds of embers crumbling into ash. The sheets were cool and soft against her skin and she pulled them up under her chin, stretching lazily in the downy cloud of the duvet. The warm heavy weight of Sephiroth's body compressed the mattress beside her. His scent was all around her, ground into her skin, perfuming the salt on her lips. There was a wonderful soreness within her that she had not felt in a long time, informing her every movement.

Contented, she rubbed the sleep from her eyes, and turned over.

Sephiroth slept as he always did: curled up on one side, head slightly bowed, arms wrapped across his body, protecting belly and heart, as if he expected to be attacked. His expression was pained, as if he were uncertain, or considering something serious, but his breathing was deep and regular.

She lay and watched him. He had been lying much like this, she remembered, when she had found him under the Crater.

She remembered herself as she had been at that moment; a woman with a blackened heart, choked with rage, cruelly indifferent to his suffering. How, after three days building wrath, she had stood over him at last, the ivory handled knife held high, readying herself to deal the deathblow.

He did it to you, she had thought as the point of the knife hovered, scratching the skin at the base of his skull, drawing blood. He did it to you, and would do it again if he had the chance.

She remembered the awfulness of that wavering, frozen on the precipice of an irreversible act, the glint of the blade as it reflected the eerie green light of the fungus walls. She'd blinked. The knife dropped out of her hands and fell to the ground. She'd fallen with it. On hands and knees like an animal, she had put her head down and howled her despair into the mud.

For so many years she had hated herself for that mercy, despised her own weakness almost as much as she despised him. But that was before she knew anything. Before she even wanted to understand. Before she finally had the strength to let it all go.

Lovingly, she caressed the side of Sephiroth's face. He was exhausted from his ordeal on the tundra. She would let him rest.

Moving languidly, Aerith slipped out of bed, stepping on the torn remnants of her nightgown. Pearls littered the carpet in all directions. Feeling vaguely embarrassed and wondering how she would explain it to Celeste, she found a robe and wrapped it around her. She gathered up the nightgown and collected as many of the pearls she could find, sheepishly leaving it all in a wadded up bundle on her dressing room table.

Aerith drifted toward the doorway and gazed out. It was much later in the day than she thought. The sun had been up for quite some time and appeared to be well past its apex. She smiled to herself, still feeling the remnants of dark pleasure drifting within her like a ghostly ache.

Her dreamy mood evaporated as soon as she entered the conservatory. To her chagrin, Celeste was there to greet her, and was engaged in the process of laying out two place settings. A coffee service was next to her, arrayed on a metal cart.

"Good morning Milady," Celeste called brightly, as if it were any other day, "or I should say rather, happy Midday."

Aerith flicked her gaze to the floor and kept it there. Almost instantly she could feel the heat of the blush burning up her throat. She was certain that her face was, or was in the rapid process of becoming, a brilliant shade of red. Gathering her courage, Aerith glanced past the side of the maid's head, up at the chaise. The bedding that had been scattered all over the floor had been neatly folded and was resting on top of it in a tidy pile. Sephiroths clothes had disappeared.

"You may inform the Master that his gear is being laundered but will be ready in an hour, should he want it," Celeste said, as if reading her thoughts. There was nothing in her tone that made any comment on the new arrangement. She remained perfectly neutral, perfectly accepting, as if it had always been this way.

"Thank you, I will." Aerith said, still flustered. For a moment she considered that Celeste was well trained in professional discretion; she had, after all, worked for Rufus. Despite this, the realization did little to soothe her.

"If you're looking for the Chocobo collar from the Winterby Stables, you may find it in the Blue room," Celeste added.

Aerith nodded.

"Would you both like brunch?" the maid asked cheerfully.

"Yes, please," Aerith said, "Later. Perhaps after I've…we've...bathed."

"Could I offer you some coffee in the meantime? I'm happy to bring in a tray."

Aerith blushed deeper. "Ah, no need. I can take it in myself."

Celeste bowed, then clicked her heels together in a light kiss of patent leather. "Very good then. I'll leave this with you. I'll bring your meal when you say, just let me know when you're ready. Unless you'd prefer to have it en suite?"

"Oh, no, no, that won't be necessary."

Celeste nodded primly, then made her leave.

Aerith walked carefully back to their room, a coffee cup in each hand. Despite her best efforts, they chattered on their saucers, the hot liquid careening wildly side to side. She set them down on the nightstand, frowning at the amount she had spilled.

Sephiroth was still sleeping. Aerith crawled into bed beside him, pressing herself tight up against his back. She rested this way for a while, drifting in and out, relishing his intense warmth, the silkyness of his hair against her face, the way the angles of his body fit with hers. She kissed the back of his neck.

He flinched; a latent reflex, then exhaled heavily and turned over onto his back, one arm wrapping around her possessively. Aerith nestled close, her head resting on his chest, feeling his heartbeat slowly pulse against her cheek. One of his hands rested near her, elegant and strong. She considered the deep jagged scars that crossed his knuckles and marred the delicacy of his fingers, the faded white needle marks peppered over each large vein. She wondered how old he was when he got them, if he even remembered getting them at all, or if the experiences had been lost, like all the others, against a background of constant misery.

Sephiroth began to stir.

Aerith propped herself up on her elbow so she could see him better. Coming fully awake now, he opened his eyes - onto a dream, onto a happiness so radiant it struck him like pain.

"Good morning," Aerith said, smiling down at him. In the raking light her hair shone like liquid copper.

He reached out and touched her face. His eyes burned, fruitlessly. It took a moment for him to find his words.

"Good morning," he said at last.

"How are you feeling?" she asked.

"I should ask you that question." He searched her eyes, hunting within them for any sign of shame or regret. There was none, he realized at last, to his utter disbelief, absolutely none at all. She was happy. Somehow he had made her happy.

Aerith tossed her head playfully. A sly smile crept onto her lips.

"Mmm. I'm very well," she said. She looked at him for a moment more, ran her fingers casually through her hair. "I brought us coffee, if you want it. Although it's probably stone cold by now."

He made love to her again on the white fur rug beside the bath. Still heady and breathless, drunk on passion, they slid together into the fragrant water. Neither wanted to say what they both knew, that this time could not last, no matter how much they wanted it to.

Aerith rested her head on the rim of the bath, dizzy. The heat of the water melded with the lingering notes of pleasure that still pulsed through her. She floated, eyes closed, relishing the feeling. Sephiroth soaked a sea sponge, charged it with a bath gel that smelt of orris and neroli.

"Turn over," he murmured.

Smiling drowsily, she gathered her hair on top of her head and draped herself against the side of the bath. He washed her back with care, running the sponge down her neck and over the graceful architecture of her shoulders. She glanced behind her. His face was troubled, but was trying not to show it.

"What's wrong?" Aerith said.

He stopped, staring down at the water. It was hard to express what he had no words for, no frame of reference. He rinsed the sponge in the bath, watching the bubbles scatter and dissolve.

"I never imagined that things could be like this," he said at last, "I never dreamed…" He turned the sponge over and over in his hands. He swallowed, as if something was stuck in his throat.

The water swirled around her; Aerith turned to face him.

"I don't deserve any of this," he said quietly.

"Oh. But you do. And so do I." She tried to catch his gaze, but his eyes were still focused on the surface of the water. "This time is a gift. To me, too," she whispered.

He did not answer. He could not answer.

"It must feel strange to you, perhaps," Aerith said, sweeping her hands through the water, "To feel something good for once. To be loved."

"Pain is easier" he said dryly, "It's familiar. I don't know what to do with everything else."

"There's nothing to do. Just be. Feel what you feel. Be here, right now, with me."

Sephiroth placed the sponge on the rim of the bath.

"I'll do my best," he said.

"That's all anyone can ask," she said, kissing him.

Clean, dressed, refreshed, they entered the conservatory for their meal. The table was set for lunch. A cluster of lilies were on the table, just cut that morning. As they took their seats, Aerith noticed a note resting on Sephiroth's plate.

She watched his face slip into sadness as he read it.

"What is it?" Aerith asked.

He laid the note aside.

"The trapper has successfully recovered Kitrinkas body."

Aerith was silent, watching the suffering pass across his face.

"I will go to the stables after this," he added. "Chase does not know yet, and I have to make the final arrangements."

"Yes, of course."

A waiter brought their first course: fruit and a glass of champagne splashed with peach nectar.

"You should prepare to leave soon," Sephiroth said. I'll make arrangements to get us to the coast. From there we'll have to find passage to Bone Village." He picked up his silver fork, stabbing it into a piece of pale green melon.

It was wonderful, just to look over and see her happy. He enjoyed seeing the distinct inclinations of her head, the endearing way she hovered her fork over her bowl of fruit, carefully choosing which piece to eat next, in order of her favorites, always saving the best bite for last. If only it could always be this way, the rest of their days together filled with delight and new pleasures to enjoy. In reality, he thought, he could not even guarantee her safety, or his own.

"Our meals soon won't be as luxurious as this, any more," he said, glancing at her.

Aerith gave a little laugh. "No, of course not. But I'm sure they won't be fermented peaches, forty year old army-grade chickpeas, and rancid yak jerky, either." She smiled, looking up at him. Then she reached across the table and squeezed his hand. "But even if it is, it doesn't matter."

Well fed, Sephiroth went into the Blue room So many nights wasted in this place, anxious and alone, staring up at the pleated fabric in the canopy of this bed, hour after sleepless hour. He would not miss it.

His gear, freshly laundered, was neatly laid out on the embroidered coverlet. Kitrinka's collar lay next to it, still blinking its repeating message. It felt like a sacrilege when he silenced it. He tore out the batteries to reset its memory. Mechanically, he dressed himself, shrouding himself once again in its many layers, its ponderous weight.

Sephiroth looked down at the sleeves of his coat. They had tried, but they still hadn't been able to get it all. Pale brown tidelines wavered back and forth across the fabric. Kitrinka's last mark upon the world.

After burning the remainder of his papers and wiping all evidence of his presence from the room, Sephiroth picked up Kitrinka's collar. He squeezed it tightly in his fist, then turned and headed out.

"Yes, Chase is back. He's in his office," the stablehand jerked a calloused thumb down the hall. Sephiroth took a deep breath and knocked twice on the glass.

"Come in," Chase barked. His voice bristled with annoyance.

Sephiroth entered. Chase was seated at his desk, surrounded by a wall of papers. He was poring over the contents of a folder with a mechanical pencil stuck behind each ear and another in his hand, following the text, line by line. He snapped it closed as soon as he heard Sephiroth enter.

"Well, speak of the Devil," he said, taking off his glasses.

"Mr. Winterby," Sephiroth said, bowing slightly in greeting.

"Hmmff. We thought we almost lost ya for good. When did you get back?" Chase said. He leaned back in his chair, and flicked the mechanical pencil in his hand onto the surface of the desk, casually hooking one arm over the armrest.

"Last night," Sephiroth said. The warmth in Chase's eyes was painful.

Chase rearranged some papers on his desk. "Well, you might want to give the old girl a rest for a few days. I imagine you covered quite some distance," he said. "Very good for their endurance, though, to really run them long every once in a while."

Sephiroth swallowed. "Mr. Winterby," he began, his voice low and grave.

"You don't have to be so formal," Chase protested, waving at him. Gradually he registered Sephiroth's severe expression, the collar clutched in his hands, and he sat up straight in his chair, sensing something.

Sephiroth began again.

"Chase. Kitrinka did not come back with me. We ran to the Sakaari Flume. We were attacked by sea wyrms on the shore. They killed her before I could stop them." He solemnly laid the collar on the desk in front of him. He watched Chase silently wrestle with the information, his jovial expression collapsing into grief, anger, disgust in turns. Then his face turned ugly and red, his hands balling up into fists.

"I'm sorry," Sephiroth continued, his voice flat. "I did everything in my power to prevent it. Please believe me."

Chase said nothing.

"Her body has been recovered and is intact," he continued, "You will still be able to harvest her oocytes for breeding."

Chase said nothing.

Sephiroth waited. The silence was unbearable.

"It doesn't matter," Chase growled out at last, in a low voice that seethed with anger, "I trusted you." His eyes flashed. Then he leapt to his feet, slamming his fists on the desktop. "I trusted you! She was my best bird."

"I know. I'm sorry. The heads and skins of the seawyrms are outside. They can not compensate for Kitrinka's life, but I hope their value—"

"I don't care. You really think the money matters to me? You think she was just genes, just breeding stock? There are things you can't just breed in. I raised her myself. Fed her by hand. She was my best. My best!"

Sephiroth was silent. There was nothing he could say.

Chase sat down. "Get out," he said, in a voice like granite.

Sephiroth turned to go.

"Take the collar with you," Chase barked, "Put it back where it belongs. You know where it goes. Then so help me, I never want to see your face again."

Sephiroth walked back through the stables. His hands gripped Kitrinkas collar, squeezing, releasing, feeling the flex of the mesh and leather. The sight of her stall, its gilded stars shining brightly on the beams of the doorway, kicked him in the gut. He slid the door back and went inside. They had cleaned her stall while he was away. There was nothing left. Not a stray feather. The depression in the straw where she had laid, erased. Only her scent lingered, barely discernible under the odor of damp straw.

Shoulders slumped, he went to the far wall and hung the collar on its hook. He slid the door closed behind him. He pressed his hands against the wood for a moment, bowing his head.

He felt his eyes begin to burn, as he remembered it all over again; that wild floating elation during that first ride out into the hills, the sense of freedom, openness. How honored he felt when she finally gave him her trust. Those last few moments of horror as she died. A heavy sigh escaped him, but it did nothing to relieve the hollowness of the grief in his chest.

"Oh, look who's here."

Sephiroth whipped around, seething. Him. Not now.

Alex had just come in from the wilds. He was leading a tired and dull eyed chocobo behind him, jerking it along by the bridle. After giving Alex a look that would cut glass, Sephiroth stalked past. Alex dodged and stepped directly in his path, blocking him.

"So how is that pretty little lady friend of yours?" he said. He pushed forward, uncomfortably close, almost daring Sephiroth to make a move. "She was in here looking for you a few days ago. I was very pleased to, ah, make her acquaintance." Alex grinned in an oily, suggestive way and cocked his head, waiting for his reaction.

Sephiroth stared him down. Now? Was it now that he should pull his knife and cut his throat? Break his neck? Or just toss him to the floor like the piece of human trash he was, kick in his teeth, and be on his way? Alex spoke again in the second before he had completely made up his mind.

"Have the two of you been enjoying the President's Suite?" Alex asked, his already poisonous smile spreading wider.

Sephiroth made the mistake of letting the shock register on his face, just for a fraction of a second.

Alex caught it, and laughed.

"A man like me, I'm curious. Just can't help poking around a little when I meet interesting folk." Alex grinned his jackals grin. "You really shouldn't tip the servants with jewels, you know. It tends to make you stick in their minds," he said.

Sephiroth's thoughts raced. His stomach turned to water as the memory clicked into place. That's right. He had. An emerald. When they had first arrived at the Inn. In the green anteroom while they waited for the Suite. Starving and exhausted, he did not consider the oddness of the gesture. He hadn't given a moment's thought about it since.

That was it. That one small thing, a moment's unthinking overgenerosity, an ill-gotten jewel dropped into the hand of a third tier steward, had now somehow caused everything to unspool.

Alex kept talking.

"Speaking of sticking in the mind, you're a very distinctive looking fellow, you know, Darien," he laughed again, gusting bitter nicotine through his teeth, "Or, as I should properly call you, General Sephiroth."