Hello everyone, Mengde here. It's been a dreadfully long time since I've posted something, hasn't it? Well, my lovely beta VulcanElf definitely thinks so. I had previously shared the idea for this story with her as a sort of passing fancy, and when I visited her a couple weeks ago she pushed me to write it. So here's the first chapter of A Clash of Heroes! If you like Auron, or Sephiroth, or the idea of Dissidia, you're sure to find something to suit your fancy here. Also note: you need not have played Dissidia to read this fic! There will be spoilers for the story, but the story is about as interesting as stale bread, so trust me when I say you're not missing anything.

On... to adventure!

A Clash of Heroes

A Dissidia Fan Fiction

Written by Mengde

Once upon a time, two people had an argument.

This argument was different from all others, mostly because there had never been any other arguments before it. It was the first difference of opinion between two people capable of debate, and the subject of their discourse was the very nature of reality.

Unfortunately, there would be no civilized discussion, with points and counterpoints laid out with surgical precision. How could there be when the debaters were arguing for their existence and defeat meant their end? Moreover, the two needed one another. Without one, the other was incomplete, bereft of meaning.

More sensible beings might agree to disagree under such circumstances, but it was not in the nature of these two to stop. Their argument continued, and from it came all others. No matter how removed from the original subject, any given difference of opinions could be traced back to the root, the first, the ur-argument. As befitting an argument of such importance, it eventually drew other combatants in. Some called these others pawns, and some called them heroes, and some denied that they could be classified.

Regardless of their title, these others fought for one of the sides, or sometimes for themselves. Their contributions to the war were varied – some small, some great. However, none of them ultimately had any real impact on the argument.

None, at least, until the two with whom this tale is concerned. They were the first, and it is possible they will be the last.

This is their story.

Two men stand before the Plains of Chaos. The Plains are an endless waste, where fire rains from the skies and swords the size of cities thrust up from the tormented landscape. In a very real sense, the Plains are their master; though he inhabits them, he is them. To cross the Plains is to fight him, if indirectly, and these two intend just that.

As they take their first steps into the Plains, shadowy figures emerge from thin air, rippling and indistinct at first but quickly becoming clearer and more solid. They are monochromatic, humanoid beings, light reflecting through their crystalline bodies. Someone once called them 'manikins,' and the title stuck. As they look upon the intruders, their features twist and warp until, as a whole, the army is made up of the likenesses of two people: a broad, burly man with an enormous sword and a slim one wielding a sword with a long, flat blade and a basket hilt. The burly manikins are a bright orange; the slim ones are cyan.

Auron straightens up and draws his Masamune from where it's slung across his back. "This is hardly fair," he says. His coat flaps as a gust of wind, sooty and drier than Hell itself, rolls past them.

From where it is sheathed at his waist, Sephiroth draws his own Masamune. "Of course it is. There are a potentially infinite number of them."

Auron indulges in a small smile behind the lip of his collar. "I meant for them. They can't really stop us, can they?"

Sephiroth works at a crick in his neck, feels it pop satisfyingly. "Point."

"Race you to the Throne?" Auron asks, looking Sephiroth right in the eye.

The first of the manikins reaches them, a cyan one. It raises its sword and charges. Without taking his gaze off Auron's face, Sephiroth lashes out in a lightning-fast cut and bisects the manikin at the waist. Its crystalline form shatters and crumbles away to fine sand, which is swept away by the dust devils that continuously rage through the Plains.

"Keep up if you can," he says, the barest hint of his own smile in his eyes.

They rush forward and cut through the manikins like so much chaff.

This is the end of their story, however. To understand it, we must return to its beginning.

In the furthest beginnings, the argument was conducted through elemental forces, a primal dialogue measured in geologic ages. Later, when the seas of various worlds birthed small, fragile creatures that measured time in miniscule spans, the argument became a series of rapid-fire exchanges, with weapons of flesh and bone that fought small personal combats lasting mere minutes.

Overall, this was a much more efficient way of going about the whole affair. Whole worlds no longer passed in and out of existence during a single exchange. At this rate, the universe might actually still be around by the time a conclusion was reached.

Still, the debaters failed to realize a critical flaw in their new approach. Their tools, once great natural forces of entropy and order, were now living collections of mostly water and carbon – their forms governed by chains of amino acids, their existences propagated primarily by their own foolish notion that they were the center of the universe.

This would not present a problem, save for one fact: many of these walking bags of water could not only think for themselves, but also did not appreciate being used.

It is about eleven o'clock in the morning by his reckoning when Auron wakes up and realizes he is no longer in Zanarkand.

Instead, he is lying on the ground. It is made of water, but instead of sinking into it, he sits on its surface. Getting to his feet, he sees nothing except a grey, cloudy sky and the water extending in all directions.

"Scenic," he murmurs to himself. "Where am I?" His voice fades into nothingness, with no echo or response. Whoever brought him here, he thinks, is going to regret it unless they have some very good excuses. He would guess he had been swept out to sea, but the fact that he is standing atop the water rather than sinking into it makes that theory hard to carry very far. He doubts the laws of physics have changed while he was asleep.

Auron recalls his last memories. He'd seen Tidus home from blitzball practice, despite the young man's protestations that he didn't need a babysitter. He'd exchanged pleasantries with the boy's mother, who was in deteriorating shape. She had already been consumed with fear and worry after her husband's disappearance, and now that Auron had arrived with news of Jecht's fate – he had said only that Jecht was no longer among the living – he'd been able to tell she was not long for this world.

He can always tell these things, now that he is no longer of it himself.

Then he'd gone home, where he had proceeded to fall asleep – one of the few human needs he still possesses – in his armchair. He can't stand to lie down on a bed. It reminds him too much of dying.

And now he is here.

Auron is fairly sure he would be able to tell if someone had physically moved him, so between that and the strangeness of this place he concludes that he was brought here magically. To what point and purpose, however, is still a mystery, one he is determined to solve.

For a few minutes he surveys his surroundings, looking for any change and finding none. At last, Auron decides that he has no idea where he is, so he cannot get any more lost by wandering. Food and drink are not the concern they once were, so he picks an arbitrary direction and starts off in it. He will walk until he is tired, and then he will sleep, and then he will keep walking. Something will happen eventually.

His footfalls make little splashing noises against the otherwise-solid surface of the ground. Apart from that, he travels in silence. No wind scrapes against the fabric of his coat, and he does not need to breathe. Being unsent has its advantages.

He walks, and he walks, and he walks…

Sephiroth does not sleep the way normal people do. He closes his eyes and stops moving and slows his breathing, it's true, but he is not asleep in any real sense. It is a kind of trance, one where he is still aware of the world around him.

He's never understood why, and has always just put it down as one of the many things that makes him different. It has helped him, as well, kept him alive when a sleeping man would have been killed or captured, so he doesn't mind the fact that he has no dreams and has to pass the long hours alone.

Consequently, when the pillar of light blossoms inside his room, he is instantly aware of it, seeing the sudden blaze of color through his closed lids. Wutai has already sent several assassins to try to kill him, fearing a confrontation with him in open combat, though they deny even knowing of the men's existences. Thinking this is another attack, Sephiroth snaps open his eyes, he plucks the Masamune from where it is mounted on the wall above his bed, and he slices at the light in a brutal chop that would cut through a human being like paper.

He is thrown off-balance when his attack sails through the pillar without resistance. The point of the Masamune is buried in the floor, and he wastes a precious second tugging it out as the pillar closes in on him. Sephiroth hears a voice in his head, whispering assurances and calming nothings. He throws out his right hand and blasts the pillar with a Bolt, but it keeps coming, the voices intensifying and taking on a familiar quality.

Sephiroth is about to slash the pillar again when he realizes who the pillar sounds like. His eyes widen and he whispers, "Mother?"

Then it engulfs him and he is gone.

The next thing he is aware of is someone stroking his hair. He shifts his body, and other sensory details become evident to him. He is lying down on his back, his hands crossed over his chest. In his room, he was wearing a robe and nightclothes, but now he is in his combat gear. His head is pillowed in somebody's lap, and she smells like his mother.

It is only after several minutes of lying there, eyes closed, just enjoying the feeling of being protected and treasured, that he realizes he has no idea what his mother smells like because she died giving birth to him. Then he remembers the pillar of light, and his eyes snap open.

The woman stroking his hair is not his mother. She is fair-skinned, with pale golden hair, eyes of the same color, beautiful features, and a white robe with golden ornamentation secured by a clasp at the top of her breastbone, leaving her shoulders and arms bare. On her face is an expression of calm, perhaps even contentment. They are seated on what seems like water, save for the fact that they do not sink below its surface, and a cloudy grey sky looms above them. Behind the woman is a long, low bench made of what looks like ivory, flanked by two large shell-like structures.

Sephiroth gropes with his left hand and feels the Masamune lying beside him. In one smooth motion, he seizes it, swings it up, and lays its blade flush against the woman's throat. She stops stroking his hair and sits stock-still, but her expression does not change.

"You will remain exactly as you are, without tensing any of your muscles or moving save to breathe," Sephiroth begins. "You will speak when I tell you to, not before, and you will stop when I tell you to stop. Deviate from any of this, and I will kill you instantly. If you understand what I am saying, blink twice."

The woman, her gaze locked on his, blinks twice.

"Good. Now, you will answer my questions. Who are you?"

"I am Cosmos," she says in a high, clear voice like the ringing of chimes. "Goddess of Order."

"Where are we?"

"My domain, the Sanctuary of Order."

"Why have you brought me here?" At this point she smiles, so Sephiroth presses the edge of his sword against her throat just enough to draw blood.

Nothing happens.

"I'm sorry to disappoint you, Sephiroth, but you can't kill me so easily," Cosmos says to him. "I'm not made of flesh and blood like you. I don't bleed when cut."

Abruptly, Sephiroth realizes how foolish he must seem. He feels blood rushing to his face, a sensation he has not experienced in years; he removes the Masamune from Cosmos's throat and sits up, letting his hair obscure his expression. "I take it you don't intend me harm. If you did, I'm sure you could have killed me by now."

"Quite the contrary, Sephiroth. I want only the best for you. I wish you only success."

He finds himself thinking of the sensation of her stroking his hair, shakes it off. "Success in what? You haven't answered my question."

"Why have I brought you here? I need your help."

"With what?"

"I –" Cosmos held up a hand and closed her eyes. "Wait. There he is. I was afraid I had lost him. Bringing him here was more difficult than it was with you."

"What are you talking about?"

Cosmos reaches out and sweeps her palm across the horizon. Where there was nothing, Sephiroth now sees a man, dressed in red and carrying a massive sword, marching toward them. He seems as surprised at his sudden appearance as Sephiroth is. After halting and regarding the two of them for a moment, the man continues toward them, albeit with his hand now resting on the hilt of his sword.

"Welcome, Auron," Cosmos calls out when he comes within earshot. "I apologize. Your nature made it difficult to bring you directly here from your world."

He looks at her, then at Sephiroth, and the silver-haired young man realizes that this Auron has only one eye. Something about the knowledge, and the cold feeling of the man's gaze, is deeply unsettling, though Sephiroth cannot articulate why.

"Who are you, and why have you brought me here?" Auron asks, addressing the both of them though his gaze comes to rest on Cosmos. "Speak quickly."

Cosmos holds out her hands in a placatory gesture. "We are allies here, Auron, believe me. I will answer all your questions – both of you – given time. First, though, put away your weapons and come sit with me. There must be no hostility between us if we are to have a chance."

"A chance of what?" Sephiroth asks, not yet ready to sheath his sword.

The Goddess of Order looks at him, and he sees pity in her eyes. "Why, of survival, of course. I brought you here to fight a war."

"Against who?" Auron asks.

"The end of existence itself, of course." Cosmos smiles. "After all, what else would I need your help against?"