ヴィンセント・ヴァレンタイン

It's been... a long time since the freshness of the mountain air hit him with such full force. He might just have been drowning for lack of it, on the asteroid with its dome and manufactured atmosphere, without even realizing how desperate for it he had become. Surely it's been so long that he's been forgotten but... no, time should not have passed here. He... doesn't care. All he wants is to see Lucrecia.

Like a fish unable to breathe outside water, he's drawn to her and the waterfall cave. He can't stay away. Thirty years and a lifetime ago he was not the sort of person who became readily obsessed, but... well, this is what he has become. Lucrecia Crescent is his everything, even though she is no longer anything but a revenant of sorts. She certainly haunts him.

As always, he's breathless when he steps into the cave to see her form shimmering behind a wall of Mako crystal. Ever young, ever beautiful, he moves closer. She is his princess, his queen, his bride-that-should-have-been, the great and unrequited love of his life. For her, he would do anything. Reverent, he takes his seat before her.

"Lucrecia." He's missed her so; his voice echoes low throughout the cavern. One doesn't need to look at her to understand that she is no longer alive -- not really -- but still, a part of her exists and as long as that is the case, he'll guard her and accompany her. When he hears her voice, his eyes close so he might drink in every moment of this opportunity.

"Silly Vincent. I didn't expect to see you again so soon. Did you forget something?" There's a whisper of girlish laughter in her voice that breaks his heart: she should have been this happy in life, but science and the man she chose took it all away from her.

May he rest in peace.

"No. I... have a story to tell." And he does: he tells her of his travels, of the small rock in space, of the people there. The conversation is largely one-sided; her sentience might be in the network, but that presents its own difficulties. Still, he's so relieved to be here with her that her question, once put to him, catches him off-guard.

"You've been living a full life. Why did you come back here?"

As if she and the cave have nothing to offer? The question stings: he's dreamed of nothing but returning to this place. As he looks down to the ground searching for the right words to use in response, he remembers she... is always this way. She has never taken him at anything but face value; his presence is always taken for granted.

There is only one answer.

"To see you." How can she not know that she consumes his thoughts, fills his every waking moment? How can she not understand that he already died for her once and despite everything that's happened since -- even despite the fact she experimented on him just as Hojo did -- he would die for her again and again? How does one take that as a given?

For a long moment there's no response, but at long last she does speak.

"Oh. Vincent, I..." Her voice trails off and the last sounds of it resonate inside the cave before he hears her again. "That's sweet of you."

Sweet. It's more than sweet; it's his life's purpose but... well, this is Lucrecia and he can no more readily tell her what to do in death than he could in life. This is a tease having her here, a terrible, terrible tease. He should not have come back to this place; he should not have pinned all his hopes on her again. His eyes close, a blessed respite from the illumination of the Mako, and he says nothing. Lucrecia talks: of Sephiroth, of her research, of the way she transferred her memories into the Shin-Ra network. He's heard these things countless times and now, when he yearns for something new, the stories seem hollow and expected.

And still, he treasures every moment of them. He would keep her company here for all eternity if she would only ask it of him.

There are unmistakeable signs of a disturbance in the forest and that... is something he doesn't like. Certainly things happen, but...

Right here, there was a struggle. Areas of no snow along with many footprints prove that; if he looks carefully he sees blood. Not in quantity -- only splattered around -- but if a person knows what to look for, that... is unmistakable evidence. But how the blood got here is something of a mystery. If someone's stabbed the blood can spray, but there would be far more than is evident. That leads to questioning whether or not this is in fact blood but... well, he knows it is.

Whose? Why? And when did it happen?

After making absolutely certain that nobody else is around, he removes his glove and scoops up a bit of the blood-spattered snow. His hand by now is almost as pale as the snow in it, but that's not what interests him. What he finds fascinating is the contrast of the blood against what should be pristine snowy whiteness. Sometimes, people have no concept of the value of life. When they lose it... well, then it's a different story. Or perhaps his perspective is unique or was before he got here; not everyone in his world is aware of their own death after it happens. No, memories are left to the survivors.

The next question, of course, is whether this is related to the goings-on the other day. He may never know; the evidence here is tainted and was before he arrived. Without a victim there can't be a crime and so... he lets the bloodied snow melt against his hand before putting the glove back on and going on his way. He'll keep the memories of this scene vivid in his mind for as long as necessary.

Just in case anybody asks.

Rarely, if ever, does he wake up hungry. Sometimes he can go weeks without eating. Thirty years in a coffin taught him that the usual forms of sustenance are, for him, unnecessary, although he will eat and sleep and shower and launder clothing and drink and dream and wish just like anybody else.

He... is not like anybody else, though. As much as he would like to be, he isn't. When he looks in the mirror, what he sees isn't human. It's a walking disaster, a monster, a monstrosity who doesn't deserve to live and breathe. He should have died.

He should have died more than thirty years ago.

He should have had the common decency to stay dead. A life without Lucrecia would be no life at all. A life as this... thing they turned him into?

The pain and shame of it are unspeakable. He can't bear to look at himself most days; it's why the blanket stays over the mirror in his room. It's why he rarely frequents his room. It's why he... despises himself so much. There are bad days and worse days and the very rare day that's less bad, but today... today is a terrible day; he can tell the moment he wakes up. It's the kind of day he's likely to spend curled up in the corner of his room, knees hugged to his chest, shutting out everyone and everything.

As his eyes open and adjust to the room's dim light, he finds that the cloak -- which had been hanging in his closet -- has settled onto him during the night.

Again. That's no comfort; he throws it off and begins the ritualistic and serious business of covering his body so completely that the only skin visible is the skin on his face. As he reaches for the thin layer he wears beneath the leather, he stops, tilts his head: what is this... this thing on his bureau? One hesitant step follows another until he's standing before it. He reaches forward, ignoring the series of scars crossing the skin on the backs of both hands for the moment and picks up the radio.

He can feel his stomach drop.

Vincent.

Yes?

Dance with me.

How did this get here? Why is it here? His hands, scarred but steady, reach for the knob and turn it but no song comes out. There's only the sound of static. Of course: why would it work here? It couldn't. It should never have worked in the first place.

What? No… no, I can't dance.

So you don't like me.

No, that's not what I--

Then dance with me.

He was young, and he was human, and he was alive. Just... just Vincent Valentine from Administrative Research, assigned to her protection. He didn't know how to dance. That wasn't part of his training. Static from the radio fills his ears and he has to shut his eyes against it, but the memory won't leave him alone. He can feel Lucrecia's hands on his shoulder and hand, he can feel his own hand on her waist, he remembers the hesitant stumbling steps she somehow managed to turn into a graceful and beautiful dance and in that moment -- in that one shining moment -- he leaned closer, almost held her to his body, closed his eyes, and smiled.

See, it isn't that bad, is it.

(Oh, Lucrecia, you had no idea.)

Turning off the radio with a snap, he finishes dressing as meticulously and carefully as ever. When that's done to his satisfaction, he gives the old radio one more glance, makes sure the window curtains are closed all the way and that the door is locked and bolted, then finds himself a likely corner.

It's going to be a long day.

Night after night after night now, he's in the trees. Without the proximity of the Lifestream, without the familiarity of the Planet, he's losing himself. Scattered, out of sorts, tired. And he no longer knows what to make of Lucrecia: if she's here he's been unable to find her and despite her reassurances or what he took for them, if she's gone it's without a trace again. He has to assume that means she... has better things to do than stay here with him. The weight of that realization, slow in coming, has been almost too painful to acknowledge and so he takes to the treetops.

Being away from everyone makes that particular reality blur just enough so he might be able to get through each day and each night.

(He... misses two people. One is Lucrecia. The other is Tifa, but... he feels inadequate as a friend these days. Falling back into old remote habits is far too easy.)

Up here in the trees by the lake, he can... observe without being seen. He can fly without being spotted. He can feel as badly as he wants without having to explain a single thing. Some nights, he doesn't even go back inside to his room. He can be repentant as easily if not more so from here.

And so he sits on a tall and hidden branch and watches and waits, and thinks about the things in this life that truly matter, and takes note of who comes and who goes, and tries so very hard to compartmentalize and bury away the sins of the past. As usual, he fails spectacularly.

Oh, he misses her.

With every beat of his heart, he misses her. With every breath he takes, he misses her. Every sound gives him pause, every whiff of every flower on every breeze brings him hope. And every invocation of her name that goes unanswered dashes his hope effectively, efficiently, reminding him he had no right to harbor it in the first place. Apparently, his atonement is far from complete.

They... walked together. Through the forest, hand in hand: he thought that meant something but perhaps... perhaps he misinterpreted. It would be far from the first time he misunderstood Lucrecia's intentions. That, in fact, seems to be more the norm for them than the exception to the rule and one would think he might have learned by now: she teases. She always has. There are no soft edges to it either now that the stakes are higher and really, he should have known better.

But... well... the problem is this: he loves her. If he could erase her memory from his heart, he wouldn't do it. If he could be guaranteed a life filled with laughter and happiness but bereft of Lucrecia, he... wouldn't do it. The mere thought of her kept him alive for thirty long years and to give up on her now would be pointless as well as fruitless. She is the beating of his heart: his first thought upon waking, his last thought before letting sleep wash him into some dreamless oblivion. Doing without her is contrary to his nature.

Tifa has him pegged and that's no surprise: among her first questions each time he saw her in Midgar -- or Edge -- this past time away from this place was always how's Nibelheim? She's far too polite to ask directly about Lucrecia but she knows the time he spends there isn't spent in Nibelheim proper. No, he's in the waterfall cave with the ghost of the woman he can't help but love. And here... here he has one question: where are you, Lucrecia? He's done everything shy of breaking down her door and the only reason he hasn't done that is because he would have heard her if she'd been there.

And every minute apart leads him to more and more questions: where is she? Why isn't she here? Why did she leave no word if she left? Is she injured? Harmed? Has the worst happened: her husband has returned to claim and make a further experiment of her? In this place, it's even a possibility and he can't... won't... his heart weeps for her with every breath, every footstep, every moment of every endless day save for the bright spot that's his one friend here.

He even feels guilty for that.

Pace, pace, pace: it shouldn't be this hard. This is the fourth time he's stopped in front of Tifa's door, only to shake his head and walk away... and return again a few minutes later. She's told him more than once that friendship is not a burden. Regardless, he has a difficult time sharing his... problems with anybody else.

Right now, though, he needs a friend. He needs one very badly: he hasn't slept in days. He's barely eaten, save for the meal with Lucrecia. He's given up his room -- he's not sorry about that -- but that means he's also given up the one place he had privacy and... the front door still doesn't open.

He watches as his hand forms a fist and hears the sound as he knocks at her door. If there's any justice at all in the universe, she'll be here.

It's silly: he's knocked at this door more than once since his return and there hasn't been any answer; he has no reason to believe that Tifa is anywhere but back in Midgar. It's where she was when he left for the Western continent and if there's any justice at all in this universe, it's where she is right now. He hasn't seen her the few times he's been at the bar; he hasn't seen her when he's been outside although... it's hard to see somebody from the depth of the forest. It's just... there hasn't been very good reason to be sociable. He's used to solitude; he's used to accounting for his time only to himself and, occasionally, to Lucrecia.

She doesn't really listen, though.

At the end of the day, he's... still Vincent and as long as Chaos is held at bay, he considers himself still human. And humans are social creatures and it's been some time since he was among friends. As much as any other man, he misses the people he knows even though he prefers to be alone. That's what he tells himself, at least and so... if that's true... why is he standing outside the door to Tifa's room, his back against the wall, as if she's going to miraculously appear?

Because he's lonely, but admitting that is... weak and... needy and... he already has enough to repent for. He has zero desire to be a burden of any kind at all to Tifa or to any of his friends and perhaps he clings to the idea of Tifa because she was a familiar sight in a strange and new place. But she's not here now and standing by her room is futile and more than a little pathetic; shaking his head, he turns to go.

He gets five paces down the hall before he turns back, makes his way with determined steps to her door, lifts his hand, and knocks.

He has absolutely nothing to lose but hope.

Midgar felt like home, even though he hadn't lived there for many years. He did for a short time during training, back when he first joined the Turks. In those days everything was on a need-to-know basis and he was no more or less noted or important than any of his colleagues, and his eyes weren't red and he didn't sport a red mantled cloak or body armor. He'd never heard of an insignificant Shin-Ra biotechnologist named Lucrecia Crescent. Professors Gast and Hojo were abstractions, mere names on paper. Sector 7 hadn't been destroyed; Sephiroth hadn't been conceived; Chaos was firmly entrenched... wherever it was, without a host, without seeing the light of day for centuries.

Funny how one seemingly small and entirely insignificant shift can change a whole story. He's certainly not egotistical enough to even begin to think the tale revolves around him; he's just a bit player, an extra.

Still, saying goodbye -- something at which he's absolutey atrocious and always has been -- to Cloud and Barret was difficult enough: they're the bigger part of the story as far as he's concerned. Leaving Marlene behind tore at his heart a little bit: she'd become attached to him in a very short period of time. But leaving Tifa was...

Well. She's the closest thing he has to a confidante and knows more about him than anybody. It's not something they came by readily, and it's nothing he's ever taken for granted. But he knew full well when he left that he might not see any of them again. The chance encounter that brought Tifa to his side at the end of the universe is something he'd cautiously classified as an anomaly, since it didn't seem particularly eager to recur. And one doesn't need to be whisked off the planet's surface to disappear. He knows there are those who would as soon see him destroyed as let him walk about freely, even here in his home town of Junon.

Whether or not he sees Tifa and the others again is not something he dwells on at the moment. He has managed to retrieve enough gil to cover his travel expenses; the cave behind the waterfall is next but that's an expensive ocean away. His attempt at reclaiming his father's belongings has met with nothing but frustration, as he strongly suspected it would. The phrase your request is denied, Mr. Valentine is something he could live happily without hearing again but... well... it's what he has left to fight for. Lucrecia is... little more than a remnant, for all intents and purposes but... as long as she remains in some form, he'll do whatever he can for her and spend as much time as he can with her.

If she lets him.

---

Droplets of ocean water spray against his skin; the wind is cold and knife-like but he doesn't step back from the cargo ship's prow. Sailing west means following the sun; the lengthening shadows suit him. Curiously, his core body temperature remains steadfastly neutral no matter how much wind and water cover him. That's a side-effect of playing host to Chaos, perhaps, or the result of the once dead and decayed skin stretching over his torso. Wishing for balance, however, hasn't made balance simply appear and there are days when he thinks at least I'm alive. Those are evened out by the days when he thinks I wish I were dead but that... seems to be unattainable at the moment: he's tried.

And so he stands on the prow with arms folded like some semi-living figurehead, eager for the first sighting of the western continent. That... will presage a trip across its surface to Nibelheim and from there to Mt. Nibel and his beloved Lucrecia. However long it takes -- however difficult the journey and whatever the cost -- he'll do it. To see her, to be with her: remembering Lucrecia was the only thing that got him through thirty years locked in a coffin and he's not ready to let go of her yet.

He may never be ready to let go of her.

Only the setting of the sun and the air's resulting frigidity force him down from the prow at long last. With a longing glance westward, he retires below deck. By this time tomorrow he'll be on land, making his way across the continent somehow. There will be no rest until he sees his beloved again... and even if this is one of those times she refuses to speak to him, he won't mind.

At least they'll be together.

Mornings are difficult, because he often doesn't know where he is when he wakes up. It isn't that he loses track of time or has memory lapses. Instead, his reasoning follows the fact that he rarely stays in the same place for more than a day or two and with that in mind -- with so much travel -- waking up can be disorienting. He was at an inn, or in a tree, or sleeping outside a cave, or sleeping inside a cave. Some of those places look remarkably different by the light of day and as a result, he's gotten somewhat used to taking a moment to blink when he awakens, to acclimate.

This morning is no different. When conscious thoughts start to seep in he's face-down in a bed, his hair forming a curtain over his face as it often does, one arm out from beneath the security of the blanket, hand resting on the floor. As usual, his cloak has moved to cover him during the night like a jealous lover's protective caress. But as his eyes force themselves open and he blinks once, twice, a third time, something in his line of vision startles him. It's not the old worn and faded scars gracing the back of his hand and it's not the color and texture of the unfamiliar wood floor.

It's a... stuffed animal. A rabbit, from the looks of it, with one ear flopped over, one eye missing, clearly well-loved, sitting up just next to his hand. The sight makes him blink again with great uncertainty: no matter where he was -- no matter where he is -- this does not belong to him and it never has. Reaching for it, he brings it closer for examination.

This doesn't look like a decoy; it doesn't feel like a trap. Startled, he pushes himself up, twisting to sit, the blanket and cloak forming some odd inadvertent modesty shield over his old long-sleeved gray t-shirt and underclothes when motion and sound in the corner catch his attention. His gun is always on the nearest bedside table and if there's no table it's always on the floor next to him, but it isn't there today and...

Wait: that sound is a giggle. Stuffed rabbit in hand, he rubs his eyes.

"Oh. Marlene."

That's right: they're in Midgar, at the home Tifa shares with Marlene and Barret and Cloud.

"My rabbit said she wants to be your friend." Uncrossing her legs, the little girl stands and moves over to the side of his bed. "Vincent? What happened to your hands? Did you burn them? Tifa always tells me not to play near fire. Is that why you wear gloves?"

"I..." It takes him a moment to adjust: what is he supposed to tell her? That he died, and while he was dead, a mad scientist -- because that's the only way to describe Hojo -- experimented on his body? She may seem fearless -- she may have been through more trauma than any child deserves -- but she's only five and he doesn't want to be the cause of any nightmares.

Whenever possible he tries not to lie; that only leads to trouble later on. But there are situations where it's appropriate, and this... well, this calls for delicacy. "No, they're not burn scars. There was... an accident." It's not even that much of a lie, really: more a rephrasing of the truth. "It was a long time ago, and I... don't think about it a lot any more." As much as he might like to, there's no point now in hiding his hands; Marlene's seen what she's seen but he does reach out to hand her the toy rabbit. "Here. Step outside for a minute, Marlene, so I can dress. Close the door behind you." Even though there's nothing immodest about what he wears to sleep in, he's still intensely private.

"The rabbit wants to stay with you," she insists, "but I'll wait in the hall. Open the door when you're ready, okay?"

"Okay." He nods -- quite seriously, in fact -- and as the door closes, he looks down at the stuffed animal in his hand.

---

True to her word, Marlene waits just outside the door, playing with a doll. She speaks quietly to it and when he opens the door, she presses her hand to her lips and giggles a little.

She's even more lovely than he thought, after hearing so much about her from Barret during their travels. As he ushers her in -- now the bed is tidily made -- his cloak drapes over the back of the chair and his armor, holster, and weapon rest on top of the desk. Clad all in black save for the red head scarf, he sits cross-legged on the bed and gestures for Marlene to join him. "Now," he offers, "ask me any question you like." The stuffed bunny is in his leather-clad hands; Marlene jumps up and sits and nods her approval.

"What kind of accident?"

Of course; that would be the question. He'll be as honest as he can. "I was... working in a science lab, and an experiment backfired." That's one way to put it. "And I got hurt, but... you can see, I recovered."

"Why do you wear gloves all the time?"

Children, he knows, are remarkably perceptive and he thinks there's no swaying her from this line of questioning even if he wants to. He also knows that if he reverts back to his typical behavior -- simply refusing to answer -- she's as likely as not to burst into tears at his stubbornness. For a child -- for her sake -- he'll talk. "Because I don't like to be reminded of what happened."

"How come your eyes are red?"

That one's easier to answer, at least to a child. "Because of the accident."

She seems to consider that for a moment, then nods as if it all makes perfect sense to her. "Do you like Tifa?"

"Yes. I like Tifa very much. We're friends." That wasn't so very hard either. On the back of the chair, the ragged hem of the cloak starts to flutter a bit anxiously and he knows if they sit here much longer, it will float over and settle onto his shoulders. He doesn't mind: it will probably seem like a magic trick to Marlene.

"Can you stay here with us?"

Ah.

Before he can answer, the cloak rises off the chair back and glides over; he reaches out and grabs it, sets it down beside them on the bed. "I can't do that." For a moment he's afraid Marlene's eyes are going to fill with tears, but she's Barret's daughter through and through: tears aren't allowed, he suspects. "But I can stay for today. Shall we go and see the others?"

Marlene nods, perhaps a little mournfully, and watches as he quickly straps on his body armor, sets Cerberus into the holster, and lets the cloak settle in its desired location on his shoulders. He travels with everything he needs but today he's got the added attraction of Marlene's toy in the crook of his left arm. As they leave the room, following the sounds of familiar voices, Marlene takes him by the right hand to lead the way.

And he doesn't even put up a fight.

At this place, the cove at the far side of the lake is the closest he comes to a private spot, a place where he feels comfortable. It's away from the path and as such, few people disturb it, although oddly-shaped footprints lead from the lakeshore path to a small ledge of rocks that have been cleared of snow.

He comes here often, particularly late at night, so he might talk with Lucrecia. She's not really here but that's all right; the conversations only take place in the privacy of his mind. For every fortnight he travels, he spends an equal amount of time with Lucrecia in the cave behind the waterfall but at this place he can't. Still, he refuses to concede defeat in this matter and has declared this segment of property his waterfall cave by proxy and sometimes, when the moonlight strikes the water just so, it ripples and glows just like the Mako crystals that encase Lucrecia's form back near Mt. Nibel.

Tonight he stretches out with one leg forward, the other bent so his knee makes an appropriate perch for his arm. His clawed left hand stabilizes him on the rocks, and it would look to any passerby as if he were having a conversation with some invisible entity. They wouldn't be far from the truth with an assessment like that. Every now and again he pauses, tilts his head, and nods in agreement with the words only he can hear. Were he back on the planet, these conversations would never take place or at least they wouldn't play out the way they do here, but he makes do with what he can. She doesn't say I'm sorry nearly as much here and fantasy or not, it lightens him the tiniest bit when he realizes that. The burden of sin on one's shoulders is a heavy weight indeed, but he carries it without complaint. If it means Lucrecia has less to bear herself, then... he doesn't mind.

Their bond is so strong that it transcends universes. He'll love her until time itself is extinguished, leaving them all as mere fragments of what once was and can never again be.