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Sepsis	By : ladysanzennine Category: Final Fantasy VII > Het - Male/Female > Sephiroth/Aerith Views: 2066 -:- Recommendations : 1 -:- Currently Reading : 0
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Chapter List
- 1-1
- 2-2
- 3-3
- 4-4
- 5-5
- 6-6
- 7-7
- 8-8
- 9-9
- 10-10
- 11-11
- 12-12
- 13-13
- 14-14
- 4
- 5
- 6
Sepsis
Chapter 5
By Lyralina Sanzennine
Disclaimer: Final Fantasy 7 is property of Square Enix.
Aeris inhaled, raggedly, the sound moist in her lungs. Dimly, she understood what was happening to her body. Unnatural life fought with nature, within her, as the foreign, life-sustaining blood in her veins was slowly and methodically replaced with her own. The alien’s powerful sentient cells worked tirelessly without pause to prevent clotting as his blood clashed with hers. The alien’s cells stayed where they were – in her, but not a part of her. Thankfully not melded with her. She didn’t want her for a daughter. There was no need to spend such energy merging their cells.
She exhaled, silently sobbing, the sound scratchy in her dry throat. Rejected – and not only by Jenova.
There was only silence, punctuated by sickly breathing. No melody of melancholic peace to soothe her and hold her. No song of hope to cling desperately to as terrible life ravaged her body and mind.
She gasped as another sharp pain shot through her, this time by her thigh. She shifted on the bed, futilely trying to relieve the dull throbbing left in its wake. The bed was warm and soft. It was welcome, though the sheets clung to her bare body where her sweat had dampened it.
She thought it cruel that she should be kept here in Ajit, the Forgotten Capital. But then, where else would he keep her? At that, why was he-
She moaned softly, twisting on the bed again. A slow, churning ache spread within her skull making it impossible to think. Her vision blurred as red spots swam before her eyes.
She inhaled, slowly, meditatively.
And then a cool, dry hand gently brushed her forehead, pushing damp locks of hair away from her skin. He tucked a few stray tendrils behind her ear tenderly before replacing his hand with a moist towel. Methodically, he bathed the clammy skin of her face. She sighed as the pain slowly faded into the periphery of her senses. The cool towel was a blessing against her feverish skin.
The towel lightly brushed closed eyelids, circled down to stroke her cheek and wipe at the line where jaw met neck. He withdrew it and rinsed it in the fresh basin by her bed. It skimmed over the surface of her chin and down the length of yielding throat, across collar bone, to shoulder, to elbow’s crevice, to wrist. He stopped there, cradling her delicate hand in one of his as the other returned the towel to the basin.
She exhaled, watching him curiously through tired eyes.
He didn’t look at her. The faint mako glow of his irises fixed steadily on her right wrist atop his open palm. A mass of bruises marred her skin there, deep and ugly, hiding dozens of puncture wounds from ungentle hypodermic needles.
It was strange, really. His face was impassive, it had always been so and would always be so, but there seemed to be a hint of…grief almost, in the set of his mouth. He held her hand so carefully, and she could so easily believe in this moment, this exact point in the revolution of time, that he even felt a sort of pain when he regarded her like this.
He moved, so slightly, and she waited. He stroked her wrist with his fingertips, caressing the mottled purple and green area.
She inhaled.
And her eyelids fluttered shut as a warm flood of sensation overcame her.
*          *          *
She coughed and gasped for air. Droplets of blood clung to her lips and chin.
He silently wiped them away.
I don’t understand, she wanted to tell him. Her throat failed her.
His eyes met hers. Brilliant and feline to sickly and earthen.
He took hold of her wrist again, so lightly. The bruises faded, healed by his touch. He raised it towards him, raised it before his face. His eyes never left hers and she watched him, fascinated and unsettled.
He pressed his lips to her skin. They parted slightly, moved slightly, across her veins. His warm breath danced over her.
She exhaled, and slept.
*          *          *
She’d kicked off the sheets in her sleep, when twisting and writhing, caught in fevered visions and drowned in agony. She shivered and tried to curl her limbs in but they stiffly refused to yield.
But then it no longer mattered. Neither cold nor fever touched her as an excruciating bolt of sensation seemed to electrify her from temple to temple. Stiff arms jerked of their own accord in instinctive, useless gestures of defense. Her palms pressed against her head with almost bruising force, heedless of the damage they caused.
She was speaking to her. She was stronger now, free of the limitations of nearly wordless thought and free to whisper now. Sentences and contemplations came to her, in a sickly sweet, rotting and putrid voice.
You know that I have won, She whispered, the words terrible in their very existence.
You know that you have lost.
Aeris whimpered and curled tighter. Pain blossomed beneath her ribs. She couldn’t breathe.
You know that you are mine. Don’t you, child?
Aeris shook her head
She laughed, and it was so wrong because it was so beautiful.
And that was worst of all. The creature inside of her, that lived in her body and spoke to her soul, was disgusting and evil and wrong, but oh, She could be so incredible all the same. And it was maddening. Maddening and confusing and she was always disoriented. Because sometimes She spoke and laughed derisively in her mind and it was terrible. It was painful and ugly, painted in blood and fire. But sometimes She sang lullabies in an alien language that was so sweet and moving that she could have wept for the joy of such sensation. As She sang She would soothe like a mother, petting her tenderly like a dearly beloved infant, and in those moments she found herself wanting it to never end.
But sometimes…sometimes, She would touch her, and that was the worst. More than the taunting and the migraines and the endless visions of torture and destruction, because those things were bad. Clearly and indisputably bad. All they brought were misery and misery was blissfully simple. But when She touched her, it was…
There was no body, no skimming fingers, no psychotically seductive voice to stimulate the membrane within her ears. But She had such control of her senses sometimes, in those times, and She played with her, leisurely. A caress here, a gentle whisper, a sudden shock, like electricity, there, and she was breathing heavily, alone in the dark and covering her face with her hands.
And then She would fade into the dark backdrop of her consciousness, silent and distant, leaving her with a need so powerful that she had cried at times, sobbing brokenly into her pillow. She cried for the violation and the depravity, but most of all, she cried for the terrible desire to call out and beg Her to return.
My beautiful girl, She whispered in her mind at those thoughts, I love you so much.
She squeezed her eyes shut, all the while knowing that she could not escape from Her. But the voice and the pain retreated then, and the coldness of the room and the soreness of her body flooded back into her awareness.
Footsteps fell. Him, her mind registered. She shivered, from cold or something else, she didn’t know.
She didn’t see him, but she could feel him. She could feel the backs of his fingers that were suddenly warm against her as they brushed against uncovered skin, as he pulled the sheets up over her trembling body.
He covered her carefully, covered her to her neck.
He stroked her brow once, twice, before he turned away to go.
But it was good when he was with her. The shadows were always held at bay when he was by her side, as if they were monsters that were frightened of him. The pain quieted.
He stepped away. One step.
She reached out.
She inhaled sharply at the motion and forced her eyes open. She saw his back, his hair.
Her thin fingers curled around his wrist. Hers was very nearly healed by his work.
He turned, slowly, to glance back at her.
And begged him with her eyes.
*          *          *
He carefully lifted her with one arm as he placed a few pillows behind her with the other. Beneath her arms, the sheets remained tucked securely and modestly around her chest. He sat by her side on the bed, studied her form for a moment, still unsatisfied with her elevation but unable to move her further. He finally twisted from her to take hold of the bowl of broth by the bed.
She tried to smile at him. For the first time since she’d woken, her eyes glinted, if only slightly.
He grasped the spoon between his fingers and scooped the soup upwards. He raised it to his lips, his gaze fixed on the hot liquid. He blew carefully on the contents of the spoon and shifted both utensil and bowl towards her. The spoon touched her lips and she parted them at the contact. With perfect control, he tilted it towards her, allowing gravity to work.
Some soup trickled down her throat. She coughed. Some trickled down her chin.
He sighed and placed bowl and spoon back on the table by the bed. He wiped the remnants of liquid from her chin, neck, and chest.
He tried again, this time slower, the spoon less full. Again she choked. Again it spilled.
She looked at him apologetically. She closed her eyes in frustration. Hunger gnawed at her and helplessness shamed her.
He rested the still full bowl on his knee as he studied her face, contemplating. His eyes spoke to her now, warm and cold, tender yet cruel. But now he wanted her to accept him and to trust him.
She frowned slightly, not understanding.
He lifted the bowl to his lips, not bothering with the spoon, and drank shallowly of the broth. He leaned in towards her, his face, his lips, mere inches away. Then he consumed her vision entirely and her senses were reduced to the feeling of his lips pressed firmly, against hers.
She opened her mouth. He opened his.
And he continued until the bowl ran dry.
*          *          *
Aeris sank into the mattress sleepily. The tiniest bit of peace and contentment lived within her now and she clung to it desperately. Her mind gripped it and stretched it, manipulated it so that it would grow and surround her.
The pain was better now. Movement was better now.
He held her hand gently as she drifted in and out of consciousness. His was warm and dry. Rough, but wonderful all the same. The forefinger of his free hand traced abstract patterns on the back of hers. Circles and triangles, letters and characters.
She exhaled, a long, low sigh.
She inhaled, almost easily now.
And she smiled at that. With effort, she opened her eyes briefly to gaze at him before surrendering to sleep once more. She parted her lips to speak with a voice faint and foreign from disuse.
He lifted his eyes from their twined hands to her face. He smiled, so slightly, at her.
And she asked, quickly, before fatigue claimed her, “Why?”
- 4
- 5
- 6
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Sepsis