Adult-FanFiction.org : Final Fantasy

Voices	By : ArdwynnaMorrigu Category: Final Fantasy VII > Het - Male/Female Views: 1014 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own Final Fantasy VII, nor any of the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

Chapter List
- 1-Sephiroth
- 2-Cloud
- 3-Tifa
- 4-Cid
- 5-Barret
- 6-Elmyra
- 7-Vincent
- 8-Aerith
- 6
- 7
- 8
Disclaimer: Final Fantasy VII is the property
of Square-Enix. No profit is sought from this work.
Voices
Vincent
I have seen this all before.
A woman hurt,
her life in tatters.
I stood by before. I let it happen.
I reasoned that is was her own decision. By the time I
saw what harm was being done, it was too late.
All those years in the dark it
haunted me that I left a beautiful, fragile woman in the hands of a madman. That I let him use her and abuse her. That
her pain continued long after he was done with her. I saw it over and
over in dreams that left me clawing at the silk lining of my prison.
I saw again the moments of my
failure, when I let her go for the sake of her own misguided happiness instead
of fighting for my own, when I watched her walk the path of her destruction and
said not a word. I watched again and again and pined for the chance to change
things. I writhed and shrieked and screamed inside that dark pine box till
nothing was left of me but a silent husk of the man I once was. It is a
particular torment, to watch, always watch and never act when you knew you
could. Death would be a kinder path and I would have chosen it if the choice
had been mine to make.
Many times I swore as I lay in the
darkness that I would never stand by and let such a thing happen again. That I
would stop things as soon as I could, that I would keep her from hurting
herself. That if circumstances ever conspired to pull a
bright spirit beneath dark waters again, I would reach in and pull her out.
Empty promises, while one lies in a casket far beneath the reach of daylight.
When Cloud stepped onto the deck of
the airship with his battered burden, I moved without thinking. There was no
need for thought. The lost hope of what I wish I had done before is burned deep
into my soul.
I moved before the others could
breathe and have kept moving since. Someone had to and no one else could right
then. It is not that I am cold. It is not that I do not care. True, I had seen
pain like that before, the aching, bleeding, dying outcome of a woman badly
misused, but familiarity does nothing to lessen the ache. I simply knew what
needed to be done. How many years had I lain in the darkness, knowing what I
should have done, could have done before?
I did not wish to have cause to act
where before I had stood still. There can be no redemption for me if it comes
at such cost to another. She is hurt. She hurts still and my older sin is
magnified. My inaction haunts me, moreso now. It was
my earlier complacence that allowed an abomination to be brought into this
world, an abomination that visited a nightmare upon a helpless girl. Had I
acted then, earlier, the gentle girl I came to know would not be in such a
condition now.
I visited often and still do. I
spoke to her constantly in the hopes of drawing her out. She had retreated far
inside herself, to some safe, dark place that had since become her prison. I
know well how a small prison can almost become a home. It protects you, cradles
you even as it confines you and smothers you. I know the fear of facing the
world outside, where even the weak light of a grey dawn can magnify all the
ugliness of reality. But I came out and she had to as well, or so I thought. I
spoke to let her know that it was safe outside now, that she did not have to
hide.
One day, some brief weeks after her
rescue, I saw lucidity slip over the horizon of her broken gaze. Her mother was
hovering near the door when it happened. I did not turn, but I knew then that
the woman had known and kept it hidden. What her reason was I will not presume
to know. There was great pain in this for her too. Pain upon
pain upon pain, for all of them, because once, long ago, I did nothing.
One such as I has no right to judge.
So the wounded one can speak again,
but she does it softly, slowly. She does most things this way now. We had
thought it simply the result of her injuries. She was so badly hurt. There was
no doubt that the wounds went deep, deeper even than could be seen with the
eye. But she lived and because she did, I had hope
that she would heal.
It seems I held onto that hope long
after the rest let go of it. I refused to believe that she would be always mute
and docile. Her bruises faded to leave her skin pale cream again. Her bones
knitted and her limbs were straight and whole. Her scars faded to the faintest
tracing of fine lines, visible only to those who knew how to look. What reason
had I to believe that the rest of her would not heal as well? She lived when my
own love had not. I knew she would heal. She had to. I had hoped that this time
my actions would be enough.
Too little, too late, in the end. Or perhaps too
much.
The girl is strong. I knew this.
She returned to herself quite quickly once the first signs had begun. Mere days
after the first time that she actually recognized me, she was fully lucid and
disturbingly accepting of what had been done to her, knowing more about it than
any of us. She brought herself back to this world when all the doctors and
treatment could not. She returned knowing full well that the body she inhabits
was broken and pieced together, that this life holds little but pain for her
yet.
I saw then how mistaken I had been.
Nothing changes. I am as wrong now as I ever was. Always, always, I am wrong.
My life is a curse on all who know me. Everything I touch turns to ash.
Many times I�ve found myself
staring at my hands. At the heavy metal claw that drew a red cloak over a
bleeding girl. At the pale human hand that signed the register at the hospital.
I acted then, because I knew the consequences of inaction. My hands moved
almost without conscious direction. Now, when I look at them and think of it,
their only move is to tremble slightly. We are frozen, my body and I. Inaction
was deadly. Action was worse.
Death would be a blessing for her.
Perhaps it was a blessing to my love, only I was too foolish to know it then.
The flowergirl is too strong, too stubborn for her own good. She insists on continuing this way.
I tried at first to discourage her,
but she would only take my human hand in both of hers and say she had her
reasons. Now she bears my presence with a gentle smile. I saw a smile like that
before. She is calm, even placid. She moves with a familiar, weighty grace that
sends a chill right through me. It is her decision to live like this, to
continue a life which allows her dead tormentor to hurt her still. I wish it
were not so, for her sake, for mine, for the sake of all the
world.
But it is her decision and though I
loathe it, I must respect it. Much as I wish it were otherwise for her sake, I
can control no life but my own. Perhaps if we had realized sooner how deep the
damage went, we could have acted while her welfare was strictly up to us. It is
not so now. She is herself again, or as like herself as she can ever be. She is
a grown woman, as she has gently reminded me more than once with a tightness in her voice and a certain haunted look in her
eyes. In this way, she reclaims herself. If this is what she needs, then so be
it. I would be a greater monster if I tried to tear these shreds of autonomy
from her.
So I must return to my penance.
I watch.
I wait.
I thought I knew hell while I lay
in my casket. That was nothing compared to this. There, I knew what I would do
if the opportunity arose. Now, I am frozen. There is a threat of darkness still
in what she has chosen.
This, then, is hell. Knowing now
the cost of both action and acceptance, should darkness come again, what will I
do?
- 6
- 7
- 8
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Voices