Final Fantasy - All Series Fan Fiction ❯ "Dream of Me" Alternate Ending ❯ Formidilosus ( Chapter 9 )

Chapter Nine: Formidilosus

Title Translation: Terror

 

His white, straight eyebrows drew together in a speculative scowl, creasing the cool mask of his features.

 

Something's frightened her.

 

He intended a different shade of fear for her--a tense, hovering trepidation that made people easy to control. The fear of losing work, the fear of imprisonment, or simply the fear of his displeasure--these could be powerful motivators if used correctly.

 

But this . . .

 

He studied the woman cowering at his feet. One hand was raised in front of her face--as if to ward off a blow, and the other clutched tightly at the fabric of her blouse--staining the white fabric red from the sauce on her fingers. She shook.

 

He had seen this facial expression many times before and it meant only one thing--the basic, primal fear of one who fears for her life, who believes that death is in front of her.

 

This is less-than useful, an inner voice, which sounded suspiciously like Hojo's, informed him.

 

This sort of fear he only liked to use in extreme circumstances, and only inflicted on those he particularly hated--or at least, were particularly in his way. His favored weapon was a dull, tense anxiety that had fewer of the mind-paralyzing effects of abject terror. A fearful subject would be disinclined to rebel, but a terrified subject was useless for mentally-intensive tasks.

 

“What is it?” His words were clipped but soft, almost gentle, almost contemptuous.

 

Her eyes refocussed on him as she returned from whereever she had just been- and her wide eyes met his.

 

Gods--those eyes. Greener than sunlight through summer leaves.

 

With a small cry, she flung herself backward, away from him, dishes clattering as she threw herself back into an awkward crabwalk, made more awkward because she still gripped the front of her shirt--the way dying men grip their entrails.

 

She struggled backward, then abruptly flung herself around, staggering to her feet. She would have broken into a run, but Sephiroth was beside her in two steps, snaking his arm around her and clamping her lithe, quivering body against his.

 

“No!” she cried out, “No! Let me go! Please! Please, let me go!”

 

Most of the women would have resorted to clawing at this point, but Aeris, apparently, did not know how to use fingernails for that purpose. And it must be ignorance on her part, because this was no coquette's game. The fear in her voice and face were real… if she knew of any defense available to her, she would have used it.

 

A sound cut through Aeris' cries.

 

Laughter.

 

If it could be called laughter. It was more like a shrill shriek of derision.

 

With some irritation, he glanced down the length of the table to where his mistress sat. He did not miss the malicious triumph in her eyes as she looked at Aeris, particularly when Aeris dissolved into tears at the sound of Sandria's laughter.

 

“Really! M'lord Sephiroth, this is too much! Is she part of some little game you have for me? I must confess I don't understand at all! A half-wit girl? For a handmaiden?” Sandria dabbed away an imaginary tear.

 

Sephiroth saw Aeris in the silver reflection of the platter. Her eyes were shut now, leaking tears of fright, and she clutched feebly at the arm pinning her. She still shook like a leaf in a storm.

 

“Sandria,” he said, “Clean this up.”

 

Sandria's red mouth fell open.

 

Sephiroth did not release Aeris, but he slid his hands to her shoulders, and, turning her, began to gently walk her down the length of the table to his chair.

 

“Hush now, pretty flower girl,” he whispered in her ear. “You don't need to fear my anger over a few broken dishes.”

 

This was not the issue and he knew it. He had seen Sandria trip her, had seen the righteous anger blazing in her emerald eyes. Then his shadow fell across her--and she cowered--why?

 

The really odd part was he had seen all of these symptoms before, many times, in shell-shocked men. The unreasonable terror, the rigidity, the grasping at invisible wounds. Good soldiers who--for whatever reason--snapped and relived the nightmare of battle again and again.

 

A sputtering noise sounded from behind him. Sandria had forgotten her manners. “You--you can't be serious!”

 

In answer, Sephiroth picked up a plate which had, by some miracle, landed on the table--and flung it to the floor. A crash. Slivers of china skittered across the polished wood. He did not look at her, but added, “And when you leave--shut the door.”

 

Then carefully, gingerly, he lowered Aeris into his own chair.