Final Fantasy - All Series Fan Fiction ❯ Purgatory ❯ Certain People I Could Name ( Chapter 3 )

This life's dim windows of the soul

Distorts the heavens from pole to pole

And leads you to believe a lie

When you see, with, not through the eye

--William Blake

With what price comes honor? What separates the just man...the honorable man...from the unjust? Does an unjust man even have honor? Is it stripped from him by his actions or is there still a shred of it left behind--forgotten in the recesses of his mind? Is it because of honor or to spite it that a man may turn from what is just and righteous to a path of evil? Is man inherently evil or inherently good? Questions posed throughout time and yet there are no easy answers.

The natural inclination of man is to believe in the simplest explanation. All men are born with honor and it is a moral choice to keep it or discard it. It is an absolute. At birth, we all have clean slates. When a child is born, no one likes to believe they may someday grow up to be a madman. We all like to believe a child will become someone important. A leader, a teacher, an artist, whatever their path, it is hoped they become someone decent. We hope that their honor remains in tact; we hope that they are "good". But what meaning does good have? For some, it is as meaningless a concept as honor. They are nothing more than words that hold a person to society's expectations. Black and white. Good and evil. Hold true to society's expectations or suffer alienation. These rules and codes are not created without reason. At birth, your slate is clean but as time passes, the slate becomes marked. Without rules, there is anarchy. Yet within those rules there lies danger. For humanity is both good and evil.

What qualities does one attribute to the honorable man and what makes him so different than one without honor? The honorable man does what is right even at grievous cost to himself or the ones he loves. The honorable man respects society's code. The honorable man is selfless, holding the needs of many over the needs of one.

The dishonorable man, the villain, is selfish in his individuality. He is a hero in his own mind and because he flouts society's rules, he is branded as evil. There are no rules for the dishonored, only those he makes himself. Honor means nothing to this man, only his own glory matters or so the stories tell.

Stories are mere fiction, truth twisted by the hands of the writer. The difference between the hero and villain is not nearly so cut and dry. There are qualities of both in every person and we all have our own personal agendas. Hero and villain in most cases are subject to their humanity. We all desire, we want, we need, and those things drive us and in the end, it's only our own personal truths that determine our paths. Alas, the winners write history and the winners see their enemy as anything but human. That gray space, between human and inhuman is filled in, until there's nothing left but black and white.

So, what is the difference between hero and villain? Motives. Beliefs. Truth. Both believe passionately in their cause and are willing to die for them. Both fight for friends or family--alive or dead--and the very right to exist and continue to do so. They fight for freedom. They fight for what they think is right, even if it is flawed. And there is the crux of the issue. What they think--what they believe.

What if everything you ever believed was a lie? If your whole life was based on lie after lie after lie. After a very short time it would be hard for anyone to discern the truth from pretense. Good and evil would become blurred, truth disappears into this moral vacuum and all that remains is a vacuous well of lies--echoing off the walls like a siren's song, allowing us to believe whatever we want without consequence.

Everyone needs something--anything-- to hold on to. A central truth that gives meaning to one's life, an anchor that ties you to the rest of the world. The just man has these anchors, ties that bind him to society at large. No matter how confused or tormented, the hero always has truth to hold on to. The villain has nothing but misguided beliefs, lies twisted into truths, whether by his own making or by the whisperings of another. Either way, there is little that anchors the unjust man and he is set adrift, grasping in the endless tide for anything to hold onto.

So what can be said of the unjust man? A man who was grasping for truth but only found more lies. Does such a man truly deserve redemption? Even after all the evil he wrought, even after he destroyed so many lives. Does the misguided soul warrant saving or should he be thrown the inferno for his folly?

One such soul stood alone, unable to merge with the lifestream--for rebirth was forbidden from him, his sin was too great--his crimes too unforgivable. He tried to destroy all existence. Tried to become a god and overthrow heaven itself.

He hung in the wake of the lifestream, between the world of the living and the dead. The tendrils of creation swirled around him, cutting a wide swath as to avoid his very presence. The spell that should have allowed it to obliterate his very existence instead protected him. Wrapping him in a shroud of pure white light. No one in the heavens knew quite what to do with the fallen warrior, nor why the spell meant to destroy him protected him instead. Many voices cried out for divine judgment, for revenge. These voices became a cacophony of sound and if he still had ears to hear with, he'd have stoppered them against it. Souls reaching out from the river of life to try and claw their way through holy's shield, to no avail. The magic protecting him was powerful and those angry spirits could not reach him.

The shield, his presence, all of it served to perplex the powers that be, for they had not authorized the protection of a mad man. Rather, they'd set up his execution, for a fallen angel the only punishment is to erase their soul from existence. For the evil he unleashed, the cruelty he inflicted, justice demanded such treatment. Barring annihilation, the powers that be had decided that the eternal torture of the inferno was the next best thing.

He knew better than anyone what he'd done, though he hadn't realized as of yet what a grand lie he'd been living. Still believing in his heart that he was right, he cared little if they punished him. Let them, pain was something he was accustomed to. From beginning to end, all he'd ever known was cruelty and it was no surprise that the tradition would continue unabated. Deep down he wished the damned spell protecting him would vanish and allow those angry spirits to tear him apart. Oblivion seemed so much nicer than anything else. Then again, that would be kind and he expected that his death would be as pitiless as his life. So it was with great surprise when a single voice called out in his support. Suggesting redemption rather than retribution. There were murmurs of dissent but by will alone she persevered. This unknown angel's words rose above all others and what she had to say could not be ignored.

"By the laws of heaven, I invoke the right of Inulgenica per modum sufragii."

What that meant, he couldn't guess. He was still shocked that anyone would appeal on his behalf, so much so that he was unable to comprehend the weight of his current situation. His fate and his punishment had been decided without him even realizing it, while he stared into the nothingness in shocked silence. Still entranced by the angel's words.

Her voice had been gentle and sweet, there was a mysterious regality suspended in it that revealed she was much more than she seemed. He had no conception of what she looked like, as there was nothing but the endless green and blue of the lifestream. Her eyes were green, forest green--somehow he knew that. The woman's voice was slightly familiar, a much older version of a similar, yet more girlish voice he'd heard before but from where? To receive redemption, the heart must be willing to pay the price for its penance, and you owe so very much. Remember....

He was in the ancient city once more, a place forgotten by humanity and time. Far underneath him, in the bowels of the city, the little cetra had prayed. She thought that she could stop him with some pretty bauble and a spell, but he knew better. At first his intention had been to kill her outright but something had stopped him. She seemed so innocent, so pure and a part of him as forgotten as the city itself stirred. His mother had told him she was a threat to their plans and must be immediately removed before she proved to be an obstacle. At the time, he barely understood how something as frail as she could be a threat to anything. She was Strife's woman, the puppet seemed to pretend to care for her and it was she that prevented him from properly manipulating the boy. Her death could serve as a motivation. Still...

Once again, he balked. Whatever morality was left in him revolted at the idea of killing purity itself. A part of him knew that killing her would steep his soul in greater sin than anything else he could do. That part of his subconscious could see her true form. She was an innocent, a pure soul. The man he once was screamed that this was wrong. This man was military to the core; he knew the slaughter of innocents was against all codes of honor that he once held so dear.

The white aura that surrounded her marked her as one of heaven's servants. Even his mother couldn't deny it. For the first time in five years he and mother disagreed. For the first time there was something he was unwilling to do for her. He tried to manipulate the puppet into doing it. Let him bear the sin of killing such a pure creature but the damned boy resisted and his mother was not pleased. She howled at him to end his games and just do it. He resisted but it was to no avail...his mother wrapped herself around his mind and squeezed.

For a moment or two he almost managed to avert submission to her will. For a moment. His mother had always known what pained him the most--all those memories he worked hard to forget smothered him. Visions of childhood torture and loneliness. How he hated being alone. Above all the emptiness of his own mind was the worst and she'd left him there to contemplate his disobedience in a crumpled heap...crying and gibbering in the dark. You are nothing without me. She whispered to him as she sent waves of pain through his fevered brow. It was wrong, so wrong but...but...But it hurt too much to resist and he was weak.

He'd swept down from above and he gutted her like a fish. Her blood pooling on the floor in a gory display of cruelty, her friends gathered about her in absolute shock and horror. Their stunned sobs had echoed in his mind like a reverberating gunshot. The little cetra's slaughter had sealed his death warrant, though his mother counted it as victory. He knew it wasn't anything close to that. Avalanche would kill him. They'd hunt him down and exterminate him like a rabid dog.

It was then that he began to wonder if he was on the right side. She didn't deserve to die--she was cetra, like him...like mother. They should have been on the same side. Why would she choose to stand in his way if he were right? Through the madness, he saw that there was a clear flaw in the truth he'd held on to but it was far too late to turn back. He pushed those doubts aside and set them back with all the other memories he wished to forget. In that moment, everything that once had been him receded and all that was left was Jenova. If so little of his will was left that he couldn't even prevent the death of one innocent, what was the point in resisting any longer. All chances for honor and glory died as his spirit submitted and his will to live vanished. His body was a husk, a tool, a brush with which to paint the world in whatever color She liked. Let Jenova have what she wanted; it wasn't like he needed his will anymore. She took away his pain and he gave her an instrument to wield against the world.

Quiet desolation overwhelmed him. Right or wrong, he deserved to be here. Slow changes had taken place within his tortured soul as those parts of his personality he buried resurfaced. His mind was so clear now, without the strange sense of muddled arrogance that clouded him before. He was insulated then, his mind protected by Jenova's fog. She let him forget and to forget was blissful for remembering led to the knowledge of his painful, loveless existence. Jenova was his drug and he eagerly drowned in her. She gave him what he thought he wanted and for a brief, sparkling moment, he'd felt loved and needed. That feeling subsided once he'd murdered the little cetra and the only thought that brought palpable peace was that he would soon be dead and of no use to anyone.

The shadows of memory latched onto him, dug into his flesh as he remembered everything in clear, painstaking detail all that he'd done from the moment he fell into darkness. Whether it was god or the devil that took him, he didn't care...his only wish was for those memories to stop. They reminded him of the pain he'd inflicted, reminded him of his own tortured past. He was vaguely aware he was no longer in the lifestream, though the name of where he was now was a mystery. It could be hell, certainly wasn't heaven. Choking back a scream, the man that was Sephiroth tried to brace himself against the powerful waves of remembrance.

These memories never stopped, they pulsed through him and just when he thought he couldn't take much more, they'd yield. Only to come back again with renewed strength. He cried till there was nothing left, screamed his throat raw, prayed to the gods--begging any one of them to listen, yet it made no difference. It went on and on, battering him with the facts of his misguided life. There was no promise of release and if the memories did relent, it would not be because they were concerned for him.

They wanted him to break, to admit that he was wrong. No matter how hard the facts pushed, Sephiroth refused to admit defeat. He was a stubborn, obstinate man and though he knew he'd made a grave error, he'd never admit it. Never again would he be broken by outside forces and twisted to another's will. Yet for the first time since he was young, he knew fear. The powers that forced his memory would most certainly outlast him. He had cried out multiple times to his mother, Jenova, but all he received was silence. Normally when his humanity revolted like this, she was right there to suppress it. The comforting numbness she brought never came and he was left to writhe in a world of abject terror, filled with white and gray and limitless anguish.

He wasn't a fool; Jenova was not an easy entity to defeat. Even if her body were dead, the cells still inside him would remain intact. She'd left; he could hear her resonating laughter, harsh and biting at his apparent failure as a son and as a man, before she abandoned him to his punishment. Twice bested by a mere puppet--a shadow of himself and a rag-tag group of humans, he was worthless to her. An abject disappointment to anyone and everyone who's lives he touched. She told him this, whispered to him that not only had he thrown away his godhood but his name would forever be associated with acts of bloodthirsty madness, rather than glory. She told him she'd seek other avenues in her quest for power, for he was obviously lacking. With that, Jenova shuttered her mind to him and pulled away her strings. As her control left, the tide of memory worsened. The agony she'd kept from him for so long bursting free, charging forward like a mad bull. Those things she helped him to forget returned. The feelings he so long suppressed freed themselves and he lost all sense of self within the chaotic surge. And that void he so hated, the lonely, empty void encircled him and vice-like, ensnared what little resistance he had left. Breaking his will in two with one final snap of its jaws.

Sephiroth was bewildered and in pain, without anything to hold onto. There was nothing left for him, the memories--his humanity--had won and he prayed harder than ever for a quick end to it all. Curled into a fetal position, his head in his hands, he mentally screamed at the planet to take him. Wanting nothing more than the lifestream to scour him from its memory. He wasn't a thing worth saving. He pleaded for the finality of oblivion and as cursed as he was, it never came.

They showed him the truth of his existence, without the filter he put over it that allowed him to think he was right. His memory had revolted and took arms against him. It showed him mercilessly how wrong he was and the scream he'd choked back earlier was let loose in the empty plains of purgatory.

The pain he felt stopped abruptly as his scream tapered off into a subdued whimper. He felt disgusted at himself for being so weak but he was somewhat relieved at the pause in the oft-relentless wave of agony that had beaten him so thoroughly. This reprieve would be short, as it always was, and Sephiroth steeled himself for the inevitable onslaught. Yet minutes passed and nothing happened.

Cautiously he opened his eyes and pushed himself off the ground with cat like grace, each movement slow and deliberate. Sephiroth quickly took in every detail of his new surroundings, muscles taut as he anticipated an attack, mental or physical. He frowned at his surroundings, perplexed at the completeness of their serenity, so unlike the gray wasteland he'd laid in before. Not that he knew really what his prison cell looked like; he was too busy staving off the pain to really take note. Still, this place was different that the abode of fear and agony he'd just left, and it made him doubly suspicious. Whoever or whatever oversaw his punishment was obviously playing a new game with him.

He was in a forest and it occurred to him that it was more than likely an illusion. No real forest was quite this perfect and most were comprised of many different varieties of vegetation. This forest felt strange and unnatural because this one was filled with mile after mile of nearly identical trees set into neat and orderly rows.

Before he'd gone mad, he'd had an almost encyclopedic knowledge of the world around him. He was blessed with a photographic memory and he was able to absorb and retain anything he'd ever read, seen or heard. This talent had faded once insanity had taken hold and Jenova had done her part by suppressing much of what had come before her. With his newfound clarity of mind, all that pent up knowledge surged forward. It had a place in his life again and it was eager to be used. There was a moment of delight when he realized he knew what kind of trees surrounded him. Betula papyrifera, commonly referred to as the white birch.

This realization startled him a little and the emotion he felt downright alarmed him. There was something definitely amiss. Moving forward seemed like a good idea, as standing around doing nothing made him a target. Something had brought him to this place, he was determined to find it and put an end to its games. He glanced around, quickly scanning the area with wild eyes as he began to stride forward. His gait was smooth and confident, despite being unnerved by his current situation.

The eerie white bark of the trees glowed luminously in the soft green light, lending an ethereal quality to the forest that did nothing to calm his nerves. A breeze suddenly shifted gray-green leaves and they rustled noisily. The pleasant shhh sound that they made should have been comforting and indeed, it was supposed to have done just that. It was the forest's attempt to put him at ease. Unfortunately, it proved to accomplish the opposite, putting the former general in a state of heightened alarm. It was in his nature to be suspicious because no one had ever given him a reason to not to be.

Was this a test of some kind or just another pathetic attempt to break him? Sephiroth was aware that he'd frustrated his jailers by resisting their attempts to cow him into submission. He snorted derisively; they'd decided to change tactics, hoping by putting him into an unfamiliar situation that he'd be easier to conquer. Whatever it was, it wouldn't work.

He hated this. Hated the way people toyed with his life like it was a game. He was dead for god's sake! What was the point in playing pointless, stupid mind games when submerging him in a lake of fire would accomplish the goal of punishing him much quicker. They wanted to vie for his power, to control him, to shackle him and make him their pet--their lap dog. In life he'd been nothing more than a tool and apparently he'd be spending his afterlife in the same way. No--No more, he'd be no one's instrument. These games would end and those who toyed with him would regret making a mockery of his existence.

His original personality had taken back what was his; the incoherent mad man had left with Jenova. He was still damaged from a purely psychological point of view but he was certainly free of the raving insanity that crippled him and turned him into a genocidal megalomaniac. There was cautious joy in his newly clear mind. He was willing to admit to himself, in part, that he was glad Jenova was gone. The thought made him pause and shake his head at the foolishness of it. Jenova was his mother; she was the only one who cared for him.

He snapped acidly at his own traitorous thoughts, "Yes, she cared. That's why she left when you needed her the most...laughing as she went. You fool..."

Sephiroth came to a dead stop as he contemplated the weight of that realization. Jenova had left, he could plainly feel her absence...she was gone...not because he or anyone else had forced her out but because she was done with him. She didn't need him anymore--he was a failure in her eyes and so she'd moved on. All this time, she'd used him. Like Shinra had used him. Was she even his mother? And if she were...then why would she throw her son to the wolves like that? Was he that unbearable that not even his own mother wanted him?

Too many painful questions... He closed his eyes and minutes passed as he stood as still as stone. Odd, his face flushed with repressed emotion but his heart remained dead and cold. It wasn't that much of a surprise that his mother would leave him because he'd always been unwanted. A killer from the very day of his birth. What was a surprise was that it hurt. It actually hurt. Furiously, he denied the emotion. He was beyond it, above it. There was a glassy obsidian rock where his heart should be--he was a remorseless monster. He felt nothing. Damn it, he felt nothing. So why did he feel as if his whole world had fallen apart? Why did he feel at all?

Sephiroth struggled to retain a semblance of control but he could do nothing about the mournful wail of his heart. He was weeping on the inside, afraid...alone... crushed by the knowledge that no one had cared for him, nor would they ever. Again he was shoved aside once his usefulness had reached its end. Without a place, without a purpose. Distantly grasping for the simple comfort that normal people took for granted. Why were wretched human traitors luckier than he?

All he'd ever wanted was to feel as if he belonged somewhere. He wanted to be able to answer simple questions without having to say I don't know. He wanted a mother, a father...a hometown...like everyone else. Normalcy. That's all he ever asked for. He didn't even know his own birthday, if something like him could have such a thing. Hell, he'd settle for knowing when he was created. They were simple ideas...normal concepts and fully beyond his reach.

He'd watched the soldiers under his command with their families and their friends, and he envied them for what they had. There were times when he'd hear them complain about their parents, siblings or girlfriends and he wanted nothing more than to strike them for not seeing how lucky they were. He killed to have what they did.

Not only did he not have family of any kind but because of his abnormal upbringing, he was socially retarded. Sephiroth had never understood the basics of human interaction. His tutors at Shinra had taught him manners, given him lessons in higher-class social graces but without affection it meant nothing, they treated him coldly. By their actions they nullified their own attempts to civilize him. Oh, he was a gentleman...they'd accomplished that, but without any warmth in the gestures he'd been taught. He was a research specimen, not a child who yearned to be loved and accepted. They treated him accordingly and children, no matter how they're raised, learn by example.

By the time he reached adulthood he'd become a detached, rather emotionless person. His personality was off putting and cold, his unusual appearance adding to the aura of menace that seemed to surround him. On the rare occasion when he would try to fit in, to be normal, it had always ended in disaster. With each day that passed that sense of his not belonging was beaten into him, sometimes literally. After awhile, he'd given up entirely and stopped trying to fit in altogether. Discontentedly watching from the sidelines wondering what made him so different. What was he and where did he come from? And why was he so alone in the world? Wasn't this what he had run from before? This not knowing. It's what made him willing to kill, willing to damn himself for all eternity. He was so desperate for answers that he grabbed at the first thing held out to him and took it for absolute truth.

Very unlike the skeptical, analytical man he'd been before. He'd been a good general for those reasons. Always needing more than mere presumption or educated guesses when making a decision. Insisting on having pure facts and certain knowledge before he'd deign to move forward on a given task. This rationality of thought was reserved for work, which he had in abundance. He'd been a purposeful workaholic, because working kept him from thinking about his existence. What little details he had of who and what he was were personal matters for him, and those questions being brought up by others tended to cause unpredictable fits of temper. The desire to have answers for why he was what he was overrode anything and everything else. This desire had led him to believe a lie. A lie that had consumed all he'd worked for and went against everything he thought he believed in.

He had to grab onto the gnarled bark of one of the trees with one hand to support himself as his mind entered a nearly hysterical state. Feeling light headed and nauseous as his newly released emotions nearly overwhelmed him. His anger rose, at himself for being so foolish and desperate and at Jenova for deceiving him. She promised love and acceptance and had only given him pain. Lulled him with power and the sweet embrace of forgetful nothingness, while she let him soak in sin. He was her flunky, sent in to do the dirty work while she got the prize at the end of it all. His eyes had sealed shut as he shook with rage.

Without looking, he slammed his fist into the trunk of the tree he'd been using to hold himself up. The tree creaked as the dent caused by his strike turned into a great vertical split that traversed upwards. The trunk was cleaved into two identical halves that fell to the ground with a thunderous crack. Bits of wood, dust and leaves drifted to the ground as the clamorous noise died down and calm was restored. Shafts of golden light drifted down, their rays caressing his still trembling form with rare gentleness.

Slowly he opened his eyes; they were dull and lifeless as looked at the fallen tree with seeming disinterest. Destroying things, his only talent. He was a receiver of pain, his only purpose was to take that pain and give it to others ten fold...and he was so tired of it. The cycle turned round and round, and he was its lightening rod. No more. It'd end here. He had spent his entire life in a wash of pain and confusion, and by god, he wouldn't spend his afterlife the same way. His fists clenched, he turned his head to the illusory sky.

"WHAT DO YOU WANT FROM ME?!!"

Nothing answered. Not a whisper from the wind nor the rustle of a stray leaf. The forest remained dead silent to his request, leading the former general to stew in angry silence at its seeming disinterest in his search for answers. His breath came in fast, furious bursts of air that punctuated the torrent of emotions that slipped through his lean frame. Sephiroth bowed his head, his resolve weakening, fists still clenched. He saw what this was now. This was a more subtle form of torture, to let him wander through this silent forest with only his own thoughts. The heavenly equivalent of sending you to your room to think about what you've done. The forest was treating him like a child and it should have insulted him but it didn't. In a way, he was a child still and he could no longer deny it. He knew nothing but presumed he did, and on this presumption, the planet and all its inhabitants suffered because of him. Simple acceptance of his impulsive and childishly destructive ignorance was all it took, and while he stood in shame-faced silence, the forest opened the gates of knowledge for him.