τοξότης

two roads diverged in a wood, and i, i took the one less traveled by and that has made all the difference. [[ indie au sephiroth ]] links on hover

[ciitreae-deactivated20180224]

                    ‘ here comes the general ! ’

                                                                       —   R I S E   U P !

[ciitreae-deactivated20180224]

                    ‘ here comes the general ! ’

                                                                       —   R I S E   U P !

[argeiosarchive]

*nicki voice* ay yo tumblr what’s good

tonight i’ll be pulling material and info off of this blog—that’s right, folks, i’m archiving and remaking!

i don’t know what url you'll find me at yet, but hey, i hope to be around more often after this instead of fucking off for like a few months at a time, right

hmu via inbox or im in the meantime! i’m here tonight!

[hardydaytona-blog]

Cloud shuffled a thumb through his stack of papers as the elevator slowed to a halt. Even with his new tendency to be assigned to more important missions, with bigger names in the foodchain, stepping foot on the SOLDIER operative floor set his nerves alight. Butterflies raising small degrees of havok in his stomach. He trained his eyes on his cargo as if he were actually absorbed with the words on the pages, stepping out of the elevator hastily.

[argeiosarchive]

In pursuit of lunch, Sephiroth very rarely did something as clumsy as bump into someone else coming off of the elevator—but to be fair, the fault wasn’t completely on him, as the infantryman appeared to be absorbed in his papers at the time, all of which went fluttering away.

The general kneeled to pick them up before the other could, and as he looked up, offering the papers back, he recognized the man in question. “My apologies, Strife,” he said with a brief incline of his head. “I’m afraid my mind’s in the cafeteria.”

[chall-ember-blog]

oh how i cannOT wait

[argeiosarchive]

altariflorem:

  She’d known from the moment Cloud had handed Sephiroth the Black Materia and attacked her that this beautiful, broken boy was compromised. As his boots crunched the path to her, she could hear the grind of heavy, cold steel scraping the leather holster of a sword that reminded her quite a bit of one she’d seen such a long time ago. Though she could nearly feel it.   The poisonous touches stretching to Cloud’s mind.   Fight her, the Cetra pleads, but still not aloud. You’re so much stronger.   If only Cloud’s heart could hear that request. Even with her eyes still closed, Aerith felt his shadow cast over the warm, reflective light of a thousand crystals. There were the subtle sounds of exertion as Zack’s Buster Sword was raised, over head and with the intention to bring it down-   Tifa’s voice rang through the cave, and the purity of Cloud’s mind returned with a shocking force, leaving the blonde rocked. The whisper slipped from his lips as he staggered back, echoing to her ears–“Ugh…What are you making me do…”–but she was so proud. He’d broken it, if just for now. Or rather, Tifa had, but it was a good sign for both of them if the brawler woman could drag him from the darkest pits of his mind. 

  Her lips curled upwards, and slowly, cinnamon lashes lifted from her cheeks, the flash of green greeting blue. Her magic had been cast, and her prayers had been placed in the cradle of the planet to rise the spirits to a battle hymn. And Cloud had done so well to rise out of Jenova’s control, surely a moment of praise would be well deserved.

The sound of Mother's screaming fills his mind, and in that moment, he knows himself damned.

She has spoken of glory and of godhood and of ascension, but with the katana in his grip and malicious knowledge of what he must do, for a split-second, a shattering second, Sephiroth knows she lies as all the rest have lied. The Cetra are crying. Cloud has resisted Jenova's cancerous touch, but he cannot. She has stolen his body and eroded his mind, and even the briefest flashes of clarity mean nothing.

The boy voices it for the both of them, as Sephiroth steps to the ledge of the crystalline terrace.

He sees it all very slowly, indistinct, like an old video with damaged tape. Film grain, things shifting, sliding out of focus. Aerith raising her head. The soft pink of the ribbon in her hair. The set of those slender shoulders as if she has all the strength in the world.

                                                                        DO IT NOW.

                    He raises Masamune, the blade downward, both of his hands on the hilt.

                                                                        DO IT NOW.

                             There is no waver in his grip, but his breath comes unsteady.

                                                    DO IT NOW.

                            One foot forward—heel still on the ledge. The cold of empty air.

                                                   DO IT NOW!

Mother's hand is around his throat, tight and unrelenting, and Sephiroth begins to choke, begins to suffocate. She smothers him. She invades him. His body is not his own, has not been his own for so long, and it is she who takes the step, and he falls, and the blade never falters. He feels the air rush past him, he can taste the fear and the dread and the madness. Masamune pierces Aerith smoothly and cleanly like it's no different than moving through water, and a resentment fills what's left of him.

She is the last of the Ancients and Jenova is a liar and a murderer, but the blood and the guilt are Sephiroth's.

The air is silent, all around him, and Mother twists his mouth into a smile as she withdraws the blade. Aerith is dying, her limp body slumping to the floor. The least of kindnesses is that it is quick. The ribbon in her hair unfurls, and the drained White Materia begins to find its way back home to the depths of the city, the clink of crystal becoming a forlorn sound, echoing throughout this small temple.

Cloud's eyes are wide and horrified.

Jenova raises his hands, triumphant.

Sephiroth screams soundlessly, his madness made complete. Here, in the last settlement left of that most ancient race of the planet, the last of them has fallen, and he is finally, finally alone.

[scarletxspider-deactivated20131]

send me a ✿ and i’ll generate a number.

[argeiosarchive]

1: aggressive kiss

2: all over kiss

3: back kiss

4: cheek kiss

5: eyelid kiss

6: fingers kiss

7: firm kiss

8: first kiss

9: forehead kiss

10: french kiss

11: gentle kiss

12: ghost kiss

13: hand kiss

14: jawline kiss

15: last kiss

16: neck kiss

17: rain kiss

18: stomach kiss

19: underwater kiss

20: upside down kiss

[tragicxscarlet]

>> interlude, perhaps

[tragicxscarlet]

Her lack of appeal swings back around to that reputation thing, in truth. For the small percentage of the world that doesn’t know her and the hyperbolized and real (and regrettable, in certain cases of the latter) atrocities that she has committed? Yeah, they would probably be breaking her door down to get her number–right up until someone in the know leaned in and whispered poisoned truths into their ear. As soon as that happens? Game over, and back to sleeping alone she goes. At least the intimidation factor makes it less likely for her to wind up in the situation where she’s going to wind up hurt–though as a bit of jealous gossip floating into her awareness makes her aware? Even if it’s just for show, this has the potential to become that very thing that she has all but sworn is impossible. Seeing that bit of pink upon his cheeks only serves to reinforce the idea, surreal as it all has become.

Keine, frau. Kneifen sie sich nicht.

“They probably get caught up in the hype, kya ha ha ha ha. It happens to me often enough around the office.”

She cannot help but lean in closer to him, her head winding up against his side as they continue their way down the sidewalk. Up ahead is the door leading to the building she resides in, but it’s still a good block away yet–and even though she can feel the stares? She cannot help but savor them, mentally roll in that schadenfreude that others usually enjoy at her expense. Why, as pleased as it makes her feel? Scarlet is even leaning up and pressing her lips to the side of Sephiroth’s neck in a brief little peck of affection.

[argeiosarchive]

He laughs with her this time, a bit startled at how it feels and sounds to do so, as he is every time. Sephiroth's not a man who laughs often, faced with too much responsibility and held to a certain standard of seeming implacability. That, and sometimes thought is too present over feeling, with analysis taking the forefront over even a hint of amusement.

He tries not to analyze Scarlet, to look for motives. Enough people likely do that to her already. Even when her lips touch his neck and he almost forgets that they're putting on a show, it takes him a moment to produce a single thought, wrapped up in surprise, in the physical sensation of some kind of warm shiver.

She kissed me, is the first thing to cross his mind, and there's a hard glare from across the street he can feel, envy and hatred, directed at the executive on his arm. I don't like that is the next thought, and his hand trails from Scarlet's shoulder to her waist as they walk, wandering under the back of her jacket, fingers splaying at the small of her back.

He can't help but feel incredibly protective, defensive. Scarlet knows she already catches an undue amount of flack from others just for being who and what she is, but if it happens over this, Sephiroth will be the first to act in her interest.

[hekahte]

there are things out there that want to kill you. that will kill you. and then there is the ghost of a breath at your ear, the hand at the small of your back, whispers that wrap you in gossamer night until you go blind, saying, 'destroy yourself; you do it so much better.’ you can stare into the abyss this raw, dark, damning thing of wonder – don’t be afraid to get lost in it. everyone does. then blink, and walk away.

lessons in progress (part two), s.a. (via hekahte)

[argeiosarchive]

altariflorem:

  Even as the last of her race, there were a few things that she didn’t understand. The whispers of the Cetra still rocked through the silent vales of this forgotten land, and the spectralled hand of some long forgotten soul, trying to murmur warnings to the last Daughter of their almost forgotten race. A dark shadow that was casting itself across her future, perhaps both figuratively and literally.   She was more than aware of Sephiroth’s presence, though if he thought she had the time to pause and address him while calling for the aid to combat him, perhaps he was being a little unrealistic. Not that the mind of a lost child would know such a thing. Not that she would, out loud, tease him for such a thing, though he did seem the sort. A poor child misled by a false mother.   It mattered not if he was older than her. She wished she could fix that path of his–what had happened to the man that Zack had admired?   There was a sharp inhale, as the power of Holy reached its peak, just as the even crunch of boots eachoed through the antichamber. Cloud had found her faster than she had anticipated, though…she wished he hadn’t. There was no doubt in her mind that Sephiroth’s presence in the chamber would not end well for her or the party of friends that had come to find her, and she knew that those few, precious spare moments of solitude in which she prayed for the salvation of the planet had paid off. At what cost, however, was another question entirely.   The voices of the Cetran ancestors quelled as the heavy boots of the blonde ascended the pathway up to the platform on which she prayed. As she caught her breath, beginning to funnel the power of Holy, she could hear him approaching. Too soon.

What stresses him more is to know that they're coming—her friends, the mismatched little band of Gaians playing at warrior. Jenova's kept telling him that they're coming, and that he needs to be ready, but Sephiroth does not feel ready. He feels detached, misplaced, always so furious, furious at a world he had tried so desperately to understand and be a part of, only to be brutally cast down, to find out he had been little more than a lab experiment.

And now, much more, the urge to lash out at this world crawling under his skin, and the sound of boots on the cool marble, not his, echoes carried through space and upon the surface of the calm water. Flat anger builds in him. Cloud. Sephiroth despises him, despises his false memories, despises the man playing pretend at SOLDIER. remembers sinking into the core of the reactor because of this boy who, himself, was broken into pieces.

It was what made him so easy to control.

He draws back into the shadows even as Mother reaches forward, curls her shadowy fingers around Cloud's hands. Sephiroth draws in his breath; he remembers, remembers that sword in the grip of another, the way he had held it. Sure and confident, and unlike this boy.

Aerith prays; Cloud takes the great blade from his back. Sephiroth watches, Masamune in his own hand. It's not a question of whether or not Mother can do it—it's a question of the Nibelian boy's conviction, now, and where his loyalties truly lie.

(It’s a test. He knows this, somewhere. Mother is not trying Cloud. Mother is trying him.

If he cannot, will YOU?)

Jenova's sinuous whisper begins to overpower the voices of the Cetra.

[argeiosarchive]

Pay no mind to the general snoozing in his office chair.

[tomowowowo]

Commission for Seph

I hope you like it! <3

[altariflorem]

Blood spilt on the Altar of HOLY Prayer. for argeios

[argeiosarchive]

altariflorem:

  The casting of the great spell was not like simply loading a materia into a staff and calling on the power of crystalized magic and energy. HOLY was not a toy, nor was it anything but a last resort. It was not a guarantee, either.   It was a request. A request from the planet. From the Lifestream. From her Ancestors. And so, in her last effort, Aerith prayed.    She prayed for the conviction to help a boy who was shattered by the past he didn’t remember, and for the strength of the girl trying to save him. She begged the unseen for the sheer determination of a young princess trying to save her nation through whatever means necessary, for the courage of the former Turk awake to face his demons at last, and for a man raising a daughter who was his by pure love in a world that sorely lacked it. The wit of the strange creature with the heavy accent whose efforts to bring cheer to the group shouted from his microphone, the intelligence of the one whom everyone saw as a beast but who would outlive them all, and for the dreams of a man who couldn’t wait to see the earth from above the skies instead of below.   She prayed for the pure power of heart that belonged to a man who she’d once known before but hadn’t seen in what felt like forever, and for the blessings of any who had ever loved her for the ability to save these people who she loved now. She could feel it, in the very sense of her bones and essence, the planet’s response. It would take a precious amount of time for Holy to succeed, and as her prayers were hushed from the whispers of her mind, she was aware of movement in the Inner Sanctum.   Had the others come? She had few seconds to conclude her prayers, but she knew of the dangerous of this place. Of her plan. ‘Keep them safe,’ she pleaded, though this time she wasn’t necessarily sure who she was begging to, because she hadn’t said it aloud. ’…just a little longer.’

Aerith prayed for the ability to save the world, no matter what the cost.

Here more than ever they began to drown him out.

Sephiroth was surrounded by voices here in this subterranean city more than anywhere else—it wasn't only Jenova here, it was so much more. The cool marble echoed with the ghosts of the Cetra who had once lived here, and he existed there with a familiarity which wasn't his. One of them, not one of them. They were guarded, they were welcoming. Mother hated them, and so, in the beginning, with his first steps descending into the temple, Sephiroth hated them, as well.

But he was quelled, in some way, and therefore restless. Did the girl hear his anxious steps as he paced the terrace above her? He had been doing so for what felt like days, rolling his shoulders to shrug away those voices. They spoke to her, to her, they did not choose him. Only Mother wrapped him up in her embrace, her sibilant whisper fueling his futile righteous anger, but whenever he looked down, daring to cast a hateful gaze at her—he couldn't, he couldn't look.

An obsession with her whose reasons he didn't know. Something deep within him made Sephiroth feel as though he were trapped in a cage, a prowling, untamed beast, waiting to be unleashed. The power of Holy building down below, radiating from her, and the potential for Meteor in his hands as he turned the materia over and over. It was a cold little stone, never once shining, as if it consumed all light that touched it.

Such magnificent power; such destruction, dormant inside of him, bursting at Jenova's seams.

                                                                Why?

He turns from the ledge again, a frustrated hand at his temple, as if he can stop hearing the swell of Cetran voices as Aerith communes with them, his eyes closing as if he can shut the image of her kneeling there away, but all he sees is her, and all he can wonder is why, here in the City of the Ancients, of those who should be his foremothers, he feels so terribly shunned, and out of place. The woman below him, Cetra, Cetra; her voice has never come to him, and perhaps, as all the rest, she abandons him.

[argeiosarchive]

ive been running my ass around on five blogs all day so if im randomly disappearing ya know why

[argeiosarchive]

waveringloyalty:

They share in this moment, the quiet– the gentle hum of Cissnei’s IV, and the nurses who dare to keep away during these moments. When Calla is lifted from her arms she is empty, she wants to cry, which she already has done, but she keeps her emotions in check this time, watching father and daughter interact. 

She knows Sephiroth never had a man he could call father, and deep down she knows his biggest insecurity is the same as hers. But just as her doubt melted away for the mere moments that Calla was in this world, she has done the same thing for her husband, who is always so consumed– just as she. And these two broken people who have had nothing in this world, now have everything in this pink and yellow girl. They have such and unclean past, and it’s a shame that they were forced to be this way, since deep down she knows they could have been so much more, and now Cissnei is that more– wife, mother and all that comes between. 

Ochre eyes watch her husband and child intently, their daughter is so small and innocent, and she’s lucky– with a SOLDIER for a father and a Turk for a mother, with extended family waiting to meet her. Waiting to keep her the perfect little flower she is. And that’s exactly what she is–

Perfect.

It takes Cissnei a moment, but she sits up to be next to her husband, to be with her child who has ensnared the General completely with just one gentle touch. Her hand goes for her husband’s back and her head finds his shoulder. He’s perfect with her– of course he is. He’s done all his reading and research, much like she had done in the beginning– with their first, but she pushes that thought to the back of her mind as she leans in and brushes her fingers over her daughter’s head again. She’s perfect– and she does it because she still can’t believe she’s real, even though her body begs to differ. When the word dad leaves Sephiroth’s mouth, Cissnei looks to the clock– and it’s a little after two. 

It’s Sunday– the third Sunday in June and this is the best gift she could have given him. Calla already has given him the greatest gift of all, but she whispers it anyway– “Happy Father’s Day.”

It should feel weak, he thinks, if he were any other military man, he'd be ashamed of himself, sitting here and crying with his newborn daughter in his arms. But he isn't—he understands it, that here's what he's been waiting for, everything he'd been deprived of. As far as he knew, no one had ever held him tenderly, when he was a baby. He didn't know who had guided his first steps, if anyone at all. He didn't even know where his name had come from.

Here in his arms in Calla, and here with him is Cissnei—not Cissnei, Eve. Here they are, husband, wife, daughter, what he thought was so unattainable, and when she leans on his shoulder he rests his head against hers, and he can feel all the fatigue in her body, all the work she did to bring this miracle into the world.

Carefully he hands their baby back to her, wrapping an arm around her, knowing she likely needs the support to sit up right now. And it is Father's Day, and there couldn't be a better gift for him on the entire planet.

"I love you," he whispers, pressing a kiss into her hair, uncaring for the sweat that's come with labor. All that matters right now is the three of them in this room. All that could matter again is bringing Calla home.

[argeiosarchive]

32: Memories

There was not a single window on the floor of the Shin-Ra Building that housed the Science Department, and Sephiroth knew that for a fact. When he’d been allowed to wander, he’d ran around the floor as fast as his little feet could carry him, and had checked every single wall–but no windows.

Keep reading

[argeiosarchive]

im fuckgin ugly c ryign righ tnow