@thelovelymissbigbadwolf made me post this:
John unwrapped the black cloth, revealing the Buster Sword beneath the fabric, untouched by hands and blood, yet to be held by a warrior's touch. The black blade gleamed in the candlelight, its broad form catching every flicker of illumination the candles provided. Angeal was instantly enchanted. His eyes widened, a small gasp marking his awe as he reached out, tiny hands eager to touch the weapon.
“It’s…beautiful, Papa,” Angeal whispered, the first word that came to his awe-stricken mind. Standing on his tiptoes, he peered over the table, his seven-year-old face reflecting off the freshly polished blade. His father’s deep chuckle filled the room.
“Careful,” John said, lifting the sword and lowering it to Angeal’s level. “It’ll belong to a great man one day.”
Angeal laughed as his father ruffled his hair. He reached for the hilt, his small hands struggling to grip it fully.
It mirrored Denzel’s hand years later, still growing, grasping the rusted Buster Sword, now a shadow of its former self. The blade no longer caught light, not even the sparse illumination the cracks in the church's ruins provided, its surface marred by rust and decay.
“It used to be beautiful, didn’t it?” Denzel asked, glancing back at Cloud, who approached slowly, as each step towards the sword brought thoughts of Zack to the forefront of his mind.
“Yeah,” Cloud replied, his voice heavy. “Be careful with that.” He knelt and took hold of the hilt, once warm in his grasp, but now cold to the touch. “It used to belong to a great man.”
