The candle celebration...it reminded him of home.
@knollknelling
Not home, as in Midgar, but home as in...the smell of hot oil and onions and fried potatoes. Genesis, Angeal, and he, standing huddled around his little barracks window, singing blessings as they passed around the shamash candle. The way Genesis’ nose would wrinkle and his brow would furrow when he lost in their game of dreidel, the way Angeal’s would relax biting into one of the jelly donuts they pulled from the oven. The way the candles, burning low, would reflect off their eyes and their teeth and their skin when they looked at him and smiled.
He remembered feeling nothing when he looked upon Nibelheim, set ablaze, seeing reflections of flames off his blade, off shattered windows and bodies and blood and—
He ground his teeth and pulled Jenova close to him, digging his fingers into her helmet. (Was it worth it?) He swallowed down his shaky breaths, running fingers through her hair to gently loosen tangles, before tying it back in a loose braid. When he’d calmed, he placed the head back on his desk, and reached down below it to retrieve the bag he’d specifically purchased for carrying her. It wasn’t safe to leave her here; it wasn’t safe to let people see her, either.
Something nagged at Sephiroth — the feeling that he was beginning to become complacent in this place. Adjusting too smoothly. Accepting that this was what was happening to him, now.
It made him miserable.
It made him more than miserable.
He felt possessed when he stepped out of his apartment and began the long trek down the Lampadias stairs. The sunlight outside was hazy, filtered through a gentle rain. The few drops that clung to him were warm. He noticed, mildly, that there was a light sprinkling of snow on the streets, melting and running down, slicking the roads.
Eventually, he found himself along one of the many paths that wound their ways through the forest. He’d learned already not to stray too far from them, as doing so would end only in confusion, frustration, and many hours unaccounted for.
The thin slush crunched quietly under his boots as he approached the booth near the end of the path. People were filtering slowly through, speaking in friendly tones and laughing along with one another; nothing like the hubbub of the entranced crowds he’d encountered earlier in Crises.
A little bear handed him a handful of lengthy wicks and he nodded thankfully, without looking at her. He stared at the wicks, then along the row of tables. Ah, so this was the candle-making event. He supposed he needed some candles.
He separated one of the wicks from the rest and folded it in half, carefully aligning the ends. Yes, these would work well enough at half length. He glanced down the tables again, not seeing any scissors or knives. How annoying.
He identified the table for candle-rolling and lined up, taking note of the young man just ahead of him who appeared to be actively trying to disappear into his layers of robes. With an amused smirk, Sephiroth began to tear into his wicks with his teeth.