& they say that soulmates are two halves of one whole.
A Vincent/Lucrecia ficlet by Sennen. They say that soulmates are two halves of one whole, a single being who cannot fly for its wings being rend apart. We, of the Planet, know far better than to question seraphs of one wing, but perhaps there is something to be said of how lovers will reflect each other in their eyes, in their words, and maybe even in their deaths.
( Do not stand at my grave and weep.
( I am not there; I do not sleep. )
( But we loved with a love that was more than love--
( I and my Annabel Lee--
( With a love that the winged seraphs of heaven
( Coveted her and me. )
A cascade of long brown hair glowed auburn in the fading sun. Those eyes glittered like gemstones as the light kissed her skin good-bye. A name was shaped by lips that always seemed to have just a touch of cosmetic, and his name came by a voice so lovely it rivalled a harp. “Vincent.”
The memory dissolves as the sound of rushing water brings him back to his senses. The towering cascade replaces the vision of brunette locks, and a cool mist paints across his face, enticing him with a lover’s touch. Ruby eyes open.
When they had stumbled across this cave, the kids had rushed in, eager for treasure though ever wary of specters like the one at their tails. A sudden hush had piqued that very person’s interest--what new horror awaited them, what new massacre of Shin-Ra? And when he had entered the cavern, a woman, far lovelier than he had remembered, had greeted him, wrapped in solid materia. Like a shot from a silver handgun, her name had burst, painful and unwilling, with a voice so hoarse it might have sobbed. “Lucrecia.”
She had stirred--partially, at least. A specter, like one they had wished to avoid, of her had appeared and had showed all the kids what had happened thirty years ago. Seeming to recall what Sephiroth had done at the crater, Cloud had remarked, “She’s Sephiroth’s mother, all right.” And oh--Sephiroth. When she had asked after her son, he had not been able to bear telling her that they were going to kill him. And so, with a lie, ghostly eyes closed.
“The angels, not half so happy in Heaven,
“Went envying her and me:--
“Yes! that was the reason (as all men know,
“In this kingdom by the sea)
“That the wind came out of a cloud, chilling
“And killing my Annabel Lee.”
( And so, all the night-tide, I lie down by the side
( Of my darling, my darling, my life and my bride,
( In her sepulchre there by the sea--
( In her tomb by the side of the sea. )
His soul had been in such torment, he would have given anything to swallow the pain that just seemed to push upward, outward, that took the form of death as he rampaged against unsuspecting beasts. Even after all that, he had been filled with a need to go back. And so now he enters again, but this time she does not greet him, instead leaving him the silence of her mako coffin. As he kneels at her altar, he reaches out toward her crystal.
Beautiful Lucrecia, whose true sparkle laid in her intelligence and drive, powerful enough to tear a man asunder, as if he’d been rend by a bolt of lightning and not the mere critical gaze of glittering eyes. For memories, fond and fair, are the most gorgeous epitaph one could give, far more lovely than a headstone comprised of frozen time and illustrious crystal, and when visage gazes upon it after thirty years of hearts dead and buried in boxes, in caves, beneath not six but sixty feet of earth, the love comes crashing back like a tidal wave, enough to knock a man to his knees, and then it ebbs away to a place he cannot reach, replaced by regret as cold as a corpse laid bare on a silver table and encased in a glass tube–a nightmarish specter, the beaten and the damned, the imperfections cut away until nothing but a shell is left, on display for all to come and knock on the cage, and observe the new king of death ( hades forgive me, i wanted naught but to be a man ), adorned with a fire that provides the only warmth he needs and hounds that bark out his commands with lethal howling. There is no greater love than to lay down one’s life for another ( and we know so much about that, my dear–if i am to claim hades’s throne then come with me and i shall crown you persephone; you will stand as an eternal memory to the warm breeze that has turned chill and sour ) but in the end–
( i did nothing. )
Her soul had been in such torment, and how she would have cried out against his touch if she could have, but her voice is silenced, encased, inwardly pleading to stay away, stay away, stay away from the beast that will consume all. Even after all that, his hand connects, with a brush of bare fingers against her home. This first time, she cannot say a word, and instead it is the howl of a daemon that surfaces as the dark Lifestream flows into its unsuspecting and perfect coffin. As it recoils back, it reaches for the freedom of the world outside.
Quiet Vincent, whose true merit laid in his attentiveness and understanding, soft enough to build a woman mighty, as if composed of mountains and not just the words of someone who sought the truth in her. For belief, warm and light, are the best gift he could have given, far worthier than jewelry of ice or flowers of flame, and when ear hears all elements after thirty years of sealing that leaves a woman deaf and dumb, in caverns, behind waterfalls that roar when she cannot, the love comes drifting back like a breeze, enough to cause a woman’s head to raise, and then it buoys away, taking her with it, whisking her from her prison of experiments and pain as foreign as an alien life form until nothing but the glass is left--a museum of beauty only Valentine can see, for she has withered away to dust but he refuses to see, for she strove to bring illumination to the world and shine a new sun--”forgive me, icarus, your lessons did not hold”--, and such advancements have made him blind, made him a monster that calls the end with lethal growling. There is no greater love than to lay down one’s life for another ”i took him from you and i took you from this world--this damnation of you is all i could accomplish; i did the best i could, but i fear you will stand as an eternal memory to the warm breeze that has turned chill and sour. my dear, i tried” but in the end--
“i’m so sorry.”
“Do not stand at my grave and cry;
“I am not there. I did not die.”
“Do Not Stand at My Grave and Weep” Mary Elizabeth Frye (1932).
“Annabel Lee” Edgar Allen Poe (1849).
