Elira sat alone at one of the little round tables in the richly decorated hall, dressed in a green, off-the-shoulder gown Tifa had lent her and trying to pretend she was having a good time. The others were dancing, moving around on the linoleum floor to the sounds of a live jazz band, and they all looked as if they were having the time of their lives; even Yuffie had managed to get herself a partner, a tall, handsome man she'd introduced to them earlier as a 'friend', and was twirling happily around the room in a beautiful kimono. Red, too, appeared to be having a good time, even though he had opted out of dancing and was listening to the music and watching the couples. Of course, he wasn't waiting impatiently for someone to show up, she thought sullenly, and could therefore afford to be cheerful.
Elira started a little as Benita and Barret passed by the table, and managed a weak smile as Benita grinned and waved a few fingers at her. Once they'd moved away, however, she let the smile drop and, blowing out her breath, sat back against the chair to inspect the fingers in her lap, the golden band on her ring finger. A moment later, she sighed and, straightening non-existent creases in the dress' skirt, went back to watching the dancers.
That afternoon, after witnessing Vincent's hasty departure from the Wutai graveyard, Elira had trailed him back to Yuffie's manor only to end up knocking at the door for nearly five minutes before getting a response from inside. It was Yenko's job to answer the door, but she was nowhere to be found. Yuffie also wasn't available, but the servant had been kind enough to bring Elira around the house until they'd discovered from a gardener that Yenko had left a few minutes ago with one of Lady Yuffie's party, a tall dark-haired man. Somewhere between being angry and curious, Elira had followed the directions of the gardener and ended up wandering around Wutai until she'd come across Yenko exiting an old abandoned house. Checking herself, she'd politely asked for Vincent. Yenko had informed her that he was inside, but that he likely wanted to be left alone. Elira bristled again as she remembered those words; how could a woman who'd only just met him know what he wanted? She'd gone in anyway, walking softly through empty, dusty, sunlit rooms until she'd found Vincent seated on the floor of what had probably once been a second-story bedroom. And he hadn't heard her coming. He'd started when she'd called his name as if surprised that she'd come searching for him. He'd been looking through a cardboard box, and there'd been an expression on his face when he'd turned to see her, a look of pain and regret and sorrow, and then the wall she thought he'd done away with in her presence had come down over his features, closing her off from his feelings. She'd tried to ask some questions, but he would only say that Murasaki Sakito had been his mother. And then he'd asked her leave, begging a little time to himself. So she'd left, feeling frustrated and upset, and even now she couldn't shake her mood. He hadn't apologized for running from her, and hadn't been willing to talk to her. That hurt more than anything, that he'd closed her out after all this time; it made her remember when she'd been on the outside before, when she'd been afraid and unsure of his feelings. It made her afraid (even though she'd told herself more than once that she was being ridiculous) that he was going away from her...and that he might not come back.
She'd stopped watching the dancers some minutes ago, her eyes becoming unfocused as she'd drifted into her own thoughts, eventually staring at an undefined point on the wall across the room. Movement to her left caused her to start, however, and she turned her head. Red was approaching from across the hall, leaving a wide berth for the dancers, his one eye trained on her so that she couldn't mistake his direction. And then he was at her side and, with no more than a quiet greeting, he seated himself on his haunches beside her. Elira fumbled her own greeting and tried to make herself appear a little more like she was enjoying herself. But Red wasn't to be fooled; Elira had a feeling he'd been watching her for a few minutes.
"Is something bothering you?" he asked, though he didn't look at her, his gaze lingering on the others who were dancing. "I don't want you to feel obliged to answer me," he added after a moment when she hesitated. "I'm just asking because you look troubled. Sometimes all a troubled person needs is a willing ear."
Elira looked back to her fingers and rubbed them together in her lap a little restlessly. It was a bit odd that someone who was still barely more than a stranger to her would feel comfortable asking her what was wrong, but she'd been recognizing in the last couple of days that the ex-members of Avalanche were anything but the conventional hero-types. And Red, she realized, as the Elder of Cosmo Canyon, was likely somewhat used to listening to people's concerns. She sighed and saw a pointed ear twitch in her direction at the noise. He was listening patiently and Elira was momentarily reminded of Vincent and the way he sometimes listened without looking at her, an action which, more often than not, made her more at ease when talking about personal things. Licking her lips, she took a breath and said, "I don't know if I can really talk about it. It has to do with Vincent, and..." She took another breath. "...it might be something he feels is personal."
Red nodded his understanding. "It is, perhaps, then something you'll need to work out with him."
Elira gave her own nod and gazed into her lap. It was a comfort to her when Red didn't wander back across the room, instead choosing to stay by her side and keep her company. His continued presence, however, made it more difficult for her to keep silent about what was bothering her. Finally, after fidgeting in her seat for a couple of minutes, she decided that she could trust Red with this, that he wouldn't tell the others and wouldn't let Vincent know she'd said anything. Turning in her chair, she looked at Red XIII as he listened to the music. His ear twitched again to show that he'd noted her movement. She cleared her throat, but before she could say a word, Red asked her a question.
"Would you care to take a walk with me?"
She was a little surprised by his interruption, but agreed, perceiving that the spacious room had become increasingly stuffy since she'd arrived. Moving quietly, they left the tables behind and walked across the floor and out of the hall. Elira doubted anyone had even noticed their departure.
Vincent rolled his shoulders, hearing stiff joints crack as he straightened, before hunching back over the box on the floor where he'd been for the better part of the day. Papers, photographs, and trinkets lay around him in the dust, the last remaining pieces of his mother's earthly life that Yenko had kept out of some particular respect for someone who'd had no kin to pass her belongings on to. Until now. Now, these things rightfully belonged to him. Yenko had brought him to the house and showed him the box without any fuss; he'd had to tell her a sketchy account of his stasis in the Shinra Mansion in Nibelheim before she would believe that she was the son of Murasaki, and then he'd had to fully prove himself by recalling his mother's and his own middle names from decades ago. It had astonished him that he'd remembered. All it had taken was the question to trigger the memory and he'd said the two names before they'd finished coming into his conscious mind. Everything was there, just buried beneath years and years of guilt and anger.
He rummaged around in the box, through picture frames and pieces of clothing, sneezing suddenly as some of the dust floated up to his nose, until he came across some books at the bottom. Pushing things aside gently, he brought them out. There were six of them, all about as tall and wide as his spread hand and at least an inch thick with curling, yellowing pages. He wasn't surprised that he hadn't come across them earlier; he'd spent most of his time and attention on the bundles of photographs near the top, looking through them excitedly, hungry for an image of his mother and, perhaps, of himself at a young age. One particular photo had captured his attention for nearly half an hour. He wasn't sure who had taken the picture; his mother, it seemed, had taken many of the others. But this one had his mother in it; she was sitting on the porch swing Vincent had spotted outside as he and Yenko had entered the house, and beside her sat a younger version of himself, no more than twelve years old, complete with unruly black hair that hung around his ears and sharp gray eyes, made into slits as he grinned cockily out of the picture. It was odd to see that expression on his own face and he'd gazed wistfully, wishing he could remember when he'd been so carefree.
His mother had also been grinning out of the picture, her own long black hair hanging down around her shoulders instead of back in a bun in the way most of the respectable Wutaiian women wore theirs. But, Vincent thought, the way she'd kept her hair expressed a life and energy of spirit that was obvious even from her picture, and only added to her beauty, which was already considerable. She'd been tall and willowy (he'd been able to see that even though she'd been sitting down), with smooth pale skin and a very attractive face, complete with dark almond-shaped eyes and a well-formed mouth that he recognized from his own mirror. It was no longer so strange that Yenko had thought she'd recognized him when she'd first seen him. He bore a definite resemblance to the woman he vaguely remembered as his mother. However, the thing that had captured his attention for half an hour about the picture was not his mother's appearance, but the look she was giving his younger counterpart, an expression of love and pride so strong it had made his heart constrict. His emotional response to the picture had been enough to make him study it further until his grief had gotten the better of him and he'd put the photo down with the others.
He opened the top book first, carefully as if it was going to crumble into dust, and, after flipping through a bit of it, discovered that it was a journal of sorts written by his mother. The other five books were a continuation of these entries, and Vincent wasn't really surprised to see that they were all written in the Wutaiian language. The shock came when he realized that he could read some of it without a problem, as if the language he'd grown up with still lingered somewhere in the back of his mind. He skimmed over a few of the entries, deciding he could pour over it in detail later, until he came to one that mentioned his name. Ikioi. He backtracked through a few of the earlier entries and began, slowly, to read:
Last night I went out again with my friends against my mother and father's wishes. They don't want me talking with any of the soldiers, but some of them are young and handsome. They say there is a war coming, but my father says no such thing is happening. He says I shouldn't listen to the stories of young men who don't know the first thing about war, but at least they talk about it; even I can tell there is something coming from Shinra. It is no secret that they want Wutai under their control. I sometimes think to myself that maybe it would be good if Shinra controlled us. It would take us into a new kind of life. Doesn't that sound exciting? I don't like the life I'm living now. There is no freedom, only rules and customs. I would like a change.
We went to the bar and I was dressed in one of my flower skirts that only comes to my knees. I didn't think I was getting much attention, especially compared with Namika who was dancing with some of the soldiers, but there was a man at one of the corner tables with dark eyes and dark hair who was watching me. He was wearing a blue suit and was drinking something. After a while, he beckoned me over and I went to him. He gave me some of his drink, but I didn't like it so I only had one glass. We talked some, but he was very secretive and spoke in riddles that made me laugh. Namika told me later that he was a Turk, but I don't know what that means.
The entry ended here and Vincent turned the page.
I don't know what my father would do if he knew. I went out again with my friends; after talking with some of the soldiers, they wanted to go to the mountains. I didn't want to go, so I said I would go home, but once they left I went back to the bar to check if my Turk was there again. He was, sitting at the corner table and drinking the same drink he'd had last time. I wanted just to go and sit down across from him, but I wasn't sure if he would like that so I waited until he noticed me and only approached when he beckoned to me. We talked again and he gave me a glass of his drink. I drank it even though I didn't like it, but then he poured me another one. I drank this one also.
His told me that his name is Valentine, but I think that is his family name. I told him my name and he said it's very pretty. He told me that he thinks I am very pretty as well. I have never had anyone tell me that I'm pretty. I am only fifteen, so I have not had a boyfriend yet. He held my hand and talked to me, and he made me laugh. I like him a lot, although he is definitely at least five years older than me. I asked my father and he told me that the Turks are dangerous people, killers, but Valentine assures me that he doesn't kill unless he absolutely has to. He says the Turks are mostly involved in 'insider business', though I don't know what that is.
We left the bar together on a walk and I was surprised by how sober he seemed after having all that alcohol. We went to the bridge where we sat and talked until very late; everything was very quiet and I'll bet even Namika was at home asleep. Valentine held my hand and he told me I was one of the most beautiful women he'd ever seen. Then he kissed me and I felt a warmth go through my body. His dark eyes were shining so I knew what he wanted from me, but I wanted it from him, too. Was it wrong? I know my father would kill me if he knew, especially since Valentine is from Shinra.
Does this mean he is my boyfriend now?
Vincent rubbed his eyes and stared at the aging ceiling. That was how he'd been conceived, the love-child of his mother and a Turk who hadn't even told her his first name? He sighed; but what had he expected? Yenko had already told him he'd been the child of an affair. His mother had been so young and innocent and naive...and the Turk had taken advantage of that. Vincent felt a sudden swell of anger, not only toward the Turk who had been his negligent father, but also toward his mother who had thoughtlessly allowed herself to be drawn in, to become pregnant. He shook it off after a moment, though; it did no good to be angry when there was nothing he could do about it.
He sat in silence on the floor in the deserted house, looking around leisurely as if waiting for a memory to pop out of the shadows. But there was nothing and he sighed again before reaching for the journal he'd dropped and finding his place. Maybe there'd be something in his mother's writing that would tell him why'd he'd been in Midgar at seventeen, and what in the world had possessed him to join the Turks.
Elira ran her hand over the surface of the warm rock, heated by the day's sun that was just now in the process of setting to her left, and inspected the white dust that covered her palm before dusting it off, making sure not to get any on Tifa's dress. She sat on a portion of the rock she'd already cleared of dust and beside her lay Red, who had no compunctions about rock dust when there was a warm rock to stretch out on and was already coated with white on his belly and chin. He was purring gently, and for Elira this was enough to convince her that he was more cat than dog.
She'd told him about the graveyard and about finding Vincent in the deserted house where he'd asked to be alone, and now Red seemed to be thinking, his tail twitching pensively against the rock until the tip was dusted with white so that it looked like a tuft of cotton. Elira was just beginning to draw in the dust with a finger when Red began to speak. She looked up and brushed her hands off again.
"When I was young, no more than a child," he began, "my home, Cosmo Canyon, was attacked by its enemies: the Gi, a tribe of ruthless and merciless warriors who had been after possession of the Canyon for centuries. Most of my tribe was killed in the attack, and many of the survivors were grievously injured so that they died later. Even I didn't escape unscathed." He drew one large paw up over his ear and over the scarred eye. "Eventually, as the older members of the tribe who hadn't entered the battle passed away, I became the last. My mother had managed to hide me and one other cub, who died of an illness later, from the Gi in a place where we would be safe, but from where we could watch the battle. I saw my mother and father stand together against the Gi, along with a line of the others, but the Gi were killing my race off at a terrifying rate until even my mother was slaughtered. My father looked first as if he would pounce forward and start tearing out throats until he was killed, but at the last moment, he turned and ran off in the other direction. I was horrified by his act of cowardice and for many years I hated him for abandoning me and leaving my mother unavenged."
"Understandable," Elira commented.
"Yes, but I didn't know the entire story," Red continued. "Ashamed of my father, I refused to talk about him with anyone, even Bugenhagen, the man who adopted me as his grandchild and whom I admired and loved dearly. I kept my hatred and shame to myself until Cloud and the others came with me to the Canyon. I'm not sure why I told them about my father when I rarely thought about him myself; perhaps because they'd all shared their own painful stories with me and each other. In any case, Bugenhagen overheard me speaking. Once I'd finished my tale of bitterness and anger, Grandfather approached us and asked me to follow him to the Cave of the Gi, a place the people of Cosmo Canyon had sealed off to make sure that the Gi could never use it again to attack us from within. I did follow, and the others came with me to the base of a cliff deep within in the cave. On the top of the cliff stood a statue of one of my race, his back punctured with spears as if he had just been in a terrible battle. I thought at first that the statue had been erected in memory of those who had died in the attack, but Bugenhagen was quick to tell me the truth of it. The statue was my father, turned to stone with poison-tipped spears as he'd led the Gi away from the Canyon and into this cave so that it could be sealed off so that everyone would be safe. He'd gone to his death without a moment's hesitation, making his last act one preserving the Canyon...and me, even dragging himself up to the top of the cliff in his last moments so that he could act as an eternal sentry, deterring those who might've sought to lead an assault against us in the future. He'd been the bravest of us all, and I'd hated him for so long... Finding out the truth, that he'd died a hero's death, had been like losing him again." Red paused as if to compose himself, turning away for a moment to look at the darkening sunset.
"I'm sorry," Elira said eventually, if only for something to say. "It must've been very hard for you."
"It was hard," he answered quietly, face still set against the west. "I spent three days and three nights up on that cliff with my father's statue, grieving. I didn't eat and slept only fitfully. I refused to see Cloud or any of the others; I wouldn't even consent to see my grandfather." Red turned to look at her with his one eye, his gaze penetrating. "So you see, even though I loved Bugenhagen dearly and knew he only wanted to help me through my pain, I needed those three days to be by myself, to come to terms with my grief before I could face anyone else. I admit that I was afraid of angering everyone by my withdrawal, but there was nothing I could do. I knew I couldn't leave the cliff until my grief had run its course. When I returned, however, my grandfather was not angry, but understanding and accepting, and this gave me the desire to talk to him about what I had gone through." His look, if possible, became more direct at this point, and Elira was forced to look away from that piercing, knowing eye and into her lap. She pursed her lips and rubbed her fingers together.
"So, you're saying," she began quietly after a pause, "that Vincent needs this time to be alone with his grief, and that he'll need me to be understanding when he comes back?"
"Precisely," Red answered, relaxing his gaze until he was watching her with gentleness. "Grief over an estranged parent can be a very personal, very convoluted thing; sometimes, as in my case, resolution cannot be attained through anything less than complete solitude because there are some very strong, uncomfortable feelings involved that one, like myself or Vincent, may feel uneasy about expressing in the company of another person, no matter how loved and trusted this person may be."
It was a moment before Elira could make herself nod. She admitted to herself that she still felt a little abandoned, but she would be patient and understanding so that Vincent would feel comfortable in coming to talk to her once he'd recovered from his initial response to the truth. After all, she didn't want to make him feel guilty for taking the time he needed to come to terms to his mother's death. "Thanks, Nanaki," she said eventually, still gazing into her lap, "for taking me out here and talking to me. I feel...well, I feel better now that I understand why he wants to be by himself. I thought, at first, that...well..."
"That it had something to do with you?" Red asked her pointedly.
Elira smiled a little ruefully. "Well, yeah. Though I don't know why I thought that. It sounds sort of selfish to say that I couldn't believe he might have something bothering him that has nothing to do with me, doesn't it?"
"It's not surprising," Red assured her. "It is a natural reaction to blame oneself when one doesn't know the particulars." He got to his feet and shook the white dust from his fur. "And there is no need to thank me. It was my pleasure." Slinking forward, he loped nimbly from the rock to the ground and then turned as Elira stood and wiped the backside of the dress just to make sure she hadn't got any dust on it.
"Shall we head back?" Red asked her once she was ready.
Elira almost agreed, but then shook her head. "I think I'm going to go see Vincent for a moment, maybe just to say hello. I just want him to know I'm okay with this so that he doesn't have to worry about my being upset because he's holed himself up in that house."
Red nodded. "He would probably be comforted to know." He noticed the dust on his tail and waved it off into the air. "I hope you will rejoin the party later, Elira. I'm sure some of the men wouldn't mind giving up their wives for a dance or two with you."
Elira smiled. "All right, then. I'll meet you there in a few minutes." She took her leave of Red and, as he headed back to Yuffie's manor, she walked off toward the hotel, glad that she'd asked Vincent for the key after lunch in case she wanted to dash back to the room at any point to see if her father had called. She just needed a little bit of gil; even if Vincent wanted to be by himself, she knew he would appreciate the surprise she was going to bring him.
Vincent skimmed over the entries his mother had written during her pregnancy, and then most of those that dealt with his own early childhood, only stopping when something caught his attention, such as the tear-smudged page where her father had disowned her, or the entry where she'd fought with herself over whether or not she was going to keep him, her baby. The only money she'd received during his first three years she'd earned working menial jobs; any extra had come from the small, infrequent allowances her mother had given to her without her father's knowledge. It had been very little and Vincent received the general impression that his mother had gone without a lot of things to take care of him. It almost made him regret his earlier anger toward her. At least she'd taken responsibility for her mistake. He frowned momentarily at the thought of himself as a mistake, but then shoved it aside. That hardly mattered now.
He'd had a happy childhood, he realized, though he couldn't remember for himself any of the events his mother had written about. It sounded as if he'd been a fairly intelligent and imaginative youth, if a little idealistic. Murasaki, it seemed, had neglected to tell him from the beginning who his father had been, and he, filled with optimism and innocence, had come to believe that his father had been a soldier who'd died heroically in the first war between Shinra and Wutai that had happened before he'd been two. He'd been so naive, so sheltered. How could the Turks have had anything to offer him that would've appealed to him back then? How could the Ikioi of so many decades ago have grown up to become what he'd been, who he was now? He almost couldn't believe this was an account of his own past. Something must've happened to change him. Something drastic...
Vincent glanced up silently as a feeling, like a tickle across the back of his neck, made him come to attention; there was someone else in the house. His instincts made him want to get quietly to his feet and press himself against the wall beside the door, but he repressed the urge and waited, listening. It was a moment before he heard the creak of a floorboard and then a footstep. Elira. The tension seeped out of his body and he pushed himself up into a standing position and brushed the dust from his pants as he heard her approach. A moment later, she was peeping around the door frame, clearly expecting to see him crouched over the box and loathe to surprise him like she'd done before. He winced inwardly, remembering how short he'd been with her earlier. He hadn't meant to be so abrupt; he'd just felt the pressing need to be alone. He hoped she wasn't too upset.
Smiling in a little abashment, Elira stepped into the doorway. She looked beautiful in the green dress she was wearing, and Vincent belatedly remembered that Yuffie had planned a dance for this evening. And he'd been up here. He wondered uncomfortably what she'd done without him there, but his attention was drawn away a moment later as he noticed that she had her hands behind her back. Was she hiding something? At least she didn't seem angry. Maybe she'd called her father and Pegatha was on the PHS to talk to him. He sort of hoped in the back of his mind that this visit wouldn't take too long, but then rebuked himself quickly. He'd been gone all afternoon and what had passed of the evening so far, even missing dinner. It wasn't any surprise that Elira would worry about him and want to check up on him. Still, the journals behind him were calling with near audible voices, crying out to be read in order to solve the mysteries about his past, and he had to force himself to take a step forward to keep himself from sitting back down and picking up the second journal again.
Elira took a hesitant step forward. "May I come in for a minute?" she asked, glancing around as if expecting someone else to be in the room.
Vincent nodded quickly and moved as she entered, letting her look at the box and the photos and things spread around on the floor. She didn't study them very long before she turned back to him and brought her hands out from behind her back. In them, she held a covered styrofoam plate and a lidded paper cup.
"Wutaiian cuisine and a cup of green tea, no sugar." She smiled at him. "Thought you might be a little hungry."
The faint scent of food drifting from the plate made Vincent's stomach grumble. A corner of his mouth quirked up and Elira grinned. What a thoughtful gesture; she'd remembered. There were two Wutaiian restaurants in North Corel; although they rarely had the time to go out because of work, they had ordered in a few times from these restaurants after they'd discovered how much they both liked it. Of course, there had been another reason to like ordered-in Wutaiian food: it left no dishes, which meant more time in the evening for...other things. There was a faint blush colouring Elira's cheeks and Vincent wondered as he watched her if she was remembering along the same lines as himself. He cleared his throat and took the plate and cup from her. "Thank you."
"No problem. I just wanted to, you know, make sure you didn't go hungry or anything." She trailed off and looked at the dust-covered floor, and Vincent got the distinct impression that she wanted to say something else. He waited, watching her, until she glanced up at him, her eyes searching his face as if looking for something. And then she sighed. "I also wanted to say," she began hesitantly, twiddling her fingers restlessly, "that this is okay with me, you being up here for hours at a time. I realize that you need some time by yourself to understand everything, so I want you to feel that you can take all the time you need. I'm not angry." She gave a self-conscious little scoff. "Not to say that I wasn't angry earlier, but between then and now I gained a different perspective, one that let me see that you need this time alone. So...don't rush anything. Just take your time and I'll be around when you're done. Okay?"
Vincent felt some tension he hadn't realized he'd had slip away suddenly and he gazed at Elira, surprised. He'd expected to have to apologize somewhere along the line once he'd gained wits enough about him to face her, but she understood how it was. She understood that he needed this, and she forgave him for any pain he'd inadvertently caused her. Sometimes, her capacity for wisdom and tact still managed to amaze him. He smiled at her gratefully and watched her own smile grow carefully. "Thank you," he said again, quietly.
Her eyes dropped to the floor and she shrugged a little. "This isn't something you have to thank me for. You deserve my understanding of what you're going through." She looked back to his face and smiled at him for a moment before stepping up and kissing him on the cheek. Before she moved away, she added quietly, "And the door will be unlocked when you're ready to come to bed." She touched his arm affectionately, and Vincent didn't break eye contact with her until she'd left the room. It was then another moment before he could rouse himself enough to sit back down. How had he ever gained her love? What had he ever done to deserve her? There were times when these questions still baffled him.
There were a lot of things that baffled him about his life. At least there was hope for answers to some of them. He uncovered the plate of food and, upon finding plastic utensils inside, he began to eat and read at the same time, taking great care to keep the journals clean.
His teenage years seemed to have been increasingly coloured by angst as he'd struggled through without a father or any close friends. His mother had worried about him nearly constantly, and, again and again, he read about her inner debate over whether or not to tell him the truth about his father. And with every one of her inner debates, she seemed to come closer to convincing herself that the truth was the only thing that could help him through his growing identity crisis.
There was another tear-stained entry, this one done as if in haste with a shaky hand. He read it somewhat reluctantly, already suspecting its contents.
Last night, I told Ikioi the truth about his father. He didn't want to believe me at first, and when I continued to assure him that it was the truth, he became very upset and called me a liar. When I tried to comfort him, to apologize for what I had done and for not telling him the truth earlier, he wouldn't listen to me. I didn't realize how far he'd gone in believing that his father was a Wutaiian war hero. Perhaps I should not have told him. But it is too late now.
I went to his room later, but he would not let me in. He said he never wanted to speak to me again, that he hated me and hoped Taeoki, the God of Retribution we'd been praying to for retaliation against Shinra, struck me down for what I'd done. And he has. I don't know how I can keep living. I have nothing to live for. Ikioi was gone this morning when I went to his room. He has taken much of his clothing, and all of my money from the vase, and gone to Shinra, to Midgar, to search for Valentine, his father. I do not even know if his father is still alive, or if he'll take Ikioi in and take care of him. I know already that no one from that place will treat a boy from Wutai kindly during this time of war. I wish I'd never told him the truth. Now he is going into danger and I don't know what to do.
Perhaps I can follow him, but how would I get him to come back with me to Wutai? I don't know what I can say to make him forgive me. There is nothing I can do to change the truth. I did not think he would take it this way. If I had, I never would have told him. I would have taken the secret to my grave. Taeoki curse me and strike me down! I am cursed above all people! How can I be forgiven for such a sin as this? Perhaps if I give it some time, he will return on his own. If only I had kept the truth to myself. I have cursed myself and Ikioi. Curse Valentine for what he has done to me! I hope there is some just fate waiting for him. Taeoki, please, if you will curse me, curse him also. It is both of our sin that has injured my son.
He couldn't read anymore. Vincent dropped the book to the floor beside him and pushed the plate of food away, now feeling somewhat ill. He'd run away to Midgar of his own accord; he'd run away... He closed his eyes in sudden confusion as his self-disgust was tainted with ghost-like feelings of anger and emptiness and betrayal. He remembered. He remembered how he'd felt when he'd left Wutai. He remembered how he'd hated her, how he'd ached to go to Midgar to prove her wrong. He'd gone to find Valentine and ask him for the truth, ask him if he really was his son.
...it's not true, it's not true! I'm not his son! I am not the son of a Turk, one of those heartless men who spy on us in our homes and kill us in our beds. I am the son of a hero. I am the son of a hero! And I will kill myself if I am not...
He'd been sixteen. Without friends, or any family except his mother, his conviction that his father had been a great war hero had been one of the only things that had kept him safe from the hateful words of others who said that he was a love-child, the bastard son of the enemy because his mother was a whore. But it had been true. It had all been true. He'd hated himself and everyone else, especially his mother and the Turk for making it true, and had gone to Midgar hoping against hope that he would find some other truth. But there had been no other truth. He'd seen it in his father's eyes when he'd opened the door, the recognition of his mother in his looks. He couldn't remember where he'd taken the gun from, but he remembered trying to shoot his father, and then trying to shoot himself. Both had failed. The first bullet had lodged itself in the door frame, splintering the wood into so many slivered tears and throwing him back onto the pavement. And then the blessed bullet aimed for his own head had been taken away from him as his father had wrenched the gun out of his hands and thrown him into the house. He could remember the interrogation and the beating he'd received, trying to explain himself until he was hoarse from screaming and crying, and how he'd huddled into a corner as his father had continued the drinking binge he'd interrupted.
But the Turk had let him stay, forcing him to change his name and to learn the language of Midgar, of Shinra, so that no one would suspect that he was from Wutai. He'd become an apprentice of the Turks at his father's insistence, and had been trained brutally to fit the mold. His father had never shown him any real affection, had rarely even given him any hint to suggest that he didn't despise him for living except for the single act he'd done in not sending him back to Wutai. Why hadn't he? Had he felt responsible for the son he'd accidentally fathered? Had there been a shred of human decency in him after all? If there had been, Vincent had paid for it every day, sleeping on a cot in a cold barren room and eating what he could find in the house when his father didn't spend his entire paycheck on alcohol. The only attention he'd received from his father at home had been when he'd been drunk and violent; the only time he'd ever talked to him while sober had been when he'd been training Vincent to be a Turk. And so, despite his perpetual disobedience and, more often than not, intentional mistakes that earned him some attention, even if it was harsh correction, he'd become a very good candidate for the vacancy when his father had died on a mission.
Vincent searched his memory, but could not remember his father's death, or even the funeral. He knew, of course, that he'd died, but he couldn't remember how or when. It had been on a mission, and it had been when he was sixteen or seventeen, but he could remember no more than that. He couldn't remember if he'd been sad or relieved, either, that his father had died. At least the barracks where he'd been given a cot had been warmer than the room his father had given him. And he'd told everyone that he was from Midgar originally until he'd almost believed it himself, until he'd almost completely forgotten Wutai and his mother.
And then he'd forgotten everything after Lucrecia, after Hojo, after Chaos...
Vincent came to himself in the deserted, dust-filled bedroom on the second floor of his mother's house, his fingers, both metal-latex and flesh, gripping the box beside him as if it was his last tie to anything solid. He relaxed his hold gradually and, realizing that he was shaking, began to take deep breaths in an effort to calm himself down; after a moment, he picked up the tea Elira had brought him and took a few slow sips. It was still warm and helped to pacify the trembling of his body. It was a few minutes before he trusted himself to do any more than sit on the floor and breath.
And then, like sending a probing tongue into the wound where a tooth has fallen out, he cautiously reviewed his newly-recalled memories, striving for detachment as if they weren't his own. It really was no wonder he'd blocked them. He sighed.
It was getting very dark in the house and Vincent set about arranging the candles Yenko had prudently provided him with, lighting them with a match from the pack she'd also given him and filling the room with the heady smell of burning phosphorus. He then picked up the journal he had discarded and resumed his perusal, flipping through the pages almost hesitantly and reading fragments of the entries as he'd done before, discovering just enough to sketch out the basics of his mother's life.
During the second year he'd been away, after his father's death, his mother had learned through the news and town gossip that he'd changed his name and joined the Turks. It had broken her heart to hear it. She'd attempted to send him some letters, but Vincent couldn't remember getting them; perhaps he'd just thrown them out without a thought. It hurt him to realize the pain he'd caused his mother. Whatever she'd done, it was no more than smoldering ash compared with the blazing inferno that was his own sin. She could never have deserved what he'd done to her by running away. No wonder he'd been cursed.
A recurring theme throughout the remaining journals was his mother's regret for telling him about his father, and Vincent began to wish, too, that she'd never told him. Then, perhaps, she could've saved him from the horrors he'd encountered. However, if she hadn't told him, he would never have come to this point in his life, married to Elira with a beautiful daughter. Had all that pain and suffering been worth it? The time he spent debating his answer to this question was some of the hardest of his life. He wanted more than anything to say yes; yes, it had been worth it. But he knew already that, had someone shown him his future when he'd been sixteen and told him to choose between a peaceful life in Wutai and a life full of agony where he would find love at the end, he would've chosen the peaceful life. Eventually, he dropped the question and shoved it to the back of his mind, focusing again on the words in his mother's journals.
Compelled by the same obsession that had driven him to seek incessantly for atonement for sins committed against someone who wasn't there to forgive them, his mother, after inheriting her father's estate from her mother once she'd passed away, had become something of a philanthropist, giving money away, sometimes recklessly, to help homeless children and those poor unwed women who were pregnant or who had young children to provide for. Vincent skimmed over these entries until he came to the last journal. By this time, the candles had been nearly half consumed and the hands on his watch were inching around toward midnight. Feeling stiff from sitting on the floor for so long, he stood and stretched. It was only then that he noticed how cold the house had become. Perhaps it was time to go back to the hotel. He was just leaning down to blow out all the candles but one when the last journal caught his eye, still closed and waiting for him. He wavered for a moment before picking it up. As he stood again to flip through it, not really intending to read it immediately, something fell from the back of the book and fluttered to the floor. Vincent stooped and pinched it between his fingers. It was a folded piece of paper. Straightening, he opened it and then grabbed up the remaining candle to aid his eyes.
It was his mother's handwriting, apparent to him even though the script was quivery, and she had written this particular item in the common language. He gave it a cursory glance before beginning to read it from the top. It didn't take him long to realize that it was a letter addressed to him, and he wondered pensively if his mother had ever meant him to find it.
Dear Ikioi or Vincent,
There are so many things I would say to you if I could see you one more time before I die. But I know that is impossible, so I am writing them down if only to immortalize them so that they do not die with me.
I want to tell you that I am sorry for the way you were brought into the world. If I could, I would go back and change everything. I also want to say I am sorry for the way I told you about your father. I did not realize that it would hurt you so much to know the truth. I should not have let you believe lies about your father for so long. That was wrong and very dangerous. If only I had realized these things sooner I might have prevented us both a lot of pain.
I also want to tell you that you hurt me a great deal when you ran away, but that I forgive you. I love you, Ikioi, and there is nothing you could ever do that would stop my love for you. I wish I could have been there for your life. I do not know what you are doing now. I tried to find out from Shinra where you were, but they were never very helpful. I hope that you were not in Midgar when the Meteor struck. I do not like to think that I have outlived you. I like to picture you living in a house with a wife and children, happy and satisfied. I do not know why I have never heard from you and I hope it is not because you did not survive the Turks or Meteor. I hope and pray constantly that you are still alive and are living a happy life.
I know I will not live for very much longer. I can no longer get out of bed. There is a woman looking after me. In the morning, I will ask her to look for you and give you this letter when she finds you. I hope you can find it in your heart to forgive me.
Good-bye, my love, my child, my son. I hope that we will meet someday in the world to come.
Murasaki Sakito
Yenko hadn't said anything about this letter. Vincent wondered if it could have possibly slipped her mind, but then came to a realization of the truth. Yenko had never received the letter; if she had, she wouldn't have put it into the back of the sixth journal. She'd already said she'd never touched any of Murasaki's things since her death. His mother must've died the night she'd written the letter, putting it when she'd finished in a place where she would remember it. And that had been six months ago. He sighed and ran a hand over his face. Where had he been six months ago? Where had he been twelve years ago? They'd even traveled through Wutai a couple of times. He might even have seen her and not recognized her. And she would never have recognized him, swathed in cape, buckles, and bandana like he'd been.
And now it was too late.
The cemetery was dark and silent, empty except for the lone silhouette of a man hunched over a grave as he paid his belated respects to a woman who, in his youth, had been his entire world. A cloud passed over the moon, plunging everything into shadow; had there been an observer that night, a sleepy owl opening a curious eye or a desolate ghost wandering through the trees, they would've looked in vain for the man once the moon reappeared. He'd already disappeared, as he was wont to do, back from the land of the dead and into the arms of his wife, his mind already folding over his past as if to forget it again. It was frightening, sometimes, how much could change, how much could be realized, within a period of twenty-four hours.
The rest of the time in Wutai was spent in visiting and relaxing. By the time the week was over, Elira felt rejuvenated enough to go back to work without any complaints; she actually found herself missing the shop and the heat of the forge. And, of course, she missed her daughter, aching to hear her laugh and to experience the energy she brought to a room just by being in it. It was time to head back home and let life return to normal.
Five years passed; Pegatha started school, the shop grew and they moved to a bigger building, Benita and Barret married in a huge ceremony where Elira was the Matron of Honor, Rory went off to study in Cosmo Canyon, and life remained fairly stable. There were frequent visits from Elira's father and Benita and Barret, and once they even took the time off to travel to Kalm to stay with her father. They were happy, and Elira began to believe in the possibility that a life started out in tragedy could become one of peace and comfort in order to compensate for the earlier misfortunes...
But a history hidden instead of confronted in the open will never stay buried forever. What we pass on to our children starts first with what we keep within ourselves, and it is up to us whether we let our children know what we have given them, or if we let them find it out for themselves in what is often the hard way.
Elira started awake as the phone rang from the living room. Frowning and blinking in muddled weariness, she sat up and stared at the clock until the numbers wavered into focus. Not even two in the morning. Good God, who could be calling?
There was the noise of the bedroom door opening and then Vincent was stepping out into the hall. A moment later, the phone ceased its ringing and Elira heard her husband speaking. And then he was calling her name. Surprised, Elira stood from the bed and, putting a cautious hand out, began to walk toward the rectangle of gray that illumined the doorway. Could it be possible that she was dreaming? A stub of her toe on the dresser told her otherwise. Cursing under her breath, she stumbled into the hall toward the shadowy living room where she could barely see Vincent, and as she approached, he handed the phone to her. Yawning, she put it to her ear and mouth, and then muttered out a muted, "Hello?"
"Lir? Izzat you?"
It was Benita and she sounded nearly hysterical, her voice shrill as if she was crying. Becoming more alert out of fear, Elira straightened up and cupped the phone to her cheek with both hands. "Benita? What's wrong? Are you all right?"
"'M fine, 'm fine, but... Oh, Lir! I don' know what happened! The police jus' called an' the fire department... The shop, Lir, the shop! Someone set it on fire!"
Elira's jaw went slack in shock and horror. "What?" she asked in a whisper.
"The shop, Lir, here in Neo-Mid... Oh God! It's gone, Lir, it's gone. They couldn't save any of it. Someone set fire to it durin' the night. It's gone!"
Elira felt her own face bubble up with tears and she turned to Vincent who was standing nearby looking concerned. That shop had been her first, her baby, the one the gunsmith had given to her to take care of, the place where she'd met Benita and Vincent. She'd lived there, and in the apartment above, for five years, and now it was gone as if it had never been. A tear leaked out of the corner of her eye and she took a shaky breath.
"Mommy?"
Pegatha was coming out of her room with a blanket clutched in pinching fingers, an expression on her face that was both tired and frightened by the noise in the night. Vincent took the opportunity to make himself useful and shepherded their daughter back into her room, reassuring her quietly that everything was fine and urging her to go back to sleep. As soon as they were out of sight, in Pegatha's room, Elira began to ask the barrage of questions that were screaming around in her head. "Was anyone hurt? There wasn't anyone living in the apartment, was there? Do they know who did it? Why...why my shop?"
"I dunno, Lir," Benita answered her, seeming to gain some of her bearings as Elira began to need comforting. "But, don' worry, nobody was hurt. I never rented the place out after you left. An' they don' know who did it. The police said some'n about an anti-weapon faction, but that don' make sense to me. None of th'other shops've been targeted. Why jus' ours?"
Elira shook her head in disgusted anger, wiping her tears away with a sleeve of her nightie. Who could've done this? And why? It didn't make any sense. After she and Vincent had left, Benita had told her that the popularity of their shop had gone back down to what it had been before, so it couldn't have been a jealous competitor. Maybe it was the start of some anti-weapon campaign, but what seemed more likely was that it had just been a random act of violence pulled off by a group of kids looking for some excitement and trouble. But did it have to be her shop? She shuddered a little and took a deep breath.
"Y'all right, Lir?"
"Yeah." Elira nodded as if to convince herself. "I'll be all right. Are you all right?"
"Yeah. Wish it hadn't happened, but there's nothin' we can do 'bout it now. Th' insurance money'll be comin' in, though, an' maybe we can rebuild."
"Yeah, maybe," Elira muttered, and then they both said goodnight. As she hung up the phone, she glanced around at the apartment she and Vincent and Pegatha lived in above their own weapons shop and tried to force herself not to think about how fragile life and happiness really were. What if she'd never moved? Would she have burned up in that fire? She shivered and pushed the thought away. It was better not to think about what could've happened.
Vincent stepped out of Pegatha's room, closing the door quietly behind him. Unable to face this alone any longer, she ran to him and burrowed herself into his embrace. He held her tightly and she sighed, feeling a little of her fear melt away in the face of something so solid and real. Not everything was so fragile, was it? Surely not this...
The bed was still warm when she pulled herself back under the covers. Sighing at how safe this made her feel, she snuggled into the middle of the bed until she was next to Vincent. He put an arm around her and she held it to herself securely. Tragedy struck everywhere everyday; what were the chances of it coming around their way again? Some people lived their entire lives in comfort and safety. Why not them? It was possible...it was very possible, she convinced herself.
And then she fell asleep.