Valere Iubere

By Luminaire

      It was cold.

      For a long while that was all he could think about. The cold. How he felt no more life, how his mind was clouded over with the pain and the wind and the cold, the cold, oh, would the cold never stop . . .?

      Breathlessly, he stumbled forward, as if shoved. With a head swimming with confused thoughts and eyes not accustomed to the light--any light, any at all, even this dim, heartless light--he took a few steps to steady himself. Long locks of beautiful black hair swished against the sides of his face as he teetered to one side. Before he knew it, he was down on the cold floor with an odd sort of tingling sensation shooting up and down his side where he had fallen. Closing his dark, mercury-colored eyes, he shook his head slowly back and forth. He felt so . . . so strange . . .

      Something thick and warm leaked onto the back of his hand. It was the first warm thing that he had felt in what seemed like an eternity. For a few moments, he didn’t move, savoring the feel of the warmth, the life, against him. But then, in an instant, something seemed wrong. Terribly wrong. The warm liquid kept dripping onto his hand. It never stopped.

      Slowly, he opened his eyes and looked down at his hand. There was some kind of red, sticky liquid that was coating it. A frown etched into his forehead as a wave of uneasiness passed through him. No, something wasn’t right. The liquid . . . it was . . .

      Blood . . .?!

      He instantly sat bolt upright, an eerily electric feeling ripping itself through his limbs. His breath became short as he saw it. Tremors shook his whole body. There. Right in front of him. Covered in the warm, thick blood.

      He screamed.

      It was himself. There he was, lying on the hard, cold ground, covered and reeking with nothing but the hideous sight of his own blood. The scarlet dew was splattered all over him, drenched him, seeped into his white shirt, turning it to a dawn-tinted hint of death. His eyes--they were wide open--staring--into blankness--unmoving--and dotted with blood--

      A long, deep gash was carved into his chest. Fresh blood ran from it like water from a mountain spring, flowing over the severed flesh and folds of clothing.

      “No--no!!!” he screamed, over and over, desperately, despairingly, praying to God above that it wasn’t true. He rose to his feet with a jerk, took a few steps backward from that horrible body. It couldn’t be true! It couldn’t! He was--dead!!

      His eyes flicked down to his hands, and for the first time he noticed how he could see right through himself. Yes . . . his hand, his arm, his entire body was transparent. The blood that he had thought to have dripped onto his hand had actually gone straight through it, but he could still feel its warmth.

      Uttering a final, tormented “No . . .”, he leaned against the wall weakly. Slowly, he began to shake his head back and forth as ice-cold tears slid down his face. He was gone--dead--murdered--never to see anyone again . . .

      The cold jolted him, causing him to shudder violently. He cried out--for he still felt the pain of that sword between his ribs--and sank to the ground. Defeated. He was defeated. But how did he die? All he could remember was the sheen of that sword . . . that long, silver sword, which was prone to inflict death everywhere it was taken . . .

      Yes. Memories flooded back to him. He was in the Temple of the Ancients, still slightly wounded from his first encounter with Sephiroth. He was searching for the Black Materia before either Cloud or Sephiroth found it. And he was only yards away from the materia when . . .

      When he arrived.

      That was it. Sephiroth had suddenly appeared, out of nowhere, it had seemed. Then they were both talking, and Sephiroth said something about taking the Black Materia . . . going to the Promised Land . . . becoming God . . . and manipulating the souls of the universe . . .

      “. . . but do not worry, for all things must end in death . . .”

      Tseng shivered once more, but this time, it wasn’t from the cold. Those bone-chilling words were the same ones that Sephiroth had said, right when he swung his sword, and when that glittering hell-made blade tore through his muscles. He could still feel it hacking through his flesh, snapping his ribs, slicing through veins and tissue and muscle as if it was going through nothing more than margarine. He could still remember what it was like to fall from that sword--oh, the fall seemed to take an eternity--until finally he met the ground and he blackened out. And this time . . . it was for an eternity.

      Tseng roughly shook the tears off his face, scowling. Tseng! The boss of the Turks! Crying! If Reno knew, he’d never let him forget it.

      With a bitter laugh he almost wished it was true. Here he was dead and he was thinking about what Reno would say to him. At least it would have made more sense if he was alive.

      Here he was dead.

      Dead.

      The word itself was like death to him. It was so unbelievable, so damned incredible that bleakly he wondered if he was just dreaming. He reached up and began to pull at the locks of his long black hair, trying to feel the pain, trying to tell himself that he was still alive. But no, this pain was different than what he would have felt if he was alive. It was freezing, a deadly, ice-edged blade meant for cutting. In no way did he feel alive. All he felt was the cold, the death, and the loneliness.

      When he sighed, no breath came from his mouth. He breathed no more.

      Why was this happening to him? Why was he damned to never see any of his cohorts again? Why couldn’t he ever lay his eyes on anything familiar ever again?

      Was he destined to stay here and lay staring at his deceased body forever?

      Images flashed through his mind--people, places, events. The Turks--all three of them, himself leading them on, telling them to never stop for anything. To continue going on. Even if death was staring them in the eyeballs, they were to never give up.

      Reno, he was always one to follow his orders all the way through. He had a loyalty that shined as bright as his blood-red hair, always carrying out each mission to its fullest. Tseng uttered a small, defeated chuckle, remembering how Reno was always so cocky and untidy. Even in the presence of the president of Shinra, he’d always stand in that cocky way of his, jacket unbuttoned, shirt never tucked in, always lacking a tie, and with that long hair hanging in his face and trailing down the back of his neck. A pair of tinted glasses were always perched on his head, just above his eyes. Tseng shook his head. Reno was so, well, unique. Cocky, yes. Loyal, yes. Always finishing each assignment with Rude, his assigned partner.

      Rude was, in most ways, completely different than Reno. Egg bald, always neat, completely serious, tinted glasses always hiding his eyes, whether it be night or day. Rude was stoic--almost silent--and it struck Tseng as odd to see how well he worked with Reno.

      And Elena . . .

      “Tseng!”

      He whipped around suddenly to see the fourth Turk member, the towheaded Elena, rush into the chamber with an expression of wild panic on her face. She collapsed before Tseng’s body, sobbed out loud, and took up the body in her arms in an anguished embrace. She cried fiercely, hugging the body to herself, burying her face in its long mane of cool black hair. Tseng stared at her and felt himself begin to tremble. Tears jumped to his own eyes--he had no idea that spirits could cry--and he knelt down next to Elena, quivering.

      He lifted a hand and brushed a fingertip against her face, but she did not acknowledg him.

      Slowly, he closed his eyes as tears began to pour down his cheeks. He couldn’t . . . he couldn’t even wipe away her tears anymore . . .

      Tseng threw his arms around Elena’s shaking shoulders, and cried along with her.

      Only mere moments later, Reno burst into the room, eyes wild, breath short. “Elena!”

      Both she and Tseng glanced up.

      Reno took a shocked look at Tseng’s body, but was quick to return to Elena. “We have to get out of here . . . something weird’s happening to the temple, an earthquake’s started on the east side . . .”

      She rose quickly, but was hesitant to let Tseng’s body tumble to the ground. “But--”

      “We have to get out of here now!!” Reno snatched up Elena’s hand in his own and bolted out the door, running at full speed, before Elena could utter another word.

      Tseng stayed where he was, sitting on the cold floor of the chamber. He didn’t notice how everything around him began to quiver, then tremble, then quake--he didn’t notice the distant crunching of solid stone off in another wing of the temple.

      All he could think was, Don’t take her away from me.

      You’ve already taken away my life. Please don’t take her from me--

      He lowered his head, shaking it back and forth. Please . . . don’t . . .

      Within a few heart-stopping moments, the walls of the chamber contracted sharply, and drew in, crushing his body, and his soul flickered out within a wink.

      A mere cloud of icy vapor remained where he once stood, floating in the air motionlessly like stagnant water.

      And he thought:

      Good . . . bye . . .

      And he vanished.