[ It comes like it always does, a sudden jolt, and then it's like he's standing on nothing, or maybe something, but it's all so different he can hardly tell anyway. Voices splice in and out, the faint buzzing of something that seems to get close and then suddenly swoop away; it's like having fingers sifting through his thoughts, cataloging them into all kinds of bizarre folders that he doesn't understand and only gets a glimpse of before it goes away. Darkness and light, everything blending, fading, sharpening. Aerith's hands, clasped together, or a long trail of silver hair that turns the corner and disappears, or that voice that sounds so familiar that he can't even think to place it. No, he can't place any of them. He just feels them, like they're scenes in a movie but they're all passing through his body instead of the screen.
It's no wonder that when his hands finally claw away from the matted lengths of his hair, his eyes snap open and he's immediately on edge--that his hand reaches, familiar, for the weight of the sword at his back, gripping the worn handle like it's some extension of his fingers and it doesn't really matter what it is in front of him; there's an alarming sense of discomfort, where his eyes open and he thinks he must be inside one of these visions now, and it wouldn't be the first time he felt everything in his body go tight in coiled anticipation.
Because he's alone, but he's not alone--because there's rain, and then there's no rain. Because there's scenery both familiar and different, and maybe he has to cut through it all in order to just make it back to himself. Wherever himself is. Because they're usually so short, these sudden bursts of memory or recognition or whatever they are, that it feels odd to actually remember something else--to think that he recalls standing there, with Tifa and Aerith and Barret and even Red at the end of a long road with only uncertainty in sight, and to now be alone.
A sound at his back draws his attention, makes his hand go tight on the sword. He's not in a particularly forgiving mood, or maybe it's just the pulsing pain in his head that makes him stagger, slightly, when he swings to face whatever, or whoever, happened to make it. ]
cloud — final fantasy vii remake — ota!
It's no wonder that when his hands finally claw away from the matted lengths of his hair, his eyes snap open and he's immediately on edge--that his hand reaches, familiar, for the weight of the sword at his back, gripping the worn handle like it's some extension of his fingers and it doesn't really matter what it is in front of him; there's an alarming sense of discomfort, where his eyes open and he thinks he must be inside one of these visions now, and it wouldn't be the first time he felt everything in his body go tight in coiled anticipation.
Because he's alone, but he's not alone--because there's rain, and then there's no rain. Because there's scenery both familiar and different, and maybe he has to cut through it all in order to just make it back to himself. Wherever himself is. Because they're usually so short, these sudden bursts of memory or recognition or whatever they are, that it feels odd to actually remember something else--to think that he recalls standing there, with Tifa and Aerith and Barret and even Red at the end of a long road with only uncertainty in sight, and to now be alone.
A sound at his back draws his attention, makes his hand go tight on the sword. He's not in a particularly forgiving mood, or maybe it's just the pulsing pain in his head that makes him stagger, slightly, when he swings to face whatever, or whoever, happened to make it. ]
What do you want?