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Blood. There was so much blood. How could one man lose so much?
Tifa, with as much strength as she could muster, draped Vincent's good arm over her slender shoulders. God, he was so heavy... She had been taking a small break since she had reached the top of the inn's stairway, which seemed more of a mountain climb than just a simple staircase. Tifa had been pulling him along since early afternoon and didn't stop until she had found this inn - luckily for them it had been there, tucked away in the shadows of taller buildings. She dragged him into one of the rooms and, as if whatever god was up there suddenly had pity upon her, Vincent had some strength left to partially drag himself alongside Tifa. But he stumbled again and the two fell into a wall; Vincent's hands palm-flat against the smooth, coated surface with Tifa in-between them. He was watching her again, but this time not with those vacant, apathetic eyes. There was something there, swimming within two crimson orbs.
Concern. But not for himself.
I can't lose another person I care about... Tifa's eyes widened slightly and she could see her own fairly surprised expression reflecting in his red eyes. I...care about him? No. I hardly know him. She blinked hard. She was thinking of someone else, someone so very much like Vincent. Tifa bit her lower lip, brushing loose strands of her hair hastily aside, and sliding out from underneath Vincent's arms.
There's no time for this!
Tifa looked frantically around the room for something, anything, that could stop his bleeding, even if only for a short time. Beds. Chairs. Tables. Curtains. Sheets...
Sheets. Bed sheets.
Tifa scolded herself mentally for overlooking the obvious. One glance back at Vincent (he's still conscious, God, please let him still be conscious) then she was over by a bed, removing one of the sheets. Taking the knife from the back of Vincent's boot (it was obvious to see it there, sticking upwards idly), Tifa cut the bed sheet into crude strips long enough to bandage the wound around her bounty hunter's stomach. By the time Tifa was finished with her handiwork and back by his side, Vincent had fallen limp upon his knees and was leaning against the wall for support, his eyes half open and still peering at her. Those beautiful, frightening eyes...
"Vincent..." She whispered hurriedly. Her throat tightened and refused to lend her a voice to her words.
Please, don't die...
She took off his red cloak, threw it somewhere off to the side and undid the red band around his head to better see his wounds. There weren't many. Just a few scratches and a gash down the left side of his face, but nothing too deep. Tifa troubled herself with the worse of Vincent's injuries at the moment, which lied further down: the terrible looking wound across his stomach. She undid his black shirt and pulled it off of him. All kinds of scrapes were on his lean-muscular frame, some obviously recent, others from years long past.
Quickly wrapping the gash across his stomach, Tifa felt along his back for any more fatal wounds. When Vincent flinched slightly under her touch, she felt her body slouched with relief. If he could feel her then he was most certainly still conscious. There were no more injuries, but there was something else that was quite distinct and caught Tifa's attention long before her fingers ever found them. Across each of his shoulder blades, arching gracefully downward, were four-inch long scars. Tifa moved closer to Vincent in order to inspect the strange marks, and she traced them with one crimson stained finger. Whatever had been quickly snatched from him had happened years ago.
What did Vincent say again? Long way up, if you could fly?
Wings...
*
He opened his eyes and remembered dying.
Or at least something close to it. What other word could best describe this feeling inside of him? The world was reeling, but he could see nothing. Everything remained as dark as he imagined the Abyss must be. He couldn't see, but he could hear. Around him were endless screams for help and cries for forgiveness. Others spoke no words; they merely cried out in long, anguished wails. Their cries, their shrieks and their pleas for mercy were like acid to his ears. He could hear and he wished to whatever god existed that he no long would be able to. And he could feel. Wherever he was the shadows of death still found their way to him, enfolding their icy fingers around his still body.
Was he dead?
He could feel hardness below his hands and he slid them along whatever it was he lied upon. The ground? Something wet beneath his fingertips sent chills running throughout his body. His mind registered the rich, tangy smell of blood and he could almost taste it upon the tip of his tongue. He wiggled his fingers and clawed at the ground, knowing that in doing this he would surely cause himself more pain, more blood. Blood... The dead didn't bleed.
Vincent...
So he must be alive, though with that new thought he felt no relief. It would have been better, so much more comforting, if fate would have allowed him at least some peace. He lifted his arms and was rewarded with a familiar dull ache. The feeling of cold was slowly melting away from his numb limbs, making it easier for him to sit up; easier only in that aspect, for he still could not see. But perhaps it was better that way. The pictures that accompanied those terrible wails of anguish would probably be far worse than just the persistent feeling of cold.
Vincent!
Vincent? Yes, that was his name. It was hard to hear through those horrible cries and screams, but he was certain someone was calling his name. And he opened his mouth, or at least he thought he did, to try to answer. Nothing came out save for a flow of something warm and wet. More blood. He could taste and smell nothing else. He tried to stand to better hear the voice, but he could not pull himself up from off the ground. He reached out and felt the bitter gnaw of the hard chains that bounded the lower half of his body.
"No. Not again..."
He flinched, surprised by his own voice. It sounded so alien to him, so harsh... But at least he could talk. Perhaps if he screamed loud enough, whoever was calling his name would hear him. And help him.
So he screamed.
He screamed until more blood came from out his mouth and until his own voice, his alien voice, faltered, cracked and fell silent once more. He wasn't certain if his would-be savior heard him, for so many people joined in with his cry that it seemed so pointless now. His hands flew to his ears and he hunched over. So much screaming, so much noise...
"Make it stop," he whispered.
Everything felt so cold again. And when he pulled his hands away from his ears and finally felt his own arms, he realized that all he wore upon his bare chest was his own blood. He ran his fingers down his stomach and felt that sickening, thick liquid. How could he possibly bleed so much? He coughed and there was little doubt as to what came from out his mouth. He tried to move, but the chains upon his legs dug deep into his skin and his back felt so damn heavy... What the hell was on his back?
Vincent, open your eyes!
His hands raised to cover his ears again. Everything hurt so much... Every noise and every movement now made his skin bubble and crawl. He was on fire, he had to be. His own fingers against his flesh burned. "My eyes... my eyes are open!" He cried out and as soon as he did it seemed as if the wails of the ill-fated souls around him grew louder. "My eyes..." His voice could no longer reach above a simple whisper and was drowned out by the screams around him. Everything was on fire - or was it so cold that it burned? - and what frightened him most was that he could not see it.
Please...open your eyes. It was only a whisper now.
"I can't!" His fingers raked his eyes, those same eyes that he was sure were open before. Perhaps he never opened them at all.
Vincent.
That voice... It sounded so familiar.
Damnit, don't die!
Something fell upon his face, rolled down his cheek and into his partially opened mouth. It tasted... salty? Someone's tear. The owner of that soft voice was crying. For him? Another teardrop splashed his blood-plastered face. Blinking and brushing away the wetness, he finally opened his eyes.
And immediately regretted doing so.
As far as his eyes could see, everything around him was consumed in a lake of deep crimson, so rich of color that he couldn't tell if it was indeed red or simply a black pool that mirrored the scarlet of the sky. The people that were wailing - wailing still and it seemed as if they would always do so - were trying in vain to claw their way from out the pool of darkness. But chains and shackles from deep beneath the blood's surface hampered their escape. Those people, those hideously scarred and deformed people struggling for all eternity in their own blood, reached helplessly towards the unforgiving sky.
He looked at himself, if only to escape the revolting sight before him. From his waist down to his feet were sharp, jagged chains and leather cords, making it nearly impossible to see his own legs, yet alone move them. He was safely away from the sea of blood, however, sitting upright upon a flat rock; it seemed as if it floated on that sea of blood, forever adrift in all this horror and madness. He was covered in crimson and his long, uneven hair was plastered around his face, over his shoulders and down his back, like a waterfall of oil. Cuts and gashes covered his chest and arms and he grimaced at the thought of what other unseen things were upon his body.
But what was on his back?
He leaned forward and something soft and feathery draped gracefully over his shoulders, tickling his face. He groaned, surprised by the sudden weight of - of what? Despite the pain he forced himself to glance to the side, and for the first time realized that there were chains around his neck as well, and he gaped at the two wings that had seemingly sprouted out of nowhere from his back. They dipped elegantly down all around him, the same as the everlasting darkness that was slowly smothering him. Black wings. Feathers the color of coals were floating around everywhere now.
And those ghastly people's cries of torment grew louder still.
He could endure it no longer. He bent over so far that he felt the darkness of his wings envelope him completely and the chains binding his legs cut into his flesh further. But he didn't care. Perhaps the sharp throb of pain would distract him from those deafening cries. Perhaps the darkness of his wings would black out his vision.
"Stop..." He inhaled the stale air swiftly, his lungs answering with more pain. "Stop!" He couldn't bear those people's wails for a moment more. He screamed noiselessly, closed his eyes and then...
Silence.
Beautiful, heavenly silence!
"Vincent?" That gentle voice again.
Vincent felt slender, strong arms around him, holding onto him tightly. He opened his eyes and gasped, as if a thousand knives had been jammed into him. Everything was a blurry mess and he shook uncontrollably, in spite of himself. The sudden feeling of wetness made him fear that he was still in that place, drowning in his own blood. But Vincent soon recognized the liquid as merely water. He supposed someone had poured it on him to help subdue the flames of his hot skin. Nothing more than water... But he still couldn't control his shaking, for everything hurt terribly and to breathe alone seemed torture to his lungs. The only truth he could find comfort in was that now the ache was a familiar dull throb and not the sharp, blistering pain of before.
Vincent turned his head to the side in order to see whose warm body lied next to him, holding him firmly. His nose brushed against someone's soft cheek. "Tifa." He felt her fingers sweep over his forehead and move away his damp hair. His own voice echoed loudly in his mind, but he was certain that it came only from out his mouth as a faint murmur.
Damnit, Vincent. Get a hold of yourself. Can't you see that you're just making her worry?
"I thought I lost you," she whispered, tears spilling down her cheeks and wetting his face.
"What... happened?" Vincent's vision adjusted slowly to his surroundings, then he immediately closed his eyes again. Everything was so bright now. When he opened them again, things were clearer, though his head still throbbed painfully. Whatever he was lying upon now was soft and feathery. Wings...? No, a bed. Various tables, chairs and other beds were in the room as well.
An inn, Vincent thought wearily, it was just... a dream?
He looked down at himself quickly, half-expecting chains and shackles. All he found were sheets, his legs and Tifa's, all intertwined together. His shirt was off and some part of his conscious mind noticed that it was thrown off to the side, along with his cloak and boots. Vincent's stomach was bandaged, as was one of his arms, but as far as he could see everything else appeared to be undamaged.
Tifa's soft lips pressed against his face and she said quietly, "Don't you remember? We were ambushed. You got hurt when you saved Cid." She placed her hand gently over his bandaged stomach. "It's infected and... I think you have a fever."
No, that's not why... Vincent turned his head again to meet with Tifa's gaze, his thoughts fading away inside of his head. He couldn't tell if the fear within her eyes was for him or because of him. Raising his right hand to her face, he wiped away what tears fell down her cheeks. "It was so cold there. So... dark." Vincent's brows furrowed as he tried to make sense of the quickly flashing images inside his tormented mind. So much blood... No, not now. Not anymore. He could see his own reflection in Tifa's large, brown eyes. "I couldn't get out."
Tifa rested her forehead against his and breathed out hesitantly, her sweet breath brushing across his face. "You were dreaming."
Vincent leaned closer and she could feel his warm lips move against hers as he spoke his next words, "That was no dream."
Tifa wanted to speak, though she was unsure of what she could possibly say to comfort him, but Vincent's mouth covered her own before she had the chance. Vincent's lips felt like fire against hers and as his kiss deepened, he turned the rest of his body around and wrapped his arms around her small frame. His left arm, warm from being underneath him for this whole time, moved awkwardly to clasp her back. But he was still careful of how exactly he placed that damn, burdensome metal claw on her.
Damn Hojo. Damn him.
Vincent whispered grimly between his lips and hers, "I heard you there. Everything was ugly and everything hurt... but I heard you there." He kissed her again, pressing her body to his, as if he could somehow pull Tifa into himself. Maybe that would ease his pain. Vincent tangled his right hand in her long, feathery hair. Feathery... Wings. For a moment he was reminded of his nightmare, but hastily he pushed those horrible thoughts from his mind.
Tifa was almost certain that her heart had stopped moments ago, unable to keep up with Vincent's fiery lips and smoldering touch. Her fingers stroked his face gently and she closed her eyes, savoring the taste of his lips and pretending, for just a moment, that there was nothing else.
He's obviously delirious from his fever, Tifa. Do you actually think he cares about you? Cloud... Don’t forget him, too. Despite the persistent nagging of her mind, Tifa didn't open her eyes and didn't pull away from Vincent's arms. She had no idea where her emotions lied anymore; it was all one strange and awkward mess. I’m a fool. I'll get lost. And this will only complicate things further. Doesn’t it always...?
As if he finally realized what he was doing, as if he read her very thoughts, Vincent broke the kiss and breathed out hesitantly. He felt terrible, like every part of his body burned. He found himself nearly craving the coldness that had nearly consumed him when he was floating helplessly on the river of blood. But he was never on that river. It was simply a dream. A dream... Then why did it feel so real? Vincent's back suddenly numbed.
Tifa sucked in her lower lip, then bit down on it. Vincent may not have been delirious, but he still had a fever. He must have been exhausted... She slid her fingers down his cheek and gently traced his jaw, and when her fingers brushed against his lips, they parted slightly.
...but maybe it's a good thing, to get lost every once in a while.
She laid her other hand upon his forehead, his damp skin feeling hot and sticky and he closed his eyes slowly to her. After a few moments, Tifa realized that Vincent was asleep. Or at least she thought he was. She had never seen him sleep before; unconscious, on the verge of death, but never actually asleep. He looked so peaceful, so beautiful.
Vincent...
Tifa smiled. She hadn't in so long and it felt as if her face would split from this almost simple gesture. Immediately, her smile vanished, like she felt guilty for doing so. Still, despite guilt or that lingering uncertainty, she snuggled closer to him, resting her face in the arc of his neck as he continued to sleep.
"I’ll catch you."
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