Cloud Strife (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
anonfantry) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
onepassingnight2012-03-24 06:15 pm
anonfantry) wrote in onepassingnight2012-03-24 06:15 pm
oo1 ❄ I've seen this somewhere before
The scenery within this new (perhaps not quite) foreign subconscious is a confused jumble, as if its unsuspecting creator cannot quite decide just where to be — a snowy mountainside has burst up from beneath the streets of a staircase city set into the rise of sheer, seaside cliff. The pieces are whole, details sharp and clear on narrow, towering buildings all crammed close together and rocky outcroppings with their blankets of heavy snow (still falling, as it is, in weird pockets only over corresponding ground).
But these little scenes are shattered among each other, shifting constantly, uncertain as the blank, white sky above, which reflects a dull grey in the ocean below. Where these two endless, colorless stretches of space reach to meet on the horizon, they blend seamlessly, as if meeting the edge of this conflicting reality might be as easy as setting sail for the fragile inner boundary of the eggshell shape it almost appears to be locked within.
Bright and cold, the silence falls as heavy as the inclement weather, in each vacuum of space that covers the mountainside, doing its best to muffle the staccato beat of his boots on uneven pavement broken over icy faces of stone and the competing race of his heart, now trying its hardest to burst clear out of his chest. (And in a dream, who's to say it mightn't?) With his rifle hugged tight against his back by its strap, where it beats a solid rap against his shoulder blades, a sharp reprimand for every stumble, a lone soldier in drab blue is fighting a very literal uphill battle.
The uniform he wears obscures all of him but the lower half of the pale, strained expression writ across his face, solemn as he barrels up the insurmountable slope in leaps and bounds, shadows chasing behind as he rounds a street corner onto another craggy patch of open ground. Snow kicks up in misty clouds around his ankles as he stumbles, but doesn't stop, always only one step ahead of his pursuers.
They're monsters, or maybe only the distant memory of a child's imagining of such, solid enough as they crumble up out of the earth in his wake. But they fade to dust as phantoms while he manages still to evade the catch of claws and snapping jaws at the heels of his badly scuffed black boots, the shirttail tucked under his belts. Shameful as it is not to stand and fight, outpacing them is this dream's objective, instead, and he can't seem to stop his feet from moving on, hands scrabbling at each new hold to pull himself higher.
At least not on his own.
But these little scenes are shattered among each other, shifting constantly, uncertain as the blank, white sky above, which reflects a dull grey in the ocean below. Where these two endless, colorless stretches of space reach to meet on the horizon, they blend seamlessly, as if meeting the edge of this conflicting reality might be as easy as setting sail for the fragile inner boundary of the eggshell shape it almost appears to be locked within.
Bright and cold, the silence falls as heavy as the inclement weather, in each vacuum of space that covers the mountainside, doing its best to muffle the staccato beat of his boots on uneven pavement broken over icy faces of stone and the competing race of his heart, now trying its hardest to burst clear out of his chest. (And in a dream, who's to say it mightn't?) With his rifle hugged tight against his back by its strap, where it beats a solid rap against his shoulder blades, a sharp reprimand for every stumble, a lone soldier in drab blue is fighting a very literal uphill battle.
The uniform he wears obscures all of him but the lower half of the pale, strained expression writ across his face, solemn as he barrels up the insurmountable slope in leaps and bounds, shadows chasing behind as he rounds a street corner onto another craggy patch of open ground. Snow kicks up in misty clouds around his ankles as he stumbles, but doesn't stop, always only one step ahead of his pursuers.
They're monsters, or maybe only the distant memory of a child's imagining of such, solid enough as they crumble up out of the earth in his wake. But they fade to dust as phantoms while he manages still to evade the catch of claws and snapping jaws at the heels of his badly scuffed black boots, the shirttail tucked under his belts. Shameful as it is not to stand and fight, outpacing them is this dream's objective, instead, and he can't seem to stop his feet from moving on, hands scrabbling at each new hold to pull himself higher.
At least not on his own.
no subject
Not that he can always remember dreams, even these strange dreams that seem to belong to others, clearly, but perhaps this is the first time he's admitted it, in any setting, sleeping or waking, that what he hears here in this dream world, the people he talks to, might be real.
He's still reluctant to accept it entirely, but he has to admit that there's something to it, whatever that might be. "I confess, it doesn't." He has a great dislike for things that seem unlikely or irrational, which is why he's been telling himself it could be the stress, wearing on him. Yet he can't deny that he, himself, is here. He knows himself that well.
"I haven't been able to determine why it's been happening. It began after Modeoheim." He's not one for such open reflection with infantrymen ordinarily, but in this case, he's thinking aloud, while asleep, so it's acceptable enough. "Not very long."
no subject
It's undeniable, now. He's definitely shrunk a noticeable measure in Sephiroth's presence.
Modeoheim reminds him where he's supposed to be, though - and the white is replaced with the faint afterimage of Junon, instead. That's right. Modeoheim is over, in the real world. Come and gone.
"Has it- ...Is it supposed to feel like I'm losing my mind?" He shakes his head, not meaning to speak the words but hearing them anyway, and he feels the brief, white flash of horror come from the inside, this time. "N-No, that is- I didn't mean..."
no subject
Sometimes, he doesn't say anything, and people are left forever wondering what he was thinking about, but this isn't one of those times. He notices Cloud diminishing in size, and that's not an effect he wishes to achieve. Someone else might say something hearty to bolster him, but heartiness, though it may be in Sephiroth's vocabulary, is not in his repertoire.
"I don't believe it's supposed to feel any particular way," he says finally, with what, for him, counts as a reassuring smile, small and cold as it is. Genesis and Angeal had lost their minds, or as far as he can tell, that's why they acted as they did. But that's not what Cloud means, he knows that. He knows Cloud isn't implying anything about him. "But it is unusual and disorienting, so it's understandable that you might feel that way." He wonders, could Cloud really fade away to nothing in this dream? He's so different than the older man Sephiroth has spoken to.
"When I said you could speak freely, I meant it. It's likely I won't believe this was real, when I awaken." For him, it's his icy logic and his desire to avoid anything that might mean he's unstable that makes him convince himself of the dreams' falsity in his waking hours. Though lately, they've grown more difficult to reason away.
no subject
As it is, he still probably isn't exactly handling this whole mess with anything so much as approaching aplomb, but maybe he hasn't embarrassed himself too fatally, if his hero is not yet writing him off as a hopeless case, is - smiling? Kind of. Maybe. But he probably just imagined that.
Wishful thinking can't account for the fact that that's an oddly generous response, no matter how his insecurities eat away at him throughout, though, and Cloud finds himself nodding shallowly, in spite of himself.
(I don't think I wanna believe this is happening, right now...)
"Thank you. Sir." Speaking freely isn't one of his strong points - but then, talking idly at all is something he tends to avoid wherever possible. If he knew the phrase "Better to remain silent and be thought a fool, than to speak out and remove all doubt," he'd most heartily agree to the sentiment behind it. "I'm- Sorry for the trouble."
no subject
It's possible that it's the older, harsher Cloud that interested Sephiroth initially, but he doesn't mention it, far too circumspect for that. How would he bring it up? Say he's dreamed of him before? That sounds--ridiculous. A little like Cloud himself, the general isn't the greatest conversationalist. Though unsurprisingly, no one criticizes him for that, and his enigmatic, imposing air goes a long way toward rendering the trait unnoticeable.
"It's no trouble. It's none of your doing. Something has brought our subconscious minds together, that's all." He doesn't often have the chance to speak freely himself, though he's limited in very different ways. "I'm simply asleep and dreaming, which I would be in any case." He might not want Cloud to shrink any further, but he doesn't see any reason not to mention the situation.
"It is a curious phenomenon, but I don't believe there's any harm in it." Not that he's seen so far. It's only odd. He hasn't had dreams this vivid since he was young.
He turns toward the summit again. "Let's go on together."