Date: 2009-04-23 18:33 Subject: FFVII/IY fic: Silver Demons (3-4/?) Security: Public Mood: sick Tags: fandom: crossovers, fandom: ffvii, fandom: inuyasha, fic, sephiroth, sesshoumaru, sesshoumaru/sephiroth, title: silver demons

Silver Demons
by SkyFire (rabid_plotbunny)

Previous chapters: 1 | 2

Warnings: Eventual Sess/Seph (shonen-ai or yaoi, I haven't decided. We'll see when we get there. ^_^)
Disclaimer: I don't own FFVII or InuYasha and no money is being made.

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Chapter 3

It wasn't the first time Sephiroth had awakened to the sound of screaming but it didn't make it any less startling and his instinctive, sleep-dazzled effort to spring up in defense left him slumping back to the grass as the slowly-healing Buster-sword stab-wound protested the movement by sending hot flashes of pain shooting through him. As he lay there, jaw clenched in an effort to keep his last meal where he'd put it, he could hear rapidly-retreating footsteps followed by nothing more than the sound of birds, the rustling of leaves under the soft breeze.

Finally, he managed to push the pain and discomfort down enough that he was able to push himself into a sitting position and take stock of his surroundings.

He was most definitely not in Nibelheim. The distinctive shapes of the Nibel Mountains were nowhere in sight, the air was too warm and humid, and the vegetation much too lush. He was sitting on the grass beside what seemed to be a dirt road, and everywhere he looked he could see green, growing things. The mountains he could see, rising into the sky in snow-capped glory, were none he could recall having seen before. Neither were the trees of any species he was familiar with, though there was some vague resemblance. In the distance and getting further away with every breath was a small group of women carrying laden baskets. That must have been the source of the screaming.

He sighed. Why was it that he was always greeted with either people throwing themselves at him in hopes of catching his attention, or fear?

Shrugging that aside, he took stock of his injuries.

The lesser wounds had indeed healed overnight; the scratches and minor cuts and bruising vanished as if they'd never been. His skin was still sensitive, but not so much that it was painful. The stab wound, while it had healed somewhat, was still gaping and bloody, a mass of pain, and his sudden movement upon awakening seems to have torn newly-knitted flesh a little.

Well. First things first; that wound had to be dealt with.

Now that he was a bit more clear-headed with the lessening of pain the rest and partial healing had brought, he reached for the Restore Materia slotted into his bracer. He held it over his abdomen and called out its powers to heal him.

Nothing happened.

Frowning, he tried again, only to meet with the same impossible failure. What was wrong? He knew he was doing it right; he'd been using Materia for longer than he could consciously remember! Once again an effort, once again nothing happened.

He glared down at the little green ball in his hand, froze. He studied it carefully, blue-green eyes widening in shock, then quickly checked the rest of his Materia stash, only to see the same thing repeated over and over.

They were all dead. The light of power that had once glowed in the glassy depths was gone. He might as well have had a collection of marbles.

He closed his eyes, took a moment to focus on calming his half-panicky breathing, the sudden racing of his heart. What was going on? Better still, what had happened?

He remembered falling after being thrown towards the reactor pool by Zack's young cadet friend after he'd found Mo- Jenova. He remembered his decision, remembered throwing the head away from him, remembered hitting the glowing green. Remembered the burning pain that came from everywhere, outside and in. Remembered that last hard jolt as he hit bottom hard enough to knock him out.

Somehow, he was no longer at the bottom of the reactor. Somehow, he was no longer even anywhere near Nibelheim. Somehow, his Materia had become useless. What had happened?

Wait. Had he actually died? Was this where people went after the life left them? He looked around again. It... wasn't how he'd imagined the Lifestream would be. He'd always just imagined it as a glowing green stream of energy ebbing and surging throughout the planet, had always thought he'd join with it as just another glowing green speck among millions. He'd never imagined... this.

But if he was dead and this was the afterlife, why was he still wounded? Would he bear the wound for the rest of his existence? He shook off the thought. No, the smaller wounds had healed, and the larger was working on it. But why would the dead have need of healing, or feel pain, or bleed, for that matter? It didn't make sense.

Well. There was no point in worrying over something that he couldn't change, especially not with so little information. Either he was dead and this was the Lifestream, in which case he'd have all eternity to get used to it because he doubted the Planet would allow him to be reborn. Or he was still alive, and had somehow inexplicably gone from the bottom of a reactor to wherever here was and his Materia was useless. Wounded and bereft of Materia; all he needed was for a group of hostile children to happen across him and that would be the end of him. Was he completely defenseless?

The disturbing thought had him reaching out to the side with his left hand, then Calling. To his relief, the Masamune appeared as it always did. Well, at least something was working as it should. He wasn't totally defenseless. Good.

Even so, he wouldn't be moving very far until his wound had healed a bit more. He looked around again, then, decision made, he slowly got to his feet. Stood there a long moment, legs locked in an effort to keep from falling as the world around him took a slow spin, one arm wrapped protectively around his middle. Once he was relatively reassured that he could remain upright, he started off toward the edge of the nearby woods; he would not remain out in the open when so injured, not where anyone could stumble across him. With his luck, he'd probably ended up in Wutai. All he needed was for a stray Crescent Unit troop to come across him in his weakened state.

With that in mind he made his way into the woods, far enough that he would be more or less invisible from the road, but still close enough that he could keey an eye on it. He found a sheltered spot, then settled down to rest and heal.

 

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Chapter 4

He wasn't entirely wrong; what bandits lingered in the wood chose to haunt an area where the road ran closer to the edge, with less open space around it, and any regular villagers stayed well away. The day passed by restfully enough. The road was traveled only a little; once by a small group of women like the one from that morning, passing first one way, then returning, then by another group, this one of men bearing pitchforks and other farming implements. Those took the time to poke around the area, apparently looking for him, but stayed well away from the edge of the forest in which he lay concealed. After that there were no travelers and he could only guess that either it was only a lesser road, little traveled, or that people had another reason not to be out on it. Whichever it was, for the time being he was safe enough and the wood around him was quiet save for the rustle of leaves in the wind and the sound of the occasional bird. The day passed, warm and quiet, and it was easy to relax against the tree at his back and focus his energy on healing.

But the forest was by no means uninhabited and the scent of blood on the evening breeze drew its denizens toward his resting place from miles away.

Sephiroth didn't sleep that night. He wouldn't have anyway, not when he had no idea where he was or how he had gotten there or... anything else, really. But even if he'd had answers to all those questions, he wouldn't have allowed himself sleep that night. Every basic survival instinct he had, every ingrained sense of danger, kept sending bursts of adrenaline surging through his body at irregular intervals even as his hand twitched in want of his sword. The third time he unconsciously Called the Masamune to him, he decided not to send it back. Clearly it was just going to keep showing up and he saw no point in using up his reserves arguing with it. The fact that he was somewhat calmer and reassured with it in hand was entirely beside the point. By then, too, he had a feeling that the forest wasn't quite as empty as he'd first thought, nor as safe as he'd hoped.

He cursed himself for not realizing sooner that the scent of the blood that covered him would draw in predators like a corpse draws flies. He knew he could fight them off even in his wounded state, but doubtless the movement would tear the healing wound again, adding more fresh-blood scent to the air and drawing even more predators in turn.

Not for the last time, he wished that his Materia hadn't inexplicably died. A nice Fire or Bolt could easily taken care of any wolf or bear - or would it be tigers there? - that dared approach without his even having to move. For that matter, a small campfire would have ensured that they never came that close in the first place. Ah, hindsight!

But he had no campfire, and his Materia were dead. All he had was himself and the Masamune. At least his chosen resting place was defensible enough with the massive tree trunk at his back - he was amazed that it was allowed to get that big, even in what could be Wutai - and its equally-massive, gnarled collection of roots guarded his flanks. Granted, it meant that if there were too many foes he would be trapped, but he was Sephiroth and had yet to meet a group of enemies that he couldn't handle. Even wounded and magicless, he was confident of his ability to defend himself from whatever lurked.

Still, as the night slowly crept on towards dawn, every new rustle as predators crept up to get a glimpse of him had him wishing that he'd had the foresight to gather material for a fire, that he had the means to light it instead of the useless bauble his Fire had become.

There was more moving out there than he would have thought, and something told him that a lot of it was a lot more dangerous than a few stray animals or bandits. After growing up in the labs under Hojo's 'care', he could always tell when he was being observed. The conflict in Wutai had trained his ability to know when those watching him wanted nothing more than to tear him apart.

Whatever was out there, lurking in the darkness just beyond the point his night-vision started to dim, was of the latter group and much more calculating than he was comfortable with, and far more than any wild beast he'd ever encountered. He knew it couldn't be normal humans by the simple fact that the moon was the barest sliver in the sky, hidden behind a thick, leafy canopy. Under the trees, the night would be absolutely black to them. Then again, if this was Wutai, they could always be ninjas. He'd learned well not to underestimate their abilities during the War.

But the creatures that stepped out of concealment, eyes gleaming, claws and fangs bared in anticipation, in the deepest dark just between moonset and dawn, were no ninjas he'd ever heard of, nor any beast he was familiar with. More like something from one of Hojo's labs, some looked almost human while the only resemblance for others was the fact that they stood upright.

He rose to his feet, not so slowly as to give them undue chance to attack, but not so quickly to tear his recently-closed wound back open. He could feel the itching inside that meant that his insides were still knitting together even if the outside skin and muscle had already done so. The bonds still fragile, he knew that while the newly-healed flesh could probably stand up to a bout of normal sparring, anything more than that and he was risking rupturing it once more.

Unfortunately for him, the creatures that charged at him then didn't seem inclined to take care.

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TBC...