Mask of red cloaking the eye. She did let brush her cheek in disarray, though the mention of father stroke a chord. One she didn’t allow in for quite some time. In the chaos of it all, where a man awoke from a coffin and forbidden entrance to the mansion suddenly made clear all that was confusion on her part. Here her silence meant a wandering mind. The thought of a father’s wish unto son. Daughter. Love betwixt pain and bitterness. She wondered if something so clothed, hidden from all other eyes, might still show true if she willed it so. The blood of man to her hands washed away by the shelter of a father’s misunderstood care. She tugged on the cloth further, though could not tell if he saw it himself. Discomfort in mention of a father. But prying words went ahead of them still. Because who was she suddenly bring up the taste of tears in her mouth from the lips left to never speak again?
Death toll on a clock ticked away by the years, hours, days. It all scrambled in the mind of a woman ready to take away the status of victim and put on the gloves of warrior. She had done it a long time ago, but the softening of her eyes in the mention Vincent Valentine made was far more surprising to her than anyone else. Not the facade she normally gave. “Perhaps he knew that you’d travel this region in due time.”
Delicate brows slide down, and his lower lip juts out in thought. This cold continent had been his birthplace, and seven years later his father had been invited to live in the beginnings of Upper Junon–if he dedicated his time to Shin-Ra Manufacturing. His mother, being of prestigious blood, agreed to it readily; Gast Faremis had recently taken to inhabiting the area, and with him, a Cetra woman. Regal and kind though she was, mother Valentine was privately known for being racist to persons different from her. His father had missed the cold. One year, he had taken his son and travelled to the snowy caps, and there he had the pleasure of meeting this Infalna. Never had he intended to meet her daughter–and that shock had been quite enough. Women all all the s a m e: being kind and dying; it is a cycle. Mothers, daughters, lovers–all dead, and not returning from the Lifestream which the Cetra woman told him of. Flame flickers at the end of the cavern; the soft voices of the others can be heard, and daresay he catches the muffled sobs of the Princess of Wutai. Striding onward, with shoulders hunched in recollection, he says, “…Perhaps he merely hoped.”
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