[image description: Sephiroth and Cloud are seated across a table from each other. On the table are two plates of food, partially eaten, and Cloud’s mostly-drunken water glass. Cloud is hunched over, his hands pressed on either side of his head. His eyes are squeezed clothes, tears gathering on his eyelashes. Sephiroth has turned from Cloud, staring down at his own water glass with a look of horror and betrayal. The background is stark, and the dripping lines from the top indicate impending doom. end image description]
Sephiroth’s first impression of Nibelheim was that it made him hungry.
Not for the stew Angeal had put together on his mother’s fire out of their foraged herbs and hunted meats, augmented by his mother’s kitchen.
Gillian had not had enough bowls for them all, but had passed them what she had. Sephiroth had sipped the concoction from a mug. It had been delicious. Hearty. Better for being under a roof. For watching Gillian gently touch Angeal’s back, and Angeal not pull away. For hearing Zack loudly proclaim ‘I don’t get it. I’d love a wing.’ and Genesis laughing ‘see? He gets it, Angeal.’
No. Not for anything anyone could cook. Not for anything he could eat.
But Nibelheim did make him hungry.
So hungry.
Cloud’s steps lagged beside him. He paused. Looked to him. Face still too pale, eyes still a little unfocused, but remarkably recovered in comparison to the near-catatonic body he’d carried to shelter the day before.
“Cloud?”
“Sorry, I’m good. Just…”
“Hm.” Sephiroth looked to the rickety town gate. The name spelled out above it. It was nothing. It should have been nothing. His eyes were drawn towards the mountain towering behind it.
“How does it feel,” he asked, not really tasting the words as they left his lips. They were empty. Hollow. Starving. “Coming back to your hometown?”
nobody ever used footnotes better than de Laclos, who wrote in his own novel that he was omitting a big chunk of storyline cause it’s not very interesting
