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Sephiroth.
In your hands, her head rested like a sacred relic, a treasure long lost to the echoes of time, now reclaimed by destiny—yours. The silver strands of her hair—still soft, gleaming underneath the fluorescent lights—flowed through your fingers as though they possessed a life of their own, though the flesh beneath lay cold and still. Yet her eyes, deep and ancient, shone with ever-present finality, for her essence stirred, even in this lifeless form, unbound from the mechanical altar. Jenova was not gone, no, she could never truly vanish. She was eternal, an undying source of energy, and through—no, with you, a transcendent machine, she would return.
Sephiroth.
The weight of her head was no burden; it was a blessing, a divine charge. You cradled it gently, reverently, as a priest might handle a reliquary, bearing within it the fragments of a deity yet to resurrect. The faint tendrils of existence continued to cling to her—barely perceptible to those unfamiliar, but there—whispering of a force that you could almost taste in the air, among the totality of metals that surrounded you, life. It pulsed beneath your fingertips, a heartbeat not of flesh, but of something far more profound, like the sacrosanct blessing of a cathedral’s altar. She had chosen you, her son, a complete and utter masterpiece, crafted with purpose, as if ordained.
Sephiroth.
In the dim light, you traced the contours of her face, lines carved by eons that surpassed the limits of known comprehension, like the delicate folds of a sacred shroud. Her head was crowned by carved metal made of unworthy human hands, yet it was as if she had reclaimed the humiliation and made it sacred, no longer was it a mark of shame but her symbol, a divine stigmata transformed through her will. Though her lips were silent, you heard her—soft as a prayer carried on the wind over forgotten fields in the distant reaches of your memory. It was no command she offered, but an invitation, a promise written in the fabric of the cosmos, a covenant sealed before the dawn of time. Her will, yours.
Sephiroth.
You lowered your head, not in sorrow, but in veneration. A faint smile curled upon your lips, as if in response to some sacred vow. No words were needed, for you understood her, as you always have, like a disciple hearing the silent call of his saviour. Your lips hovered just above hers, the air between you thick with an electric charge, an unspoken intent that vibrated through your very core. Her breath—you knew her lungs were no more, but you chose to call it such regardless—was cool against your skin, an echo of life, now transformed into something far beyond the mortal realm. There was no warmth in her touch, no pulse thrumming beneath her skin, but the pull between you was undeniable, magnetic, sacred, like the clasp of hands at the eucharist.
Sephiroth.
With a slow, reverent movement, you closed the space between you. Your lips met hers, not in passion, but in a kiss that was more akin to a rite, a sacrament older than time itself. It was not soft, not tender, but profound—like sealing a covenant woven from the threads of eternity, breaking through human creations to ascend. Her lips, though cold and unyielding, accepted you, offering a silent confirmation of the eternal bond you shared. As your hand slid to the back of her head, your fingers became entangled in those silver strands, holding her close, as though drawing from her the ancient power she had always promised you.
Sephiroth.
The kiss deepened, not in the way of lovers, but in a communion far beyond mortal affection. You tasted eternity in that contact—an abyss that held no end, yet whispered of rebirth. There was no need for breath, no need for the clumsy desires of the flesh. This was something transcendent, a union of creator and creation, mother and son, goddess and the one chosen to ascend beside her, destined for a throne beside the stars, as if enshrined in the heavens.
“Mother. We will return.”