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From the first moment Mother takes him into her embrace Sephiroth has known clarity. It’s both balm and heady nirvana, effortlessly shedding the weighted strife of before.
Through Mother’s eyes he sees such things for what they truly are. The crushing expectations of a hero he never asked to be, misguided fear over his own otherworldly strength, even the fatuous longing for false friends—for connection… all so meaningless.
Sephiroth revels as these constricting chains fall away, content to forget and ascend to a higher purpose—become but a piece of a greater whole. The surrounding parasites that plague this Planet sink into a nebulous rabble far beneath his notice. Only those who carry Mother’s blessing remain above the muck and mire, like beacons in the night he is drawn to them. For Mother has need of their homecoming.
Reunion her rapturous call in his ear.
In this there has only ever been one outlier. By a cruel twist of irony he came of that same worthless rabble—forestalling the evitable reconning Mother is to visit upon them with no other advantage than Sephiroth’s own euphoric inattention. It’s a luxury his Puppet shall never know again.
For sheltered within Mother’s arms death is but momentary. Through her remnants Sephiroth is again and again breathed into the mortal plane, free to forge her unwavering will into reality. All the while Cloud is kept well under thumb, barely more than a distraction and fully unsuspecting of the coming twist of fate prepared especially for him.
The Puppet plays along so well in fact that Sephiroth is near taken aback when an unforeseen interloper leads them off script. Green flashes in his sight, far too verdant and mesmeric—for a fleeting moment outshining even Mother’s own loving caress. Then, for all he believes his first life faded into oblivion, Sephiroth recognizes both a face and the heavy sword crossed against his Masamune.
It seems Ageal’s lost puppy has bitten off more than he can chew again. Pity, Sephiroth thinks as he observes through the glitching green haze the foolish boy he once used to try and save so-called friends who would, of course, abandon them both in the end.
He only has a short time to wonder at the something more that doesn’t quite resonate. Then the memories fizzle and dissolve—quieted as perfect clarity snaps back into place. Mother’s sweet song rings out loud and clear as ever, calling for him to give himself over to her in full—that she may become one with him and he may be whole in her. As always, he readily complies.
She toys with his Puppet, the Puppy and their pathetic band of extras that accompany the Cetra halfling until their vessel collapses under the strain—too weak to bear even a fraction of her glorious presence for long. But it serves its purpose. The proper time to deal with them all will be at hand soon enough.
Until then, Sephiroth will enjoy himself stringing them along. As he slips outside Shinra’s glided tower with his precious cargo cradled close he hears it again, that discordant melody teetering on the edge of his perception. It’s bitter after notes are promptly silenced on the winds that carry him and Mother to their repose. He finds himself intrigued all the same. So, the Planet has not yet conceded the game. How amusing.
But ultimately futile. It can resist all it likes. In the end, Mother will reclaim what is hers. Nothing can be permitted to stand in her way, he will see to it by his own hands. No facet of reality shall be left unturned. No pawns left unchecked. No loose ends.