He has slain, he has been slain, he is yesterday, today, and tomorrow, and he has the power to be reborn a second time. He is Death, walking like an element, and he slays the living, for death must be so that the dead may be reborn. He is the fell angel, the dark one, the clouds at midday. His name holds the secrets of the ten names of God.

Sephiroth. The name is whispered behind closed doors, spoken with fear by powerful men, and laughed at by the one responsible for this bizzare demon who wields the sword as though it were a part of him. Perhaps it is.

He is Sephiroth. Spawned from the womb of a human woman, but he has never suckled at his mother's breast. In time he will see the lie of Shin-Ra as his mother. He is the bastard child of SOLDIER, and his life is in the hands of those who made him, although he could destroy them with a look, and has.

He rides the nightmare of insanity, has fallen into the cool, soothing embrace of madness, and sees himself as a holy warrior, although others see him as the angel from Hell, the Winged-One of the lower reaches. Unseen choirs chant his praises.

Indeed, there are many who would worship him as God. Some do. Why do they deify him so, these shadowy cloaked men who whisper his name in agony and ecstasy? What unseen, unknowable force causes them to end themselves at his command, to plunge off the high places awaiting the glory that is his embrace in death? The angel of death he may be, and perhaps he is a God (fate will dictate it, so it is so), but most would not believe this and many would laugh were it not for the underlying fear of the object of this strange veneration.

He stands upon the field, his massed army like a sable forest, a forest that will be hewn by the enemy even as the enemy is mown down by the dark horde that is Shin-Ra’s elite fighting force. He raises the sword, points it at the opposing troops, and utters a single syllable that decides the fate of those who stand in the way of those who own him. A crimson tide washes over his soul even as it washes over his body, as he swings his massive weapon, prepares for another blow, and skewers one unfortunate enough to stand before him. He puts out his boot and shoves the lifeless thing off his blade, blood coating his boots with a sticky film, but leaving the gleaming sword and shimmering hair untouched by the sanguine contamination.

Travelers on the Plate of the floating city walk their routes in fear, fear of this strange man who could be sent to slay them at the ruthless President’s behest. A flash of silver, the darkness of black upon black, a shining sliver of sword - imagined rebellion is wiped out, and the masses grow more fearful. He could be waiting in the alley beside your house, he could be in your apartment, he could be behind you...
You would never know what hit you. Six feet of titanium alloy would erupt from your chest, unspotted with the blood that would spray from the wound and drench those who stand nearby, staring with horrified fascination. Dead before the sword has finished its path through your spine, organs, and sternum. The sword would be clean, unmarred, beautiful, and the last thing you would ever see.

(but in the future, the flower girl will not even be granted this honor, and will instead see the man who was sworn to protect her but could not, would not, he with the Great White Sword on his back)

Poetry in motion, death as an element - Sephiroth stalks the streets of Midgar.

Death stalks the floating city

She in the capsule smiles, and knows the time draws ever nearer