The waves crashed against the cliff below in a steady rhythm, loud and destructive. Angeal listened intently, focusing on the sound and spray of the sea, rather than the memories and emotions that swirled and crashed just as hardily in his mind and in his heart. They consistently attempted to latch and become his focus, but with each smashing wave, Angeal forced out a breath and let the memory slip by.

He had been meditating for a long time. It wasn’t a skill taught from either of his parents, nor something he learned growing up, but something he’d picked up within his time at Shinra. Mindful meditation was proven to lower the heart rate, lower blood pressure, and help keep one focused. All those years ago, stressed from being a small town kid overwhelmed by the non-stop movement of the city, he’d picked up a book on meditation. It started with short sessions each morning when he woke up and slowly evolved as he created a safe space for himself in his shared apartment – with plants and tea and gentle reminders of home.

Some days were easier than others. Some memories were easier to let through his fingertips than others. The mind was as wonderful as it was dreadful, Angeal had realized, as it played happy and sad in tandem, as if desperately searching for what he needed and never finding it. Memories of a better time were let go in the stream just as easily as the terrible ones. Peace was neither happy nor sad, but the feeling of content.

The Soldier was so focused on his breathing, so wrapped up in his mind that he failed to hear the footsteps nearby; well hidden by the crash of the ocean waves. When a voice spoke up, closeby and unexpected, Angeal was startled. He turned to the source of the voice, eyes wide as he quickly leapt to his feet, adrenaline pumping.

A pair of glowing eyes was staring back at him, seemingly just as bewildered.

It was a familiar face, but it did take Angeal a moment to place where he’d last seen it. The outfit was wrong, he looks too old, his mind was telling him, in a memory from so long ago. If he blinked he could see it; a group of 2nd Class Soldiers before him, some more eager (and loud) than others, all ready for training. Back in those days, Hewley was the only 1st Class Soldier that gave his time freely to those in the lower ranks; happy to give advice, training, anything they needed to feel confident and work on their skills. He sought to be an inspiration to those working their way up the ranks, providing the only bridge from the 1st Class Soldiers.

Sephiroth was … not a social man. It had taken an incredible amount of skill from both himself and Genesis to get his attention so many years ago. Genesis, meanwhile, was far from patient enough to handle a group of young and eager soldiers. There may have been someone every once in a while to catch his eye, but it was far from the norm. Angeal, meanwhile, took on a protege here or there – someone he found to have great potential – but he always made time for the others as well.

That was where he knew this face. Slightly younger, dressed in the traditional Soldier 2nd Class uniform. A skilled young man, quieter than some of his compatriots, but such energy was saved instead for a well pointed and humorous quip. Angeal distinctly recalled one of their last interactions – hand to hand combat training, a known weakness of many Soldiers who leaned too heavily on their skills with weapons or magic. The young man was driven and talented, eager to prove himself.

Realizing that Oren had addressed him first, Hewley straightened himself up as the rush of adrenaline slowed in his veins, “Yes … Oren, right? McGinnis. It’s been a long time …”.

Angeal hadn’t seen many Soldiers after his departure from Shinra. He didn’t begrudge them, not a bit, and never fatally wounded any that he did run into while he was on the run. He was much kinder to them than Genesis had been. And if Oren was standing in front of him, clearly older than he had back then, perhaps he’d managed to avoid becoming a Genesis clone or becoming a Shinra experiment. One could only hope.

Oren was looking a little ragged, much the way Angeal felt. Somewhere, in the back of his mind, a little voice piped up that he should be more careful. That people from their world sometimes looked at him and immediately saw an enemy, due to his ties with Sephiroth or the wings on his back. However, his foolishly trusting heart always won out over sound logic when it came to the ghosts of his past. His hand itched to reach out to his former student and brother-in-arms, but he stopped part way from reaching out.

“You’re looking a little …,” pale, like you’ve seen a ghost, “Maybe you should sit down.”

The small laugh that came from Oren was bitter and exhausted, and Angeal realized that his previous pupil’s bright and eager eyes were now older, dimmer, and down-trodden. How could he not be familiar with the look, when a similar pair of eyes stared back at him every morning in the mirror? The gaze of a man who had experienced too much too young, and had nothing to show for it but pain and misery. He wanted to ask immediately, what happened, but knew that it would surely be said in time. Running into those you once knew in this world had the side-effect of ripping open wounds one long thought were healed.

“Looking like hell or not, I wouldn’t forget you,” Hewley reassured Oren quietly, his gaze honest and sad, “No matter how long it’s been.”

And he didn’t want to guess how many years had passed between his death and the Oren McGinnis looking at him now. Angeal was aware that his death happened many years prior to the last thing several others remembered before coming to this world, and that unthinkable things had transpired in that time after his death. The stories he had heard, the details he learned … if it weren’t for the fact that the people telling – no, recalling that history were trustworthy, he wouldn’t have believed them at all. It didn’t seem real.

Then again, how many people thought that about Angeal’s own death? If the details of how it happened were even known. How many people would have believed him capable of forcing his beloved pupil to kill him, simply because he couldn’t live with the shame, guilt, and shock of who and what he was? They would have the same reaction to learning the truth of that story as he did when learning of what Sephiroth had done in the future.

Oren rubbed his head again and finally sat down, admitting to his head hurting. Hewley recalled, what felt like an ancient memory now, hearing about Oren’s mysterious headaches. There were a few Soldier’s with chronic conditions even mako infusions hadn’t quite fixed, and some that gained problems when exposed to mako, so it hadn’t been a surprise to hear the kid ( ... was he still a kid? He was possibly Angeal’s age now … ) suffered with such an issue. Angeal sat down as well, mirroring Oren’s stance sans the sword in his lap.

The blade in Oren’s hands glinted in the indirect light. It was a beautiful sword, made of dark metal and finely crafted, with various materia glinting in its slots. A weapon worthy of a Soldier First Class. Despite knowing the dark truths of Shinra, despite being one of their horrible secrets himself; Angeal was still proud. He was proud to see that one of the youth’s he’d trained had excelled. He’d made it to the top. Shinra itself may have been an evil thing that needed to be brought down, but most of the people in it were innocent, normal people with hopes and dreams, worthy of being celebrated.

… But that promotion likely came with a hard life.

Oren seemed to curl in on himself as he broached the subject of Angeal’s death. Hewley didn’t immediately react to it, choosing instead to simply watch his fellow Soldier with a weary gaze. Every day Angeal awoke with the incredible weight of his guilt on his shoulders – and how could he not? Every day he saw what his death had done in the eyes of Genesis and Sephiroth. Every day, he was confronted with the hurt he had caused; the irreversible, deep, undeserved wounds he’d inflicted upon his dearest friends. And here it was again, in the eyes of someone who had once looked up to him.

Angeal blinked and finally tore his gaze away from Oren, looking back out toward the clouds and sea. Thankfully, he’d had a lot of time already to process the mistakes of his past and make a plan that made it possible to move his feet day after day. He’d already spent plenty of time frozen in misery and drowning in guilt. Now, he carried his guilt, shame, and misery with him, and with every step in the right direction, they slowly got lighter. The process was incredibly slow and taxing, and some days were easier than others, but …

He couldn’t hurt them again. He wouldn’t.

“My decision back then …,” Angeal finally spoke, voice deep and soft as he watched the tide of the sea below ebb and flow, “... was incredibly selfish. In seeking to end my own pain, I caused more than I ever could have imagined.”

He looked back to his former pupil, bowing his head, “You aren’t the one who should be apologizing. I’m the one who is sorry. I … can only imagine what you experienced in that world, after I was gone.”

The world was cruel, and only tolerable with the help of friends by your side – ones who would help you up when you stumbled. Angeal should have been that friend for so many people, helping them and guiding them.

The Buster Sword glinted in the grass; a not-so-subtle reminder of who and what Angeal Hewley was meant to be. Who he wanted to be.

“This second chance…”, he muttered, staring at the sword that had meant so very much to him; the final reminder of his father’s love, the worth of hard work, the dreams and honor he had believed in for so very long, “I’m trying to take advantage of it … to help those I hurt. To heal the pain and suffering I caused. I can’t erase what I’ve done, but if I can help even just one friend – It’ll be worth it, I think.”

You really should've let us all try, though…

It would have been a deeper cut, if Angeal hadn’t already inflicted the pain of that shame upon himself. Still though, the true fact stung just as hard as it ever had. Instead of allowing those who knew him – who cared about him – to help him process everything he’d learned and dealt with, Angeal had pushed them all away while trying to carry the burden alone on his shoulders. Misguided, the Soldier felt it was his responsibility alone to deal with his family’s shameful act, and to even try and deal with Genesis as well. The pained expressions on the faces of his friends … it should have been enough to make him stop, to make him think. And it had, once or twice, gave him pause about the path he was taking.

But in the end, Hewley had succumbed to his shame, his anger and disgust. He couldn’t have bared to live another moment in that world, trying to pretend that everything was okay.

Could he have prevented what happened to Sephiroth? That seemed to be the ultimate question that Angeal had run into while in this new world, having learned what became of his dear friend after his own death. Or would he have been just as useless at saving Sephiroth as he had been with Genesis? Would Sephiroth have just pushed him away, just as Angeal had done to him? There was no answer to such a what-if.

Oren’s expression changed as he trailed off about his own story. Angeal studied the empty smirk on his former pupil’s face, which seemed more reflex than it did sincere. It hardly matched the ocean of sorrow in his eyes, just as vast as the real sea at the edge of the cliff. However, while the waves of the water below crashed into the rocks, that pool of sadness in Oren’s eyes was still and stagnant; drowning out anything else that threatened to rise to the surface.

Hewley knew that look well. It was despair. Not one of dramatic flair, but the kind that choked you slowly, its icy fingers around one’s neck. The kind that sapped joy out of the things that should have made one happy. A heavy weight on one’s shoulders and chest, that made caring for anything more and more difficult with each passing moment. Turning why’s into why bothers?.

The kind of despair that consumed one whole and could turn a man to such extreme and desperate measures to escape, no one would understand how or why he would do such a thing.

Oren was asking hard questions. Impossible questions that had no right or wrong answers. For a moment, Angeal hesitated in attempting to answer any of it. He felt that familiar tug of despair around his own neck, threatening to choke the life out of him once more. Was there any real point to all of this? Did any of this matter? It felt safer, somehow, to let all emotion fall into that void, where he didn’t have to truly care.

Angeal clenched his fists.
Snap out of it. Don’t you dare let that take hold of you again.

Hewley took a deep breath, exhaling it slowly as he let his gaze wander to the horizon. There, the gray clouds drifted along, painted their own shade of dreary. A fairly accurate representation of the mood. It was hard, if not impossible, to escape from the bog of despair produced by one’s own heart and mind, but he had managed to do it this time, right? He had to offer a hand to those in need and hope they didn’t turn away from it, just as he had during his previous take on life.

“Those are quite the complicated questions,” Angeal offered Oren a sad smile of his own, his blue eyes conflicted, “But, I do understand how you feel.”

A breeze picked up, and Hewley drew the two white wings closer to his back out of habit as the wind ruffled the feathers of his monstrous appendages. Even if it weren’t for the constant haunting feeling of being a monster, Angeal would have felt a similar emptiness at being alive again. Going through the motions, waiting for a purpose to reveal itself. No, he had felt such a thing. How long had he spent doing odd jobs here and there, lost in a world where he knew no one else, waiting for something, anything to give his life meaning?

“I can’t tell you for sure that anything we do here matters,” Angeal waved a glove hand in the air, as if dismissing the motion, “Or that anything matters. That death is real. That this is some divine punishment or blessing – changing day by day.”

He sighed, resting an elbow upon his knee as he searched for the right words, “ … It’s incredibly hard, when you’re neck deep in apathy and despair, to feel like there’s any point to any of this. To convince yourself to keep moving. That your life and what you do with it matter anymore.”

Despite the dreary atmosphere, around them were the sounds of life itself. The wind in the grass, the water drawn to and fro from the cliffside, the distant call of seabirds. A small reminder, for those who knew to look for it, that life was always present and ever changing, second by second.

“Your life is worth living, and whatever you choose to do with it will matter,” Angeal’s gaze dropped to the grass, recalling the look in the eyes of those he cared about upon seeing him again and all that had followed, “I’ve reaped what I had sewn, for thinking that the world would have been better off without me.”

Hewley let a moment pass, before he reached over and clasped a strong hand on Oren’s shoulder, giving it a reassuring squeeze, “Finding a renewed purpose is hard. It would be much easier if one simply fell from the sky and into our laps. But, we owe it to ourselves to try … and maybe let a friend give us a helping hand now and again.”

What would help Oren fill the emptiness left in his soul? Angeal couldn’t say for sure. Each and every person was different, carrying their own trauma and regrets, lost in the complicated maze that was life. But, perhaps, one lost soul could help another find their way, or even just get them started. There was no guarantee that Oren would accept any help from Angeal, but he owed it to his fellow fallen Soldier to try. And, in Oren’s own words, he should try and let others help him as well.