“It was a strange, cold thing to realize I was born to be a murderer,” his voice trailed softly into the night. The light of the haven was a candle under his luminescent green eyes, making them brighter than they seemed.
He was met with a curious silence.
“My parents were people in white coats with clipboards and needles.” Sephiroth's eyes darted to the right at the sound of a spawning daemon, but chose to ignore it. There were no humans in the immediate area. He absently flicked a lock of white hair behind his shoulder.
“Everyone else had volunteered,” the ex-soldier continued. “I was conditioned.”
The magic of the haven hummed beneath them, low under the growls of the nearby creature.
“We also had a choice,” Nyx filled the silence that followed, leaning forward toward his pack. He took a sip of water from his canteen and looked toward the stars.
“We wanted revenge,” he signed and leaned back. “Needed a home. Needed to survive.”
The glaive’s blue eyes flickered over to the ex-commander. Back in the thick of the war, Sephiroth was known as the White Devil. He was a giant of a man, built like a gymnast, but with the strength of a behemoth. He belonged in magazines for women to drool over, if he wasn’t already condemned to death by the deeds he’d done against the Lucian crown.
“Survival, I think, does not constitute throwing yourself into the arms of danger,” The Niflheim soldier responded at length.
“But it makes sure that our new home lives to see another day.”
“Noble,” Sephiroth hummed.
“Noble only to those who’ve never lost anything.”
The white haired soldier rose to his feet and headed toward the edge of the plateau. “Ironically, one would need to have had in order to have lost.”
The glaive knew he left but chose not to follow. Nyx kept his gaze skyward, absently listening to the wails of a daemon fighting for its life. He didn’t care to note which one.