Raised by Wolves

In Which Cloud Sees Ghosts

Chapter II

When he came into awareness again, the first thing Cloud noticed was the cold. He was lying on what felt like frozen, damp stone. The air was crisp and felt like snow, chilling him even more. A shiver ran through his body, forcing him to open his eyes and become aware of the pain his body was currently in. It felt like he'd taken a rather thorough beating.

A quick survey of his body showed that that was indeed the case. His torso, legs, and arms were littered with bruises and scrapes. Cloud reached up with small, childlike hands to feel his sore forehead; there was a small gash there over his eyebrow, bleeding sluggishly. Cloud blinked. And blinked again.

Childlike hands?

Cloud stumbled to his feet and looked down at his body. Short, scrawny legs were attached to a bony waist and thin chest. Equally small arms, corded with light muscle, went uncovered aside from a leather cuff and cheap, braided wire bracelets that hid his fragile wrists. Small hands reached up and felt his face, fingers tracing over soft features. Cloud knew that if he looked in a mirror, he would see a pair of large, sky blue eyes without the taint of mako.

The blonde, newly-made-child took a deep breath and let it out shakily in a steady stream. The frigid air washed his lungs with cold, bringing his attention to his surroundings. Large blue eyes flicked around uncertainly. It was late in the evening, the shadows deep and long. The old, weathered buildings and cobbled streets looked eerily familiar…

Cloud's eyes widened in recognition and sudden clarity of memory. He was in the past. He was in the past in a child's beaten up body with memories from the future. And he was back in Nibelheim, the place where everything started.

Cloud felt like throwing up. He pressed his now small hands to his mouth in an effort to keep from making any noise and from throwing up whatever food he must've had that day.

"Oh, Gaea," he thought, "I don't have anything or anyone to count on here. No one from this time knows me, and I don't have First Tsurugi or Fenrir. Ifrit! I don't even have a materia bracer, assuming I could find materia in the first place!"

A body a little over four feet tall with no mako in its system and no weapons whatsoever; Cloud had never in his life felt so defenseless.

To Cloud's horror and consternation, silent tears had begun to stream down his face, his new body unaccustomed to the torrential amount of depressing thoughts and feelings that were flooding through him. The boy took another deep breath of cool air in an effort to calm himself and hiccuped.

First thing's first: he needed to figure out what the date was and what was going on in the world outside Nibelheim. And it wouldn't hurt to find out how old he was (or how young).

As Cloud started walking in the direction of his childhood home, swiping away remnants of the tears that were still trying to flow, he suddenly remembered a very important detail:

His mother was alive.

Cloud was running before he'd completed the thought.

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He was now standing outside the door to his house, memories washing over him as he panted, trying to catch his breath. He winced with each inhalation. He'd forgotten that his ribs were rather thoroughly bruised. Cloud briefly wondered who'd administered the kicks. Memories from his childhood were slowly surfacing, triggered by the familiar sights, smells, and sounds. If what he remembered was correct, the beating would have most likely been administered by Kelle Benson and his two sidekicks, Shan and Mikael Wetherly.

After a few moments of deep, calming breaths, Cloud pushed open the door and entered the house.

"Cloud! There you are! I was getting worried," said a relieved voice.

Cloud nearly choked as his mother came towards him. Soft, pale blonde hair the same shade as Cloud's was tied in a loose braid that draped over her shoulder. Her dark blue eyes were framed with laugh lines. What must have once been skin as pale and smooth as her son's was now lightly tanned and slightly weathered from years of living in the harsh shadow of the Nibel Mountains. Her light pink lips were parted in resigned surprise at her child's beaten up condition.

Cloud swallowed, and then opened his mouth. "H-hey, mom," he said quietly.

"Oh, Cloud," she said, quickly striding over to her frozen-in-place son. "What happened this time?" she asked gently, dropping down gracefully onto her knees in front of her son as she quickly took stock of his injuries. "At least nothing's broken this time," she murmured, wrapping her arms carefully around her son and picking him up, ignoring the boy's yelp of surprise.

Cloud didn't say anything more, just locked his arms around his mother. His living, breathing mother.

"I'm sorry, mom," he said, burying his face into the crook of his mom's neck. He was so sorry, for everything. For not being strong enough to stop Sephiroth, for not being strong enough to protect Zack, for not being strong enough to remember who he really was. For not even being able to keep his child's promise to Tifa.

Elle Strife hugged her child a bit closer and said, "Hush. There is nothing to be sorry for. Now, let's go patch you up," she continued, smiling down cheerfully at the blonde spikes.

A few hours later, Cloud was tucked into bed, bandaged and filled with the dinner his mother had cooked. Cloud hadn't felt so content in a long time; he'd had no trouble downing the food. His mother's cooking was just as good as he remembered. Cloud smiled, still feeling the kiss his mom had placed on his brow after tucking him in.

It felt a bit strange, he reflected, to be tucked in by his mother. After all, mentally he was well over sixty years old. Now, his body was roughly around six or eight, though he was leaning more towards eight.

The man-turned-boy looked around his room, vaguely starting to recall the items there. A stick sat leaning in the corner against the wall. Cloud had a few tenuous memories of running around the mountains by himself, swinging that stick around as though it was a sword. Rather embarrassing, now that he thought about it.

The walls of the room were plain, unadorned aside from a single calendar that was hanging next to the door. Cloud looked at it a moment, and then pushed back the quilts and clambered down from his bed, almost silently. He went to the calendar to check the year and month. He blinked in surprise.

Eight years old. Unbelievable. Cloud turned and went to his window, avoiding the few wooden toys on the floor; he'd need to pick those up. The boy put a hand against the window and pushed it open, allowing the cool air to sweep in, ruffling his hair.

Tifa would be seven years old now, Cloud mused. Her mother would die soon and Tifa would try to cross the bridge to make it over the mountains to a mother that wouldn't be there, no matter how much she wished. And Cloud would follow her, trying to convince her not to. And as they would cross the bridge, it would collapse. Cloud would carry Tifa all the way back. And, Cloud just recalled, the villagers would blame him for Tifa getting hurt, making his already hard life even harder.

The eight year old sighed.

"I'll deal with that when I get to it," Cloud thought, a yawn nearly cracking his small jaw. "And I'll need to start building up this body, making it stronger. Maybe Vincent will help me, once I release him," he continued, abruptly remembering that Vincent was still in the mansion, locked in the coffin.

Another yawn split the blonde's face. He turned away from the window and climbed back into his over-sized bed, nestling himself under the layers of quilts that his mother had sewn. He would go find Vincent tomorrow or sometime soon; he did have a six year limit. With that last thought, Cloud's eyes fluttered closed and he fell into a dreamless sleep.

AN: Another short chapter, I do apologize lol.