Sephiroth hears Genesis approach. His fingers curl around the blade of his sword, through the oiling cloth, and he almost cuts through the cloth on his next pass. Still, the blade is maintained, now.

Genesis touches him, and even just the brush of a hand on his back is comforting. He calls Sephiroth's name.

It has been a day at their base, and the reality that Sephiroth has deserted Shinra, and that he is his own man, is beginning to coalesce, to solidify in his mind, to become Real.

He grips Masamune's hilt, and sweeps it slowly to his left side and sets it down horizontally on the ground, opposite of Genesis. The trouble with this particular sword is that it is far too long for a sheath, and so Sephiroth has to be incredibly careful with it, aware at all times of its position in space. It is a promise to Shinra's enemies: the naked blade, that cannot be sheathed, that will always cut.

Now it is a promise to Shinra itself. Every blade cuts the hand that does not respect it.

Genesis touches him like someone who has been cut before.

He turns. "Genesis." He smiles. Genesis looks a little better than he did the previous night. The rest seems to have done him good.