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This story was written for one of my besties, Raposa_Wolf, whom I dearly, dearly love. Thank you so much for all of the wonderful conversations we've had, even when technology makes me a very unreliable replyer. I have enjoyed our long, long conversations about our interests, our debates, etc. I love, love, love you, homeslice, and I hope this fic is what you were hoping for when you gave me the prompt.
Disclaimer: The characters of Cloud and Aerith, and the setting of Midgar do not belong to me.
Cobalt-aquamarine irises longingly gaze at the flower merchant from across the street, desiring only to keep a resolute watch over her as she sells all colors of lilies, roses, geraniums, and carnations. His heart, which is created from the planet's very essence, inflames by the most familiar warmth whenever the contours of her sweet visage becomes adorned in sheer glee, her radiance beaming like a lighthouse through a wild, unpredictable storm.
Through the evening's drizzle, he cannot help but savor the evanescent moments before their next meeting, where he's allowed to merely observe the gentle beauty from a safe distance and prolong the simple enjoyment of watching her make a little girl's day better by giving her a tiara made from baby's breath, enhancing a couple's date night by selling a bouquet of vibrant, picturesque roses, or passing out a lily to a downtrodden stranger who severely needed a bit of cheering up. Her kindness is inspirational, as well as contagious, spreading like dandelion florets on the breeze throughout Loveless Street, the neighboring vendors trading their goods with her and each other as though they were some sort of community.
That had always been one of her constants – how she saw people, how she could read them for what they were without any judgments, and ensure anyone who was lucky enough to brush paths with her is better off for one of life's small blessings. She is always one of a kind, no matter how the millennia changed and people seemed to grow more cut off and cynical. And he loves her all the more for it, loves her deeper in a way that will inevitably deliver another wound to his scarred, tattered heart over and over again.
For a moment, the flower merchant glances up from the register inside of her cart and her mesmerizing pools of shamrock-green meet his cerulean ones for the first time. Or perhaps the dozenth time. As though someone had his heart in a chokehold, the beating comes to a sharp halt when the Loveless Street peddler picks up her left hand and waves at him.
No matter how many times they've met, no matter how many times they would wind up in a similar scenario, the butterflies still haven't died. He still gets flustered when she directs her cheerful stare right at him; his heartbeat still slowly stammers back to life when he's caught in the orbit of her warm smile, the same, exact smile that kept his soul intact. Shyly, the blond watcher also raises one hand, while the other keeps a firm grasp of the yellow umbrella so that the erratic bluster can't yank it away, and waves back at her.
Angling her wrist ever-so slightly, the young woman gestures at the stranger to approach, inviting him into her sphere without much concern or caution. She casts an unwavering, welcoming smile at him as if he isn't a total stranger.
Of course, he has to double-check just to make sure, and sheepishly indicates a finger at himself in a sort of 'Me?' motion.
The vendor nods from her spot across the street in front of the theater. “Yes, you! Come on over if you're brave enough!”
For an instance, he's swept up by the sound of her voice – the way it reminds him of flowers adrift on a gust of spring breeze or light raindrops falling into a pond or a lake, creating ripples that spread out into eternity; soft, kind, but resilient. Ethereal.
The corners of his mouth gradually rise into a smirk at the familiar challenge in her tone and obliges her summon. Brushing past a myriad of passerbys and fellow pedestrians, the blond man is reluctant to remove his trance-like gaze off the woman for even a second out of fear that she might wilt and wither from existence, or that focusing on anything else would interrupt what very little time they had together.
Granted, it would have been more helpful to his cause to put in a smidgen more mindfulness into his surroundings. With only a few more steps to go until he made it across the street to his Flower Girl, a suit-clad businessman knocks into him with a force that causes them both to hit the ground.
“Hey, lightning skull! Why don't you try to watch where you're going, huh? It would make it easier on us earthlings wanting to earn a living,” the surly man griped and grumbled, hurrying to collect whatever important business documents he had off the damp ground before the puddles could destroy them.
“You bumped into me,” the spiky-haired male points out matter-of-factually, picking himself off the ground.
“Then don't move so slowly that I can bump into you,” the ill-natured stranger retorts, hastily standing up as well.
Perhaps not the type to consider his own surroundings, something suddenly crunches beneath the heel of the grouch's work loafer – the blond's yellow umbrella. Not that he notices as he resumes his fast-past gait down Loveless, slinging stern vulgarisms at anyone who got in his way. Sighing to himself at the silver dollops of precipitation continue to fall toward the earth, the once-and-future soldier takes the broken umbrella into his hands so that at least it wouldn't be a tripper hazard, and shakes his head in disappointment. Why did mortals make a hobby out of being impolite to one another?
“Can it be fixed?” the familiar, ethereal voice questions softly from behind him.
Turning around, time feels as thought it slows down and hastens simultaneously, when they're standing more than a foot apart. Although he should be used to this, having met her a thousand different times over a span of a thousand different lifespans, his heartbeat never fails to quiver while the oxygen in his body sharply hitches in the back of his throat. He tries to play it cool and not let it show how he needs to catch his breath. “No,” is all he can say in response to her question.
“I'm sorry to hear that. Here, come with me,” the plantswoman suggests in order to get them out of the way of the street teeming with fast-moving city slickers and leads him back to her vending cart, gingerly tugging at his wrist so that they can stand beneath the roof together. “There! I saved you! From the rain and from the harm of other grumps!”
“Thanks,” he replies casually, tucking the mangled umbrella into the safety of his black peacoat's pocket.
“Why would you hang onto a broken umbrella? I thought it couldn't be fixed.”
“It's cant be, not right now anyway. I'll have to see what I can do for it later.”
“Wouldn't it be easier to buy a new umbrella?”
“Probably, but I like making life harder than it needs to me. Keeps me from getting too bored.”
“Hmm.” The young woman giggles underneath her breath as she absorbs what he just told her. “That explains a lot.”
“It does?” the blond man asks.
“Yep!” she answered chipperly. “Explains why you were waiting so long for me to make a move instead of doing it yourself!”
Fortunately, he was quite skilled at maintaining composure of his facial features; unfortunately, the blood seeping throughout his cheeks betrays him. Quietly, the immortal clears his throat with a cough, the pops his collar up to obscure the cherry-red color rushing to his complexion. Yet, he doesn't deny her bold claim. Forgets to, anyway. “I – You – Um...”
“I don't mind being the one to break the ice, but you'll have to make it up to me by purchasing a flower.” Another laugh, as light as bubble, floats from the Flower Girl's lips, though this one has an edge of harmless teasing to it.
“Was this entire thing just a clever sales tactic? Smile at the stranger across the street and he'll definitely buy a flower?” he jokes in subsequent nonchalance, burying his hands in his pockets.
And just like that, they're talking as if they've always known each other. Hiding from the rain together like young lovers.
“I will admit that you are noticeably strange,” the clever, tactical vendor nods, thoughtfully cupping her chin betwixt the curl of her thumb and index finger, “but I like strange. I connect with strange. I am strange.”
“Name one strange quality about yourself,” he challenges in a show of skepticism, though he is not actually doubtful, and leans against the theater's cold, brick wall with his arms crossed over his chest. He's smiling – subtly on the outside; inside, his soul is beaming from the utter peace of being within her presence.
“Sometimes,” the brunette saleswoman starts, looking around in an exaggerated manner as though an unwanted person is eavesdropping, “I swear I can hear the flowers talking to me. And sometimes, I even talk back.”
“Wow, you really are a freakshow. Bet that would make a great circus act though” the spiked-haired gentleman jests, adorning only the shadow of a smirk. “So what do the flowers say to you?”
Her initial reaction to his indulgent question is to ever-so slightly bounce in place, ecstatic for his inquiry. “Usually, they give me some pointers on how to properly care for them – more sunlight, less water, softer soil, things like that. Other times, they advise me on who they'd like to be sold to.”
The stranger quirks a fair-haired eyebrow, disbelief etched into the shallow creases of his forehead. “You've gotta be kidding me.” Granted, of course, he trusts her with every fiber of his being.
“It's true!” the apparent flower whisperer insists, stomping one foot, then takes a step closer to him. “For instance, do you see that elderly man over there? The one sitting on the bench?”
For a second, the sudden, closer proximity catches the somewhat damp blond off-guard. In the space between them, or rather what scarcely there was of it, the aroma of fresh, carefully tended-to blossoms resonate from the Flower Girl's dark caramel locks and distracts him. So much so that he almost neglects to nod his head in reply. Eventually, he does nod, however awkwardly. “Yeah?”
Thankfully, the cart owner doesn't point out or mock her conversation partner's brief lack of verbal grace, perhaps due to the fact that she also senses sparks flying. Again, she grants him a smile – smaller this time, bordering on bashful. “Well, the tulips sitting in his lap picked him out. Said that his name is Edgar, that he has a wonderful collection of old jazz records. But he hasn't listened to any of them in five years, ever since his wife passed away.”
Slowly, the man's sapphire follows the direction the flower merchant points in, before landing on the older fellow's resting on a bench over by a stop sign. In his lap is a potted tulip, its pink petals saturated with vibrancy against the silvery backdrop of an otherwise dreary day. But he was grinning from ear-to-ear as his brown eyes remain fixated on the flowers, his lips murmuring a never-ending stream of words. “She'll make good company for him.”
“She?”
“The tulip.”
“What makes you think the tulip is a she?”
“I don't know. Things that come from Mother Earth are typically referred to with feminine pronouns? Intuition? His wife was reincarnated as a flower?” he supposes, shyly turning his attention back to her, his own love.
“You think his wife returned to him as a flower to spend more time with him? And I'm the freakshow?” teases the businesswoman, backing up a step or two.
“Maybe we can hang out at the popcorn stand between high-wire acts,” he retorts, proud to have been identified as a fellow freak.
“It's a date,” she concurs. A stunning tinge of raspberry blooms across her cheeks. She places the cold backs of her fingers against the radiant warmth upon her face as though to check for a fever, and continues, “But you know I hadn't really considered that before – that the tulip wanted him, because she recognized him. You're very clever.”
“Th-Th-Thanks, Ae-” He almost utters the syllables of her name, but swiftly shuts his mouth. Now that would have probably scared her off.
“This one,” the peddler goes on, completely oblivious to his near-mistake, and begins to gingerly stroke at the yellow lily placed at the very front of her cart, “told me to talk to you. Didn't give a particular reason why, though.”
“It symbolizes reunion between lovers, doesn't it?” he inquires as if he doesn't already know – as if that lily hadn't been involved with God knows how many encounters, as if the color yellow doesn't remind him of her.
“It does!” she exclaims, forest-green eyes full of mirth.
He longs to tell her the truth in its entirety – to simply state that they knew each other and, more importantly, were lovers. Are lovers. Will be lovers. That there is wisdom in that little flower's guidance. But he forces himself to hold back, always too aware of how crazy he would have sounded.
“My little lily is quite bold, but it never lies,” the Flower Girl murmurs affectionately. Leaning down, she breathes in the sweet, floral fragrance and emits a euphoric “Aah..” before placing those disarming, emerald orbs on her newest friend again. “Oh! I almost forgot! What's your name?”
/ / /
“Cloud Strife,” the grand leader of the Cetra clan spoke softly to his young granddaughter, “is your assigned protector. And you, Aerith, are his assigned healer henceforth. Lady Gaia has willed it so.”
“Yes, Grandfather. I understand,” Aerith nodded respectfully and waved at the quiet, young Knight. “Hello, Cloud.”
“Hello,” Cloud nodded in return, his tongue too nervous to even repeat her name in return.
From the very second he was born, it was written in the stars that Cloud Strife was to train under the swords and shields of the Knights of Round so that one day he would serve the Holder of Holy. It was an honor to have been bestowed such a meaningful task – that he never once doubted was coded in his genes, in his bloodstream was to carry a sword, for they all felt right in his hands, especially when it ensured the protection of others. But to have been chosen to guard the heiress of Holy was a weightier obligation – daunting and never-wracking. During his recent travels from his hometown of Nibelheim to the Icicle Area, Cloud questioned if he was truly good enough, if his elders made the right selection, if perhaps he should abandon his destiny.
Granted, the Knight's doubts were fleeting – minuscule doubts based on nerves and nothing more; until now. Now that he had officially come face-to-face with his destiny, his fears grew tenfold. He had never once given a second, a shred, or a cell of imagination to her beauty. Her... Aerith. Aerith's clover-colored eyes startled his heart.
“I shall leave you two alone to get acquainted. Please be on time for the ceremony tonight,” the grand leader said, subtly arching a brow as the pair of young folk shyly locked gazes. Before returning to the rest of the afternoon's obligations, he turned to his granddaughter once more, affectionately ruffled her fringe, then took his leave.
“What ceremony?” asked Cloud, having been told nothing about this.
“The Mending of Seeds,” the Cetra announced politely, stroking her fingers through her thick curtains of maple-brown hair. “It's a ritual where Protectors and Healers to never foresake one another and to forever treat each other as equals.” Her explanation came to a pause when she turned herself completely around and began to walk away; of course, she only made it a couple of yards before she realized the Knight wasn't following. Casting a teasing glower over her shoulder, she laughed and beckoned him to her side. “Day one and you're already falling behind. That doesn't bode well for our journeys together now, does it?”
“Oh.” Quickly, the newly dubbed Protector shook off the burden of his nerves and caught up with his charge. “S-Sorry.”
Nodding at him as he strolled by her side, Aerith finally continued, “Our bond is sacred to our people, Cloud. Do you know why?”
“The Knights have always told me that it's because you and I are meant to aid the world however we can, even if the task doesn't always look so straightforward,” Cloud replied, subconsciously mimicking Sir Angeal's solemn, yet optimistic tone. “It's our honor to save Lady Gaia's people along our travels. Protect and heal.”
“Mm-hmm,” the heiress answered as the two made their way down the sunlit side of a hilltop, toward the village below. “But do you know the legend of the First Protector and the First Healer?”
“Mythologies aren't prioritized by the Knights of Round or a part of the curriculum, no.”
“Mythologies,” Aerith echoed slowly, the sweetness of her voice fading into into a disappointment, somber sound.
“I-I-I anything mean don't by it, milady,” Cloud spouted abruptly, his delivery so swift and so jumbled that he almost bit his tongue – doubting even a single syllable was intelligible. “Uh... I mean, I don't mean anything by it. I just... I was taught...” His footsteps, along with the pathway, halted, causing Aerith to also stop. Expelling a breath as though to exorcise the butterflies from his stomach, Sir Strife summoned every ounce of courage into his body in order to properly look his Healer in the eyes – the sincerest sapphire irises spellbound by her Lifestream-infused ones, the latter of which held his gaze with just as much determination. And then, he spoke, “Knights are not educated in the romanticized ideals of our tales, legends, histories, or whatever you prefer to call them. I am dedicated to you. Protecting you. That is all I need to know about our bond.”
“You don't even know me. You may even come to realize that you don't like me very much.” Despite the sobering nature of the young woman's statement, her playful attitude had returned, along with a giggle that breezed by lighter than any autumn wind.
“The same could be said for you.”
“Then you better not get on my bad side, Cloud,” the Healer lightheartedly cautioned the Knight, resuming her travels toward the town of huts, cabins, and caravans. “It is time you are properly educated.”
And so, the twosome walked together along the trailer toward the heart of the Icicle Area. Aerith regaled Cloud with a story about the First Protector and the First Healer, also known as Sir Skylark and Lady Bluewhite. Back when the planet was still new and before all of its wonders were discovered, the Lifestream began to create and produce all variants of organisms to truly bring life upon the planet at the behest of the Goddess. Trees sprang up from the ground, always accompanied by babbling brooks; animals crawled out from their homes in the water and took residence across the lands; all manner of life thrived on Lady Gaia, though the Goddess from whom the planet would be named after was yet to be satisfied.
Thus, she conjured the ever-flowing energy from the Lifestream to conceptualize humanity, her most special invention, for their sentience would one day fill the planet with more beauty. But there were dangers all over. Beasts from every region would easily stamp out humankind again and again, until Lady Gaia realized that it was not enough to merely use the Lifestream to design humans; she needed to share herself. Her power. Mother Gaia and Father Lifestream, working in tandem, ensured the survival of humankind with a race of beings known as the Cetra, the stewards of the planet.
However, the scriptures of present-day claimed that it was far more important to Mother Gaia that the Cetra heal the wounds left behind, while it was more important to Father Lifestream to have those wounds prevented in the first place, which inevitably resulted in the creation of two separate factions of Cetra, those who wielded weapons and those who wielded energy from water, from the trees and their brooks. For generations, the children of Lady Gaia and the Lifestream competed for superiority – to prove to their makers who was actually the best bet to keep humanity going, though it didn't seem either side was victorious. Humans still existed in humble numbers, while it was the Cetra who multiplied.
One day, a young lady became lost in a forest, somewhere between the two clans. Her foot was caught in a hunting trap meant to capture a wild beast, a beast known for its brutality against its prey. The girl, named Lady Bluewhite, cried out as the grizzly monster charged through the woods. But then, Sir Skylark appeared, brandishing a heavy sword that would scare off any animal, but it was never destined to be that easy. The hero was reckless and headstrong against the fearsome, tall creature, earning as many wounds from the monster's horrific claws as he landed blows on its leather flesh. Fortunately, the woman was able to escape with her life as Sir Skylark drew the mighty, relentless beast away, though the situation was far more dire for him.
Lady Bluewhite ran to er village amongst the Healers, quickly recounting the events. They were naturally relieved to discover Lady Bluewhite's safety and return, but were reluctant to intervene with Sir Skylark's doomed fate, for the Protector clan was known to be boastful and foolhardy, while Healers were proud and reserved. Hence, the girl resolved herself to return to the forest alone, indebted to the man who valiantly saved her life. She searched the dark woods all over. The starless, moonless night was no friend to her cause, but she eventually found the warrior clinging to fleeting breaths of life amongst the dirt. Lady Bluewhite was not a particularly skilled Healer yet, for she was still quite young in her craft, so she prayed to the planet for guidance and assistance. “Please, lend me your strength,” she begged through choking sobs, pooling her magic into the restoration of Sir Skylark's health.
A long, arduous night passed. Lady Bluewhite wasn't sure for all that time if she could achieve the goal of saving her hero's life, while he muttered delirious thank you's throughout those dark hours.
By sunrise, the planet heeded the amateur Healer's prayer. Sir Skylark survived thanks to Lady Bluewhite, who survived thanks to him. From then on, they vowed to work side by side, realizing that Protectors and Haler were stronger together. Together, they parented a seed upon their travels to celebrate their friendship, and that seed blossomed across the world into radiant, yellow lilies.
“So, did they fall in love?” questioned the Knight as the heiress' long tale drew to a conclusion.
“Oh-ho, you're somewhat of a romantic underneath all that shiny armor,” Aerith retorted, finding humor in his question. “I would like to believe they did, even if that really isn't the point of the legend. Stronger together. That's the moral of the story.”
“Sure,” Cloud nodded nonchalantly.
The Holder of Holy shook her head to and from in response to her partner's indifference, adorning a smile all the while.
Finally, they reached their destination – a tall establishment with magnificent stonewalls, windowpanes, and steeples.
“A church?”
“Mm-hmm. A church.” Aerith guided Cloud through the entrance of the place of spiritual significance, gingerly taking him by the hand, and led him up the alter, which was entirely covered in flowers. “This is where tonight's ceremony will take place. Protectors and Healers are presented with a seed to remind them of the importance of teamwork, but I thought it would be nice if we both chose a seed from a flower we both like.”
Again, Cloud nodded – tempted to be casual toward the mage's request, but refrained when her emerald gaze intensified upon his visage, hopeful yet eager; after all, they were meant to be partners, so he should grant her wishes with all of the passion she anticipated from him... No... That wasn't it. Cloud sincerely wanted to oblige Aerith's request, not out of obligation, but because there was beauty in her inclusion – the deep love of her culture and customs was infectious. He was a Cetra, too. So, his aquamarine eyes began to study the vast array of flowers adorning every corner of the grand church – trying to figure out if any one of them caught his attention.
The church was decorated with all kinds of flowers – ones with intricate, complex designs and patterns upon their petals, though those didn't exactly call out to him, for they seemed too loud for his tastes. Granted, the burden of selection wasn't his alone; Aerith also gandered around the spiritual center from corner to corner, elaborating upon the mythology of practically every flower, along with the symbolism and use. Cloud quickly learned that Aerith was a chatterbox; there wouldn't be too many long silences in his near future, and he was equally sure that he'd be some kind of planet lore expert thanks to her, which he was fine with. Her vivacity was amusing – endearing perhaps – and he prided himself upon being a good listener.
Eventually, Cloud and Aerith wound up toward the front of the church again, around the altar, still yet to have picked out a seed for their ceremony.
“We don't have much time left. Soon, I'll have to go and get ready for tonight.” Expelling a weary breath, the Cetra sat upon the steps in front of the altar.
The still upright man spotted something perched at the top of Aerith's head, a small, tangible piece of sunshine resting admist her locks of cinnamon and teak. “You, um, have something stuck in your hair.”
“Oh!” Instinctively, Aerith started gingerly patting at her head in search of the foreign object, though she had trouble correctly locating it.
“No, no. More towards the back. Not too far back,” the Knight attempted to instruct his charge, yet his help merely aided her frustration. “Here, let me.” Therefore, he approached the young woman, awkwardly at first, and plucked the yellow item off her head along with one or two hairs. “It's a flower petal.”
“From a lily,” she added, standing up to further examine the small, soft petal pinched between Cloud's thumb and index finger. “It must have fallen from the ceiling.”
“Probably.” All of a sudden, a breath started to boil in the pit of the Protector's lungs from him hanging on too tightly, while his heartbeat doubled per minute in reaction to the heiress holding onto his hand. Outwardly, he was able to remain calm and casual, even if he struggled to meet her stare. “Anyway, what's this one mean?”
“Nothing too special.” A mischievous laugh softly bubbled from her lips as though it was some type of secret. “But I think this one will suit us just fine.”
“This one...” the Knight repeated, perplexed at her meaning – what they had been doing for the past hour had totally slipped from his memory for a moment – until realization settled upon him. “I guess this one chose us.”
“Mm-hmm! Yep! Come on, let's find a seed for it!” Aerith exclaimed cheerfully, beaming at Cloud as though there were teenagers sneaking off somewhere for a romantic rendezvous.
/ / /
Cloud often ponders upon the concepts of fate and time – whether such things are cruel to him more often than they are a blessing, or perhaps if it is the other way around. He doesn't know how to feel about his love for Aerith always being predictable. In a way, he is doomed to love her over and over again, as the planet goes soaring around the sun over and over again, powerless to fight the gravity that has pulled them back together across countless revolutions. God knows he's tried. Tried not to meet her, tried not to love her, tried not to involve himself with her in the hopes to save himself from the debilitating heartbreak that always followed not a second after losing her. Again and again and again. After all, he had lost Aerith just as many times – every, single time – to murder, disease, accidents – yet he is the one always left behind to suffer, to somehow piece back together the dismantled fragments of his life, considering if it was worth it or not to to set himself up for the agonizing failure again and again. One day, it would break him completely to a point where his mind and soul could no longer be mended from the certainty of loving Aerith again and again.
Yet, Cloud is bound to her, and his halfhearted attempts to avoid meeting her never panned out. He loathes the inevitability of her death, the way it came for her so swiftly and often without warning; but he couldn't exist properly in a world where he couldn't love her. That would have been torture.
“You know, I'm really lucky,” the Flower Girl murmurs gently, once she's caught her breath again.
Her statement yanks Cloud from his morbid musings as his muscular arms tenderly squeeze around his lover as though to stop her from disappearing into thin air. Then, he presses a kiss against the top of her head, where he once found a flower petal, and shifts one of his legs to rest between both of hers, while they soak in the high of afterglow. “What makes you say that?”
“Because I know you, I love you, and you love me,” Aerith retorts. “What more could I ask for?”
More time. Just one, full life. To grow old together. “A trip around the world would be pretty cool.”
“It would be,” the brunette agrees. “I've had dreams about traveling the globe in one of those old timey chocobo-carriage things, making everyone smile with my flowers, with you at my side.”
“Maybe someday we can have a roadtrip like that.” For obvious reasons, he cannot make any promises, for it is always a mystery how much time they would have together. Sometimes it is as short as two weeks; the longest they'd ever had together was seven years; but she is destined to die young. No matter what. The aches and pains of increasing age would never creep into her bones. “As long as you let me pick out the music.”
“On second thoughts, staying home has its advantages,” the flower peddler lightly teases and scooches herself around to snuggle her face against the warmth of his chest. “Yeah, that's more like it.” Her body practically melts into Cloud's, seeking out his natural heat, and muscular form that brings her the most intense rush of comfort – as if he is relaxation personified.
In subsequence, his arms move to engulf her again, but with a stronger, more tenacious embrace, albeit tender; he holds her like she is the most precious thing in the universe and he's terrified that she could just evaporate out of his grasp. After all, moments like this are bitter and sweet to him – fleeting but forever, passing by in a blink of an eye; yet Cloud knows these were the sort of memories, when he and Aerith are caught up in the sheets and quiet, that he would cling to long after the inevitable came, in the years between their next meeting, memories that he cherishes with all of his being. He just wishes there was more time.
“Cloud... Why are you sad all of a sudden?” Aerith inquires, pulling back her face to examine his intently. “Does being with me make you sad?”
“What? No, of course not.” For a minute, Cloud considers how else he should answer her query, tempted to deny it altogether. But it is not the first time she had asked him that, nor would it be the last. “I just sort of wish that we could stay like that for longer.”
“In bed, all cozy and comfy and cuddling,” Aerith murmurs, her concerns quelled for the time-being. “You can tell me about her, you know, your ex-lover.”
“I know.” The immortal offers the woman in his arms a gentle, little smile as he attempts to stuff sadder recollections into his mind-closet – of all the times her life had been cut way too short. “I'm just not the best at embracing the moment like I should.”
“Because you've been hurt before. You've been hurt a lot,” Aerith states, the contours of her face dressed in concern once more, though perhaps the thinnest layer of jealousy lies in the lime-green flecks of her eyes. She really has no idea, no memories of everything that came before. “I can see it in your eyes.”
“Aerith.” Exasperated from the direction the discussion is going, the former Knight sits up with his back leaning against the headboard. “This isn't a part of me I want you to figure out and try to heal. So, please, just don't.” His tone is not impatient or harsh; he cannot bear to show the love of his life even a fraction of unkindness, though not every one of his walls is meant to come tumbling down upon her say-so. As Aerith, too, moves up to sit upright, Cloud gently takes one of her hands and presses her cool, supple palm against his cheek. “Sorry. I'm... There are parts of me that are broken and there's no piecing them back together. Sometimes I wish it was my heart that would completely break. But you...”
It's not easy for the last living Cetra to explain to Aerith how he lived his life in dull, tiresome black and white in the times he couldn't be with her, as if all color had been eclipsed by cold, mundane sorrow. But she always brings the warmth and radiance back with a simple smile. He does not have the vocabulary to articulate how existence feels like an eternal winter until she returned with the renewal of spring. He does not want to talk about the echoing voids in his heart that crack, flake, and leak like an old roof every time she left, but oh how those wounds came so close to being cured every time he found her again.
“It's okay, Cloud,” the sweetest woman alive reassures him, swaying her thumb back and forth across his cheek. Then, she leans in and places a small peck on his lips. “Keep your mysteries if you want. I just don't want any ghosts from your past to haunt you or stop you from being with me.”
All the blond man can do in response is cup the back of Aerith's head to deliver another kiss, this one confirming his determination to savor every single second with her and to hold on to all of his memories of her. As their mouth synchronize into a perfect rhythm, holding together as though they could inhale each other into their souls, Cloud and Aerith melt back into the sheets.
/ / /
With the arrival of the Calamity that Fell from the Sky, there also came ruination. Senseless devastation and decay had enveloped the planet, the alien entity ever-hungry to ensure gritty end of all life. Thousands of lives found their way back to the Lifestream – at the cost of a million tears shed, millions of mournful, sound-breaking cries echoed throughout the planet, and a million hearts left behind to barely pick up the pieces. Everywhere Jenova went, deterioration surely followed. Flowers wilted from dehydration within the Calamity's route, entire oceans disintegrated into coarse, messy sand within a single, and it seemed the sun itself had to look away in fear, eclipsed by a crimson fog, giving strength only to a never-ending, blood-red night. There was no making sense of what Jenova wanted from the Gaians, nor why it sought out to destroy everything; there was no reasoning with it, there was no reason for any of it. Annihilation was simply part of the creature's nature. Incarnate darkness.
Across the world, the Cetra banded together along with their human allies to protect all they held dear, but Jenova was the mightiest enemy they'd ever faced – for it was a virus, tainting any sign of life that was placed in its path. Protectors and Healers fought valiantly together, pouring their collection strength and power into their attacks – everyone acting as a single unit to ensure the long survival of the planet.
Only a few sparks of hope remained in the face of destruction, yet they were steadfast and true. Holy's sole keeper and the Knight of Round stood back-to-back against their most fearsome opponent, their synergenic strengths proving to be just as fearsome as Jenova. The battle for life and death of the planet raged on for days, each side able to hold their own. Tears and sweat were lost, and blood... was the price of Jenova's defeat.
“Cloud!” exclaimed Aerith, kneeling beside him. She struggled to pull him into her lap, severely weakened from the long, arduous fight. “Why did you do that? Why did you get in the way?” she questioned him. Hot, furious tears streamed down her scratched-up cheeks, the salt invading her wounds, angry at him for using his body to block Jenova's final attack. “It was aimed at me! Y-Y-You shouldn't've-”
“Did-” the Protector gritted his teeth, finding it difficult to speak over the loud, searing pain raked throughout his abdomen. “Didn't think about it too much.” He realized that his charge was in danger and merely acted on pure instinct. With his sword's integrity annihilated, Cloud couldn't allow Jenova to drag Aerith into oblivion with it.
“But-But why? M-My magic! I don't have enough left to...to...Wh-Wh-What am I supposed to do? I'm your Healer, but I...” Almost as though someone had sucker-punched her directly in the face, Aerith's tongue grew swollen under the weight of her teeth – struggling to speak over her soft, but long sobs. All the strength and sense she had left went into holding him. “Y-Y-You shouldn't have-”
“Hey,” Cloud murmured, his dehydrated voice trying to maintain any amount of volume as blood pooled on the floor. “I'm your body-bodyguard, right?”
“You didn't have to interpret the job description so literally.” Aerith pushed out a single, strained shred of laughter as she stroked her lover's cheek, to feel how it contorted into a gentle, reassuring smile. She wanted to wear a brave facade for him in return, but it cracked as soon as she even tried. Same as her heart.
“Aerith...” Cloud whispered slowly, even as he began to lose all feeling in his body, the life quickly draining from his wounds. There were thousands of things he longed to say to her, like how these past few years of traveling together were the best of his life and how he had wanted to kiss her so much that night at Cosmo Canyon, and how sorry he was for all the other times he chickened out; but time, nor energy, were not things he possessed in great abundance right now. “It's gonna be alright.”
“Cloud, please... Don't. Don't say goodbye. Don't give up. Don't leave me! Cloud, please, I- I'm sorry. I should have... I should have told you a thousand times over, since the day we met, I-”
When Cloud's body had no more energy left to contribute to keeping him conscious, the last thing he was able to register were Aerith's heartbroken, tortured cries while everything else disappeared from view behind the heavy darkness of his eyelids. And then, there was an abyss. For only Gaia-knows-how-long, his mind floated within some kind of chasm or vortex, one that brimmed with the warmest darkness, as if he was only asleep. No sounds, no pains, no sights, no smells, and no thoughts could disturb the Knight from his slumber, save for Aerith. Aerith's cries, Aerith's prayers, and Aerith's hands. Her enduring love followed Cloud into the dark beyond, easing any fears he might have had about dying. He was satisfied to merely exist within the comfortable darkness and forever bask in the heavenly sensation of Aerith's love. He needed nothing else.
This was a perfect dream, as she rocked Cloud in her arms...
A sensation that gradually came back to him – like the sharp, sharp tips of a million needles poking all over his skin. Odd.
Eventually, sapphire irises absorbed the light of living world once more. Motion and feelings prickled back into every inch of his tired, worn flesh, borrowing into his ligaments and sinew. Breath expanded into his lungs, while the skin tissue across his fatal wounds now existed as simple scabs.
Aerith!
Aerith had done it! She's saved him!
Fully awake, the Knight of Round launched the upper half of his torso up from the cold ground – relieved and grateful for the miracle she'd pulled off somehow.
But that relief and gratitude immediately turned into grief and blame when he spotted Aerith next to him, pale and limp on the ground, with Holy resting lifelessly in her open palm.
/ / /
Their spell together is, again, drawing to a close. Of course, Cloud isn't sure how much time was left. No one exactly knew anything yet – just that Aerith had been stricken with an incurably, life-stealing disease. Most days, it's hard to tell that she's even sick, since she's a master at keeping her frail condition disguised behind a cheerful, sunny, upbeat disposition, even as her precious flowers begin to poison the depth in her lungs with their pollen. Aerith brims with an infectiously positive energy just as she always had, and went on with life as if her chest isn't constantly on fire, as if the urge to derail any discussion with a coughing fit doesn't lurk above her head like an annoying, buzzing moth refusing to abandon her side. She's a fighter and an actress.
But it's simply inevitable that the illness would claim her, for it is gradually dimming that vivacious glimmer of earth-green in her eyes, slowly exhausting the natural peach from her complexion as she pales, little-by-little stealing the weight from her body.
“Cloud?”
“Yeah?”
“Do you believe in soulmates?” the Flower Girl questioned, her voice tired after another coughing spell, while she and Cloud lie beneath the cover of night, somewhere in the outskirts of Midgar.
“I don't know. I guess?” he answers, his gazed absentmindedly plastered on the moonless sky. “Depends on what you mean by 'soul mates.'”
“Hmm... I suppose soul mates, to me, are two people who are destined to be together no matter what, or maybe something in their very souls can't help but be drawn together,” the florist explains, her eyelids fluttering closed. “It's sad though, don't you think? Not everyone finds that one person who can make all of life's struggles, no matter how small or big, seem worth it – worth the effort, I mean.”
“Maybe that's for the best.”
“Huh? Why?”
“You shouldn't expect some magical person to come along and complete you. You should be a whole person on your own.”
“That's not what I said. I was a complete person before I met you.”
Her response elicits a soft chortle from Cloud as he shifted around on the blanket between him and the grass. “I wasn't.” A whole, complete person. “I won't be after-”
“I know. But it won't last forever.”
“What won't last forever?”
“The loss.”
“How do you know?”
“Something in my soul is telling me so. It's a small voice, but it's strong.” Aerith extends one hand toward the star-filled sky, fingers splayed wide, and idly starts flourishing her arm around as though she's a music conductor. “Ever since I got sick, I've been having these weird thoughts gnawing at me.”
“What kind of weird thoughts?” the blond man asks, feeling as if there is a stone resting in the pit of his gut.
“About you. I don't know how to explain it, but I know we'll see each other again.”
If only Aerith knew how right she really is. Yet her reassurance would never remedy the fragile, clay pieces of his heart that chipped away with each, fresh time he loses her. Lost her. And it never gets any easier, despite how much he yearns to steel himself against the agony. No, it is the exact opposite. That's why he would never wish for anyone else the great, awful burden of discovering their soul mate, not even his worst enemy. The pain, the suffering, the willful ignorance of opening one's heart to all of that excruciating torment is foolish. But Cloud is Aerith's fool. It's too late for him. He's bound to her, again and again. “I would rather keep you right where you are, if anyone ever asked me for my opinion.”
Gingerly, Cloud reaches for the brunette's hand – his thoughts lingering upon how delicate and cold her palm is – and brought them both back down to the earth, digits interlocked over his heart.
In truth, yes, he believed in soul mates. Without a sliver of a doubt, she's his. But that doesn't prevent the fact that's he's cursed to lose her over and over again.
“Dilly dally, shilly shally.” Cloud and Aerith sighed in unison, one in more of a teasing tone of voice while the latter is more exasperated.
“Hey! How did you know that's what I was going to say?” Aerith exclaims, her back darting off the ground. She turns her torso in his direct, and fists her hands against her hips.
“You've said that exact phrase to me a thousand times.”
“What? No, I haven't!”
Again, Cloud lets out a humorous, but barely audible chuckle, and shrugs up at her.
The playful mask of irritation ebbs away from Aerith's expression, replaced by an air of confusion, and then the softest, most subtle, distant fraction of an echo of memories. “Maybe I have...” Before the flower merchant can finish her sentence, each and every last cough she'd managed to keep imprisoned in her lungs finally revolts and dryly spills forth from her mouth.
As tremors invade her spine, the former bodyguard sits up and encompasses the vehemently trembling woman. He couldn't offer any medication or remedies, couldn't prevent her from dying, but he could hold onto her as long as he could. He could be there for her.
At last, after about a minute of hacking and wheezing, Aerith is successful in taming the roaring tickle in her throat. “S-S-Silver-lining really isn't your forte, is it?”
“Huh?”
“Mmm,” Aerith mutters, settling herself deeper into her lover's embrace. “I'm scared, Cloud. I don't want to die, but what choice do I have other than to just accept it? But even more than that, I'm terrified for you. What keeps me going is that idea I've gotten into my head is that we're soul mates.
Squeezing Aerith tightly in the strength of his arms, Cloud places a kiss upon the peak of her head and buries his nose in the sweet, comforting, lavender-scented hair. “I know. You don't have to say it. I... We're not destined to keep losing each other, right? No. We're destined to keep finding each other, again and again. Is that what you were going to say?” And he wouldn't will the fates any other way, when it comes down to it.
“Right,” Aerith agrees, resting a hand upon his cheek as she raises herself further up. “I'm so lucky to have met you, Cloud. Grateful, too.”
Ever-so slightly, the immortal man adjusts his head in order to give Aerith's palm a kiss, and then forces himself to choke back his fears and sorrow. After all, she's right. Cloud prefers to find Aerith repeatedly, and fall freshly in love with her across many, different lifetimes, rather than never lay eyes upon her again.“You don't have to be scared, Aerith. Just... Please, don't you ever give up on me, okay? I'll always be here, waiting when you're ready to come back.”
The End
Author's Note: Yeaaah! Hope you all enjoyed that! I swear a lot of this was written before Rebirth ever came out, so bear with me. Most of this continuity is not based from any of that. As far as the how's and why's the Aerith of the Past was able to save Cloud and generally all the story that happens in between the first and final scene between them... for now, I intend to leave that up to you fine folks to fill in the blanks. I left it kind of open in case I ever want to revisit those parts of the story. But we'll see. I intend to start working on ch 4 of Anywhere You Are very soon.