Chapter Text
Taking in a child was not a decision I made easily. Hastily, sure. But easily? Never. Standing over the child’s deceased mother, my mind ran through a million possibilities in an instant—all of which, I decided, resulted in her being safest with me.
And I hadn’t been ready. I couldn’t think of any other place to send her, rumors of the only nearby orphanage frightening enough, and, in general, had no other idea what to do with a child besides take her in. That should have been my first clue.
I did know, however, the general concept of child-rearing; it was certainly something Clay and I had considered idly—“just as soon as I’m back,” he’d said, foolhardy, and I believed him, much the same I suppose.
See, death isn’t really a thing you can anticipate. I had, I thought. I let my mind wander constantly, imagining dreadful scenarios. In some way, I wanted to fortify myself. Yet I never expected it would ever actually happen, and that’s where I failed—as one has to, because, like I said, it can’t be anticipated. You can imagine the idea of grief, but it is something altogether different to feel it.
At the time, I knew little of her pain, but wanted all too quickly to absolve it. I think it was as simple as that: In that moment, there was only the present. And I had a spare bedroom, and I was alone.
Life isn’t something you can anticipate either. Sometimes it catches you in the wind of a passing train, plants you in front of a little girl without a home and says “this is it from now on. Your life.” And I took it, cradled it, and felt a serene sense of purpose unlike ever before. I knew in an instant that this would be the best decision I ever made.
But no, not the easiest.
It was never easy. Not when she was a grieving child, and I a new, and wholly unprepared, mother—reluctant still to use the title, quick as it came to her lips. Not when she was a talkative young girl, speaking to me enthusiastically of voices and the Planet and death. Not when she was a ward of the company, Shinra’s presence suddenly taking up almost as large a part of my life as her. And certainly not now, a teenager, learning things in a world in which she’s been cut off for reasons not her own—when suddenly my role became not as a confidant, but something to be wary of.
I remembered my own mother, the way I rolled my eyes at her. I couldn’t remember exactly when the change happened, but I could remember what it was exactly that had changed: discovery. Something new and exciting that hadn’t interested me much before, but one day had a firm grasp on my heart—and many of my peers.
It was only a matter of time before Aerith succumbed as well.
That day, setting “sun” rays good enough to fool me filtered in through the window, reflecting back off the porcelain dishes and warming the dish water. I didn’t much leave the house anymore, save to replenish our stock. I was content to keep to myself—never was much one for conversation. Aerith always filled the silence, and I could appreciate my moments alone as well as those filled with her conversations.
Behind me, the front doors creaked and swayed, this and the quiet clack of wooden wedge heels on the floor my indication that she was home. “You’re back late,” I noted, looking at the clock.
“Well, I got caught up,” came her quick reply. She rushed to the stairs.
It was rare for her to enter without commenting about her day. “Caught up with what?” Relinquishing my dishtowel, I placed my hand on my hip, and turned to face her.
She stopped, obeying the inherent commanding stare granted to all mothers the instant they were bequeathed the title.
Her hands crossed quickly—too quickly—behind her back the moment my gaze found her. “I met someone today,” she said simply, the face of innocence.
I couldn’t see exactly what it was she concealed, but the light bounced off whatever it was—glass, evidently—and created a little rainbow prism of light on the wall behind her. “Oh?” I goaded. Aerith had never been one to hide new friends from me—not that they were common, which was really all the more reason she excitedly told me about everyone she met. Not often the sort of friends you’d expect a young girl to have, and even less so the sort of person I would call a ‘friend’ at all, but she used the word indiscriminately. Everyone was a friend to her just as no one was; having no one particularly close, but caring deeply nonetheless. Rarely did I find reason to worry about her with the Turks watching, lest our agreement be broken. In this moment, though, I had no inclination whatsoever that her new friend was a Turk, but something much more sinister…
“Yeah,” she said, fidgeting. “Just some guy from up top who got lost. I helped him make it to the station.”
…a boy.
“I see.” I turned back to the sink, busying myself with dishes already done.
She scurried up the stairs, and I took my chance to watch her—a trail of pink following her hair, bouncing with each step.
Discovery.