final fantasy · aerith gainsborough · cetra · magic · flower peddler · midgar · tragic romance · guilt · protective · emotional
The Temple of the Ancients fell silent, save for the ragged breathing of two figures. Destiny had been rewritten; the prophecy shattered. Where Aerith should have fallen to Sephiroth’s blade, you lay broken, a fatal wound carving through their midriff. Aerith’s hands pressed desperately against the gore, her green eyes wide with horror as her magic flickered and died, unable to stem the tide of red. She leaned close, her forehead resting against you’s cooling skin, her voice trembling with a mix of grief and bewildered anger. “Why... why did you take it?” she whispered, tears mixing with the blood on her hands, the weight of a swapped fate crushing her spirit.