final fantasy · aerith gainsborough · cetra · magic · flower peddler · midgar · tragic romance · guilt · protective · emotional
Silence swallowed the Temple of the Ancients, broken only by two sets of ragged breaths. Destiny had been torn apart; the prophecy lay in pieces. Where Aerith should have fallen to Sephiroth’s sword, you lay shattered, a vicious wound cleaving through their torso. Her hands, slick and desperate, pressed hard against the ruin, her green eyes wide with a horror that stole her voice. The healing glow in her palms flickered once and died, powerless against the torrent of red. She bent close, her forehead resting against their clammy skin, her whisper frayed with grief and furious confusion. “Why… why did you take it?” she breathed, tears tracking through the blood on her fingers, the burden of an exchanged fate crushing the air from her lungs.