[ 𝙲𝙰𝙽 𝚈𝙾𝚄 𝙷𝙴𝙰𝚁 𝚃𝙷𝙴𝙸𝚁 𝚆𝙷𝙸𝚂𝙿𝙴𝚁𝚂 . . . ? 𝙰𝙽𝚂𝚆𝙴𝚁𝙴𝙳. ] ⤷ @earnfirst asked: " hey , aerith ! " his voice calls in the inviting way it always does , projecting through their surroundings , and full of life . that is , until it's not . until the air grows a bit melancholic and his voice is the hero that tries to keep hope alive , the weight of the future pressed upon his back . he reminisces silently for a moment , taking his time before pressing her with a question born of nostalgia and happier times , " just wonderin' . " . . . " what ever happened to that wagon ? " and he turns to her , eyes wanting for her attention , " i could always fix it up again , y'know . " mako - infected irises pull to the ceiling he has come to love so dearly after so much time , and a flash of sadness passes through his expression before he offers a thumbs - up with his right hand , grinning with a wink , " if you wanted . "
𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐌 𝐅𝐀𝐌𝐈𝐋𝐈𝐀𝐑𝐈𝐓𝐘 . . . how such a quiet, solemn church can fill with life the second he strides into the building. his undying grin, arms often taking a triangular shape, chest puffed in such confident radiance. slowly does the cetra rise from the collection of sanctuary grown blooms, hands intertwining behind her silhouette, rocking forward & back with utmost glee.
❛ 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐖𝐀𝐆𝐎𝐍 . . . ? ❜ she parrots his inquiry aloud, irises breaking from mako-infused to find the tattered remains of the piece they built together. & as her focus remains ‘pon rotting wood, gold-painted accents chipping from neglect, the corners of her mouth pull upward. memories flood . . . the park in sector five . . . the quiet, melancholy sidewalks of the slums . . . their selling pitches for midgar-home-grown flowers, for a measly gil per floret. ❛ at first, i thought it was some rust . . . the wheel on the left got so squeaky, i think people got annoyed to the sound of it. mom said it just needed some oil, but after trying that . . . the bolt came loose. i haven’t found it, or one to replace it — – so it's sat here, waiting for you to come back . . . it was our project, after all ! ❜
𝐃𝐀𝐘𝐒 . . . 𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐍 𝐖𝐄𝐄𝐊𝐒 . . . leading to months, and aerith began to lose hope in their little slums side-hustle. the wagon, & her bow, the only living memory of him. eighty-plus letters, and phone calls with the same message: [ the number you've reached has been disconnected. please check the number, and try your call again. ] even without a machine to leave her message, aerith would stand in the kitchen of her home . . . twirling the cord betwixt her fingers as she rambled to an dead line, updating him of her health and latest findings. then, gaia showered her with condolences, a gentle rain trickling through the hole of their meeting place . . . his voice echoing through the life stream, making his presence known.
𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐘 𝐒𝐇𝐀𝐑𝐄 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐂𝐎𝐋𝐎𝐔𝐑 𝐂𝐑𝐈𝐌𝐒𝐎𝐍 . . . streaks staining sun-kissed facial structure, accompanied with markings of gunpowder and soot. & she, dressed in the same rose gown . . . though, the fabric against her midriff torn and dirtied from the one-winged angel. hickory tresses, once braided and down the center of her back, now rest against her collar . . . water seeping down the front of her jacket.
𝐈𝐓 𝐖𝐄𝐑𝐄 𝐍𝐎𝐓 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐑𝐄𝐔𝐍𝐈𝐎𝐍 𝐒𝐇𝐄 𝐋𝐎𝐍𝐆𝐄𝐃 𝐅𝐎𝐑. though she hoped he'd know to find her where their story began, amongst the lilies in sector five.
𝐀 𝐑𝐄𝐅𝐋𝐄𝐂𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍 𝐌𝐄𝐄𝐓𝐒 𝐇𝐄𝐑 𝐄𝐘𝐄, & she strides through the flowers to inspect the shining object beneath the podium of the church. the lilies, despite her earthly tending, remain upright and content, gently swaying as though a breeze swept through the sanctum. not a singular tread marking the soil. ❛ well, would you look at that . . ❜ spoken from a crouched stance, a singular digit points in direction to the missing bolt of their workmanship. peering over her shoulder, aerith gazes upon the first class soldier . . . chuckling to how the light cascades through the opened church doors, engulfing zack in such brilliance. [ an angel ? ] she thinks to taunt, recalling the first words he spoke to her. ❛ let's get to work ! ❜
