[ closed. ]

[evanescent]

Who: Aerith & Sephiroth
When: Early June
Where: Aefenglom
What: Berry Picking
Warnings: None yet! No one will die, which considering the characters, is a miracle.

[It's a distraction, truth be told. The coin will be useful: for more books, to help with the cost of things around the house. But she isn't doing it for that, not really, and gradually as the effect of the berries begins to take hold, she loses track of why she's doing it in the first place.

It's a distraction, she recalls, vaguely, from being unreasonably sad about someone not being here, when he wasn't supposed to be here in the first place. She shouldn't be upset about it, but she is, and so she's taken up an excessive amount of odd jobs in the meantime. This one isn't much different from flower-picking, and she moves to stand (unsteadily, slowly), having plucked what she can from this bush, when a shadow falls over her.

She squints up, forcing her vision to adjust, and does not look surprised at Sephiroth's presence. Not frightened. Merely pensive.]

Odd place for you to be.

[The words do not slur, but they are spoken with a strange, careful sort of slowness, like she's working out what she wants to say and hasn't finished thinking on it before she says it.] Have you come to help?

Comments

[evanescent]

Yeah. [Listlessly, she plucks at the blades of grass beneath her, a motion without any thought given behind it.] We were trying to figure out where you were going. To cut you off at the pass, and to stop Shinra too. That was the idea. Sometimes we did. Sometimes, [She thinks not of the aftermath of her death, that immediate fallout, the grief inlaid there. Instead she thinks of Mideel, of WEAPON. Cloud shattered all to pieces.] we didn't.

[She reaches up to her ribbon, and carefully undoes the knot there. From it, something comes loose, and she catches it in her palms to show to him.

It's Materia, pearlescent white and shimmering, like no other Materia in the world.] It wasn't all hopeless, though. There's always a way out. That's what my mother taught me.

This is White Materia. Here and now, it's good for absolutely nothing. I keep it all the same.

[supersoldier]

[Maybe it’s detrimental to wonder at what lies in-between the words of that phrase— the sometimes we didn’t. If there’s more ugliness to unearth as Aerith smooths them over; an endless spool of violence that his future-self left for them to trail after, what the shape of it might be. The story behind it. Still so many details he doesn’t know.

It’s a kindness, then, that she reaches up to undo the ribbon in her hair, allowing something white to slip loose, something else to fix his attention on. It glistens brightly as she shows it to him in gently cupped hands, as though proffering something uniquely precious.

It’s materia unlike any he’s seen before; it lives up to its name, but it’s more than just that — different, in an incalculable way, than his own assortment of materia he keeps from home. But according to her, just as useless.

Here, at least. The distinction is obvious.]

But if it did work?

[Black Materia. White Materia. The parallels are being drawn up in his mind, long before the question properly leaves his tongue.]

[evanescent]

If it worked...

[She turns the orb over in her hands, watching as its surface catches sunlight, creating a pale prism of color. It's warm, though whatever magic it did have is well and truly locked away.

Black and white. Light and dark. She's sure he's already drawn his own conclusions, though she answers him anyway.] It would cast a spell called Holy. A shield over the Planet, the counterpart to Meteor. Cleansing light.

[But not without great sacrifice.]