This is actually the first of the three one-shot writing exercises I've done so far, taken from Rhino7 (who got it from Scribbler): Pick a character. Now put your iPod on shuffle and write a fic to the song that comes on. You're supposed to finish before the song does, but I'm a little slow so I let it play 3 times—I'm trying to get faster with practice. Please note this is NOT a songfic, merely it's inspired by the mood of the music. I have gotten some really interesting results (to me anyway) so far. This one was written during "Bring Me to Life" by Evanescence. Any feedback would be appreciated!!! Without further ado, I give you:
Aerith
Blood loss, broken bones, cuts, breaks, wounds….every one she'd helped heal was imprinted in perfect paramount, picturesque quality on her mind and on her skin. Her fingers she swore were red from the not the blood she spilt but that which she'd tried to save, to staunch, to replenish in order to save the last things she was clinging to from leaving her like everything else already had.
Everyone thinks of the warriors when they think about war. They think about the fighting, and the blood, and the pain. The wounds, the dirt, the sweat, limping back from a battle won, crawling away from a battle lost, spiraling into the last dark oblivion and never returning from a battle at all. When they talk about the fighting, they talk about those brave enough to raise weapons in defense of what they care about. Those with enough mettle and—hell, if we're being honest, Hyne's-cursed stubborn stupidity—to keep pushing back against the Heartless and the Nobodies and the Organization and every other foul thing that rises, begging to be killed for its transgressions. Those are the ones they call brave. Those are the ones they call 'heroes' in the backs of their minds.
No one ever thinks about what it takes to clean up the mess, to pick up the pieces, to salvage rent flesh and broken bone and shattered consciousness. No one stops to consider what it's like to be the person who receives the limping, the crawling, or, Hyne forbid, to be the person who gathers the scraps of cloth and steel left behind when the darkness takes everything else.
How many times had she been covered in their blood, always wondering if she'd gotten there quickly enough? How often had she dumped potion over lacerations and seeping cuts, trying to help severed skin rebuild itself over shredded muscles and wounds so deep they laid bones bare to the uncaring sky above? How many times? How many frenzied cures, how many stammered curas, how many Hynes-damn curagas poured from her shaking hands to try and piece together someone that she hoped, hoped and prayed was not too far gone for her to reach this time, because each time she knelt beside one of their derelict bodies might be the last.
Leon, Cloud, Tifa, even Yuffie and Cid on an occasion or two….when would be the last time she'd see more of them she ever cared to, more pure physical damage than even her healer's heart could stomach? Injuries were to be expected in the war they were waging, but sometimes….the times when she was up to her wrists, soaked to her elbows and through her dress in crimson that was still warm, still fresh and pouring out of the people she treasured the most, those were the times she wished with all her heart that she could be the person taking life instead of the one who was expected to save it.
Please R&R!!!
-K-