title: Nostos - the Greek word for 'return'
disclaimer: I do not own any of the characters, cities, etc. it's all yours, Square.
characters: Aerith, set between the end of Crisis Core and the beginning of Final Fantasy VII.
The flower selling business has been going well lately. The cart holds up well and doesn't look half-awful when Aerith adds a little homely touches to it—the homely touches being the flowers, of course. After she's finished arranging them onto the cart, she takes a step back and her eyes, green eyes, measure the overall appearance.
She sighs, it's definitely not cute.
But the flowers are the main event, she thinks, inching toward the cart again while running her hand along the wood. No splinters, that's a good sign. It means it's been built well. Slender fingers grip the handle and slightly blistered feet wheel it out the church and to the outskirts of Midgar.
It's been a little lonely lately. It's been a long time since Aerith's spoken anything other than "buy a flower for one gil" or "thank you very much" to a customer or to anyone else other than her mother. She'd never had friends, but in a sense she'd never really been alone either. But still, she can't help but feel a little envious when a little girl skips along her way and buys a flower to pin in her best friend's hair, or when a man greets her politely and asks for a dozen for his sweetheart.
It's very lonely, but she carries on. She always does.
The perfect remedy for loneliness is dreaming, she thinks. Aerith dreams about the future often. Some days she dreams of traveling across the planet, visiting every town and city. Perhaps not on her own, though. She imagines she'd meet her fellow pilgrims on the train leading straight out of Midgar and that they'd travel with each other until they wound up back where they started. It'd be a life-changing adventure, and they'd become life-long friends she'd grow old with.
Aerith thinks that she's a very simple girl. Her idea of luxury is quiet— like strolling through the abandoned cathedral and tending to the "young ones" she calls them, it's warm— like the first sip of soup she takes on a cold winter morning as it slides down her throat and reaches the depths of her stomach, filling her up like a hot water bottle, and it's beautiful, just like sunsets.
But lately, there's been a little change. She finds that she much enjoys the sound of pen scratching on paper and the way her handwriting is has a bit of a flick to it. She loves sending letters when it means she'll get one back for every one. She doesn't wait for sunsets anymore either. She recently discovered that the best time to look at the sky is when it's about midday, when the sky is blue, cloudless, and vast— it's the best time.
She stops at the curb of a street, just as a vehicle speeds past. One of her hands clutch at her fluttering blue skirt and the other keeps a firm grip on the cart. She's caught by surprise when she catches sight of the shop window opposite the road. The walking sign 'dings!' and she quickly wheels her cart through the crowd of grey and parks it by the shop's door. She dashes through and peeks around the shop. It's quaint and quiet disregarding the soft snoring of the shop keeper. Dainty hands glide along the fabric, and she tries it on for size. Yes, it's perfect.
It's paid for from all the money she's earned from selling flowers, and she managed to steal an extra deal from the sleepy shopkeeper while he was half-asleep too. She wears what she bought out of the shop and when she steps out it feels as though she's walking on air. The dress fits like a glass slipper. It's pink and buttoned down up to her knees while the rest of it reaches up to her ankles, and the red bolero compliments it like a diamond on a ring.
Aerith thinks it doesn't look half-awful with the ribbon in her hair either.
So, she continues on her way, flowers on hand, and catching glances from people struck by her colour.
Aerith does this everyday from this day forward.
She does this for the next five years.
But it's a hopeless effort.
end.