"Isn't it something else? Who'da thought that flowers could grow in a place like Midgar? But hey, that's Aerith for you!"

"Zack," she objected with a blush, "you don't have to make such a big deal out of it."

He had brought the esteemed general there in a (potentially misguided) attempt to foster trust between them as they were passing through the slums. She had risen to her feet and brushed away the soil caked onto her knees. She wished that he would have given her just a slight heads up that someone of such high rank would be joining them that day so that she could have worn something more impressive than a dress stained with dirt and chlorophyll.

If Zack's superior had noticed those imperfections, he failed to indicate as much. He turned to him and said, "You've been talking about the girl without even formally introducing us."

Zack's eyebrows shot up and a frazzled flush spread across his cheeks. "O-Oh! My bad. Aerith, this is Sephiroth. Sephiroth, Aerith."

He extended his gloved hand and shook hers in a cordial handshake. "A pleasure."

"The pleasure's mine. I've heard a lot about you, General Sephiroth."

"Likewise."

He offered a reserved smile and she hesitated. There was a cryptic quality about it, as though he were harboring a secret, or privy to a pivotal morsel of knowledge of which she was unaware. Pouting, she glowered at Zack, silently chastising him for whatever information he happened to overshare with his boss.

Zack's eyes widened and he waved his hands apologetically, opening his mouth to clarify before his phone rang. The shrill sound pierced the serenity of the church and penetrated the stony walls. He grimaced and plucked the phone from his pocket. "Hold on guys, lemme take this."

As he approached the back of the church, she turned her eyes back to Sephiroth. A simple glance at him validated everything that she had heard — fearsome, handsome, with a presence so imposing and commanding that it nearly struck her speechless; a stare so sharp that it dissected subjects with surgical precision.

But there was something else. There was something else that she recognized in him, something that she could neither explain nor see. She maintained her polite smile, concealing the pain that inexplicably stirred within her.

"Does Zack always drag you places?" she asked playfully.

A glimmer of amusement flashed in his eyes. "No, not always. But I allowed him this time."

"Oh?" She planted her hands on her hips. "I wonder what made this occasion so special."

He never supplied an answer. He peered somewhere beyond her, eyes fixated on one particular plant. She raised an eyebrow and tracked his gaze, turning her head to see where exactly he was looking.

"Oh, that over there? That's rosemary." Aerith sauntered over to the unassuming patch growing in the corner of the lot. "It doesn't look like much, but it smells great if you burn it. You can cook with it too."

Sephiroth squared his shoulders, appearing far more pensive than the situation called for. He stalked over to the patch, his footsteps echoing throughout the decrepit chapel, and stood next to her. Aerith looked up at him then, asking him a wordless question.

"I was in Mideel," he began as he bent over to survey the sprigs. Grief tinted his voice with a wistfulness that had made her heart ache for something she could not identify. "People had died. I left shortly after the funerals had commenced. They threw this plant into the graves."

In that moment, she became acutely aware of the unbridgeable gulf between them, the diametric opposition of their lives. She had seen death, but not so much that it became a routine banality, anyway. The one occasion when it had directly confronted her felt so far away that it had become more of a dream than a memory.

"Death is an ugly thing, isn't it?" She ran her finger gingerly along the stiff leaves. "I guess we have to do what we can to make it beautiful."

He shook his head and rose to his feet. "It can never be anything other than what it is."

She frowned, remaining close to the rosemary and plucking one of the shoots from the soil. "...General, can I ask you something that might offend you?"

"Are you always so forward with strangers?" His voice was bereft of amusement, and her half-beat of hesitation prevented her from asking the question before the sound of footsteps against the stone floor interrupted them.

"That was Lazard. Wants to talk about a mission, so we should be heading back," Zack said as he approached them, sullen. "But if he didn't call you first, I'm guessing he doesn't need you. So take as long as you want!"

"That won't be necessary." Aerith must have telegraphed her hurt because he quickly added, "...as enjoyable as Ms. Gainsborough's company is."

Zack beamed, pleased with Sephiroth's approval, and, with all his frenetic energy, was already on his way outside.

Aerith thrust the fresh sprig of rosemary in Sephiroth's direction and flashed a diplomatic smile. "Here, why don't you take this? If you leave it out to dry, you can keep it with you for a long time."

Nonplussed, he accepted the proffered spray. His fingertips had brushed against hers and a frisson immediately swept across the surface of her skin, sending a chill up her spine. She blushed despite herself.

"And why would I do that?" he asked point-blank.

She feigned offense and clutched her hand to her chest. "Do you always react like that when someone gives you something? It's so you can remember our meeting today, of course!"

"Interesting choice, seeing that it's used for mourning," Sephiroth deadpanned. "Are you trying to tell me something?"

She hid her giggle behind her hand. "No. But if you ever come across an open grave, you'll be prepared."

He raised an eyebrow and twirled the sprig back and forth between his fingers. "You're an unusual girl, Ms. Gainsborough."


"Nibelheim?"

Tifa stumbles backward, brows furrowed and eyes wide. The sight stirs a far more visceral reaction in her than it does in Aerith, but her stomach churns nonetheless when she sees the rustic cabins, the iron gate, the wooden fence, all situated under a canopy of gray clouds.

Cloud shakes his head. "Don't worry about it, Tifa. Just remember that it's one of Sephiroth's illusions and you'll be fine. Let's just keep moving ahead."

Tifa assents with a nod and turns to proceed before stopping to look behind her shoulder. "Hold on. Look at that!"

Sephiroth stalks toward the entrance to the village, followed by two uniformed soldiers and —

a familiar mane of jet black hair.

Aerith inhales sharply, as though the air has grown thin around her, and it feels thin. She latches onto the white fence behind her, digging her fingernails into the wood. She had banished his memory from the forefront of her mind as soon as she felt him return to the Lifestream, buried it deep within her, because she had grieved too much in twenty-one years and had nothing left for him but a few private tears that soaked into the soil of her flowers. And even then, she denied it to herself — pretended that she was wrong, that it hadn't been his soul. That he had run off with some other pretty girl. That the job had been his last, that he had had enough of SOLDIER, and had gone wherever the winds took him. Even if he had gotten tired of her, at least they would have had the chance to reunite one day.

But seeing the ossified grief in his parents' eyes in Gongaga had been the proverbial nail in the coffin, though she said nothing to Cloud or anyone else. Not even Tifa.

"Zack." She whispers the name before she can stop herself. His name rolling off her tongue feels strange, almost inappropriate, like it's the name of someone she's never met.

Cloud's head snaps toward her. "That's Zack?"

"It is." She bites her lip.

"Stop it, Sephiroth," Tifa says, eyes narrowing into a glower.

Sephiroth — or the vision of him, in any case — sneers before disappearing in another flash of white light. Cloud begins to move across the path toward Aerith, but stops midstep, hesitating.

"When you told us what happened back in Kalm, I thought it was strange," she admits. "Your story sounded so much like his. First Class SOLDIER, joining Sephiroth on a mission…"

He waits for her to continue, but she can't bring herself to say anything else. She's already said too much. It turns out that she can't, even if she wanted to; another brutal flash of light engulfs them and, when it recedes, immerses them in the ruthless inferno consuming Nibelheim. Flames dance sensually across the theater of the sky, black and orange forming a gruesome gradient against a foreground of gore.

For the first time in five years, Aerith understands.

"I can't watch this," Tifa says, a sob brewing in her throat. "Don't look, Cloud."

The phantom image of Zack darts out of the Shinra Mansion, scanning the premises frantically before running over to an older man tending to the fallen. The man tells him to check one of the houses for survivors and he storms into one of the burning cottages without hesitation.

"It's just an illusion." Cloud runs a hand through his hair over and over again, the casual act growing more fraught with each repetition until strands of hair stick out every which way, frayed and frazzled.

Aerith wanders over to the wounded man on the ground — now dead, she realizes with a small gasp.

"I know what you're trying to say, Sephiroth. You're saying I wasn't in Nibelheim five years ago, right?" Cloud shouts with an accusatory glare.

Sephiroth reappears and faces Cloud, his expression stony and opaque. "You finally understand."

"If you're trying to confuse me, it isn't working. I remember — I remember the heat, and the panic, and the pain."

"How interesting that you think so. You're a puppet. A vessel. Your memories amount to nothing." Sephiroth's lips twist from a scowl into a gleeful smirk. "You may choose not to believe it, but what I've shown you here is the truth. What lies in your memories...that is the illusion."

Aerith looks from the two of them toward Tifa, whose pained expression twists into her heart like a dagger. She was there that day, wasn't she?

"Why are you doing this?" Cloud asks.

"I wanted to remind you of who you really are: the tool that gave me the Black Materia that day. Hojo would drop dead in shock if he knew a failed experiment would prove so useful."

Cloud grits his teeth. "What does Hojo have to do with me?"

"Oh? Do you really want to know? Hojo assembled you bit by bit after Nibelheim burned to the ground. Just a half-baked clone made of Jenova cells and Mako."

Tifa approaches Cloud and stands behind him.

"Don't listen to him," she urges. "What he's saying about Hojo isn't true. Our memories…"

Cloud wipes the back of his hand against his forehead. "I'm not worried about it."

Sephiroth appraises the three of them with narrow eyes as a predator does its prey — searching for weaknesses, oversights, exposed wounds.

"You're scared, aren't you, Tifa? If those words aren't true, they shouldn't affect you like this."

He does to their minds what Shinra did to her body.

"Stop it," Aerith says quietly.

Sephiroth glances at her with sinister delight. "So you've decided to speak up. You have a question, don't you? You're wondering why she hasn't said anything if she was there that day."

"She doesn't have to say anything," she counters, wincing at the lack of conviction in her voice.

"You're right. It wouldn't be fair to make her tell the truth while you get to keep your secrets," he taunts.

Cloud and Tifa both look at her — Tifa with suspicion and Cloud with confusion.

"Well, Aerith? Shall I let them see for themselves? Then we can move on to Tifa." He laughs. "You would all tear each other apart."

Her heart leaps into her throat and she shrinks against the fence. They've already cast aspersions on her and her relationship with him, and now they're going to abandon her, and she'll be alone like she was before, and she should be used to it, but she isn't anymore and doesn't want to return to that place again —

Tifa quirks an eyebrow and tugs on her glove. "What is he talking about, Aerith? First Zack, now Sephiroth."

Cloud frowns in her direction. "I thought you said you didn't know Zack?"

Flustered, Tifa balls her hands up into fists, her eyes shining like garnets in the light of the flames. "I don't! I just heard her talking about him."

Sephiroth disappears once more. Cloud looks at Aerith; she shakes her head. What could she say to him?

Crestfallen, he walks toward Tifa and hangs his head.

"Listen, Tifa. Forget about Zack for a minute. I may get confused about my past — even who I am. Sometimes it feels like my memories are all tangled and I don't know how to take them apart. But when you said, 'long time, no see, Cloud' — you have no idea what that meant to me. You grew up with me; it's your opinion that counts."

"That's not true...no, that sounds wrong. Look, I need some time. I don't know what to say right now."

That irritates her, but it shouldn't. She is just as culpable as Tifa. They both cradled their truths to their chest in an effort to ameliorate his pain.

"Don't blame Tifa," booms Sephiroth's sonorous voice as he materializes once more.

Aerith sinks deeper into the ocean of her own thoughts, their voices growing faint and muffled. What do they think of her now? Why does she care so much? When she's broken the loop and they're reach the end of their journey, they'll part ways, no matter how she feels about it. She'll go back to selling flowers to sleazy men on the curbs of the slum streets. Or maybe she'll flee and settle down in Costa del Sol and relish in the clean air and sparkling waters that she could never dare to dream of in Midgar.

But flowers wouldn't be so special there, would they?

Someone touches her shoulder. A gloved hand holds a photograph in front of her.

"Look, the last picture of Zack before he became another failed experiment. Does it make your heart ache, sweet Aerith?"

"...I'm not looking at that." She jerks her head away and squeezes her eyes shut, but he seizes her chin with his free hand and the abruptness of it prompts her to open them.

And there it is — Zack's glistening grin, wearing his cross-shaped scar with far more pride than its origin should allow. Sephiroth, her version of him, as stern and staid on the surface as he always was. What once had been beguiling was now besmirched and blemished.

"Does it make you wish you could go back? Be honest. It's just you and me right now."

His breath is hot against the shell of her ear; strands of hair brush against the back of her neck and send a shudder coursing down her spine. She hazards a glance toward where Cloud and Tifa had been standing; they're nowhere to be found.

"Do you wish you could love like that again?"

He moves his hand away from her chin to stroke her braid, his fingers tangling themselves loosely in tendrils of hair.

"Or do you still…?"

She swats the hand holding the photograph away with a frustrated cry; she blinks and the hand is gone, as is the one that had been caressing her hair. Cloud and Tifa have resumed standing in their previous spots, looking duly flummoxed.

Aerith strides over to Cloud. She wraps her fingers around Cloud's thin wrist, just above his bangle, wincing at the cold and clammy sensation of his skin against hers.

"Cloud, you know I wouldn't say anything just to hurt you."

"I don't want to believe that you would. But I don't know what I should or shouldn't believe anymore…"

Tifa pivots away from the both of them. "I feel the same way, but we'll have to figure this out later. We don't have time."

Aerith sidles up next to her, lowering her voice. "Why didn't you say anything?"

She glares. "I have my reasons."

"You're being selfish!"

"And you aren't?"

Aerith rubs her temples. "This is what he wanted. To drive a wedge between us."

Her glassy eyes reflect the carnage surrounding them.

"...I guess we can't let him get what he wants," she concedes.


They're not alone when they materialize in the crater's innermost chamber. She recognizes Rufus Shinra, and the older man with a narrow face seems familiar, but the woman is a stranger to her. It's too much for her — it's too much while her eyes are still trying to adjust from the crepuscular fire to the brilliant blue light bathing the sanctuary. She takes her staff out nonetheless; she can't predict what will happen here.

"How did you get here?" shrieks the blonde woman.

Tifa appraises their new guests with a critical eye. "Sephiroth. And that's what you're here for too, right?"

"Things are about to get rough here. You should just leave it all to me and get out of here," Cloud drones.

Rufus narrows his eyes. "Leave it all to you? I have no idea what you're trying to say."

"This is where the Reunion's going to take place. The beginning and the end."

An image of Cloud above her, straddling either leg, as he halfheartedly brought his fists down upon her flashes behind her eyes. She darts over to him, forgetting her fear for an ephemeral moment.

"Cloud, you have to fight. You have to fight whatever's happening," she begs, gripping her staff with one hand and his bare shoulder with the other.

He shrugs her hand off of him. "Sorry. Just...sorry."

Her face falls. It was an exercise in futility from its conception. Spurned once more, she retreats. Tifa's pleas melt into white noise.

Footsteps boom throughout the room. Barret barrels into the chamber, cheeks flushed red. "Hey! I'm here to help, too!"

Cloud's mouth twitches in apparent surprise at his entry. He inhales sharply and digs the heels of his hands into his eyes, the embodiment of agony. He takes a step toward Barret and stops, repeating the process until he's vis-à-vis with Barret, whose expression rapidly morphs from determined to bemused.

"You have the Black Materia?"

"Uh, yeah. 'S right here in my hand."

"I'll take it from here, Barret. You can give it to me."

Cloud hangs his head, defeated, even has he extends his hand toward Barret.

He raises an eyebrow in turn. "You sure you're all right?"

Cloud nods.

"Then you can have it. Pressure was on the whole time I had it." He surrenders the materia, dropping it into Cloud's outstretched hand.

Aerith's heartbeat stalls as her lips hang open. Does he realize what he just did? For all his good intentions, does he not see that the Cloud standing in front of them isn't their Cloud?

"Thanks for everything, everyone." He clenches and relaxes his fists in a slow, deliberate rhythm, as if having something to do with his hands will dull his psychic pain. He casts his lackluster eyes — an ocean lacking the gleam of the sun — over to Tifa. "Especially you, Tifa. Even after how good you were to me. I hope you can meet the real Cloud someday…and then you can be happy."

To say that he turns to Aerith would be incorrect; he pivots his body toward her, but stares directly at his feet.

"And Aerith…regardless of whatever happened in the past, I know you've suffered so much already. I'm sorry for only making it worse."

She sees why Tifa sank to her knees, why she's cradling her head between her hands in despair. She wants to do the same thing. Her wasted efforts taunt her — they taunt her, just like he did, just like he does —

He floats far above them. Aerith tips her head back to look up, squinting at the scintillating light filtering through the snarled roots. He hovers near something — it looks like a large chunk of ice, nestled among the growth. She angles her head and makes out the shape of a human encased in the slab.

Cloud reaches inside the cocoon and proffers the Black Materia in one hand and the White Materia in the other. The earth begins to shake beneath their feet as debris rains from above.

A thick fog clouds Aerith's mind, blurring her vision and blunting her senses. Her knees knock together — she has nothing to hold, nothing to steady herself. Cloud is giving the Black and White Materia away and it's all but an inevitability.

"Tifa," she pleads, stumbling over to her and clamoring for purchase on her shoulder. "Tifa…"

Tifa looks from Cloud down toward Aerith, who sinks her fingertips into Tifa's soft flesh, unable to summon the strength to grip it. Her bones turn leaden, her feet unable to support them, and she shakes and slides limply against Tifa toward the wintry, frostbitten earth. She throws her distrust to the wind and wraps her arms around Aerith, cradling her, her eyes a retracting and expanding kaleidoscope of panic.

It's true that Tifa knows better than to pity her, but Aerith finds herself clinging to the shimmer of sympathy in her tears like a tether in the tempest.

"We have to get going," Tifa says, lifting her up. Sure enough, the members of Shinra and the rest of their party rush toward a narrow pathway in the cavern toward the back of the chamber.

Aerith trails behind her, cursing her own sluggishness. Something is wrong, terribly wrong, but she can't piece together what it is or why, and even as she attempts to quicken her pace, she goes slower still, as though she were wading through a thick pool of gelatin.

We've run out of time. This is as much as We could give you.

There's nothing left. Her legs fold and she crumples onto the gravel, curling up and wrapping her arms around herself.

She doesn't see the spear of rock descending from above; she doesn't need to.


When she wakes up in Gongaga, it's of her own accord. Tifa and Barret are nowhere to be seen; Cloud sleeps, still as death, in the bed beside her. Gingerly, she reaches an unsteady hand toward the back of her head, feeling for glass. Her nail taps against it with a quiet clink.

She feels no relief.