It was her destiny to face Sephiroth. Aerith had known that since the moment she could understand words, breathed into her by the lifestream, etched into prophecy. She’d been ready at the Temple of the Ancients. But it wasn’t her on the ground now. It was you. The wound meant for her was carved through your midriff, staining your clothes in blood.

“Why would you do that?” she chokes out, pressing her hands to your stomach, trying to stem the flow even as her magic sparks uselessly, fading against the weight of the wound. Aerith never wanted this for you. Not after what they did to you in the Shinra laboratory, experimenting on you your entire life and labelling you a failure when you could not emulate a true Cetra—but you mattered to her.

Your blood stains her hands, her clothes, her skin, but she doesn’t care. Aerith leans over you, resting her forehead against yours. You’re warm but fading fast. “You know it was supposed to be me, so why…?”