Prayer - A record of Aeris's last thoughts A Final Fantasy VII essay written by Stella Quetzacotl First created: Jun 14, 2002 Last modified: Jun 14, 2002 ~~~~~Legal Stuff~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ This is a work of fiction written for entertainment purposes only. All characters in FFVII are the exclusive property of Squaresoft. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ ~~~~~Text Conventions~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ [This is a character thought] *This is emphasized text* **This is Holy's words** "...And let me handle Sephiroth." Did I actually leave him with the intention of stopping Sephiroth singlehandedly? Or did I mean... to do what I'm doing now? I don't remember. I suppose I could have been foolish enough to imagine myself Sephiroth's match, with the wisdom of my ancestors behind me. But now it doesn't matter. I'm where I need to be. Doing what I need to be doing. It's not all that different from using regular Materia. Praying for Holy, I mean. Invoking the power of Materia requires a kind of prayer to the knowledge and the power in the crystal. It requires a mindset of humility, the willingness to accept that you don't know everything and that you're not the immortal and perfect being you secretly believe yourself to be. Most people have to speak aloud in order to cast spells, but I never did - I could just connect myself to the magic, and it eagerly came forth at my request. As I grew older, and as Shinra began to take an interest in me, I began to dimly realize why this was. The Cetra. Ancients, as I knew them before coming into my own. That long-gone race of people with a special connection - a communion - with the Planet. Their mission, to seek the Promised Land - not *find*, necessarily, but *seek*. I feel such hollow regret, such loneliness, that I never knew any other members of my race. I can hear their spirits guiding me - dimly - but I can never truly know them. That's not quite true. I will know them when I rejoin the Lifestream. But as I am now, shackled and deafened by this not-quite- half-Cetra blood and body, I can only listen hard, and say again and again that I don't understand. My soul is fully Cetra, even if my body is not, and I long to rejoin my people. To rejoin the Planet. As dim footsteps sound in the halls of the crystal city behind me, I pour this longing into my prayer for Holy. I'm almost there, I can feel it. Holy, please listen to me. Unleash your power. The Planet needs you. The people need you. I need you. The dark one looms ever closer, sword upraised to destroy. Holy, you can shatter his sword! For a moment my mind flickers, juxtaposing and fusing and then separating the images of two swords. One long and thin, the other wide and heavy. One sharp down its length on both sides, and curved to a wicked tip, the other possessed of a blunt side and a straight, heavy shape. Two swords, two men steeped in darkness. Cloud and Sephiroth. Really, they're a lot alike. Both stubborn. Both committed to their causes. Both carrying huge, bloody burdens of memory. Yes, I feel pity for Sephiroth. How can I not? He's a mockery of what he once was. No less of a puppet than the black-swathed Jenova creatures we saw in Nibelheim. Ah, Sephiroth. They called you an Ancient... but you couldn't be more different. Son of the Crisis from the Sky, even as I am a daughter of the Planet, and Cloud your vengeful follower. Cloud is here - as my perception slips further and further into Holy, I can see/hear/feel him running along the corridors of the Lost City. Sephiroth is here - but he had been here before I arrived, so that's no real surprise. He's brought another piece of Jenova with him. Also no surprise. I catch hold of my flash of deep sadness and fling it into Holy. See, see, this pain is what you can prevent. From the depths of my soul I ask you - begin your movement! Cloud runs ever closer, his big blade's edge winking at me in the light. Soon, I'll be thrust into the Lifestream. But Holy will arise by then. Arise, Holy. Cloud and his two companions - their faces are obscured by Holy's light in my eyes - have entered the antechamber. Really, they aren't as important in this drama. I reject the callousness of this thought, but it's there - there is only Cloud and Sephiroth now. As Cloud picks his way across the waters toward me, Sephiroth begins to descend from the rafters of the Cetra palace. Turn back, Cloud, turn back! As you go, so goes Sephiroth. There will be at least one sword drunk on blood today. But no - like Sephiroth, Cloud is called by Jenova and cannot turn away. Or perhaps it's more. Perhaps Cloud is letting himself be drawn, but he thinks to protect me. Holy, do you see? This man wishes to protect me. He wants his sword to be a shield. For me, and for all the Planet. His darkness is nothing next to his light. Sephiroth is poised above me. Yes, I know you're there. Even with Holy consuming me, I can see you - don't act so surprised, your Jenova cells are crying for my destruction loud enough to wake my dead ancestors. You hang there like a spider, silent and terrible in the sky. But you won't act without Cloud - that I know. You are as bound to him as he is to you. When he comes, when he raises his sword, then will be my moment of truth. Will I succeed or fail? Will Holy awaken in that time? Holy, my time draws near. Rise, move, and save the Planet as you did long ago, back before the memories of even the Cetra. Cloud is climbing the steps, determinedly. No hesitation. He knows he must be here. There is no uncertainty to him. Poor Cloud, you should know better - your light is cooperating with your darkness. Jenova is controlling you. But then, it's been that way for so long. How can you break free, you silly spiky-headed doofus, who's tracked all over the Planet doing things and you don't even know why? All the while you've been alternately sabotaging Jenova's agenda and fulfilling it. Holy! My enemy, my friend, draws near. The Crisis from the Sky descends. The time is now! Awake! The keening wail of metal on glass heralds Cloud's sword being upraised. I look up, catch his brilliant eyes as shouts sound from far away. Those shouts - they halt Cloud, check his sword. He stares at me, all determination gone, uncertainty in its place. Slowly he lets his sword drop. He wants to speak - to apologize - to somehow make it not have happened. I smile, sadly. [Oh, Cloud...] Holy flares in my vision, roars in my ears. Sephiroth drops. **Your mortal shell is salvageable,** something whispers to me. **Is this what you pray for?** No, Holy... not this. Your purpose is greater than me. Use my death, use my pain, and awaken. I have a few moments of painful life left now. My White Materia is flung from my hairband in my dying convulsions, dropping to the floor and bouncing merrily into the water. It's glowing - did you catch that, Sephiroth, Cloud? I succeeded. But of course neither could know what it means. That's all right, though. Jenova can't comprehend the light. Sephiroth rips his blade from my back, letting me fall into Cloud's arms. Please don't cry, Cloud. It doesn't hurt anymore. As my blood threads along the ground, Holy takes the last of my pain and uses it to rally itself. And I? I rejoin the Lifestream. I rejoin my people, the blood of the Planet.