Wither

By Lady Sanzennine

Disclaimer: All characters and events are property of Squaresoft Inc.

AN: Aeris’ POV.

Here I lie, in the dead embrace of the winter winds. A broken lily rests upon my open palm, presented to the dark, stormy heavens; a wilted offering to mirror my soul.

My love, can you tell me? Why the gilded lily should now be so frail, ravaged and destroyed by both the cruel frost and the burning rays of the summer sun? Both wintry power and blazing heat scorch the tender petals of May – for a flower is delicate beyond words.

And you have destroyed this one.

It grew from the dust, my love. Struggling and climbing, straining and fighting every step of the way to reach the heavens above. It grew, my love, it grew! Spring green stalk gave way to unfurling red silk. It kissed the sweet, fragrant air and blossomed forth, holding its petals aloft, straining ever skywards.

And then the fires came.

From your hand the flame danced forth, consuming all in its path. It raged and screamed with the power of your righteous fury. It killed. And when they all lay dead at your feet – men, women and children – what was there left? The glowing green embers of your eyes remained where nothing else stood. Black ash blew across the decimated terrain, darkening the skies while the earth was cleansed of fallen blood by the same inferno that spilt it.

The flower began to wither then, my love. The tongues of your killing flame burned its petals and it curled inwards to protect itself. The fire died, as all incredible brightness dies in the end, and the winter set in. Your soul, your eyes – nothing remained but the burning ice of your hatred. Driven towards one goal, led forwards by the Crisis from the skies; when you returned to my side for that one brief moment, I felt it instinctively.

It grew from the dust, my love. And to dust it returned.

My angel you were, my fallen one you are. I grieve for you here, my darling, for all you’ve destroyed and all you shall never know. Your soul is tainted, your hands stained. And I…I wither.

I wither away like this dying flower in my palm. If you could only see it now, love. You’d see the patches of muddy brown where the petals have begun to rot and the growing holes in the once sublime red velvet where the insects have fed. And you would smell the scent of this wilting blossom; both sweet as summer rain and sickening as the foul stench of death. Heartbreaking, certainly, for is anything to be felt more deeply than the murder of such beauty?

If you were here, my fallen angel, I’d show you the sky. Look and embrace its dreary countenance for surely the clear blue skies have turned to this for you. The heavens mourn for you too. It weeps bitter, stinging tears at what you have become and what you have done to this delicate bloom.

And listen! Beyond – do you hear the cry of the nightingale, hidden behind the clouds? She sings to you, my darling. She sings what I wish to but cannot, for my voice has been crushed beneath the weight of the crimson bloodstains that caress your fingertips; beneath the twisted lies that your soul now feeds from. She sings the melody of this flower that will never fully be.

My tears fall with the lilting of her song. Silently. They are all I have left.

I loved you.

Did you ever truly know? Did I ever truly tell you? I look back upon the past and wander the lanes of memory, desperately searching for my mistakes. I cannot help but wonder why I wasn’t able to prevent all this. Was my love not enough? Was this simply destiny?

It matters not. You have chosen your path and it diverts from the one we walked together. I shall be by your side no longer, but it matters not to you for in your mind She speaks. The Crisis whispers to you and now She is all you need.

Oh, but I can’t help but remember the days long gone when you stood beside me. Smiling green eyes, so alive, they were the hue of the Planet’s lifeblood. Strong arms about me, a hard chest beneath my cheek and a whispered promise in my ear. I remember so clearly the steady rhythm of your heart and the touch of your hand against my own. We knew each other then, knew everything and continued to learn more each day.

And I loved everything about you.

And you…I lied to my friends because of you. I couldn’t tell them about what we were to each other in days past. I just couldn’t. And so I told them that I used to date another man – your best friend – those infinite years ago.

If only I could so easily hide the truth from myself. How easy it would be then to accept the endpoint that I know is unavoidable. I know how this tragic story shall end, beloved. I think about it everyday with the rising of the sun and the ascension of the moon. And by these thoughts, I wither away.

So here I shall say goodbye to you, my love, in the only way I can. When we meet for the final time there will be no words, only the silent prayer within my eyes. You will know all I wish to tell you then. But whether you will care, I know not.

Here, within the ethereal sanctuary of my church: where we first met, where we first exchanged words of love, and where this flower struggled out from the dust…Here it shall all end. From dust it grew, my love, and from dust it shall return.

A shallow grave, dug by my own hands. There, this blossom rests within the cradle of the earth. It lies there, broken, weeping, longing for what will never be.

A single tear falls upon the dying crimson petals. No more, my darling, my fallen angel. No more.

I cover the tiny grave and press upon the newly turned soil until it compacts enough to blend in with the rest of the ground. Not one trace to show the world that this flower ever existed.

Rest in peace, I bid. Here you will lie in final oblivion.

And I…I shall be here.

Where I wither.

Oh Dearest, canst thou tell me why

The Rose should be so pale?

And why the azure Violet

Should wither in the vale?

And why the Lark should, in the cloud,

So sorrowfully sing?

And why from loveliest balsam-buds

A scent of death should spring?

And why the Sun upon the mead

So chillingly should frown?

And why the Earth should, like a grave,

Be mouldering and brown?

And why is it that I, myself,

So languishing should be?

And why is it, my Heart-of-Hearts,

That thou forsakest me?

-Heinrich Heine

~*~ ~*~ ~*~

~Lady Sanzennine~

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