memoriamagus ;   "Just let me die."

exnatura-archive:

send me a sentence for my muse's reaction

    It is not that simple.
 It is not that easy.

 Naminé expects a miracle out of her, but Aerith cannot fathom the self-sacrifice it would take to allow someone to save her. To bury her denial deep within her soul. To let the guilt fester beneath her skin and consume her organs until she rotted from the inside out. She cannot allow this. She cannot give Naminé the freedom or responsibility to choose her own fate, to choose who is worthy of her sacrfice.

 It is Aerith’s choice.
       When death is involved, it is always Aerith’s choice.

 “They’re after me. Aerith, please. I don’t want you to get hurt.”

 She shakes her head.

 “Just let me die.”

 ”Don’t be so selfish!”

 Her words are laced with venom. Her grip is hard and firm. “You don’t get sacrifice yourself for me.”

 The air pulsates with the phantom beats of war drums and the paper cut calls for a memory witch. Footsteps keep time with her heartbeats— fast, erratic, jumping against the bars of her ribcage like a prisoner’s morse code. Time is slipping from them, and Aerith knows that if she does not move first, Naminé will press onward and offer herself to hellhounds.

  ”Naminé.”

 A bloodstained kiss finds her forehead. A wave of love follows, too strong and insistent to deny. To misconstrue. This is an act of love, she whispers with silence before her touch turns forceful. Only careful enough to avoid bruised bones and open wounds, Aerith forces Naminé into the closet, the entire weight of her body slamming against the door to close, fingers fumbling to lock it tightly.

 There is no pounding refusal. No cries to be let out. Naminé is not as ungrateful as Aerith. She does not waste this sacrifice.

 And Aerith does not waste another moment. There is no time for a proper goodbye. She’s not very good at them, anyway. Her lips are made to speak hellos and good mornings. Even the farewell kiss feels foreign, and an arm rises to wipe it from her mouth, blood streaking the hairs on her skin.

 The hunting party draws closer, and Aerith knows it is time to move. In a few minutes, she will be far from the closet. In a few minutes, she will have led the danger away. All she needs is to find a nice place to die.

     Here lies Aerith Gainsborough, the world’s greatest hypocrite.