Chapter Text
She’d just got through whistling the first few notes of Midgar Blues when Barret frantically clapped his one, massive hand over her mouth and told her to “cut that shit out down here.”
They’d been trudging their way through the Mythril Mines for hours, and it had started to show. At the mouth of the cave, they’d all been entranced by the jewel-tone glow pocketing every inch of the long path leading down, down into the dark. Everything was still so new barely 24 hours after fleeing Midgar in a rush, each tiny discovery just another example of all the planet had to offer despite the long death march Shinra had it on. Wonder was enough to keep their little group’s spirits buoyed for at least the first chunk of their descent.
But, after hours without sunlight in stale air, she’d felt the single thread running through the group start to pull taut until she worried it’d snap altogether. Red’s tail had taken to flicking with irritation every few seconds. Barret and Cloud had gotten into several of their little fisticuff pissing contests over directions. And Tifa, rather than try another failed attempt at mediating between the two, had started to just radiate a certain low-level anxiety, constantly fidgeting with the truly absurd number of clasps on her gloves.
So, Aerith struck up a quiet tune.
And, now, here they are. She and Barret exchanging bewildered, wide-eyed stares. Aerith watching his brain catch up with his body as regret and embarrassment flooded his face pinker than her dress. Tifa and Cloud watching them with wordless shock, and Red giving that puzzled look she’d found he reserved for anything he deemed too strangely human to be worth inquiring.
Barret drops his hand in an instant, apologizes over and over again, and exclaims that he’ll scout ahead and disappears to the front of their little group.
(As much as anyone that size and a quarter sheet metal can disappear)
Aerith has known Barret for a handful of days–at best. Realistically, this long walk is the first time in those few days that they’ve had any uninterrupted time to chat without the constant risk of Shinra’s eyes watching their every move. But, still, she’s deciphered at least two things about the guy in that time.
He’s a Major League Girl Dad. Two daughters, even if Tifa only partly accepts that. And, more importantly for this matter, he’s hyper aware of how intimidating folks can actually think he is. She’s seen the way he exudes softness around folks that matter to him–Marlene, Tifa, even Aerith to a degree. Tifa says they all met Elmyra, and she can just imagine him shrinking like a violet in the narrow corners of her house, especially under Elmyra’s stern gaze. That he’d react so strongly, and so physically , to Aerith’s little action is surprising, to put it lightly.
Rather than let the poor guy wallow and kill any chance of their fledgling friendship taking off on this ill-advised road trip, she sidles up next to him at the party helm and breaks the ice.
“So.” She looks at him expectantly, drawing out that last syllable like a note. “What was that about?”
“What was what?” He's being shifty, looking anywhere but her. She can tell even with those sunglasses he’s got on and pushed right up to where his nose and forehead meet. She laughs at the affronted little noise he makes when she plucks them right off.
“Don’t play dumb. I’m just curious. The whistling. Cut that shit out down here.” Her impression gets a laugh out of him at least. “What was that about?”
“It’s nothin’, just–” He rubs the back of his head, suddenly shy. “Just, you know, some ol’ superstition from the mines.”
Huh.
“Superstition?”
“Yeah, you know, old ways of wardin’ off stuff.” At her blank expression, he actually smiles a bit. “What? You never run into that kinda stuff over in Sector Five?”
She racks her brain for a moment, walking the twisting alleyways of Sector Five in her mind, imagining the faces of all those folks there one by one and recalling the stories they told her. Comes up with nothing.
“Not that I can remember.”
“Huh.” He absently scratches his beard while looking off to the side. “I guess Five’s a lil’ more established. Less of the lean-tos folks set up in Seven when they roll into town. Maybe folks forget that kind of stuff over time. Or leave it behind.”
It’s anyone’s guess, but at least it breaks the ice. While they criss-cross the dreary mining paths over the next hour, Barrett talks. First, about the whistling. She learns it’s an old mining superstition. Folks in Corel would say that whistling down in the dark could cause cave-ins, so it was strictly off-limits. New recruits would get stiff lectures from the old guard before their shifts, and he laughs while recalling the time someone clapped their own hand over his mouth when he forgot the warnings during a particularly long shift.
But he doesn’t stop there. As it turns out, Corel has this laundry list of stories from the mines. Some seem almost scientific in their methods. He talks about folks burning candles and bringing songbirds deep underground to tell when the air turned and the clock started before they all suffocated. Others seem like pure myths. Folks skipped their last shifts before retirement because they thought they were due for one final, fatal accident on the job. Families passed down workman’s gear–pickaxes, shovels, boots, and more–from one generation to the next, claiming that the goods that helped a miner survive until retirement were almost anointed with luck and guaranteed to protect the next one. Barret admits to her with a soft, conspiratorial tone that he thinks that one’s just “bullshit” meant to make some kind of meaning out of the brutal poverty they all lived with.
So many stories. All of them fearing the same specter, warding off the same end–death, death, all the way down. The realization makes the air around her feel thick.
“It’s kind of like flowers,” she offers after they’ve been talking for the better part of an hour.
That earns her a bemused smile. “Flowers?”
“Yup. They all mean something. Baby’s breath for love. Iris for hope. Jasmine for grace.” Aerith rattles them off while counting on her fingers. “In theory, you're supposed to give them because you want to say something specific.”
“Lot for you to remember.”
“Kind of, actually. Like, the same flower can mean different things in different colors. I’d get these repeat buyers for my flowers on the upper plates. Lot of Shinra suits buying last minute gifts for spouses to say sorry for working late.” She wrinkles her nose, remembering them. “They’d complain about the constant yellow lilies. They’d be like, ‘ When are you gonna get something else like white ones?’ You know what I’d say?”
She balances on her tip-toes and leans into his big shoulder, pausing for effect.
“I’d say, ‘ If I did that, you’d come complaining to me about how your wife’s really mad that you gave her the filler flower in a funeral arrangement.’ Bad for business, you know?”
Barret bursts out laughing just as Tifa appears on Aerith’s other side.
“What about you, Tifa?” Aerith skips ahead just a step, turning to walk backwards in front of her, head tilted, full attention.
Tifa just gives her a curious half-smile. “What about me?”
“Did you grow up with any superstitions?”
“Superstitions …”
“Yeah, Barret was just telling me about all the Corel ones. Kind of morbid, but interesting, you know?”
“Mostly just folks tryin’ to buy more time, keep death off their tails,” Barret adds.
“Did Nibelheim have any?”
“Oh.” Tifa’s mouth pops open. It’s quiet enough that Aerith hears that one syllable echo faintly down the cave path. There’s a look on her face, a slight tension between her brows. Aerith tries placing it, and, for a moment, something flickers behind Tifa’s eyes. Aerith thinks of that thread through them all, pulled tight.
But the moment’s gone faster than it came, and Tifa shrugs, steps forward to match pace with Aerith while gently turning her by the elbow to face forward again. “I don’t really remember. But, why don’t you tell me about the Corel ones again to catch me up, or tell me what folks in Sector Five did?”
Aerith has known Tifa for a handful of days–at best. But the actual length of time feels almost inconsequential. Whatever confusion–or skepticism–Tifa initially regarded Aerith with back in Corneo’s basement faded fast, somewhere between the sewer floor and Sector Seven pillar. Tragedy makes fast friends of all. Some kind of slow burning, quiet understanding had started to fill the space left behind. I know you . Thread weaving together, cinching at the contact points. Now, there’s two things Aerith knows for sure.
Tifa’s attentive. When others feel, she leans in, sops up their worries like a sponge. Detail-oriented. Empathetic. Always somewhere nearby asking …
What do you need?
Are you alright?
You can tell me.
I’m here.
Aerith can’t imagine running a bar was Tifa’s dream job growing up. But it’s easy to see how she fell into it. In those few minutes Aerith had spent at Seventh Heaven before the plate collapsed, she’d been too occupied with finding and saving Marlene to really take in the place beyond a few spare glances. And now she never would. Her tongue feels like lead.
But she can sometimes picture it, if she tries. The heavy, dark wood door propped open, the few neon lights humming inside, the lurching sound of hardwood floors giving way to her boots, the old jukebox skipping tracks. In another life, she’d have found it sooner, let the light draw her in for a warm plate, a cold drink, and Tifa on the other side of the bar. Leaning across, zeroed in, asking …
What can I do for you?
(Her ears burn)
But that’s not all attentiveness.
Tifa’s evasive.
Aerith didn’t see it at first, chalked it up to being shy. But it’s obvious if you watch her enough. In the Wastelands outside Midgar and walking with a clear limp, she insisted she was “just tired” from that last battle. In Kalm over drinks at some dingy pub, she waved off all Aerith's attempts to get the drinks, pay the tab, anything.
Nothing.
I’m fine.
Don’t worry about me.
You go on ahead.
Curious.
Every time–some verbal sleight of hand. Some way to steer the conversation away from her. Ready to lend an ear but reticent to give up much else. It probably came in handy at the bar, with a rotating cast of different drunks thinking they could charm the pretty barmaid they were lucky enough to stumble across in a dive bar in the slums. In another life, maybe she was one.
Aerith pushes. “That can’t be true.” She tries to catch her eye to give Tifa her best bullshit look, but Tifa’s grip on her arm is firm. “You were scared of those ghosts in the train graveyard. That had to come from something.”
“That place gave all of us the creeps.” Tifa gives a harsh little laugh. Her face in profile is impossible to read.
“Okay,” Aerith snorts and rolls her eyes. Her palms itch. “But you’re holding out on me—”
“Aerith—”
“You’ve gotta be a little superstitious … acting like that—”
“I don’t—”
“So, share with the class—”
“I think we should just—” Oh, Barret. Forgot he was there.
“I’m not—”
“I’m curious—”
“Aerith, please—”
“It’s a fun way to pass the time!”
“It’s not some fun little fact!” Tifa snaps. Her voice cuts through Aerith like a livewire. It echoes down the cavern, until Cloud shouts back something that sounds like what the fuck is happening up there .
They’re back to the beginning. But now it’s Tifa with her hands clapped over her own mouth. Tifa and Aerith exchanging bewildered, wide-eyed stares. Barret holding his one good hand limply in the air, reaching out with some now-useless intention.
“I—” Tifa stammers, opening and closing her mouth around some thought that never materializes.
Inexplicably, in that moment, Aerith finds her mind wandering. She remembers that she does actually know one more thing to be true about Tifa, gained from long treks through sewers, graveyards, even destiny itself.
Tifa only loses control when she’s hit a breaking point, when she’s sick of the circumstances before her, when she’s had enough.
She barely notices Tifa declaring that she’s going to join up with Cloud and Red at the rear guard. She barely registers that her feet have kept shuffling along this whole time, only registering it when Tifa stands still, pointedly staring at the cave wall, her figure receding into the dark.
“Shit, I—” Her chest aches.
Barret puts his hand on her shoulder. “Leave her be.” He gives her one of his patented dad smiles. It sinks into her like a balm. “She stews on shit. Real clap-trap. Will just deny, deny, deny that you did anything or jump to apologize. Nothing will make you or her feel better right now. She’ll come around when she’s ready.”
“I fucked up. I get that but—” She glances over her shoulder, but Tifa’s already gone. “But, what?”
Barret doesn’t answer her, just lets his hand drop from her shoulder. Her eyes burn. She tucks her arm around his and leans into him with a wobbly pout. For some time, they walk together, arm in arm.
“We had stuff too.” She feels his deep voice rumble through her when he talks. “For when all that other stuff didn’t work.”
She peers up at him with a questioning look. The jewel-tone glow of the cave revealed a few strands of greying hair on his head.
“Yeah. Last rights.” He looks straight ahead. “You know, sayin’ goodbye to the dead.”
“You don’t have to talk about it.” She cringes at her small voice. It probably sounds like a petulant child.
“It’s okay if you’re curious. I don’t mind.” He smiles softly to himself. “It’s kind of nice to talk about with someone again. Brings me back.” He smiles, looking lost in his thoughts. “When folks died outside the mine, it was pretty normal stuff. Dress the body. Casket. Nothin’ special.” He stops abruptly, points down one of the spidery pathways going off the tunnel trail where a small pile of stacked stones sits in front of a dark hole in the wall. “That though is a marker for a cave-in. Lot of people die on the job. If we couldn’t bring the bodies back up topside, we’d seal up the old path, if it wasn’t already. Place lil’ stacks from the rubble like a gravestone.”
She stares. A grave miles underground. One that someone could recognize, if they were like Barret and knew what clues to look for. She feels her brain hum with curiosity, even as she tightens her grip on Barret’s arm.
“Morbid, yeah?” He gives her a rueful smile. “But, kinda nice. Folks knew where it was. Folks could come back to it. Visit their dead. No forgettin’.”
“I wish I had flowers for them.” Aerith murmurs.
Bizarrely, Barret busts out a huge smile. He gently takes his arm back, steps away from her, braces his gun, and declares, “You’re gonna love this.” Before she can respond, he blasts a smattering of white rocks on the far wall, prompting another round of Cloud yelling seriously what the fuck are you all doing up there from somewhere behind them.
Barret ignores him and walks over to the resulting collection of debris. He makes a delighted noise, pulls something out, and hustles back to her side. He places a small collection of blooming white tendrils in her palm.
“It looks like—” She holds it up to catch the gemstone light, and gasps with bewilderment. “A flower? But, no, it’s definitely not, right? Down here?” She looks back and forth between him and this new discovery.
Barret grins. “They’re called gypsum flowers. They’re this mineral that grows out like this from cave walls. Takes hundreds of years, but some of them can get real long, or get tons of these ‘petals.’” He says the last part with exaggerated air quotes. “Miners said they look kinda like flowers. You see it, yeah?”
“Yeah,” Aerith nods, turning the bloom over and over in her palms. Marvels that the Planet can make something so strange, so unexpected all the way down here for no apparent purpose at all. She gives him her version of a crushing hug, holding the delicate bloom out of harm’s way. “Thank you, Barret.”
He sheepishly waves her off and makes a show of sitting down on a nearby rock formation “Eh, don’t go thankin’ me. Do what you gotta do. Let’s me rest these old bones.”
She takes the short, winding path to the cave wall. Loose gravel crunches underfoot, making her head feel cotton-stuffed in the tight space. Up close, she can finally appreciate just how old the cave-in wall is. A light layer of dust covers the small stack of stones, and long tendrils of abandoned spider webs collect between each small level. Old, hollowed-out bodies of misfortunate insects dotting the space between. She carefully sweeps away what she can without disturbing the grave marker and places the gypsum flower at its base.
There, in a quiet corner, in the lonesome dark, underneath miles of rock and far from home, Aerith clasps her hands in prayer. Strains to hear the voice of the Planet down in the depths. Reaches for the folks buried beyond the wall. Like so much she’s supposed to know how to do based on instinct alone as a Cetra, she comes up short. Call and response. Catch and release.
Can you hear me?
I know you’re there.
But, reaching out still requires something to reach back.
"Aerith?"
Like Tifa, when the rear guard catches up with the rest of the group. Calling her name from the main path. Searching for her despite some unknown anger. Appearing at the mouth of the gravesite to ask where she went. A thread pulled tight. Aerith follows, leaving the grave behind.