Is This All?

Disclaimer: I don't own anything related to Final Fantasy 7, or any part of Jonatha Brooke's excellent music.

<<<< >>>>

I didn’t want to die.

From here, I can hear you. You cry for me, as though I’m a martyr; you roil against the unfairness of my death on my behalf, some of you to the point of trying any unnatural means of resurrection you can conceive. At first, you curse the loss of Great Gospel, of your best magic user; then, when it’s all over, you smile, nod, and think to yourself, “Good job, Aeris. You did well. We won thanks to you.”

I’m not a person anymore: I’m a convenient plot device, like the White Materia I used to wear in my hair.

You call me a heroine. Maybe I am, if the actions define the woman. But do you really think that I went to the City of the Ancients smiling at the thought of giving my life to the Planet? I was barely an adult, and I had spent my life supporting others: first my real mother, then my adopted one, then Zack, then Cloud. I never complained, and I never bemoaned the fact that I had nothing more, but that doesn‘t mean that I didn‘t want anything else. Even when I knelt there, at the point of the City’s soul, and dipped into the power that I’d spent most of my time trying to deny instead of exploit, I didn’t do it because I wanted to. I didn’t even do it because I was a Cetra, and the last one who could save the Planet.

I suppose I did it for Cloud.

I knew as soon as I saw the Midgar Zolom skewered outside the Mythril Mines that we’d never be able to defeat Sephiroth. We could barely defend ourselves against Rufus Shinra’s robots: how were we supposed to stop the ultimate warrior? When I saw his shade in the Temple of the Ancients, and he took over Cloud’s will so easily, I was reminded of this, and I knew that I had to do something. So I did. It’s that simple.

I never thought that I’d die for it. I knew Sephiroth would retaliate, certainly: I could feel his taint flowing through the Lifestream as he passed through the City on his way to me. But I could also feel Cloud, could sense that the rest of them were on their way too, and I was comforted. They would protect me this time. I would summon Holy, turn it on Sephiroth, and we would win. Game over, good job, Aeris. Everything’s fine. We owe it all to you. Did I do it for glory? No. All I knew of glory was the power that the Turks had tried to hand me, and I didn’t want that. Still, I wasn’t being selfless. I wanted to get something out of the defiance that wound up costing my life.

What was it? I don’t know. In any case, it probably doesn’t matter now.

I think that what I wanted most of all was to be seen, to be recognized as a person. I wanted to be desired for who I was, not what I contained. I wanted to be defined by so much more than my heritage or my abilities. I wanted to be human. For daring to seek this, I was killed, but I don’t mean to complain; death is an improvement over the indefinite continuance of my old life. Even so, I am saddened by the knowledge that this is it, that I have already done and received everything to which I will ever be entitled.

In my darkest hours, I wish that the noble sacrifice had been anyone else’s.

Do you see me a bit more clearly now? Do you understand me, even a little bit? I was more than the girl in the pink dress, more than the weakling with a talent for magic. I was more than your ticket past Demon’s Wall, more than Great Gospel and Fury Brand. I was so much more, and no one ever saw it. Knowing all this, will you please forget me? Will you please stop plastering the outline of a heroine over my flesh?

If you love me so much, at least allow me the freedom to choose obscurity.

 

<<<< >>>>

All things being equal, her beauty was not her fault,
And it was not her only advantage.
It’s the feast and the novelty, the manliness of his charms…
So was it really such a shock, so much history in a kiss?
Besides, they both knew it was over.
And all they had to worry about was just privacy, and pain,
And the damage they had done.

Is this all? Can I go now? Is this all?

So when you sleep, do not dream.
Those dreams, they weigh you down
When you carry them along with you.
They will wrack your lovely body, report back to your soul,
With all the sickening sweets of the afternoon,
As we lose the last of innocence, like some romantic notion,
Buried by the fashion of disdain.
You can make the world your apple,
But take a bite before it sours;
You can make the world your charm or your chain.

Is this all? Can I go now? Is this all?

--- “Is This All”, by Jonatha Brooke
 

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