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“Mom,” Aerith flops on the bed, scrambling for a moment to get herself up, before leaning close to her mom’s face, her head tilted. “Can you tell me more?”
Ifalna lays down on her side, knees pressed to her stomach; most days she does, Aerith notes. “Tell you more about what?” Ifalna raises an eyebrow.
“Aboout… us!”
“Oh, the Cetra.” Her mother nods, reaching her hand out to Aerith and brushing her fingers through her hair. “Yes, I do-” she pulls her hand back to cough into it- “I do think I could.”
Aerith claps her hands together, rolling right off the bed and landing on her feet, watching while her mother sits up slowly, adjusting herself slightly and taking a deep breath, before using her hands to let herself stand up. She then looks to Aerith, holding out her hand, which Aerith takes, and she leads her over to the blank, gray wall.
Her mother leans forward, an arm wrapped around herself, like she was on a rocking ship and unable to keep herself upright without a reminder to stay balanced.
Despite being the one to request this, Aerith looks at her mom with worry, and, Ifalna seems to pick up on it, as she puts her other hand on the wall, before beginning to speak. “Say, Aerith, let’s make this more fun. This wall is pretty boring by itself, isn’t it?”
“Mm-hm.” Aerith gazes up at the wall, huffing.
“You know those crayons you were given? Let’s put those to use.”
“I thought those were only for paper.” She blinks.
“If you’re creative enough,” a small smile snuck onto Ifalna’s face, “anything is possible.”
Aerith’s eyes light up, letting go of her mother’s hand to turn around and striding over to the desk. She hoists herself up onto the stool still positioned close by, and she stares at papers. A lot of papers, actually, she isn’t quite sure what they say if they have words on them, she just draws what she wants. She picks up the tray the crayons roll around in, and she carefully wiggles her way off the stool, before running over to Ifalna, holding the tray out.
“Very good.” Ifalna lightly pats her on the head, ruffling her hair a bit before lifting her hand up, feeling the wall with her fingers again, flicking dust off of them. “Let’s start bigger, this time.” She pauses, as if every memory of hers had been scattered. “Where did I leave off?”
“We’re caretakers of the planet.” Aerith replies, picking up one of the green crayons and fidgeting with it.
“Right, I’m sure you’d like to hear more about the lifestream, wouldn’t you?”
“Mm-hm!”
“Here, give me the green, I’ll draw it, you draw the flowers of the planet.”
Aerith gasps a little at the idea of her mother joining her in drawing—so she holds the green crayon out, and Ifalna takes it, picking up the teal too. “For highlights.” Her mother says. Aerith places the tray on the ground, picking out a few flowery colors in her mind, sitting down and looking up at her mother while she begins to draw strokes of green. To many, they likely seemed nonsensical, to Aerith, they were familiar in some way, and followed a flow, not that much different to a river.
“The lifestream, it circles throughout our planet, giving life to the world and everything within it.”
She leans close to the bottom half of the wall and makes a yellow circle, ears perked and interest piqued.
A light cough, but Ifalna continues making the river of life. “Remember when I said, we all return to the planet?”
“Mhm.” Aerith nods, placing the yellow crayon in her mouth as she takes out the red one, making a curve.
“The lifestream is where we, the Cetra, believed we would go. But we do not see it frequently, because it is inside our planet, under its ground. We learned to communicate with the planet, with it as our teacher. Through springs, through the breeze, through the sea…”
Her eyebrows furrow, despite this being the first time her mother had talked to her about this—it felt familiar, like a distant, fuzzy memory. Something slipping out of her grasp the longer she thought about it.
“It was like weaving it like a needle with a thread through fabric, used to create new life by the Cetra’s hands. That is how many people now utilize materia, and why it’s studied so closely.”
“Can materia talk? Is it alive?”
Ifalna shakes her head. “I don’t think materia is quite ‘alive’ in the sense that we are, no. But a piece of the lifestream dwells within it. And, there are some that do have things that live within them, things you may hear are called ‘summons’, I believe… at least, that’s what the scientists have called them.”
Aerith continues to draw petals, nodding along to her mother’s words, but that truly only brings more questions; why are the summons kept inside materia, when they live and breathe like the rest of them? Do they also return to the planet when they die? But, she knows, too, that she wants to hear more about the Cetra, so she will save those curiosities for another day.
“And, those who they lost…” Ifalna lifts the crayon off the wall, turning it slightly before continuing its dance. “Would return to the planet.”
“And then to the lifestream?” Aerith pipes up, finding herself mesmerized by seeing her mother draw. Ifalna looks down to her, and even while her eyes are off of the crayon, it continues to drag, like it knows where to go.
“Yes.” Ifalna hums. “You’re so smart. Those are very good flowers, by the way.”
The compliment makes Aerith grin, and she chooses a brown crayon, beginning to add small trees to accompany her flowers. If she is to recreate the planet’s surface, she has to use what she believes is out there, the things in her dreams, the stuff her mother talks about—all of it, she wants to see it one day. Ifalna’s strokes, on the other hand, continue to get wider and wider, seemingly more nonsensical, but in Aerith’s mind, it clicks together perfectly like puzzle pieces. As she establishes green, she then slips the teal crayon in place of the green, adding it on top of the green, allowing it to look like it was glowing. Aerith’s eyes go all wide as she watches.
She’s seen this place before.
She knows she has.
But she doesn’t know when.
She remembers, for some reason, swimming through it, along the side of so many others.
But she’s not one with the planet, she’s a little girl, living and breathing.
Yet she hears wails, wails she cannot differentiate from times she’s cried, and they all blur together.
It makes her head hurt, and she shakes her head about, seeing the brown in her hand was actually a teal, and she had begun to draw… scribbles, not strokes like her mother, not parts of a river, but weird, twisting, scribbles. And she frowns.
“The Cetra were known to move not much unlike the lifestream, moving from place to place, letting the land around them flourish and blossom like never before, like a scab closing on its surface.”
“Then how come we don’t?” Aerith asks, placing her crayon in her lap and staring at the various colors that pressed themselves into her skin. “Why are we stuck here?” Her fingers curl in on themselves, and she clenches her fists, her eyebrows furrowing.
“...Well, not every Cetra wanted to continue moving, some wanted homes,” Ifalna continues, though her gaze visibly droops, a flower unwatered. She breathes through her teeth, her hand twitching, but she keeps composure, even as her eyes drift to Aerith. “After all, that’s how I had you. Without my mother and father and their mother and father and the mother and father before that, well, I wouldn’t have been able to have you. And really, I’d hate that.” She lets the crayon fall into the tray with the others, and leans down, slow and careful, placing her hand on Aerith’s shoulder. “I know this place, truly, is awful… I’m not happy with it either. But trust me, Aerith. One day, I’ll show you the flowers.”
Aerith looks at her mother, who gives her such a sweet smile, one that seems so rare nowadays, and she clings to her like she too is about to disappear, swimming in the lifestream that flows beneath them. If they are so connected to it, why can’t Aerith find a way to commune with it, to talk to the planet and tell it, and scream—Get us out of here! She buries her face, eyes squinted shut, feeling her mother’s gown, her mother’s breathing, a way to show she is still here, and she is not going anywhere. Ifalna’s shaky hand (no longer steady as it once were) runs fingers through her hair, over and over, and it brings a calm feeling to Aerith. She lightly taps Aerith’s head, which makes her look up at her mom.
Ifalna presses a kiss to her forehead, letting out a few coughs which she quickly hides behind her arm, before taking a breath, looking up to the art they’d begun to create. Aerith looks too.
Above them, was a stream of verdancy and flowers blooming below, trees growing and- and that stupid, incoherent scribble. But Ifalna gently traces it with her other hand, and Aerith watches her hand quake. She opens her mouth to say something, but Ifalna hugs her close with one arm.
“I’m so glad,” she murmurs in Aerith’s ear, “I’m so glad I’ve gotten to see you grow.”
She presses another kiss, this time onto Aerith’s nose, making a tingling sensation, which makes her giggle.
“That tickles!”
“Of course it does. Tell me, Aerith, what do you think of the lifestream?” Ifalna gestures loosely to the river above, and Aerith’s gaze moves to it, but, instead of feeling a connection to it, there is a sinking feeling deep within her stomach.
Ifalna clears her throat, likely suppressing another cough.
After silence settles, Aerith declares, “I don’t think I like it.”
Ifalna blinks. “Why is that?”
“It’s screaming.” She states simply. “I can hear it screaming.”
Tonight, Elmyra had decided on making a meal, one more different from usual. She was using leftovers from other nights the two had dinner together, and currently had soup boiling on the stove while she chopped up cucumbers for the main course. At Aerith’s request, no less; she had begun to grow tired of the constant repeats of meals that were made the same way, so Elmyra decided she’d make something different with the same ingredients, calling it a challenge.
Aerith, meanwhile, sits at the table, humming to herself, scribbling on a piece of paper (a whole stack had been given to her as a gift, alongside crayons). Currently, she remains focused, her eyes watching the crayon as it curves, and then she manages to draw an almost perfectly straight line—it wobbles a bit at the end, but she'll take it! She then draws more curves, looking up when she feels Elmyra place a hand on her shoulder.
“And what are you drawin’?” Elmyra tilts her head, leaning down and looking at Aerith’s art.
“My other mom,” she chirps in reply.
Elmyra opens her mouth, staring at the stick figure Aerith was actively depicting—her other mom, a stick figure, was in an outline of green, with brown hair and a half-red half-uncolored gown, and a peach shade of skin for her face. Aerith picks up the red crayon again once she finishes the curves of the skirt, beginning to go back and forth. Her eyes move from the drawing to Elmyra to back to the drawing, and she picks up on the silence, though she doesn’t comment on it, Elmyra seems to have a somber look in her eyes. “Alright, she looks very nice. How big of a bowl do you want?”
“Oh.” Aerith taps the crayon on the corner of the paper. “Umm.”
“There’ll be more food aside from just it, so if you wanna start with a small bowl, I recommend it.” Elmyra adds, lifting her hand up and tightening her bun.
Aerith thinks for a moment, then nods. “Small!”
Elmyra’s gaze lingers on her art for only a second, before she gives Aerith a faint smile and moves back into the kitchen, picking out a pan and placing it on the stove, getting oil and tofu out. Aerith returns to drawing, and once she finishes coloring in the skirt, she picks out the teal crayon from its packaging, covering all of the colors with the teal. Faintly, she does remember the way her mom drew the lifestream; and thus, because her mom is now one with the planet, she thinks the teal is a nice touch.
She listens to Elmyra work away, leaning close to the artwork—chop, chop—the way the teal mushes with the other colors doesn’t look good, the way it blurs together makes it look like muddy water. One of her mom’s eyes is smudged now—sizzle, sizzle—actually, some of her gown is too… a pout finds its way onto Aerith’s lips, and taps the crayon against the side of her mouth, placing the teal down and crossing her arms in defeat. Though, she knows, next time; she’ll definitely perfect it.
She picks up the green crayon again, and starts to draw sprouting stems. She doesn’t dwell too much on what Elmyra’s making, all she really picks up on is the rhythmic slicing and the sounds of her assembling something, and the occasional taste-testing.
Chop, chop, Aerith drew scarlet petals, matching her mom’s gown. Then, in the center, she colors it yellow, like it was meant to be the sun, but she knows it’s pollen. She thinks about the flowers that surround her all around outside; and she picks up the orange crayon as she gets to work at another flower.
Sizzle, sizzle, she curves the petals more this time, coloring them in carefully, adding lines of orange in the center of each full petal. She holds the green crayon in her mouth while she begins to draw the center of the flower, and once she adds the dots, she pulls it out from between her teeth and draws the stem, puffing her chest out in pride.
Clink, she adds some clouds to the sky around, returning to work on more of the yellow flowers, she manages to draw a few more, before picking up the red crayon again, drawing circles around a yellow dot, and a straight green line down, adding some leaves to it.
There’s a few echoes from the kitchen of Elmyra wrestling the ingredients and stirring them around in a pan, which makes Aerith look over. Elmyra scoops some food out into a bowl, placing it on top of rice, which makes Aerith tilt her head. When Elmyra picks up on Aerith looking, she scoops out some soup into a small bowl, bringing it over to her with a spoon.
“Here, you can start off with this while I finish up the rest.” She slides it over to Aerith, and Aerith perks up, placing her crayons down and starting to slide them back into their box. Yet Elmyra lingers, her eyes clearly on the drawing, and she opens her mouth, closes it, but opens it again when Aerith looks directly at her. “And… why's your mom frowning?”
Aerith shrugs with her shoulders. “She seems sad a lot.” The part she doesn’t say aloud is, you look sad too.
“Alright.” Elmyra nods, though her tone of voice does not harbor much understanding. However, Aerith picks up the spoon and scoops up some of the soup, and, from previous instances, she knows to not immediately chow down and gently blows on it, watching the liquid swish back and forth. Once she can hover over it without feeling its warmth, she laps it right up.
She kicks her legs out. “This is really good!”
“Oh, hush, it’s just some soup.”
“Really good soup…” Aerith mumbles, eating more of it. As she does, out of the corner of her eye she glances at the drawing of Ifalna, and, despite everything the smudges, she thinks it looks nice. Looking at it makes her feel nice, too.
Then, it gives her an idea. If Elmyra is sad, and Aerith has also been sad before, maybe a drawing will cheer her up. So, now ecstatic at this new idea, she quickly gobbles up the small bowl of soup Elmyra had prepared, moving it to the side while she pulls out the empty sheet of paper beneath her original drawing, and picks out a few crayons. Her eyes narrow in concentration—clink—she draws a familiar face—shake, shake—she scrunches her face up as she replicates the flowers, starting to draw another familiar face next to him—shake—she looks over to Elmyra in the kitchen, taking a moment to draw her hair, before continuing.
When she hears Elmyra’s footsteps, she slides the art back under the one of her other mom; she wants it to be a surprise, after all.
“Crayons away.” Elmyra puts two big bowls down on the table, putting a small bowl next to the one in her spot, and placing the other big one to the side of Aerith, so as to not risk placing it on the paper. “We’ve got the main course.”
Aerith gasps, clapping her hands together and blinking when one of her crayons rolls right off the table, quickly darting under it to hang off of her chair and picking it up, sliding it back into its box. She scoops up the rest, putting them in a bit haphazardly, but she doesn’t care too much, tugging the bowl in front of her and picking up the fork, propping herself up more to get a good look at it.
She takes in the smell of all the ingredients, many of which she recognizes, some she doesn’t. She wonders if it’s the seasoning. She then stabs her fork into it, and takes a bite. The parade of flavors in her mouth makes her eyes go wide and visibly glisten, and she continues to eat away at it, making Elmyra snort a bit while she begins with the soup. However, even if Aerith is thoroughly enjoying her cooking and is too busy to speak, it doesn’t take her too long to ask; “Were you making another drawing?” Aerith pauses mid bite, looking over to Elmyra and her raised eyebrow.
She finishes the bite, chewing for a bit to delay, or stall. After swallowing, she leans back. “Maybe?”
“Being mysterious now, I see.” Elmyra teases, though she doesn’t pry further, continuing to eat the soup. When Aerith knows her eyes are averted, she continues eating, but slowly pulls the paper out with her free hand, inch by inch, placing her arm on it.
The two eat in relative silence, and Aerith continues to wait and wait until the perfect moment, which comes when both have finished the meal and Elmyra has cleared her throat, stacking the bowls on top of each other and going into the kitchen. Once she does, Aerith returns to her drawing, picking up a crayon and adding some finishing touches, before hopping off her chair with it in hand, walking into the kitchen.
She steps over to her, and lightly pulls on her pant leg. “Mom.”
Elmyra places the bowls in the sink, looking down at her, leaning against the counter with a tilted head. “What?”
Aerith then pulls out the drawing, holding it out to Elmyra, who pauses, her eyes widening, and her mouth is slightly agape.
“This is for you.” On the paper, is a depiction of her and Clay, stick figures, standing in a field of flowers that they both know means ‘reunion’.
Elmyra’s face maintains a confused expression on it, and there’s some bewilderment on it, before she turns her head away from Aerith, staring at the sink as her eyebrows furrow and mouth contorts in so many different directions. Before she manages out the words—“Go to your room, Aerith.”