#rest your weary head and awaken anew

[dobodleaday]

04.14.24 Growth 🍎🐛

#creature feature #sketch #wandering knights #rest your weary head and awaken anew

[perlen-gold]

Storm Night

“I am not good at talking about how I feel.” said Fenris once.

Ordinarily it is not the rain that arouses Hawke. He was not awake to witness the birth of the storm, far away from the shallow piers of Kirkwall, across the heaving and hungry sea. After hours of silent hunting, dark and looming clouds have entrapped the aspiring stone buildings of men.

The rain gushes down in endless silvery streams, chasing any four-legged or upright stranglers mercilessly into desperate shelter. Violently, a myriad of furious drops besiege the quivering glass in the windows, its irate cadence ceaselessly drowning out the occasional crackling of the fireplace. For a brief moment the bed room is plunged in an uncanny flash of dazzling light. The columns of the four-poster bed flinch, ghosts briefly awaken upon the seashell white bed sheet. Above gloomy curtains shudder in trepidation as the searing white lightning strikes once, twice, thrice. The skies over Kirkwall are illuminated in wraithlike shadows full of clouded hunters and rumbling beasts, washed over by the piercing of light, and felled in forlorn battle by thunder and bolt.

In the blink of an eye, Hawke’s eye, amber-colored and wide awake, the short-tempered light disperses into the night.

The smell of fresh, hard rain mixed with the herb burn of the dance in the fireside that shelters the bedroom under-fire from the feud outside is nearly palpable. Once more the keen blade of light strikes and transforms the hunters into warriors and the warriors into tombs for the fallen and demised, cleaving through the stormy night.

That which usually rudely awakes Hawke from sleep is neither hunter nor tomb; a kick, unexpected and painful in the lulling reverie of slumber; a sudden stroke hitting some uncovered part of his body that leaves his knee, his thigh, his shoulder, his ribs a bruised mark as purple as ripe plums; an entangling wrench yanking imprisoning feather and fabric away; and sounds, sounds, sounds, muffled, leashed, involuntary, sounds seared in Hawke’s mind.

This night is different, though.

When he wakes up, thunder forces his eyelids fly open. He lies still and he knows something is wrong.

He looks around, searches. That which wakes him this night is the slashing of the relentless rain and the cold spot on the soft mattress beside Hawke.

After a short moment of blessed silence as the storm outside gathers its strength for the next oncoming assault, Hawke sits up and swings his feet to the dry carpeted floor. It is this bare patch on the bed beside him, bereft of any body’s warmth, that has imprinted itself upon his dormant consciousness.

On bare feet he walks out of the room, along the ghostly dark corridor.  Beyond the stalwart stone walls of the Amell estate dark and light continue to lash out at each other as sundered lovers. Listening to the weeping skies Hawke remembers Carver’s wide-stricken eyes and how he swallowed his own boyhood tears for his brother’s and sister’s sake during a similar night. So big a house sunken in a darkness so impenetrable, it is impossible for Hawke to judge whether he has been roused in the middle of the night or at the cusp of dawn and day.

Wrapped in the clattering sound of the endless rain he passes the stairs, two closed doors, the kitchen till a flicker of faintly orange light piques his interest hidden amidst shelves of books.

In bad nights, Hawke will resolutely grip Fenris shoulders in order to shake him awake from his violent thrashing. In good nights, observing his twitching jaw muscles, Hawke wraps his arms around Fenris’waist, cradling him, bringing him close to his chest so he can breath softly into his ear, easing him out of his sleep just to the verge of awakening.

On those nights that are worst, Hawke will wake to a cold bed and find Fenris swigging down abundant-flavored wine from dark bottles. During these nights, Hawke joins him. They drink, they talk about other things while Hawke laughs and smiles and mounts guard over the distant look in Fenris’ wakeful eyes. Then, occasionally, out of the blue, Fenris might blurt out some mutinous memento, granted by his former life under the unyielding Tevinter sun, that leaves Hawke unsmiling and Fenris with bitterness or – worse still – with a callous shrug.

“And here I thought you hated reading.”

In this particular night Hawke finds Fenris hunched over a book in the lone flame of a single candle. He could illume the lamps and torches in the library without so much as a flicker of his fingers but he refrains from doing so. Instead, he pulls up a plain wooden chair and sits opposite Fenris, elbow on the abraded tabletop, one side of his scratchy face in his hand.

“Why?” Fenris retorts brusquely.

Hawke cannot help but smile in remembrance.

“Because last time I tried to teach you, you ended up flinging my poor book aside with the result that it was crouching in a corner quivering from spine to edge. I have not seen it since. It is probably in hiding by now.”

Fenris’ even brow patterns into struggling concentration.

“It is easy enough for you to taunt. I expected you were going to teach me reading but the sole thing you do is unnerve me with your constant correcting and scoffing.”

“And here I thought you liked my dallying.”

On other nights Fenris might look at him, his eyes alight with that dark spring green glare that there dwells perpetually, till a sudden smile flickers across his curling lips. Tonight, he does not give in to his bait, though. There is an edge in Fenris’ voice that is not often prevalent, not when they are quite alone like this. Hawke strains towards it without Fenris’ notice.

The drum of tempest-tossed rain falls upon their ears. Hawke feels his smile grow softer.  

“Maybe you are just a dreadful student.”

“Maybe you are just a dreadful teacher, Hawke.”

A chuckle rises from Hawke’s chest, light and amused.

“I probably am.”

He can see Fenris’ skin is still damp on the undersides of his arms and the nape of his neck.

The deluging torrent is not as loud here but its unyielding tremor splashing the rooftop unforgettable.

Fenris leans back, his elbows raised, his hands abruptly restless on his thighs. With a sweep of the flickering candle flame all his riposting ire seems gone all of a sudden.

“I was a fool to believe I could learn a skill like this.”

Fenris does not raise his gaze when Hawke stands and comes round the table. He draws his chair to Fenris’ side, sitting next to him. Thunder anew rumbles in the invisible night as Hawke clasps Fenris’ right hand. He does so gingerly, with the slightest hint of tarrying deference just before their fingers touch as if to see whether Fenris’ hand will move away, ever so slightly.

After dipping it into blue-black ink he threads a gray-blue quill between Fenris’ almond-colored fingers (a griffon plume, ostensible, when it was actually taken out of a phoenix’ reluctant plumage.)

With great care, slowly, deliberately, the feather tip scratches in high curves and narrow prongs over the mottled sheet of parchment. The scraping sound seems to echo among the endless shelves of books even under the voices of the thunderstorm. Long after the scratching has stopped Fenris keeps staring at the straight arcs and meandering lines in blue-black colors. Brows lowered in reflective toil his fingertips brush over the barely dried lines, smearing them at the outer edges.

“What does it say?” requests he.

Indicatively Hawke’s index finger passes from inky character to character, pronouncing each consonant and vowel with great care. Once he has reached the final letter, the last shred of reluctance is brushed away of Fenris’ expression.  Superseded by a diffident smile that he is not yet poised to evince.

“Show me yours.” he asks, half plea, half demand.

Once more Hawke guides his hand over the torn piece of parchment, tip grazing, ink fanning out as a peacock indigo feathers.

“H,” he pronounces softly but sumptuously, “A. W …”

Again, Fenris gazes at the finished name for quite a long time before he begins writing it down slowly, painstakingly, yet perfectly, unaided. Twice he then writes his own name before switching the quill from his right to his left hand. Gradually, the letters, first bristle, become more fluid with increasing pace.

Arms folded, Hawke leans back and watches Fenris practice. First copying down the portrait of their names, secondly each letter individually, then rearranging them hesitantly and strained-eyed until new words are being born, the characters pronounced meaning suddenly becoming easier with each line. Soon there is not an inch of crammed parchment left to pen on and Hawke produces a whole new sheet from his writing desk while the storm outside howls and prowls with strenuous menace.

Quite abruptly the ink-gleaming letters, bearing a childlike quality, loose their fierce focus. The subsequent line swerves out of line, then steadies, but the next does, too, and the one after that. Then the trembling begins.

At first it is only his hand, though Fenris keeps writing, writing their names, teeth gritted.

Mere seconds later the shaking has befallen his fingers, his legs, his shoulders hunched into his chest. His whole frame shudders under the shivering grip, as iron as his own grip on the quill.

Hawke has stood up.

Soon Fenris’ clammy hand cannot clutch the quill anymore. It falls, twisting itself out of his quavering grasp, dark spots of ink spraying everyway.

Few futile attempts later he stops altogether.

Hawke is standing behind his chair when it starts. With slow movements he wraps his arms loosely around his shoulders. He does not count the minutes, muss less the seconds.

Somewhen and somewhere Hawke feels Fenris startlingly cold hand on the side of his face, fingers cradling his charcoal black beard.

Rivulets of time run by.

Then Fenris picks the quill up again.

Leaning into the gentle touch Hawke lowers his weary head and rests his chin atop the crown of Fenris’ head, char stubbles shaving ebony shocks of white hair. By experience, Hawke knows better than to waste any words on that which has just happened.

So silence remains.

As Fenris finishes his next word it gives the impression of an even more childish scrawling.

Softly Hawke reads the letters aloud, feeling the fine strands of pearly white hair rubbing between his beard. “Garrett” Then, quieter, “where did you pick that one up?”

“It was stitched onto the insides of one of your shirts you gave me.”

Hawke feels a smile capturing his lips, first small, then warm and filling.

“Fenris?”

“Yes.”

“Come”, he whispers and takes his hand into his, the one that has the scarlet scarf slung about its wrist, leading him back to the warm shelter of the room of their bedroom.

Beyond the drop-gleaming windows the undying rain has lost its edge and grown somewhat quieter, enough to transmute into a deceiving semblance of repose. Back in the wide four-poster bed  they arrange for sleep in the same fashion they adopt each evening, night after night. Hawke lies on his back in the not-so-exact middle of the soft mattress, Fenris at his side, half-spread, half-outflung across Hawke’s chest, one long sharp-ended ear bedded against Hawke’s shoulder, collarbone, heart. As twisted as they might move during sleep – entangled into the warm blankets so one of them has to yank it back from under the other’s body – warped and tousled, on their sides, backs, sprawled on their stomachs – Hawke’s nose may be pitched by Fenris adamant fingers to stop his occasional but insistent snoring, his limps loose with sleep – however slumber may let them wander apart, this is the irrevocable way they settle for sleep.

Fenris’ ear near Hawke’s heart where he can harken its steady, willful beat.

Hawke knows Fenris can hear its wordless, confessing avowals for he can hear Fenris’ equally, a little  arrhythmic heartbeat through his hand on the elf’s back, the answer creeping up the arm he has slung around him.

“I am not good at talking about how I feel.” said Fenris once.

This ineptness is an inevitable part of the man beside him as is the color of his eye or skin and Fenris can no more shed it than he could change the length of his limps or stop the breathing in his lungs.

“I like this.”

“What? This?” Hawke pulls him closer in merriment.

“I like this kind of weather.”

Astonished Hawke listens to the rataplan of the rain. No lightening forks the dark martial skies outside anymore save for a distant rumbling afar.

“Bethany,” Hawke remembers, still startled, “liked storms, too.”

Suddenly, Fenris straightens up and with one swift, vigorous motion he pulls Hawke out of the sheets intentionally.

Out of the bedroom into the hall he is dragged by the elf whose strength is as unsettling as ever. Hawke, no weakling himself and impressively built, once probed the silver-bladed sword (Fenris cherished nearly as much as Varric did Bianca) for several minutes and strained to fathom how Fenris could bear running around with it all day long without having his tendons and ligaments reattached afterwards. How he commiserates and dotes on this brutality of his.

“Oh,” Hawke groans, irony and grin tugging at the corners of his mouth, “I am not going to like this.”

Down the shadowy stairs, through the unlit foyer, up to the storm-pondered font gate and, in an instant, gushes of rain and wind wash over their faces.  

The moment they leave the safety of the house Fenris opens his grasp on Hawke’s hand but the impulse of his powerful motion propels Hawke forward right into the battle ground of the storm. Before he can blink he is soaked to the skin.

Side by side they stand in the sheath of glassy rain, barefooted, barely closed.

Before them the skies are ashore with waves of gloomy clouds. The ever-raging warrior thunder, lightening his merciless blazing blade, is aloud with booming vengeance here and fighting the skies and the earths alike.

A stroke of electrifying light from afar paints the streets and walls of Kirkwall in sharp relieve, a miniscule, insignificant thorp cowering at the feet of blue and gray and black mountains awash by breaking, spuming , spraying waves of stormy sea.

Water streams down the sides of Hawke’s face, filling the tiny spaces between his seeping beard stubbles. Angry winds gush and billow.

Endless rivulets of rain, sapid with the aroma of the wounded skies, flow in streams along the inside of Hawke’s palms, cascade forward from his slack fingertips.  

Hawke closes his eyes.

In he breathes the taste of the thunder and the light, inhaling the raining waters.

All four of their naked, bare feet are engulfed by ankle-deep flows of water.

“Maker’s breath,” Hawke exclaims in a sudden mad fit of laughter, “how can you stand this all day long?”

Since there is no answer, lost in the grace of nature, Hawke finally opens his eyes.

Fenris’ face is only a blur in the embrace of the rains. Winds tear at the strangely pearly white hair glued to his cheeks. Innumerable drops of gleaming water are falling upon the cobbled streets from his naked arms, his pointed ears, the tip of his nose.

So fierce are the winds that their sheer physical strength all but overthrows them – even so, Fenris’ slender shape towers among them indomitable.  His elven face may be blurred by the spray of the gush and rain, his deep green emerald eyes, however, glitter with the rage of the roaring warrior and his blazing blade.

Once again the skies are cast alight and Fenris face flashed, his eyes lit as by a fire within.

Sometimes Hawke wishes he would simply start crying.

He is stepping towards Hawke.

Hawke is giving him a wet smile that he cannot hear through the chaos. His eyes are fixed with studying one single silver bead among a plethora which is running down along his curved neck and disperses wetly into his the well of his collarbone.

“We will both be stone-cold dead by the end of the night.”  

Thirst-ridden Fenris’ eyes blazing virid eyes find his, and his hard mouth, arms entwining around Hawke’s neck, finds his and is pressing against his lips tasting of rain and the aroma of his caramel-shaded skin. Hawke grasps him, savors him not heeding the chatty gossip that might burst from a prying eye behind the dark rain-stained windows around them – who would anyway?

“I am not good at talking about how I feel.” said Fenris once.

In the peach-colored rays of morning light when the horizon will be skewed with skeins of tangerine, Hawke will sleepily wave away Orana’s considerate knock at the door and her regardful eyes peering from behind the bedroom door announcing that breakfast is ready, and Hawke will feel inclined, as ever, to cover Fenris’ long elven ears lest he might give him that glare that brings Hawke to consider a tremendous pay raise each time he does so. Soon, Orana will be wealthier than half of his Hightown neighbors.

For now, however, they trip and splash back inside leaving wet footmarks all over the floor and carpets. Long after drying each other with nowhere near enough towels, the window aglow with firelight reviving honey and daffodil and gold beads, they fall back to sleep, hearts pounding, skins resting, as they always do.

There might and will be many a nightmare in the gloomy nights to come.

But for now, for the remaining fragment of this one short, storm-shaken night, Fenris eases peacefully in his arms.

#fenhawke #hawris #m!fenhawke #fenris #hawke #garrett hawke #a fragment of a still incomplete fanfiction of mine #which I've been writing for aeons as I'm so slow #and I'm too overcome with nerves to upload it #so just ignore this :) #my writing

[bidnezz]

Through Inhibitions Lie

Magnus Bane/Alec Lightwood Flufftober Prompt 8: Laughter Pre-Relationship Malec, set in 1x06, a little inebriation on Alec's part leads to an awakening for Magnus. Read on ao3

Magnus has lived for centuries. He’s seen the rise and fall of great men and women, has dined and bedded royalty in the secret of the night to averted eyes and those curious enough to peek through the locks. He’s traveled the world as it was being discovered, across seas and mountains, he’s heard the rush of the wind whirl past his ears in the solitary acres of great plains.

How many symphonies has he witnessed? How many more has he inspired? Tchaikovsky in his prime, and Magnus remembers it all, can hear it even now the chaos of the orchestra that flows in time with rapid beats. Concertos with the swell of violins an eerie melody of the times that stroked to life the appreciation in him.

So why is it that after all of these incredible moments that cultivate his life, all these great wonders and achievements and fantastical conquers, the melody that gets his heart pulsing now is the low, full-bodied rumble of Alexander Lightwood’s musical laugh?

The Shadowhunter sits in front of him, loose limbs and the lazy smile of residual laughter. The martini in his hand is clearer than the fog that glazes his drooping hazel eyes with an inebriated shine, and the features of his face smooth with youthful wonder as he scouts the room before him, Magnus’ living room. Magnus wants to sit closer, wants to gesture to the window where the view of New York twinkles out below them as a distraction he can cover up with, but he’s never been one to take advantage when all rationality is naught.

“I don’t even know them, any of them,” Alec slurs his woes out from an exhausting day, composed by any Mundane standards. “The red-head just showed up one day and-” Hands lift, swooping wide in a grand gesture that’s supposed to produce exactly the right explanation, but all it does is make Magnus wary of the eager liquid swirling about Alec’s glass.

“Alright, let’s get you sobered,” Magnus offers with a knowing look.

When he moves to reach for the glass however, Alec turns away in a sloppy motion that spills drops of liquor onto the black jeans he wears. The protest of disbelief is on Magnus’ tongue, quick to chide Alec of being careful lest he wants to reek of vodka by the end of the night, but then the Shadowhunter is lifting the glass to his lips and drinking, downing the martini in one go.

And through the grimace, he laughs. Loud, boisterous, surprising.

Not surprising to Magnus (at least not much, because though he knows little about the young Shadowhunter, he’s had the pleasure of being graced by flustered smiles however sparsely between the stoic demeanor he presents), but to himself it seems, because Alec turns wide, abashed eyes to Magnus. He wonders if anyone else has ever heard this laugh before, the sound of freedom from thoughts and inhibitions that hinder, the laugh of repression broken.

“Sorry, I don’t usually get like this,” Alec whispers, voice intoned in all the wrong spots, but the indication clear enough for Magnus to gather it’s meaning.

“You don’t have to apologize, Alexander.” If Alec’s eyes narrow at him just slightly with thinly veiled lust that he must not even know he displays so openly at the mention of his name said in full, Magnus pretends not to notice it. It’s the liquor talking, and as much as Magnus would love to be on the receiving end of it during the bright of day when Alec is cognizant of his actions, he isn’t an irresponsible asshole. “You never have to hide yourself from me. I won’t judge.”

And how many years has Magnus seen the sunlight through dust, long and weary after battle with his saving grace being the dawn of a new day? How many sunrises from the tallest buildings with resplendent views of grand cities has he witnessed in his long life? How many times has he fallen heart-first into new loves, no holds barred and everything risked on a frivolous chance at happiness? All these mementos in his mind sewn so deeply, ingrained with the nuanced embroidery of marvels and mistakes, yet none of them hold a candle to the slow-creeping smile that lifts the corner of Alec’s lips. None of it prepares him from this moment in time, where martini-in-hand Alexander Gideon Lightwood, son and descendant of Shadowhunters bred and brainwashed to hate people like him, offers the brilliance of innocence and all of the world in one earth-shattering smile.

The click of a lock, a long buried chest of hope deep within that falls apart at the hinges. An awakening to opportunities, bountiful right before his very eyes in the shape of this Shadowhunter with the smile to melt the glacier that weighs heavy on his ribs. Magnus must be more drunk than he thought.

“I don’t think all Downworlders are bad, y’know,” Alec whispers in quiet sincerity, the tapping of his fingers against the empty glass in his hands a poor attempt to shift focus. He speaks as if he’s been hard-wired to believe that thoughts such as those are bad. Maybe he has.

“Glad to hear you don’t let your impressions of my dear friend Raphael speak for all of us,” Magnus quips, an endeavor he suspects will lighten the mood. A second to remember, and then it must work, because he’s rewarded with another laugh. Less raucous and more self-aware, but not disingenuous.

It stirs something in him, that laugh. It slithers through, a sneaky reminder of the capacity of his heart and for just how long it’s been kept guarded. Every crevice, every corner, all these dark sides of him brought to life, spun around and made anew with every moment that Alec flutters his sinfully long lashes in his direction. And when Alec laughs again, drunk and heavy-lidded with his body leaning towards him, Magnus’ heart sings a faint soprano that says ‘yes, this is the one.’

It’s then that Magnus decides he wants to spend the rest of Alexander Gideon Lightwood’s life discovering each and every laugh he’ll willingly give him. Laughter echoed soft and hushed between two pairs of lips in the heat of passion. Polite laughter in the presence of importance, courteous, genteel and nothing more. Laughter that brings tears, humorous and open and only for those he deems loved ones.

Magnus is ready for it all. Now all he needs is Alexander to be ready, too.

#Magnus Bane #Alec Lightwood #Malec #Malec fanfic #Shadowhunters #Shadowhunters fanfic #pre-relationship malec #1x06 #magnus made cocktails #i bet he did #magnus has feels and i am here for it #i'm posting these so late and so out of order lmao #bidness #bidnezz #read on ao3 #flufftober 2020

[highviewsmoved]

⁂ shigaraki tomura x reader. (old god shigaraki & female reader)  ❝ gods cannot love mortals. ❞

Similar to the seasons, death changes.

There are whispers of an ancient deity that descends when it is someone's time to go. Who appears when men fall in war, in sickness or in their own beds rattling their last breath.

The name of his is unspoken, for he has wandered the earth for years, collecting souls, leaving death and destruction in his wake. An omen of some kind, similar to the caw of a crow. He will exist.

He will be there and he will wait.

Death himself comes for her in early autumn, when the trees are bare, the branches similar to skeletal fingers pushing up from the earth; the leaves stuck wet to the ground after a morning of rain.

She is cleaning, yukata rolled to her legs and sleeves tied in tasuki to keep from getting wet from the splash of water. It was simple, an easy mistake. She suddenly missteps when she goes back to refill the bamboo tub, falling in head first into the freezing stream.

The locals, the people in her village warned her the water is vicious for its current. The current had stolen a child not too long ago, the mother’s wailing echoes could still be heard throughout the mountain. Water fills her lungs, suffocating her, as her head knocks against a rock.

She is now at the mercy of the beast, and she hopes the river deity will spare her. When she resurfaces much later she has blacked out, unknowing what or who had saved her.

She remembers the abyss; white and red.

And the face of a man who crumbles.

--

Her mother tells her she lived because he had spared her.

“Who, mother?”

“Death,” she says simply. “He can be merciful.”

She listens carefully while the porridge cooks, the smell delicious. She grips the rag between her fists tightly, and she thinks she has seen the face of death. He is very similar to a human.

Curiosity gets the best of her. “Is he always alone?”

Mother is quiet for sometime, she’s not sure she may have heard her. Until she finally responds. “Yes, always.”

--

She sees death when he takes the soul of an old man in her village, the grieving of the family being heard as others come out of their huts to see the mourning, and she sees him.

Death is there, and he comes with the snow in winter, so unlike when he comes in spring or in summer. The frost creeps into her lungs, as she watches him, holding firewood close to her chest.

The old man by his side as Death looks at her, his spider lily eyes holding hers, as if enchanted; and she feels the tickle of snow on her cheek.

She does not cry, but her heart feels heavy. How many more people will he leave with?

--

Death stumbles upon her; she is kneeling, gazing up at the old chestnut tree, and when he hears her calling he comes. She has believed in him.

“Do you take away my people?” She asks him, her hands on her thighs, talking to this deity who has been known for so long. The tale whispers about him being the one who appears when death and destruction are at bay. In the middle of battlefields, always by a sea of corpses he steps through. She is not afraid of him, perhaps she should be.

The branches shiver, light splaying through.

He is there and he does not speak.

Her voice shakes, her fists tightening. The feeling of pain gripping her throat. “Where do you take the dead?”

Tomura responds, in a tone crisp like winter. “Home.”

--

His voice is the hiss of a snake, coiled deep around her throat; a warning. “This is a small mercy.” He had been there when the cliff near her almost swept her away, he had come just in time as she thought of him. He had heard her heart.  

She cannot deny him, it is true that all the chances he has given her have been at best, luck. Or maybe it is him saving her. This she does not want to believe. He has saved her many times but has not spared her people. She should despise him.

Her voice is steel and iron, “you have given me many.”

He looks at her, taken aback as if she had slapped him. She exposes him like a wound, she realizes this much too late.

“The last time,” he reminds her, tone poisonous.

--

She has not seen him since the leaves have changed and at dawn he comes to her, underneath the large chestnuts. The wicker basket has fallen, she cannot bear to look.

“Who have you come for?” Her question is lost in the breeze, tears wet against her cheeks.

She is tired of fighting, of trying to fight off death himself (she has not fought him, she has welcomed him) who has come every time the season changes and for the people in her village. For the people she loves.

He has come anyway. Despite no one believing in him, praying to him; except for her and her mother. She hoped he would listen.

“Do not ask such things if you wish to not know the answer,” his tone is cold but his eyes burn against her back; skin prickling at the heat.

She exhales heavily, breath shuddering. She has cried for hours knowing her mother's time is soon. Deep in her heart she has known he will come anyway.

“Please,” she cries gently, then with much more pain, “please don’t take her away.”

Tomura cannot hold her to that. No more. It is time. “You know already.”

Her chin quivers, trying so hard to be strong. “Then answer me this, when will you take her?”

He thought it was obvious enough, but he will give her what she asks. Only this time; always this time.

“At dawn.” Then with much more promise, “I am coming for her at dawn.” If it is this morning or the next or the next. She does not know.

--

She remembers the first time she saw his face, covered in a mess of hair, bright and glowing like starlight. His eyes redder than the spider lilies that bloom across the meadows. They say the meaning behind those flowers is rebirth, to say goodbye. He is clad in all black, the fabric wrapping around him tattered from travel.

“What is your name?” Her knees are touching soft grass beneath her, dewy from the morning. Her heart pounds considerably louder when his footsteps have quieted.

“Tomura,” it is said like a breeze, so gentle that it carries.

She swallows, curious about his name, so she speaks it and the tree branches bend against the power it holds. Leaves fall changing to brown. The wind howls quietly, slipping by through her hair and face.

“Why have you come here, Tomura?” The wind swirls above.

He approaches, shadowed by the shade. “I come to know.”

“Know? Of what?” She turns her head in a peculiar way, eyes full of wonder. How odd for a deity to make themselves known to a human. So many times this god of death and destruction has done this. So many times he has hid in the shadows of mourning.

“Of things I seek and do not understand.”

Her heart trills like a songbird.

“Am I something you seek and do not understand?”

It is brave to ask such things, the temperature has dropped considerably and the birds have stopped singing. Everything has grown quiet, even the god near her.

“Yes,” and he is gone, she turns quickly to see and notices the patch of brown earth where he stood, the lush green that surrounded him, had paid the price.

--

She has prayed to Tomura, the god of death and destruction to protect her people, he has not forsaken them. He has saved them despite the bitter feeling of grief still anew. The loss of her mother, the old man, and so many more. All of it is painful. Living is painful.

Home, he had said. He takes them to a place where they can rest peacefully is what he promised, but she cannot help but wonder if he had created this, or if this was how life always is.

Death is a cycle.

--

She dreams of a large hand, of a wasteland surrounding her; she wanders the terrain filled with nothing, and she sees him. White hair and dark cloak billowing in a wind she cannot feel.

“Tomura?” She calls, and he does not turn, he stands there. When she reaches him he has slowly become dust, withering in the wind, sweeping past her.

She is suffocating from the particles as it wraps around her. She awakens, the fire put out in her home, smoke rising, the fabric of her bedding stuck to her sweaty body. She knows what her dream is about.

He will soon be gone.

--

“Will you die?”

“Yes.”

“How?”

“I fade away.”

“When?”

“Soon.”

She runs to him, closing the distance, her embrace is tight against him, he can feel her heartbeat. Her time ticking slowly away.

She will die of old age. He will die because he loved.

She breathes close; warm breath near his ear, and he sighs. He has dreamed of this. Tomura’s mind goes elsewhere during nights away. He has always dreamed of her.

Her soul he has spared, slowly collecting the surrounding ones. She knew this, yet here she is, with him.

He is feared and known. She is a human.

Gods cannot love mortals.

“Live for me,” she gasps against him. “Fight and live,” she begs, her body shaking with guilt. She has unknowingly brought his end.

“I cannot.”

“What can I give you in exchange? My soul?” He exhales, sounding close to a laugh, a smile cracking his lips.

“I will not allow that exchange.”

She pulls away, eyes filled with bitter tears, and she has never looked more brilliant than ever. She is alive.

He longs to touch her like he has often wished of doing.

So he does. Fingers, crumbling slowly; he touches her cheek, and she is so surprised to find it warm; soothing like the summer sun.

She leans into it, wishing she could have this moment forever.

“Your name—“ she stops, then touches his face, his hair, his lips. Caressing all of him.

“Tomura means to mourn,” he says, eyes glittering.

“I will mourn you, yes,” she promises, his arms wrap around her waist, hands moving towards her shoulder blades. How long has he lived without this? Centuries. Her lips brush close to his temples, “but I will love you always.”

Tomura leans in close, foreheads pressed together, lips breadths apart.

“And I you.”

--

She awakens in the forest holding nothing but black fabric.

--

When it is her time to go from this earth, she is old and weary. She had grandchildren, marrying a kind farmer who passed before her. In her seat she stares out where the chestnut trees stand tall, woven in branches.

The blossoms from nearby waft in the wind. It is her time to go, she grips the piece of black fabric she has held onto.

She closes her eyes, and she rests peacefully, her heart stuttering to a halt.

The way it is painless, as it wraps around her; darkness is not as the stories say; it is not unforgiving. The tunnel of light she moves through as she is back in the wasteland from a dream she had years ago.

Tomura stands tall, cape billowing in a windless desert. She gasps, tears streaming down her face as he is turned to her. Not like the dream of where he seemed so far, but now he is so close.

She goes to him, embracing him once more.

“Welcome back,” she says against his chest, he holds her tightly, no longer crumbling.

“I have been here and I have waited,” his voice is still rough like wood being scraped.

He wraps her close, his hands still warm like sunlight, hair bright and eyes similar to spider lilies.

“You are human?” She asks, pulling away to look at him, eyes searching his features, he still looks the same since the last time she saw him all those years ago.

“Deities are born from humans,” he states, “we are one and the same.”

Her tears are wiped gently with his thumb, fingers gliding across her neck and collarbone. This closeness he has missed.

She grabs his hand and presses her lips to each finger. Tomura no longer takes, he has given and given until her soul found his. They were born for this moment, she no longer hears the sorrowful noise of cicadas in the summer sun, silence has never felt more welcoming.

It is not harsh or lonesome, they have one another.

“I kept a part of you with me,” she confesses against his cheek, and his hands glide down her back, the feeling of her he has craved for years since he left.

He keeps her so close that they could become one. “And you can continue to do so, as long as you stay with me,” he murmurs.

Her breath fans his hair as she brushes her fingers through the locks. “Always and forever.” She is finally home with him.

The promise between god and human has been made, and they stay like this for eternity.

#shigaraki x reader #shigaraki tomura x reader #bnha imagines

[windup-dragoon]

【Ｅｃｈｏｅｄ　Ｍｅｍｏｒｉｅｓ】

Hien x Kiri 

Word count: 2596

Previous: Shattered Memories

“𝘚𝘩𝘩…” 𝘞𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘸𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘭𝘪𝘵𝘵𝘭𝘦 𝘦𝘯𝘦𝘳𝘨𝘺 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘭𝘦𝘧𝘵 𝘵𝘰 𝘩𝘪𝘮, 𝘏𝘪𝘦𝘯 𝘳𝘢𝘪𝘴𝘦𝘥 𝘢 𝘩𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘸𝘢𝘷𝘦𝘥 𝘪𝘵 𝘰𝘧𝘧. “𝘓𝘦𝘵 𝘮𝘦… 𝘓𝘦𝘵 𝘮𝘦 𝘫𝘶𝘴𝘵 𝘦𝘯𝘫𝘰𝘺 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘣𝘦𝘢𝘶𝘵𝘪𝘧𝘶𝘭 𝘨𝘰𝘥𝘥𝘦𝘴𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘬𝘢𝘮𝘪 𝘩𝘢𝘷𝘦 𝘣𝘭𝘦𝘴𝘴𝘦𝘥 𝘮𝘦 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩. 𝘐𝘧 𝘰𝘯𝘭𝘺 𝘢 𝘮𝘰𝘮𝘦𝘯𝘵?”

Mismatched eyes fluttered open, the memory on repeat beneath closed lids beginning to drive her into madness. It was the tone of his voice, the weakness and helplessness of it that brought her around at last, back to the realm of consciousness. The imagery left behind, blood in the wet sand, the light in his eyes fading beneath heavy lashes; a tainted nightmare.

But the Ruby Sea was no longer the scenery she would awaken to. Nor was Hien cradled in her arms asking for one last look at her. Instead it was familiar Doman interior that greeted her, washed in warm golds and rosy red hues. Sunrise or sunset. She couldn’t be sure which, this room had been different than the borrowed room Hien had given her during her stay. Not that she spent much time there these days. 

The thought of Hien, the memory still fresh in her mind, brought urgency to her still exhausted body. Every muscle ached and sang with pain, every movement to rise from her futon a new protest that nearly drove her to tears. But she couldn’t simply lie here and do nothing. Know nothing. Was Hien here in Doma with her? Had he been left on the beaches at the Ruby Sea? With each thought rising to the surface, bubbles from the depths of the ocean of her mind, her heart struck hollow beneath her breast. All the what if’s left unanswered made her stomach ill. 

“Lie back down.” A voice thundered at the entrance to the small room. 

Kiri, who had somehow managed at the very least an upright position with a terrible knot of pain twisting at her side, arched a brow at her unseen guest. “Yer a creep, outside waitin’ for me to wake.” She spat between gritted teeth. Not quite angry at the male outside her doorway but at herself. The pain was beginning to make her head swim, the light pouring in through the window across the room little more than a blur of color beneath a layer of tears. 

“Or perhaps I know you well enough to know I cannot leave you unattended. Your own guts would spill at your feet before you even chanced the thought to rest.” The door at last slid open and revealed to Kiri her Scion companion, Isho. His perpetually annoyed features looked severe today, his gemstone eyes cold despite her lack of proper vision. He was quiet as he closed the door behind himself and strode into the room. 

The dragoon brought her eyes down to her shaking hands and frowned. “Always wondered what my insides looked like, y’know?” It wasn’t for the pain that she trembled beneath her covers. The dagger like sensation in her chest, just shy of piercing a lung, had nothing to do with the frightened rabbit beat of her heart. Kiri clutched at her blanket and fought against the nagging thoughts dwelling in her mind. 

Isho stood in silence, watching his friend. “Well?” 

“What?” Kiri practically snarled although it did little to intimidate the Raen. 

He folded his arms across the expanse of his chest. 

“The fact you haven’t mentioned anythin’ ‘bout him says a lot, y’know.” There was a quiver to her voice. She felt it on her lips, felt the way it tightened her throat just thinking of him. Briefly, Kiri found herself wondering what sort of funeral they would hold for Hien. The last of the Rijin clan and lord of Doma... 

“Ye of little faith.” Isho snorted. “He is hale and hearty.” 

Where once ice ran through her veins, stilling her heart and slowing her breathing, warmth began to blossom anew at her companions words. Her heart felt as if it were soaring on the wing beats of butterflies as she lifted her gaze once more to Isho. 

“Doubt my abilities again,” Isho drawled as he sat beside her, “And next time I will not provide succor in your hour of need.” 

Despite the wave of relief that washed over her, a part did not deny wanting to strangle Isho for drawing out the conversation as he had. He was one of the first of her companions to know of her relationship with Hien, albeit it did not exactly take a scientist to see it. Instead, he had waited for her to ask about him herself, curious to see how she would react. Had he not seen she was miserable with guilt and sick with worry? 

“Isho, you bloody c-” 

“Those women, Kirishimi.” He interrupted, voice level and cool as always. It drew Kiri out of her mixed feelings of joy and anger, back to reality. “Who were they?” 

She had all but forgotten the duo who had been the cause of all this unnecessary drama. The roegadyn woman with a cleaver for an axe that nearly split her lance in two, and the mage with an abundance of magical spells under her belt. Kiri let her head tilt to the side, silver hair falling across one cheek as she tried to conjure their shared conversations out on the beaches of the Ruby Sea. She could remember the sting of rain in her eyes and the splash of salt water in her open wounds, but the words the Roegadynian woman spat all muddled together now that the excitement had passed. 

Isho, keen on Kirishimi’s own confusion, sighed. “They knew you. No one ever recognizes you as the Warrior of Light.” It sounded like an insult to Kiri but Isho was not wrong. One look at her and people sloughed her off as a common adventurer out for thrills. 

While Kiri’s brow furrowed, she spared Isho a curious glance. “They did ask for me, didn’t they? The pirates passed that missive on ta’ ya’, remember?” Although true, Kiri couldn’t help but to feel Isho was still onto something. The insults the Roe had slung at her as they fought, the way her red eyes bore into her with the fierceness of a heated blade... 

“Who did you piss off?” 

“Hells if I know.” Kiri attempted a shrug but found the action painful and winced. Again she squeezed shut her eyes, not against the ache but to better recall the memory of the women. Lani and Edea. “... She knew my name. A-And said somethin’ ‘bout wantin’ my end?” 

Isho’s face scrunched. 

“Not my arse! Clearly she wanted me dead by her hand, no one fights like that without intention ta’ kill.” The dragoon pulled her hand down her face before letting her mind drift back to the memories. If only the Echo worked on herself, this would have been easier to remember. Yet the more she persisted, the more her mind gave way. Lani’s voice began to fill every part of her memory; the roar she cried out and the snarl that left the thunderstorm sounding like a mewling kitten.

“I know all about you! Kirishimi Yasuragi, a famed Warrior of Light! You won the hearts of those in Eorzea, even Ishgard and their silly lil’ dragons! Now a champion of Doma as well, from what I hear. Greedy lil’ shite, aren’t’cha?”

“What do you want?!” 

“I want yer end. Yer story should have ended that day.”

Kiri withdrew from her thoughts with ice in her veins. 

-- 

“I’m not sure this is allowed in Doman custom, Kirishimi.” Isho blurted out as the two of them filled the hallway leading to Hien’s chambers. It had taken the better half of the day and all throughout lunch to convince the raen that she was well enough to see Hien. But it was evident in the scowl across Isho’s features that he didn’t believe any of it; especially when he was left carrying her instead of letting her limp herself down the corridor. 

“Which part? A couple o’ Scions kickin’ down a Doman Lord’s bedchamber door or us waltzin’ ‘round the kienkan without stated permission?” Kiri practically sang with laughter, or as much humor as one could muster with a broken rib and other injuries. 

“Both.” Isho replied with a snort, clearly less amused than his companion. His features only darkened as Kiri reached up to pinch his cheek. “Stop.” 

Outside the chamber door the two stopped. The Dragoon in his arms reached out with all her might to the last barrier that kept her from Hien but Isho reeled her back. 

“Typically I would not feel the need to state as much but do try to behave yourself. Should his injury develop complications or stitches come undone, it will only sully my name.” 

“What’re ya’ accusing me of here?” Kiri shot the man a miscolored glare of red and blue, her cheeks blossoming with abrupt warmth. 

Without giving an answer Isho adjusted the dragoon in his arms, allowing himself enough movement to slide open the door at last. 

Inside was dark, curtains drawn over the windows to repel the afternoon light, the only source of faint light being a couple candles set upon a nightstand alongside a metal washing basin. No doubt to keep the injury clean and free from infection. 

Although Kiri knew the layout to his chambers better than her own apartment in Shirogane, from this angle it felt foreign. She felt a shyness overcome her, perhaps a bit of guilt for disturbing him when Hien needed rest. Even with aide of the candles, flickering as they were in the thick shadows, she could scarcely spy his figure occupying the large bed. The bed they often shared in secrecy, though it was of little secret to anyone really. 

If not for the rustle of fabric and a stirring, Kiri would have assumed Hien to be asleep. But at their unannounced entry, the young lord rallied himself and sat upright against his pillows. Even in the lingering darkness, Kiri could see his movements were strained and weary. She swallowed as her throat grew tight. 

“Lie down.” Isho commanded without a care of the social standing his patient carried. 

Hien chuckled. “Aloof as ever, I see. I hope to one day see you smile rather than scowl at me. Now then, to what do I owe this visit?” 

“Receiving life threatening injuries does little to improve your chances,” The raen remarked flatly while he strode further into the room. “I come delivering a gift. If you rather not accept it, I shall see to it that it is cast into the river at once.” 

As they moved closer, Kiri could see the dark bags beneath Hien’s eyes and the tired smile painted on his pale lips. He must have been sleeping before they barged in; she could see it in the way he tilted his head to Isho, half curious and only half awake. But when they came into the light at the side of his bed, Hien wheezed, a mixture of a surprised chuckle and slight discomfort. 

“Kirishimi!” The prince immediately cast aside his blankets, making as if to stand before Isho shot him a glare that froze him solid. 

Hien was shirtless beneath the covers, only bandages secured tightly around his middle and around his left shoulder. The thickest layering of wrapping just along his abdomen. The stab wound itself, no doubt, hidden just beneath the fabrics. But despite her staring, Hien only shook his head and adjusted himself to open up a spot for Kirishimi to lie beside him. 

“The kami be praised,” Hien breathed with boundless relief evident in his voice, watching as Isho lowered the dragoon unto the bed with caution. “You’ve awaken at last. I was beginning to worry...” 

“Your concern is wasted on her.” Commented Isho offhandedly. Neither paid him no mind. 

Kiri felt her stomach sink at Hien’s words. He had been worried about her? Did he fear she would leave behind a body and return to the First as the other Scions had? A repeat of Ghimlyt. 

Once Isho had settled her beside the recovering prince, Hien wasted little time pulling her against himself. His arms drew around her middle, careful to avoid causing her pain. 

In return she embraced him, her cheek coming to rest against his shoulder. “I thought you’d be gone if I woke up...” 

Hien hummed with a soft chuckle while brushing his fingers through her silver locks and down her back. “You haven’t seen the last of me, I promise. If anything, I simply received a new scar for you to admire.” He teased, pressing a light kiss to her head. 

Isho groaned, throwing his hands in the air in defeat. “Bah. Do not come to me with more scars. Either of you.” With that as his parting words, the tall raen took his leave of the lovers, minding to close the door on his way out. 

When at last they were alone, Hien sighed. “I am afraid he doesn’t much care for me.” 

Kiri attempted a chuckle. “That’s just how he shows affection. Trust me.” 

“Is that so? He certainly had some choice words to say when you had yet to come around.” 

Her lips curved at the thought. Isho storming around the Kienkan, cursing her name to the Twelve and any other gods that were eavesdropping. But that was how it always was with Isho. Even to Az’hala who had once cried when he thought the Au Ra was truly regretting the decision to allow his company. He may have been as cold as a statue but he truly did care, in his own ways. It warmed Kiri’s worried heart to hear Isho had shown this side of himself to Hien. He no longer saw Hien as just another political figure but perhaps as just another member of their tiny little squad of misfits. Their shared family. 

Kiri buried her face against the slope of Hien’s neck, despite the protest of her aches and pains, breathing in the familiar scent of him that she once believed she would forget in the coming years without him. 

“I’m sorry ya’ had to get involved,” Murmured Kiri after a moment of silence while the two embraced one another. 

“Truly?” Shock filled Hien’s voice, raising a brow while he pulled her away to better see her features. She too must have looked as exhausted as he, his eyes lingering on scratches and cuts that littered her face. “If I had not arrived when I did, you’d be clean in two. That womans strength could have sliced a boulder as if vegetables for dinner. Kiri, it wasn’t your fault.” 

Slowly, even as she looked away from his pale green eyes, he brought his thumb across her lip, cupping her chin and lifting her to meet his gaze once more. He wore a smile for her, tired as he was, a smile filled with warmth and tenderness. 

“Those women were after me, Hien. Doma nearly lost you ‘cause of me.” 

“I nearly lost you.” His words, while soft, still held conviction. “Again, mind you. How many times will I suffer losing you?” Without another word Hien brought his forehead to hers, his eyes closed as if willing her to understand his own pain. “You have my word; as long as you’ll have me, I will fight at your side.”

“... I love you, Hien. Thank you.” 

---

“𝘠𝘦𝘢𝘩. 𝘞𝘦’𝘭𝘭 𝘴𝘵𝘢𝘺 𝘵𝘰𝘨𝘦𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘵𝘰𝘰. 𝘐 𝘸𝘰𝘯’𝘵 𝘭𝘦𝘵 𝘢𝘯𝘺𝘰𝘯𝘦 𝘵𝘢𝘬𝘦 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘢𝘸𝘢𝘺. 𝘠𝘰𝘶 𝘩𝘢𝘷𝘦 𝘮𝘺 𝘸𝘰𝘳𝘥.”

#|| Untold Stories #|| Tiger Prince & the Stray #Hien x wol #Hien x Kiri #Hien Rijin #FFXIV writing #oh hey more word vomit #my favorite #:3c #if you haven't read Shattered Memories I suggest doing so #as it leads into this

[winterheart17]

How To Break A Writer’s Heart

TITLE OF STORY: How To Break A Writer’s Heart

CHAPTER NUMBER/TITLE/ONE SHOT: A series of one-shots

AUTHOR: winterheart17

WHICH TOM/CHARACTER: Loki

STORY GENRE: Romance, Drama, Erotica

STORY SUMMARY: I think we can all just agree this has turned into a proper series even though it started off as a compilation of one shots for my story ‘How To Love A Writer’! What happens when a struggling virginal historical romance writer and the God of Mischief are thrown together, locked in a mansion and agree to a game of love and seduction?

STORY RATING: M

STORY WARNINGS/TRIGGERS/AUTHORS NOTES: The confrontation that was bound to happen once they got to his chambers ;) And we’re back to the feelsy business!

FEEDBACK/COMMENTS: Thank you for always being so kind with comments! Feedback would be amazing and appreciated to the moon and back <3 Tagging @devikafernando​ @ureyesonly21​ @nuggsmum​ @queen-sands​ @ihatespoilers​ @say-my-name-assbut​ @hsvbabe​ @jrubalcaba​ @ilhadabruxa​ @dandelionlady96​  @ashleyloveslots​ @kiera-auroraborealis @alexakeyloveloki

Masterpost of How To Love A Writer

Wow.

There was no doubt about it – his chambers reflected his personality to a tee. Dripping in shades of burnished gold and luxurious green accents in the form of silk cushions and drapes, it screamed of sleek, chic hedonism.

And in the centre of it all – the crowning jewel: a magnificent polished gold-framed four poster bed.

I winced.

Was it in this very bed he had made love to her over and over again?

Didn’t this room echo with all the memories of their laughter and pleasure.

I knew it wasn’t his intent – so swept away by his own reverie upon his return – but pain seemed to grab at my throat, chipping away at whatever little courage I had left in me.

“Should there be further requests, I shall be your lady in attendant throughout your time in Asgard,” the handmaiden who had shown us the way politely addressed me.

I managed a weak smile as I nodded my head.

With that, she bowed ever so slightly, acknowledging the both of us as she made her retreat.

I think I managed a whole five seconds of reminding myself to rein in my temper from the moment the door clicked shut, before I gave in – whipping around to face Loki.

But it was all lost on him as he turned around, slowly, his eyes drinking in every nook and cranny of his familiar surroundings – as if they were washed anew. The corners of his lips turned up slightly in a smug grin I wanted to wipe the floor with.

“What the fuck were you thinking?” I snapped.

He paused.

And I saw it. I saw his expression turn in front of my very own eyes. What little caught off guard sympathy that had lingered on his face was swiftly replaced by glazed over indifference.

“I might ask the same of you,” he replied, coolly.

I stared at him – really, really stared at him as my fingers twitched.

“The last I checked, I was returning you to your home,” I said through gritted teeth.

“… when I had made it specifically clear that it wasn’t the right time,” he shot back, indignantly.

And just like that – whatever softness I had thought he had once held for me, vanished under the glittering gleam of Asgard.

Pain knifed through me.

He held my gaze, jaw raised, as if daring me to defy him on his own territory.

I felt the first tremor of anger take hold of me – take root deep inside a place that had lain dormant for far too long, masked by the feelings he had awakened in me.

“Are you fucking serious right now?” I echoed, my voice straddling the shrill line between laughing in disbelief and shaking in rage.

Was he so blinded by his power and ego that he couldn't even begin to comprehend how screwed up the entire situation as right now?

Did he think of nobody but himself?

Did it not strike him what I had gone through – willing myself to give him up only to end up being transported far, far from anything I had ever known as he put me on a path that would end in nothing but heartache?

He raised a brow.

Nonchalantly.

And that was it.

I snapped.

Rage took over the driver’s seat as whatever modicum of rational thought I had been clawing to keep fled.

I lunched forward, a guttural cry escaping from my lips as my hands balled into fists and battered at his chest.

“How dare you? How fucking dare you?” I screeched.

He swayed, taken aback by surprise at the sudden display od hysterics.

“Stop it,” he bit out, grappling at my wrists.

But I was far beyond gone.

“How fucking long did you ask me to send your sorry ass back to Agard? What lengths did you go to while we were on Earth for you to regain your powers?” I screamed, not caring that I looked like a harried woman.

Finally getting hold of my fists, he held them fiercely against his chest.

“Urgh,” I let out a cry of frustration as I struggle to break free, feeling my skin crawl wherever he touched me.

But he held on fast, refusing to budge.

I glared up at him, eyes bright with anger as emotions bubbled up in my chest, threatening to spill over.

“You took me away, locked me up God knows where to threaten me to do precisely what I’d just done for you and you… you… dare accuse me of not following some sort of twisted timeline you have?” I spat.

His eyes held mine and I felt that stupid familiar pinch at the back of my throat.

“Stop it,” he repeated, but the hard edges of his voice seemed to soften.

“You… you… standing there as you look at me as if I were nothing more than something you’d like to flick off your sleeve,” I hissed, tried as I might, there was no stopping the words that seemed to gush out of the wound he had left deep in my chest.

“And just…just when I had finally decided to let every… every---“ I sputtered, but my throat seemed to close up as the corners of my eyes started to burn.

All it took was one look into those eyes… those green eyes that now softened with everything I thought I had lost.

And I burst into tears.

I hung my head in shame, refusing to let him see the tears roll down my cheeks even as sobs racked my body.

“Pet…” he breathed.

He closed the gap between us, allowing me to rest the crown of my head against his chest as incoherent words slipped from my lips.

“I begged you…” I whispered, words coming in broken chunks.

I couldn’t help it – everything came flooding in at once. Unwanted images of them kissing, of him taking her as he murmured sweet nothings into her ear.

Did he kiss her shoulder like he did mine each time he had finished making love to her?

Did he wrap his fingers around her throat as he took her mouth, crushing her against the wall?

Had he held her close and made her feel special?

“I begged you not to let me watch you love her,” I sobbed, squeezing my eyes shut as I envisioned the both of them lost in the rapture of pleasures.

When was it when he realised he was first falling in love with her?

He let out a weary sigh.

“Pet, you were there in that very hall. I hold no love towards tha—“ he cooed, but his denial only twisted that knife in my chest further.

I wrenched myself from his grasp, stumbling backwards as I looked at him – his silhouette blurry and unfocused as my eyes swam in tears.

“You are hurt, it doesn’t mean you don’t love her,” I said, my voice cracking.

Another sob bubbled at the back of my throat.

How cruel it was of him.

He clenched his jaw, turning away from me – almost as if he found it impossible in him to tell me another lie.

To refute my claims.

To reject what it truly was my words sought – reassurance.

I looked at him with tired eyes, shoulders worn down by all the hurt it had been carrying about.

“You loved her once, you’ll love her again,” I whispered.

I felt hollow.

Empty.

But my words must have touched a nerve in him as he whipped around, eyes spitting fiery rage and in that moment, I found my answer.

“No,” he snarled.

A little too quickly.

A little too vehemently.

It made me sad.

I looked at him, forlornly.

His body tensed.

“Do you even realise how you speak of her?” I asked, quietly.

It was a strange thing, heartbreak.

Strange that a heart could shatter inside of you – so quietly, so tenderly.

There was no thunder.

No fanfare.

No putting up of a fight.

Just the gentle flooding of pain.

Seeping into all the cracks he had left behind.

“Then why? Why did you even bring me here?” I cried out, the words ripped from my throat as tears welled up in my eyes again.

My hand went to my chest, as if it could seemingly stop all the hurt that was flowing out.

He took a step forward but I held up my hand, shaking my head.

The very thought of him touching me made me sick to my stomach.

Not here.

Not in this bed.

Not in this room.

I wanted to go back – go back to the space that had belonged only to the both of us. Far away from madness and this reality that threatened to swallow me whole.

“Don't,” I breathed, my chest hurt.

He paused.

His hand that had been reaching out for me, fell to his side as he looked on at me, wordless.

Not quite knowing what to do.  

The silence seemed to stretch on endlessly even as my sobs grew silent and the air grew stiller.

When the tears became nothing else but the taste of salt on my lips.

He sighed, wearily.

“Little writer, come to bed,” he said, softly, finally breaking the silence.

I sniffed, wrapping my arms around my body.

“It’s been a long day and we can revisit this conversation come morning,” he said, gently.

I eyed him warily as he neared his bed.

“No,” the single syllable slipped out effortlessly.

He tensed once more, turning around, slowly.

As if preparing for another breakdown.

Another fight.

But I was tired.

Exhausted.

And it didn’t matter if I tore my heart out on the floor for him to see.

He wouldn’t understand.

Why would he?

He didn’t want it.

I moved towards something that resembled a dark green chaise longue a little to the bed’s right.

I bent down to move the cushion, my back turned towards him.

“What are you doing?” he asked, tersely.

I closed my eyes, praying for whatever little ounce of strength I had left in me to get me through the night.

Just tonight.

Heartbreak seemed easier to manage in the warmth of daylight.

Seemed easier to swallow and pretend it wasn’t there.

“I’m too tired to fight, Loki,” I sighed.

He immediately moved for an answer but I ignored it.

“And since you’ve made it clear that I must share your chambers, I will,” I pressed on.

I could almost see it – the way his shoulders relaxed when he realised I wasn’t spoiling for a fight.

I heard his quiet exhale of relief.

“But I would rather freeze to death than share that bed with you,” I bit out, acid filling my voice, bitterly.

“I—“ he started to protest, but it was too late.

I was already lying down on the chaise longue, bending my knees just a little so that I could fit perfectly.

I winced, pulling the cushion under my head.

I squeezed my eyes shut, willing everything away.

Willing myself to fall into exhaustion.

Where everything was pitch black.

And nothing else existed.

I waited.

I waited for him to put up a fight.

I waited for him the empty threats and promises.

But they didn’t come.

Nothing.

There was only the gentle weight of a blanket pulled across my body.

Warmth that embraced my skin.

I squeezed my eyes shut tighter and curled my knees up higher.

The tenderness hurt.

Everything hurt.

Except the soft, hesitant, feathering pressing of lips to the top of my head.

So soft I could have imagined it.

“Sleep well, little writer.”

#loki #loki fanfic #loki fic #loki fanfiction #loki x reader #loki x oc #tom hiddleston #hiddles #hiddlestoner #how to love a writer #how to break a writer's heart #how to break a writers heart

[silverm00nrp]

So the Host we 7 inhabit has a bit of an active imagination and a strong thing for larping/tabletop. And he loves to pretend he's in certain scenarios and act them out to himself. Its interesting seeing the normally lazy and lackluster being become one of intrigue and passion if only temporarily. Just recently he's been on a binge of emotional archetypes and has been doing his best to bring to life some final parting scenes. This most current one is a dnd based one. Enjoy

- Stealthily yours in this rare case, Pride

The paladin looked to his party sleeping in the tiny mystical hut. All weary and tired after many arduous battles. Their morale was high, but their bodies wouldn't be able to take the exhaustion if this kept up. And even worse the battles were only getting harder and the final battle so much closer. The villain, that scourge of a warlord, wouldn't be anything without his brainwashed armies. Even with only half of the party they could destroy him. But that was if he was alone.

Looking around as he smiled at the drooling barbarian sleep cuddling the rouge. The fighter and the bard sleeping back to back in solitude yet for comfort. They were some of the weirdest and headstrong idiots he'd ever travelled with, but they were now his idiotic family. And so with a sigh he took advantage of this to cast sleep on them. Putting them into a sleep they couldn't awaken from normally.

Stepping out of the quasi-dimensional hut, his plated boots crunching into the ground loudly. He smiled a small, sad smile as the sun rose. Before he hopped atop his mount and road at full pace towards the main gates of the city of the bloody warlord. Long missing any civilians or pure souls. And stood strong and proudly as he bellowed magic, and divine blessings boosting his vocals to grab the attention of the whole capital. "I have come for The Bloodied Kings head, this is your only warning, surrender and turn away from him, or feel the wrath of 2 gods." His bellow echoed out waking many from their light sleeps, but soon a cacophony of laughter began as every being in the capital laughed at the proclamation of yet another deluded man of faith.

The men at the walls jeered and laughed. Pointing and spitting venomous words as he stood and aimed to fill him with arrows. His ring glew a pale blue releasing a small whirlwind. Not a single arrow passing to touch him. Gaining the true ires of the armies of the damned Warlord. As men were commanded to march on him, and calvary to charge. Seeing as a true paladin wasn't one to be underwstimated.

The paladin laid his brown eyes at the window of the castle in the distance. Unable to see anyone or thing, but imaging the king could see and hear his declaration. "Then so be it, let my faith shine through as my mark in history disappears along with all of yours. Today i am no longer a man of the cloth, but a Brother that shall protect those close. I gave you a chance and now my decision is final. While my soul may flicker out of existence so too will your bloody legacies." A plated boot crunched forward as he dismounted from his horse sending it away for safety.

"Your power and your reach may be far more powerful then the current me, but your aren't the only one that can cheat." One eye began to glow a holy pale gold, as the other turned pure black. Veins of red and blue energy coalescing into his bodie as an angel wing and a bat wing sprouted from his back. The red veins spread into the pristine white fewthers and the blue into the dark leather of the wings. His voice cold, dark, and yet oh so fiery, spoke one last time. "A soul for power, faith for guidance, and a body to direct. Let my family rest knowing that only victory awaits them. Even if I can no longer join them"

Into the sky he flew with dexterity he usually lacked and with more purpose then his whole life ever had. Once he sat at the center on the city in the slowly lit skies of the early dawn. His plated hood fell back to reveal a tear stricken face filled with determination and acceptance. He coughed blood as 2 entities of conflicting alignment worked together for the first time. Soon his body, life force, blessings, and memories all swirled into one point and then a hundred thousand little lines spread out striking every beast that called themselves men in this capital. Leaving a mortified Warlord to look upon a kingdom laid to waste, as unbeknownst to him a life was traded for those of 4 others.

Hours later 4 people would wake more well rested then they had been in weeks as a fading thought passed their minds. Why did they have a 5th horse if their was only 4 of them adventuring together. But that thought was quickly ignored as their determination began to shine anew. They had a warlord to defeat and a kingdom to save from his clutches. And for some odd reason they felt that nothing would possibly stop them this time.

A single cracked ring sat on the ground of a desolated land, slowly dimming as the 4 left their tiny sanctuary. Before it to faded to dust just as forgotten as its owner now was.

#sometimes the heroes lose something wothout ever knowing. #1 life for 4 is an easy trade #memories can leave and still effect you

[bcoolfolks]

Handyong and Oryol, a tale of love and redemption

LONG, LONG AGO, SOMEWHERE IN THE Bicol Region, existed a prosperous and beautiful kingdom called Ibalon. It was renowned for its lush forest, happy inhabitants and mighty ruler, Handyong. All nature adored Handyong. The Mayas chirped about their handsome and wise ruler; while Maribok, the king-frog, croaked day and night of Handyong’s bravery. Tuktok, the mother Kalaw, as she taught her baby horn bills how to peck faster, described to them how Handyong’s muscles glistened under the sun. Even Poringot, the bald rooster, would wiggle his tail to honor Handyong. Bolinao, the chief of small fishes, would lead the school of fish to the farthest nook of the sea telling all the creatures they met how good a fisherman Handyong was.

The people of Ibalon were very grateful that Handyong was not only handsome, but also brave.

But the much-adored Handyong was terribly unhappy, for deep in the forest lived monsters. Punong-the one-eyed, three throated creature, the wild carabaos, the gigantic crocodiles and the snakes that lived in Mount Hantik were his enemies. These beasts were led by the wily serpent, Oryol, who was difficult to destroy, for she was more cunning than Handyong.

Oryol was once the most beautiful maiden of lbalon. Envious of her beauty, Hilang, the evil witch, lured Oryol to the forest and converted her into a serpent by day and a lovely woman by midnight. Hilang vowed on a pitogo seed that only love could free Oryol from the curse. The promise was sealed in the enchanted pitogo, and only its destruction held the key to Oryol ‘s freedom.

One night, when the moon showed its round face, the monsters attacked the village, destroyed the crops and preyed on the people. Handyong single-handedly fought the monsters from midnight to dawn. It was only when the sun kissed the earth that the monsters retreated to the woods. They left Handyong alone, sore and bone-weary. Although his people applauded his brave deeds, he was still not quite happy because he knew the monsters would return the next full moon and he was afraid he might not be always as strong to fight them everytime they attack his kingdom.

Handyong decided to go deep into the forest and wrestle once and for all with the monsters.

Meanwhile, in the forest where the monsters gathered anew to make their evil plans, the other animals shook like leaves in fright as they listened to the harsh words as each one blamed the other for their defeat in the previous encounter with Handyong.

“You and your noisy throat! How could you move fast? You should have asked your grandmother for three eyes and one throat instead,” one snake addressed Punong.

The monstrous frog’s throats expanded in anger and his eye winked malevolently, as he croaked. “How dare you drag my grandmother’s name into the fight! If not for Handyong’s attempt to strangle one of my throats, you wouldn’t have escaped!”

So the dispute continued. The wild carabaos could only blame their thick hide for their limited body movement. The gigantic crocodiles accused one another for stupidly getting snarled in each other’s jaws. They fought fiercely only to discover that the scaly bodies they bit were as tough as their own.

But Oryol, the wily serpent, after listening to the arguments, smiled and hissed.

“I will destroy Handyong, not by might but by wit. Leave me alone to think,” she said, her two-pronged tongue flashing in anger. Like a queen, Oryol slid down the tree, coiled and poised her regal head, ready to strike anyone who disobeyed.

When the monsters had gone to their respective hotbeds of wickedness, Oryol felt very lonely. Many volcanic eruptions and countless typhoons had passed, and she had gotten tired of the wasted time spent on schemes to kill Handyong. She was disgusted at the ranting and the swearing among the monsters. She had shed off her silvery skin as many times as the ancient balete trees in the forest since the evil witch Hilang turned her into a snake. Having forgotten who her real enemy is, her serpent heart vowed to kill Handyong or be killed by him.

Days flew fast and the night lantern once more was beginning to be as round as a pomelo when Oryol restlessly awakened. The light which poured in between hollows in the forest imbued in her heart the desire to be free from darkness. With her low seductive voice, she hissed her serpent song, paralyzing and terrifying all creatures who heard it. Even the night owls ceased hooting while their eyes grew wider in wonder.

As Oryol finished her song, she slowly opened her eyes to discover a transformation. She now had hands, with fingers that tapered beautifully like candles. She smoothed her silken black hair down her small, round waist. She noticed a pair of firm young legs, both eager to explore the dark forest. Unaware of her ravishing looks, Oryol approached one of the owls. When she looked into its wide eyes she saw her startled reflection. Hesitantly, afraid that the image might vanish, she brushed lightly her moonwashed face.

While she talked to the owls, the dangling monkeys whooped resounding cries. They smelt someone coming. Silently, like a cat stalking its prey, Handyong came into view. He had come with his followers to track down the monsters of Mt. Hantik. Handyong himself stood in awe at the beautiful apparition before him. Oryol ‘s heart quivered with excitement as she encountered Handyong’s penetrating eyes. She thought she had forgotten how to love!

But she quickly recovered and remembered her vow to kill Handyong. “I will lure him into forgetting his purpose for coming. I will sing to him until he ceases to remember, and then . . . ” she muttered to herself. She fingered the enchanted pitogo seed in her hand.

“Young woman, you’re alone in the forest, are you not afraid of the monsters lurking in the dark?” Handyong asked her.

“Monsters?” she replied. “They have been lulled to sleep by my song. Come, I’ll show you where they are.”

She led him to where the monsters were sound asleep. Handyong could have easily attacked them but did not think it honorable to kill a defenseless enemy. He instead decided to let his men rest until the monsters awakened from their slumber.

Oryol resumed her humming, then burst into an enchanting song. The men’s lids dropped as though mesmerized. Soon they were fast asleep. Only Handyong fought the urge to drift into dreamland. His eyes were on the lovely Oryol.

After a while, Oryol thought she had tricked everyone and once more became a serpent. She crept noiselessly to where Handyong lay. But Handyong, who had seen everything, was · ready to defend himself. Before Oryol could -strike him, swift as the wink of an eye, he grabbed the serpent’s neck so tight that Oryol thought it would break. Just as she was about to pass out, she again changed into a beautiful lady. Handyong, who had never hurt a woman in his life, released his grip and with powerful arms carried Oryol to a bed of leaves and tenderly laid her down. Oryol is human, he thought, -not a monster. No monster could be lovely and defenseless as she is now. And love came to Handyong unexpectedly, quiet like the morning ball of fire, warm and overpowering. He bent and kissed Oryol.

As he did so, the pitogo seed fell from her hand. The seed that could spell the monters’ defeat and Oryol ‘s release from witchcraft. Accidentally, Handyong stepped on the pitogo seed which promptly broke to pieces. Then the monsters awakened and attacked Handyong and his followers. The fierce fighting reverberated in the forest as brave men with bare hands and sharpened spears were pitted against the monsters.

The destruction of the pitogo seed instantly weakened the monsters and deprived Oryol the power to convert herself into a serpent. Moreover, Oryol ‘s heart was now torn between loyalties: to her former friends, the monsters, and to the mortals with whom she was now identified. Pain was etched in her tear-stained face. She closed her eyes to the image of a slain Handyong.

Illustrations By: Benjamin A. Dia & Ben Lopez

“No, I cannot see him hurt or dead,” she cried softly. “These monsters should die for bringing untold evils to the villagers.”

It was almost dawn and the men as well as the monsters had gotten tired, but the battle was far from ended.

Oryol, out of concern for Handyong, also divulged the secret strategy to hasten the defeat of the cursed monsters. “Aim at the heart,” she cautioned Handyong and his men.

Upon sensing this betrayal, the monsters turned to Oryol with hate in their eyes and distaste in their frothing mouths. The crocodiles bared razor-sharp teeth, the wild carabaos formed a battalion of poised horns and the three-throated Punong rotated its one eye swiftly. In the meantime, the shifted attention to Oryol gave the heroic men time to drive their spears forcefully into the hearts of the deceived monsters.

The violent battle having ended, Handyong went to Oryol who stood immobile like a hypnotized lady. He whispered to her, “Are you sorry, we had to kill your friends?”

“They ‘re really not my friends,” she sobbed. “When Hilang the evil witch cast her spell on me, I lost all my real friends and home.”

“Please come home with me and be my wife,” Handyong said with tenderness.

His men seeing that their ruler will no longer be lonely, left him to celebrate his newly found happiness with Oryol.

And so, on the great wedding day, Maribok, Kalaw and Bolinao came dressed in colorful attire. Even Poringot attended with a tiny feathered hat perched on its tail.

#folklore

[black-strike-otp]

part 48

Such a soft boy, I’m so proud ;w; He’s a good son sajgdklasjg

Also who??? does not love Guard??? literally who??? I’ll fight u.

With no sign of Guard in sight, Blackout chose to recharge for a few jours instead of wandering around the vessel. It wasn’t that he didn’t want to speak with the senior mech, he told himself. It was just a waste of time to stand around hoping to run into him.

Novastrike had no qualms with the idea of curling up close to him anyway to rest, and Scorponok claimed his corner with glee (happy to free of his backside, no doubt). Even in the comfort though of allies, Blackout found recharge far from easy to come by. He would go under briefly and then awaken. Nagged with doubt, pestered by memories, harassed by the very question he didn’t realize he had been avoiding until now.

Without the Decepticons, what was he? What goals did he have?

Embarrassingly, little spoke to him. He nervously could admit to himself, and only to himself, that he held interest in seeing how far this thing went on with Novastrike. Other than that however, there was nothing. Maybe it was a good idea to put himself back in a position of control. There was a schedule; there was delegating, debating, work to be done, shoots to be called.

But the question was, would any bot truly follow him? Would his orders be enough, or would they want validation from another ranking council member? What would he do if someone didn’t listen? This wasn’t his ship; these were not soldiers. They were mechs and femmes just wanting to live. Who could say how long their respect for him would last when his suggestions became not just ideas, but functional law on the vessel?

As thoughts and questions danced in his processor, time ticked steadily by. Before he knew it, small servos were groggily grabbing at his arm, startling him slightly.

“How long have you been awake?” Nova woozily asked.

Blackout offered her a light smile, reaching over to rub the top of her helm. “Not too terribly long,” he fibbed.

She gave a small nod. “You goin’ to speak with Guard today?”

“That’s the plan.”

“A’ight,” she mumbled, offering a tired smile. “I’m going to go hit the shower racks before most of the how water’s used up. Let me know when you’re free later to share some energon and catch up?”

He gave a small nod. “That I can do.”

“Thank you handsome devil,” Novastrike cooed, pressing a kiss against his armor. The barest touch left a warm tingly sensation through his armor into his protoform and sizzled in his circuits and veins.

It was such a bizarre reaction, but he enjoyed it nonetheless. The way she touched him, looked at him; it awoken a deadened spirit long suppressed inside him. She breathed life anew into him with every smile and lingering kiss that he just couldn’t deny anymore.

He smiled at her broadly even though it felt foolish on his face. But the returned gesture as her lips curved up ever so slowly and her ears began to glow softly; by what gods where may be, he would give anything to see that look on her face every day.

All too soon she was rolling over and hopping to her pedes. She arched her back and after a few nanokliks too long appreciating the contour of frame and the tapered ends of her armor Blackout finally removed his wanton optics. All the better she didn’t catch him staring; he could only imagine her reaction. Or rather, he could imagine one of many scenarios in which she’d react ranging from taunting him to well- thoughts best left alone.

There was a soft strike of metal against metal as she jumped from the berth and on the floor. Pressing a servo to the berth, the tall obsidian mech sat up and watched as she sauntered off for the door. She turned just before they closed behind her, pressing her palm to her mouth and blowing him a kiss.

The way his unruly spark reacted to such a display of affection was deplorable.

Blackout relished every bit of those moments.

Flickering his optics over to the corner of the room, the enormous mech looked to his partner. The scorpion was still curled up mostly. There was no movement from the tiny mech, no sign of being awake yet as his optics were shuttered and his frame still.

He gave his companion a light nudge through the bond. Nothing; radio silence.

Leaving the minicon to his rest, Blackout very slowly moved his legs over the edge of the berth and went to stand. He walked with great care towards the door, and stepped out as quietly as possible. When the door sealed behind him he released a vent, and casually strode down the short intersecting hall towards the primary corridor.

“Hey Blackout!”

“Good to see you up, big guy.”

“How’s it going tall and menacing?”

Baffled by the polite and mocking nature as ever, Blackout offered quietly rumbled remarks and polite waves to those who spoke to him as they passed down the hall. Some of the wider-built bots had to angle themselves not to run into his own massive frame and they’d snicker a little and make a remark on how he was too big for his own good.

Everybot was so damn friendly on this ship. It was odd not to see anyone trying to stab each other in the back. Even living on board the vessel for over a year now, he hadn’t come to terms with the way everyone treated each other.

“Have you seen Guard today?” Blackout’s baritone drawled after the sixth or so bot he’d ran into greeted him.

“Sure have,” the femme responded. “He was with the doc in sick bay when I walked by not long ago. She wasn’t letting him out of the room for whatever reason.”

Colored with mild concern, Blackout offered a nod of gratitude and headed just that way.

Hastening his way down the hall, the giant mech made it swiftly to the medical room. He cringed inwardly as he approached, half expecting that lunatic femme medic to be waiting to ambush him. The doors opened with a hum before him as he inched closer.

Guard and the medic looked up as he stepped inside. There was a sour look upon the femme’s faceplate as she turned back around, shifting her weight awkwardly in her knelt position to get better access at Guard’s leg. Or really, what remained of it beneath the tattered and replaced sections of armor that had been covering it.

“Ah, Blackout, good to see you young mech,” the old mech greeted brightly. He gave a nod of his helm, blue optics brimming with glee.

“Sir,” Blackout respectfully rasped, dipping his helm.

“What did I tell you about that? I’m not your superior, mech, please. I’m just an old bot.”

“All the more reason to show tribute,” Blackout disagreed.

The medic gave an unpleasant noise in her throat. “Kiss-aft,” she muttered.

“You’re just upset that he honor a feeble old mech like myself, and doesn’t sit nicely when you ask him too,” Guard remarked, wincing slightly. “Which I can easily understand. You don’t really have the most careful touch, milady.”

“That was on purpose.”

“She’s a sadist,” Blackout cut in.

“Maybe you’re right,” Guard agreed with a snicker. “Now, I assume you came looking for me for a reason?”

Shifting on his pedes uneasily, the huge mech gave a small nod. He could taste the weariness on his glossia again just standing there.

Giving a wave of his servo to prompt him, Guard spoke eagerly, “Well?”

“I’ve been thinking about your request,” Blackout slowly spoke, “and if your council members agree to it, I would be willing to take on the position of an additional commander.”

The medic’s helm shot up, whacking against the side of the bunk. She instantly went to place a servo against her helm to rub the tender spot, staring between the two. From her face, it looked like she had a thousand questions starting at ‘when did you offer him this position’ to ‘you said yes’, but she remained respectfully quiet as she stared.

Offering a sage bob of his helm, Guard’s tired old smile grew wider. “I figured you would agree after given some time to think about it,” he stated with relief. “The extra servo would be most helpful around here, especially with how... absent minded Neutroboost has been for some time. They’ll listen to you, I know they will. It may be a bit selfish of me asking you to do this when you are only with us for the sake of rescuing you and to stay with our resident soft-sparked femme,” he paused just enough to flash a grin as Blackout stiffened, “but I am eternally grateful for the aid. My leg gets worse every day. I have no doubt that I will entirely lose the ability for it to function sooner rather than later. It would be nice knowing there’s a trustworthy bot looking out for us all.”

A mixture of emotions stirred in Blackout. He didn’t like hearing Guard so calmly talk about his disability; how he seemed to think he would lose all function and use without his appendage. Despite the mech’s claims to being selfish, he still felt incredibly honored and humbled to be given the privilege of working for the charitable mech.

“I will do my very best, commander,” Blackout softly responded. “But do not give up hope so easily on yourself.”

“It’s not a matter of hope I’m afraid, son, but a matter of time.”

Blackout’s optics shuttered in a rapid session of blinks. Son?

In the brief pause, the femme reattached the sections of Guard’s leg paneling, shielding the majority of the damage from optic view. She gave a short huff, seeming less than pleased.

“I’d continue, but I have a feeling you’re about to go,” the femme snorted.

Guard’s twinkling optics turned upon her. “Always in my thoughts, aren’t you?”

She offered a thin smile. “I expect you back here after you’re done with your meeting. I’d still like to check on a few things, and take some measurements. Worst-best case scenario if we can find a... donor limb.”

“You know I don’t care for the idea of taking parts from the deceased without prior consent,” Guard grumbled unhappily.

“And as your medic, I don’t give a frag,” she hissed, glancing back at Blackout. “I know you weren’t informed that some of the team was scouting bodies in the previous wreckage for a suitable replacement, but I figured since you’re going to his new right-servo mech, you might as well be aware. Who knows, with the outtings you take, maybe you’ll run into something that could help.”

“I’ll keep my optics open,” Blackout vaguely agreed. The idea of using someone else’s parts without their approval left a bad feeling in Blackout’s tanks as well, but this was war after all. Beggars could not be choosers, and in Guard’s case, he was still very much needed by his devoted crew.

The old mech reached over for his cane that was laid out beside him and placed it on the floor. With a heave of his bulky frame, he gingerly placed pressure on his good leg and then his bad. A grimace crossed the mech’s faceplate, clearly in aching pain.

The medic’s optics clouded over with sympathy. “Guard, maybe you should-”

“No, aye, keep your servos off I got this,” he bickered softly, adjusting his grip on his cane.

A pang shot through Blackout. Somewhere along the lines, this gentle old mech saw fit to not only house him in what was essentially his home, but took the chance to allow him to stay. He lived because this mech wouldn’t allow him to be tossed right back off the ship. Guard had essentially rescued him just as much as Novastrike and the medic did.

And he still fought to believe in him. No matter his past, no matter his attitude, no matter the amount of mistakes he made. That elderly old bot still kept going and still keep trusting in him to make the right choices.

If he could put that much faith in him, Blackout could do him the favor of proving him right.

Finally settling on a position, the old mech gave a warm grin towards Blackout. “Are you ready to join me in calling a meeting then?”

“Yes, sir,” Blackout firmly responded, offering a ghost of a smile in return.

~

The usually somewhat crammed lounge room was suddenly void of its occupants. One of the few tables in the room had been removed of all trash and knickknacks. It seemed much brighter in here than usual without all the shadows and bots pressing into each other trying to find a spot to sit or stand.

As Guard and Blackout entered the room, sitting at the table Blackout recognized the servoful gathered around. He’d spoken to most of them at least a few times; others on a more regular basis in fact.

He’d never been clarified on whom, exactly, Guard considered council on board the ship. Who’s opinions spoke loudest, who held the most experience other than the crafty old mech and his rowdy younger equal in commander. But now that he got a look at them, he understood why these particular bots had been chosen at one point or another.

The mech in all silver armor had a knack for engineering and was a wonderful technician.

The femme in startling bright cherry red with accented yellow-green and blue-green trim here and there was always quietly observing just about everything. Although he’d never gotten a chance to pin down what her importance was, it came to light that she might be an informant; keeping an audio out on what everyone on board the ship was talking about.

That mech over there in worked in the science division that had come from the Journey. The mech there was one who frequently guarded the energon stock.

It seemed everyone in the room had a quirk, a talent, a natural gift. Others who seemed less easy to pick up on their habits, Blackout could still figure out their uses. Bots who could listen, who could gossip, who could talk and figure out the way the gears turned in the ship and the way folks felt about each other simply by observing as they naturally would.

Remaining further back by the door, Blackout uncomfortably stood in place as Guard hobbled further in. Much of the crowd immediately grew from quiet and mumbling among each other to warm and outgoing instantaneously. Bots were holding out their servos, eager to shake with their great commander.

Really, Blackout couldn’t blame them. It put a smile on his face. It was hard not to enjoy Guard’s calm presence. There was a part of his enthusiasm and his bold speeches that reminded him of Megatron in some ways. He could see where he’d learned some of his grand showmanship, but unlike his old leader, Guard used his influence purely to connect and draw bots together for their own safety. There was no hidden message, no ultimate goal to achieve other than to live in harmony.

“Everybot, sit, please, sit, I insist,” Guard chuckled warmly.

The assembled crowd that had been gathering so close to him immediately went to go seat themselves. Though, comically, it appeared most tried to fight to sit closest or directly across to where Guard went to slowly seat himself.

Everyone except for one.

“What’s he doing here?” Neutroboost scowled, jerking his chin towards Blackout as his optics narrowed into fine slits.

“He’s what I assembled you all together for,” Guard answered warmly. He turned just enough in his seat to offer a beckoning gesture to Blackout.

Feeling exposed and awkward, the big mech slowly crept over to stand at the table. There was no seating left for him, so he remained slightly behind and to the right of Guard.

Giving each other unsure glances, the council members looked between each other and the hulking figure standing by the table.

Naturally, Neutroboost was the first to throw his thoughts out.

“Are we finally dumping this Decepticon off the ship?” he inclined.

Appearing unfazed, Guard turned his ever-gentle smile on to Neutro. “Since you’re so eager to get down to the point, no Neutroboost, I’m afraid that’s not what I gathered you all for,” the old mech acknowledge. “Instead, I came with a proposition. I implore all of you to consider adding Blackout here to the ranks of commander.”

A murmured quietly went through the small crowd as everyone turned to each other once more. Blackout nervously met optic contact with those who turned to look at him. This grinded on his nerves more than becoming a commanding officer for the Decepticon’s ever did.

“C-Commander?” Neutroboost stammered. “Guard, you must be joking.”

“Certainly not. Why would I joke about bringing such an experienced mech in as a commanding officer?”

“Because he’s a homicidal maniac!” Neutro countered, slamming a fist into the table as he stood up. “Because he’s a Decepticon, because he’s crazy, because he’s clearly working for Megatron- there’s a million reasons! Razorjaw, back me up.”

Neutroboost went to nudge the mech closest to him and he leaned away, looking nervous.

“He hasn’t done anything to threaten us,” Razorjaw timidly disagreed.

“He’s saved our afts more than once,” another agreed.

“If it wasn’t for him, we’d all have been scrapped by the Revenge II.”

“Blackout’s brought in fresh energon and supplies.”

Guard passed a sideways glance towards Blackout. There was a knowing light in his optics all but too proud. It made the former Decepticon Hound want to squirm.

“You all can’t be serious!” Neutroboost bellowed as he thrust a digit in his direction. “This mech works for a tyrant! He’s bloodthirsty! He’s helped dwindle our race down by the thousands, he’s wipes species out of existence, he’s destroyed planets! He has no place among this ship, let alone being a commanding officer!”

“What has he done to any of us on the Rising Star?” Guard calmly inquired. “He has fetched material. He has helped transport goods. He’s even went out on his own scouting missions with no request on behalf of any of us and returned with supplies. He could have destroyed us, reported us, handed us over to the nearest black market in a moment’s notice and he has not done so.”

“Probably because he has been waiting for just this moment! He wants us all soft, vulnerable, kissing his aft and thanking us for saving his life.”

“Just because you don’t trust him does not mean that others do not.”

Neutroboost curled his lip up at the statement. His ruthless stare threw daggers at Blackout. Luckily for him, he was used to such stares. Where other, lesser mechs might cower, he merely felt metaphorical pins being tossed uselessly against his thick, impenetrable armor.

“I don’t see a reason why he couldn’t be a commander,” a femme stated, pressing a digit to her mouth.

“I’d vote yes,” a mech stated proudly.

“As would I.”

“Me too.”

“He’s going to turn on all of you and lead you to his master,” Neutro growled. “He’ll turn this ship to dust, and all of you with it. You’re making a huge mistake. Look at him: is there one thing about that disgrace for a Cybertron that says kind or thoughtful to you?”

One of the femmes leaned in to a mech beside her, and although her tone was meant to be a whisper, she clearly had a naturally loud voice as she spoke: “Clearly Neutroboost hasn’t seen the way Blackout shuttles Novastrike everywhere like she’s a goddess, no?”

Neutroboost’s optics were dark and livid.

“May I speak a few words?” Blackout echoed deeply.

Everyone grew quiet, staring predictably at Guard. He offered a short, single nod of his helm.

“I know I do not have the cleanest history,” Blackout growled quietly. “I am not what you deserve, nor what you expect. However, Guard asked of me a task I could hardly refuse. It would be a dishonor upon him for me not to take on the task. I can’t promise you that I will be as nurturing as Guard, or as clever as Neutroboost,” he hated complimenting that despicable worm, “but I would do my best to serve the Rising Star and those within it seeking salvation to the best of my ability. Bots on this ship risked their lives to save my own. It wouldn’t be right for me to not be willing to do the same.”

As he finished, Blackout turned his crimson optics on to Guard. Although the old mech was not looking to him, Blackout could swear he could feel the approving look of the mech staring out at the others.

“I would hate to rush your decisions,” Guard stated in a voice that suggested otherwise, “But I would like to ask if the council is ready to vote.”

Bots exchanged brief glances. Some were grinning, others passing nods.

“We are,” the cherry colored femme stated.

Being the overdramatic bot that he was, Neutroboost slammed his servos back on the table as he threw his temper tantrum. Things were obviously not leaning in his direction.

“Do not do this,” he threatened, glaring at each and every last bot in the room. Most turned their optics away, either with shame or with fear.

His optics stopped, pausing on Guard’s. There was a challenge in the air; a shift as they fought for power with looks alone.

A different mech, surprisingly, spoke up.

“Neutroboost, you hardly have the fight to represent this mech, or judge him. Blackout has been there for us more than you have for months. All you do is shut yourself away in your room, locking out everyone and conversation. You won’t listen to reason. You won’t offer your aid, your word, a moment of your time but for a few moments here and there when we can grasp your attention. You act without pity or compassion or remorse. Your attitude is hardly befitting of a commander. If it wasn’t for Guard’s generosity and his love and faith he has in you, I would personally try to throw your useless aft off this council board. But I would never wish to harm Guard in that way. I trust him. And I trust in his judgment, as well as Blackout.”

The mech turned his gaze onto Blackout, offering a smile nearly as endearing and warm as Guard’s. “I say a very delighted frag yes.”

“I say yes.”

“Yes here.”

“Yes.”

“Absolutely.”

Everyone turned to look at Neutroboost. The deciding vote which would normally be placed upon him seemed to no longer hold importance. With Guard’s approval and every other member of the council backing him, there was no longer a need for his ‘yes’.

And Blackout knew they wouldn’t have it.

Shoving back his seat, Neutroboost slammed his pedes into the ground. He stood and turned his sneer upon everyone at the table furiously. Stepping around Blackout, he shoved into the bigger mech’s side.

Blackout only passed him a glance. His armor was scuffed, he thought absentmindedly. Novastrike wasn’t going to be pleased.

“You’ve all made a big mistake,” Neutroboost warned, turning as he stomped out of the room. “And you’ll be begging my forgiveness when he turns on you.”

With dramatic flair, the door closed in the mech’s face as he whipped around to depart.

Seeming as nonchalant as ever, Guard turned just enough in his seat to look to Blackout. He extended a servo, optics burning bright.

“Welcome to the team, commander,” he announced proudly.

Blackout reached out numbly, grasping the old mech’s servo. A grin slowly spread across his face as he shook Guard’s surprisingly firm grasp.

“Thank you, sir,” he reported in a strong voice. “I’ll do my best to prove that you all made the right decision.”

“I already feel safer,” a femme purred, leaning back in her chair to look Blackout up and down.

A mech gave her a nudge, chuckling.

“Here here,” another agreed.

Another mech close to Guard reached out, patting Blackout on the arm. “You’ll do just fine, mech.”

“We got your back. Neutro will calm down, just give him time.”

Blackout smiled gratefully, making sure to take the time to shake each and every servo in the room to show his appreciation. Still, despite their praise and joy, he couldn’t help feeling a voice in the back of his helm nagging him to do his best. He couldn’t let all these bots down, not after everything they’ve been through, the trust they put in him, even turning against one of their own commander’s decisions.

He had to do right by them and by the Rising Star. No matter what.

#quid pro quo au #OTP AU #OTP Lit #Cute OTP

[adventk-blog]

                                             — ARE YOU WHO YOU WANT TO BE,

       introducing NAKAMOTO YUTA, a MUTANT, under the moniker of TAIYO — and currently a believer of SEPARATION. age ( twenty-three ) and gifted with the ability of SOLAR MANIPULATION, they are currently working as a WOODBLOCK PRINTER.

WE ARE SO MUCH MORE THAN STORIES,

a modest village sits atop on the outskirts of shimokawa island, an islet sheltered away from a blanket of forestry. offering little sight to a green canopy from above, the island is lush with vegetation. shimokawa is home to an estimated two thousand inhabitants, resting south off the sea of japan. it’s known best for its rich topography and volcanic craters, despite that the island and its residents live in unperturbed isolation.

shimokawa is a sacred haven, been blemished through and through with misconceptions produced by outsiders; those who live amongst the camouflaged gene-capable. they are dubbed as mavericks and unearthly bodies, given the negative connotations as indigenous shamans. technological advances are still in delay, as the civilians and locals residing in shimokawa live with simplicity surrounded by rural landscapes. modernism goes disturbed, left suspended. answering the unconscious digital machine was a taboo. the village of shimokawa has lived in peace for centuries, having marked their last date of civil war in the 18th century.

the waters of the river from where you were born moves with the wisteria trees. mothers scold their children as they’ve waded in the water for far too long, and their newly tailored yukata is ruined. they wade a languid sway during august, carrying themselves a faded radiance of violet. they drift onwards, towards the sea of the east, to the ends of the earth. they continue on with no beginning until no end. there aren’t any existing routes, no signs of prevailing danger as you thread forward and bring yourself to the heart of the indigo forest that stands alone. there is a fragrance that is home to the evening, feathering into the air. the temple bells slowly begin to die into the crying of the cicadas. the air during the late summer is a gentle mist, a calming aroma. beneath the sun’s red eye are the lanterns; brightly lit, scattered by the feet of geta-attired townspeople.

august 30th: the dawning of your festive celebration. the people come clad in vibrant, traditional wear. along with them is their happiness carried in spirit from a long day’s work from humidity. as the day retires into the night, so do the buzzing of the fireflies. the swarming heat of joy wraps around your head when you unbundle the gigantic water-lilies to let free onto the dancing river from where you were born, thirteen years ago.

then, it was decided by a higher deity that the young boy will soon become the wielder of the sun.

“for as long as the earth has been on orbit, the gene is what separates us from common folk. the privilege of your birth brings upon the burdens of generations before you. your slain descendants of air, fire, lightning, ice, light, precognition, and darkness have given you a greater gift, a greater ambition to preserve the sun,” said your mentor, an acknowledged, and elder priest. his face is long and dark, as his hands were gnarled with battles told in storytelling. he stood an overwhelming one hundred and eighty-five, though a centered and wise man he was. he bathes you with cold water in a wooden bathhouse, as you conserve all the warmth that your body’s temperature provides you. the mentor sings a low hum of a time-honored melody as he combs through the toughened knots in your hair. he rests a steady hand onto your shuddering shoulders in relaxation for the trance-like state you experienced.

he washes you clean until your week’s worth of purification ceases. but for so long, have you fought to avoid cold water bathsㅡ and yet, you’ve been running from your duties as the nakamoto manor’s tenth seat junior officer. your father and your great grandfather have always noted you of your appearance. that, perhaps, your charms are kindㅡ the only son of the nakamoto clan, so optimistic and full of vitality. though there is a boundary, that all that is left is a roaring temperㅡ a child with a head too strong to sit on his shoulders. nothing made your blood boil more than the pride that ran behind conviction of conventionality.

your days are spent under the weighted circumstances of rituals: regular purifying, washings with cold water, the importance of abstinence, the practice of adhering to the beginnings of your abilities. the best hours during the day was kept observing the interdiction of life, death, rebirth, illness, spirituality, tradition and blood. sitting among the other boys from well-respected manors, you enjoyed playing endurance games. you count the raised wounds from weeks old worth of floggings on your stomach and legs with the sons of other clans of bone and earth before supper. you strayed from discipline as a child, and the amount of trouble you encouraged cost you physical punishment.

the third day out of the week was always your favorite. after lunch was held, the main training hall was open for hand-to-hand and blade combat instruction. you came prepared. standing at one-seventy-three centimeters tall, sixteen going on seventeen, growing out of last season’s hakama. you’ve always envied the prestigious nomiya nagiko, daughter of a neighboring blacksmith who pushed his gratification on his children blessed with evolution. although you were two years her senior, she always had the first hand at swordsmanship. may she rest easy.

you studied the science following your training with shimazaki and solar energy. your ability to let your selfishness overrun during physical training leaves you with an overheated burn between your eyes. you practice alone into the night, so much that the bottom of your heels is worn, calloused. and at the roots of where the strange flowers lie writhing in the soil, awakens your motivation. it was night from when you remembered, already grown solemn from early years spent in devotion to becoming the village’s next clan officer. authority and rule became very important to you.

the world is a sort of barren wasteland. the land of which that sits abandoned, an empty void. overgrown with dead weeds, almost, as the heart of the town is no more. you enter this territory, unwarned and ungoverned, but will proceed to live under the expectations with the blessings of those in your descent. then, will your temperament change for the better as you age and gather prudence from the men of your elders.

during the silence in december, it was nighttime when the village was up in flames. you remembered it to be a cold evening, the shrine blanketed in snow, and all at once, the moon arose through the thick haze of the fallen village. the snow continued to hail; falling, falling, and having been cascading, became the spilling of blood. you bite back down on your pride that was steadily flourishing; slowly establishing yourself anew. your honor cannot be broken, you yearned to protect the village and all who coexist. however, with your prioress, you fled to a safe sanctuary of the air manipulating sisters in the north. the men and young priests and priestesses defend what little was left of their homes and families. you witnessed that the end was approachingㅡ weary that the end, might’ve been near. the declaration of war is here adopted by long lost brothers who have claimed their vengeance, resentful and weak, no longer with the protection of their superiors. the enemies come with their mortal lives and industrialized weapons of gun and steel. their stances are tall and they move sharp across the fields, now turning into a late, darkened maroon.

though the boy was still young; nakamoto yuta was still in his juvenile years. he was still on the path to becoming a man of the sun as his life had been dedicated from the first summer. with your brothers and sisters, all of congregating manors, do you all gather in the cramped understructure beneath the shaken earth. your elders lie on the war-torn soil to pray, to sing your hymns silently in the midst of fear lurking in the back of your mind.

to gather and be as one during a time of broken warfare, arising from ashes comes a new generation. that even now, there are mental, if not physical scars left behind in conflict against the mortals and your ownㅡ the shamans, priest, and priestess, or commonly known as witches and warlocks.

and yet, you still walk the earth with full potential.

THERE IS FLESH AND BLOOD BEHIND THESE TALES,

dynamic isn’t a word that you strongly identify with, regarding your inner framework. knowing yourself and your future, your personality may thread between smug and overweening, which tends to be confused hand in hand with confidence.

short-tempered, impulsive, and outspoken; the qualities that are all too familiar has gotten you into trouble, though contrary to belief, has also kept you alive. you wear your heart on your sleeve as a person who falls disquieted after a series of defeat, or psychological turmoil. you know yourself to be very emotional, even despite the headstrong facade that you’ve created over the years of growing into your age. when challenged with a threatening conflict, you become determined, and wholeheartedly welcome the confrontation to your will. a stubborn man you are and always were, for that you will die with faith according to your beliefs. most often than not, you stand as a person of your word, yet you do not actively make promises that you cannot fulfill.

spirituality cannot be pretended, it’s a way of living. the dawning of your birth pays a great amount to your lifestyle, philosophy, and approach to life. although you boast about conventionality, a part of you wallows in tradition. you love without expecting love to be returned, you don’t adjust yourself to embody an idea that people approve as exceptional, and your shrewdness comes from personal experiences. you are comfortable with your strengths and weaknesses. thus, your desire to learn from those with more expertise prepares you to be a lifelong learner.

AND EVEN MONSTERS CAN LEARN TO WEEP.

solar manipulation (also known as heliokinesis), is the manipulation of the sun. the sun is regarded as the heart of the solar system, as the wielder holds extensive control of its force. some of these said skills can allow the mutant to generate, form, and maneuver most of the sun’s properties. part of the sun’s facets includes organic nuclear energy, heat, illumination, mass or gravitational fields, and magnetic fields.

          APPLICATIONS : solar constructs: solar energy can be used to create objects, varying from weapons to more practical structures such as buildings.

solar attacks: energy from the sun can be implemented as projectile attacks, and the intensity of these can be released to the mutant’s liking.

solar manipulation: the practice of bending the sun’s energy to create, shape, and manipulate.            LIMITATIONS : the mutant is not immune to physical damage from the sun’s rays or energy, and can be well suspected to skin diseases, eye-related complications and/or heat-related injuries.

mental stability is highly looked upon when putting various abilities to use. precision, distance, mass, and volume are determined by the mutant’s knowledge and must be rightfully measured when doing so.

self-imposed exhaustion/drain (including dehydration, overheating of one’s body, sporadic blindness, etc) can result from consequences such as using too much energy over time or all at once.

constructs (all objects including weapons) created by the sun’s energy can slowly deteriorate if the mutant is injured and/or declining into mental/physical fatigue. the result will leave the user with ultimately no control if fallen unconscious.

the mutant’s abilities are rendered useless against an opponent gifted with lunar manipulation.

all attacks/constructs/generations and manipulations are derived from the sun, therefore, the intensity is prone to be stronger during daylight. despite that the sun is still active at night in different parts of the world, the sun itself is not directly present in the proximity of the mutant’s location. hence, the potency of the ability weakens greatly.

THREAT LEVEL TWO.                           01+ BRWN, 03+ RSLNC, 03+ INTLCT, 05+ WLLPWR, 09+ FGHTNG, 03+ SPD

#avt: follow #krp #kpop rp #tw: abuse #tw: discipline #tw: violence #tw: death

[somefinelipstickonthatpig]

I don't know if you still accept drabble prompts or not, but...how about Sorey trying to keep it together but finally breaking down after his awakening, taking in Gramps' death and everything else that overloaded him during his time as Shepherd, and Mikleo comforting him the best he can?

Krissey’s Notes: ohhhhh my gosh okay I’m sorry this took so long. When I first got this prompt, the idea was so good, that I knew I wanted to take my time with it.

but this prompt also gave me the opportunity to slip in a lot of my personal headcanons about Sorey’s reaction to waking up again, particularly in a sudden new world and all that?? so really this prompt was perfect and thank you so much for giving it

WITHOUT MUCH FURTHER A DO HERE ComES THE ANGST!!

The tears don’t come until the night, when the sun passesand the world falls quiet, settling down its weary self for slumber.

Sorey can hear nothing else but the deep breathing of Mikleoat his back with the tranquility of Elysia just outside their hut door. It isa sound he has always, always known, which alone brings a strange comfort sojuxtaposed from the rest of the new world around him.

Listening, straining his ear for every inhale and exhale ofhis bedmate, he rolls onto his back. His hands fold over hisstomach. But then, eventually, his fingers find a way to his chest.

That’s where it usually begins, too. No matter how hard hepresses, he can never find a pulse.

It is usually one thing such as that, that sets off thetears. And whatever begins it, other regrets and sorrows soon follow,compounded by the heavy grief inside him. It surprises Sorey every time that he could feelso, so sad.

He wonders sometimes if this is why humans who becomeseraphim usually and mercifully don’t retain their memories.

Sometimes Sorey gets really selfishly sad about missing outon certain parts of being human that he had, quite honestly, been lookingforward to. There is a certain joy to living and growing in the way he knewthat he knows he will miss, and that he’s sorry to never get toexperience.

Sometimes Sorey thinks of Gramps, and cries anew withmemories and sorrow that he was gone. It has been years since his passing—too many to count. But what would hit him the most would be the reminder that even though Zenrus had been a father to him, he still missed thefuneral rites the seraphim of Elysia performed for him. He had slept throughthe entire ceremony, whenever they would have decided to do it. He never got tosay his proper goodbyes.

Sometimes Sorey turns over further to touch the length ofMikleo’s hair, to see if he could measure with his own fingertips just how long it had been since he saw him—justhow long it was that he had slept—and just how much time he had missed out on. Sometimes, that hurt the most:  to see with real manifest evidence how muchof his other half’s life he had slept through.

And sometimes, when the grief is heaviest, he wonders howmany times Mikleo cried while he was asleep, with pain equally so heavy andawful, that Sorey will likely never know about. How many times, while he wasasleep, was Mikleo afraid? How many times did Mikleo feel lonely?

Mikleo had to grieve Gramps’ passing alone, Sorey knew.

Sometimes, that regret alone made him sob until he couldn’tbreathe, fingers pressed over his eyes and clutching to his temple. Face hiddenin the night.

There were many times Sorey found himself sobbing silentapologies, gasping them into the air, fingers shaking, so utterly sorry for abandoning the light of his life when Mikleo had already losteverything else only moments beforethat final fight. Sometimes, Sorey felt like he had made the most horrible andselfish mistake to sleep the years away instead of find another way to achievetheir dream—together.

The grief came regularly each night in Elysia as Sorey foundit harder and harder to sleep with a body that no longer required rest. Themore hours he spent staring into the darkness with his thoughts as his onlycompany, tormented by memories of a five-hundred-years-ago yesterday that therest of the world had long forgotten about—that Mikleo might have forgotten about—he felt out of place. He felt astranger to his own home, to his own skin.

But above all, he knows he has made the gravest error ofall:  he abandoned the one person mostimportant to him, most likely when Mikleo needed him most.

“Sorey?”

Sorey turns from where he stands at the cliff’s edge, aprecipice along the southern skirts of Elysia that he remembers fondly fromtheir journey together. His loose button-up flutters in the wind as he seesMikleo walking towards him. The water seraph’s long hair is pulled back in aponytail. When the wind lifts it up, it frames his pale, moonglow face likewings, and Sorey thinks how pure of heart Mikleo must be, that he managed tosurvive all he did and still stand before him wholly untainted.

Even after five hundred years.

Sorey turns back around to view the world beneath. In thebreak of dawn, the world is quiet and crisp. The sun has only just begun tocreep over the horizon, and the sky yields to its burning hues of red and gold.

“...what are you doing out here?” Mikleo says slowly as hereaches his side.

Sorey can feel the burn of his eyes on his profile, and hedoesn’t know what to say. He blinks once and bows his head. His eyes fall uponthe way his fingers clutch at the cuffs of his blue sleeves.

Mikleo continues after a long pause. “Sorey?” And when hestill doesn’t answer, the water seraph drops his voice. Maybe he knows. “Areyou…okay?”

Sorey shakes his head.

Mikleo exhales; it’s a careful breath, but in part relieved.“Bad dream?”

Sorey shakes his head again. But then his face tightens. Hefrowns carefully, and considers whether or not his answer is true.

Mikleo waits, as patiently as ever.

And it makes Sorey suck in a sharp breath.

Like the sun shining its rays down on their sorry worldbelow, even in the world above the world, Sorey realizes that he’s been makingMikleo wait for more time than they had ever even spent together. And all atonce, he thinks how selfish he must be for doing that to him, for turningaround and when the waiting period was over, expecting Mikleo to just pick himback up and accept him back into his life like nothing had happened. Likeall those years didn’t make a difference; like things didn’t change after allthat time. Feelings didn’t change; concerns didn’t change.

Like a waterfall, follows the thought:  no more.

“I can’t believe you didn’t just—forget about me,” is the first thing he can think of to say andit’s nonsensical. Mikleo seems as surprised as him that it came from his ownmouth but now that it’s there, from it, spouts so much more.

“Y’know, I didn’t dream while I slept,” Sorey says and heshakes his head. “I closed my eyes and I opened them and then suddenly, the worldwas different.” He looks to Mikleo,and his eyes take in how much older helooks, how much taller he is. Thelength of his hair. Sorey looks away, back out over the edge. He shakes hishead, and the wind picks up his bangs.

He hates the way his breathing starts to get short.

Mikleo’s eyes go wide, and Sorey can’t conceive why.“Sorey…is…that what’s bothering you?”

Sorey just shakes his head, and chokes on his next words.“No!” he first says, and it’s stronger than he meant it to be. He can feel hisown throat go hoarse at the single word. He clenches his hands into fists. Heshakes his head again. “Yes? I—I don’t know. I just—I didn’t think it would belike this. I really didn’t.”

Mikleo stares at him. There’s a beat before he asks, just asquiet as he has been, “Didn’t think…‘it’ would be like what?”

“I didn’t think…” Sorey pauses. It’s hard to get the wordsout. But he says them anyway; Mikleo deserves closure and deserves release fromthe obligation he’s subconsciously held him to—all in the same breath. “…I didn’tthink I’d wake up to a world where I didn’t fitanymore. Y’know?”

The words go out through a tight, strangled throat. Sorey standsthere a moment more as the tension in his face gets harder and harder and hecan’t hold the tears back. He raises his arm to cover his mouth and the firstfragile ones break free.

When he next speaks, his voice is muffled, “I can’t sleepanymore.” He shakes his head, swallows and lets his arm fall to his side. Theworld starts to become hard to see. The tears distort his vision. “I know I don’thave to anymore, but…even if I could.I think I wouldn’t. I think I’m afraid to. I think if I sleep, I won’t wake upagain. Or—when I do wake up—I’ll wake up and the world’s different again—” –and you’redifferent again— “—and I’m afraid this time there won’t be anything I recognize.”

This time there willbe no one there in that uncertain future who still loves me.

Mikleo doesn’t say a word, but he listens. He stands thereon the precipice with Sorey, his expression hard to read.

“I lost…everything, Mikleo—evenwho I am—and I didn’t think thatwould happen.” He had thought so few things when he first accepted theresponsibility of being Maotelus’ vessel.

He should have thought more.

Sorey’s hands turns into a first and he sniffs. The tearscome faster now, and his voice turns shaky. “I’m not human anymore. I’m not the Shepherdanymore. I don’t know what I’m here foranymore. I don’t know why Maotelus brought me back as a seraph. I don’t knowwhy he let me keep my memories. I don’t—” –and perhaps this was the part he wasmost afraid of— “—I don’t even know if I’m still your best friend anymore, or if you still love me, because it’s been half of a millennia—and I don’t know what to d-do if—if I’m not—”

Mikleo’s hand touches his arm, and turns Sorey around toface him. “What do you mean you don’tknow if I still love you?” he asks, like it’s obvious.

And it flows out of Sorey; he could stop the tide if hetried. “I wasn’t there, Mikleo…! Forfive hundred years I slept, and I left you aloneright after Gramps died!”

He lets that sit in a hanging, awful silence, before it alltumbles forth, with a sudden fire and ringing pain that wasn’t there before.“Right after your mother died again—andthen me—” It’s a hard sob that breaks free. “I don’t know how you don’t hate me. I wonder if you do. I wonderwhy you don’t. I tossed the responsibility of the world on your shoulders when I decided to sleep, and I left you alone for—for forever, and I’m sorry! Iwasn’t there for you! I missed so much of your life—I missed countless birthdays—Imissed Rose and Alisha dying—I missed—!”

His throat gets too tight to talk, and he barely gets out,“I missed everything! I’m so sorry!”before he shakes too hard he can’t say another word.

Sorey sobs.

It’s unlike any other cry he can remember in his human life.It feels supremely inhuman, the wayhe feels like he’s crying from the depths of his soul and on out. He can’tremember crying this hard before, at a loss so deep and so grave and so sweeping.

But Mikleo doesn’t remove his hand from Sorey’s arm.

Instead, he pulls him closer. He wraps his arms aroundSorey.

And for the first time since waking up in this new andunfamiliar world, Sorey feels something like home.

“…I wasn’t alone, you know,” Mikleo whispers to him.

And Sorey clings to Mikleo, his arms wrapped tight aroundhis one anchor. He can’t form the words to respond back, but Mikleo continueson anyway, as if not expecting him to.

“When Gramps died? After the final fight?” He shakes hishead and Sorey can feel the soft movement of his chin against his shoulder. “Youdon’t have to feel like you abandoned me, because you didn’t, Sorey. Because of you and because of our journey together,I had friends who helped me afterwards to grieve him….and to grieve you. Rose, Alisha, Lailah, Zaveid—even Edna.”There’s a small rumble of a laugh in Mikleo’s chest. It’s so familiar, Soreyfeels more tears bubble to the surface. “They were there for me. And I wouldn’thave had them if it weren’t for you.”

Sorey shakes his head, but Mikleo doesn’t let him pull away.He tightens his hold, and he said again, “Yes.If you can believe it, I am gratefulfor you, and I don’t resent yourdecision, Sorey.”

He holds on for a moment longer, a beat of silence driftingbetween them, before he admits quietly, “I mean, yes, I was sad to not haveyou. Yes, I missed you.” Missed you so much that words cannot spanthe depths of that ache. “But I would never hold or have held that againstyou. Not in five hundred years. Not even in a million years.”

Sorey can feel Mikleo take his next breath, and he holds onto hear it. To feel it against his own chest. “You going to sleep was the onlyway to achieve what we’ve been dreaming about for all our lives up until thatpoint. And you know, maybe the reason you didn’t dream in all that time andmaybe the reason it’s so hard to sleep right now, Sorey, isn’t because you’reafraid to wake up. Maybe it’s because now, you have nothing to dream for.”

Mikleo loosens his hold and pulls back. Sorey looks up,lifting his head and tear-stained cheeks.

And Mikleo’s gentle smile that greets him is like the sun.

“…gosh, there’s so much more I want to tell you,” Mikleoconfesses to him, and he raises his hands from Sorey’s back to his face, tocradle the lines of his jaw with his own palms. His thumbs wipe away Sorey’stears.

Sorey sniffs. He raises a hand to cover one of Mikleo’s own,holding it to his cheek. Hope kindles in his chest at those words, a soft andlight-winged burn. Something to dream for, huh? “…y-yeah…?”

Mikleo’s smile widens. “Yeah,” he breathes back. “After all,it’s…all I’ve been dreaming about forthe past five hundred years. Talking to you again. Sharing space with youagain. Having the other half of me back.”

Sorey sucks in a sharp breath at those words. “…yeah?”

“Yeah.”

Sorey swallows hard. Despite all that Mikleo has said so far, despite all the promise of more that Mikleo wants to share with him too, the Shepherd-turned-seraph finds himself asking, “You—you mean still—”

“—Sorey.” And the single, familiar, chiding call of his namemeans so much more than any other word could. “I never stopped.”

A shuddering, shaky breath. A wet, incredulous laugh.

Sorey brings his forehead to meet Mikleo’s own, the risensun warm on their faces and their backs. And ironically, it’s him who feels released. It’s Sorey whofeels finally free of guilt and worry and shame.

“Not even in five hundred years?” he asks, breathless withthe impossibility of it.

But Mikleo always could do the impossible. And he alwaysdid.

“Not even in a million,” Mikleo promises.

The kiss they share tastes of home.

#zestiria #sormik #sorey #mikleo #tales of zestiria #seraph!sorey #mod krissey #krissey writes a thing #Anonymous

[catholicwatertown]

Pope Francis addresses the Conference of Latin American Bishops

(Vatican Radio)  Pope Francis appreciated the efforts of the Conference of Latin American Bishops (CELAM) of making their conference a home at the service of communion and the mission of the Church in Latin America.

The Pope’s words came on Thursday, when he met the Executive Committee of CELAM in the Apostolic Nunciature after his meeting with the Bishops of Bogota.

He recalled his last meeting with them four years ago, in Rio de Janeiro and the mention he made then of the  pastoral legacy of Aparecida which he said is  a treasure yet to be fully exploited.

The renewed awareness born of an encounter with the living Christ he said, requires that his disciples foster their relationship with him; otherwise, the face of the Lord is obscured, the mission is weakened, pastoral conversion falters.

He called them to carry out their mission by one to one contact and to make a Church able to be a sacrament of unity and hope.

He entrusted his brother bishops of CELAM, the local Churches that they represent, and all the people of Latin America and the Caribbean, to the protection of Our Lady under the titles of Guadalupe and Aparecida.

Please find below the full text of the official English translation of the Pope's prepared speech: 

Meeting with the Executive Committee of CELAM

Bogotá

Thursday, 7 September 2017

Dear Brothers,

          I thank you for our meeting and for the warm words of welcome by the President of the Latin American Episcopal Council.  Were it not for the demands of my schedule, I would have liked to visit you at the CELAM offices.  I thank you for your thoughtfulness in meeting me here.

          I appreciate your efforts to make this continental Episcopal Conference a home at the service of communion and the mission of the Church in Latin America, as well as a centre for fostering a sense of discipleship and missionary spirit.  Over these decades of service to communion, CELAM has also become a vital point of reference for the development of a deeper understanding of Latin American Catholicism.  I take this occasion to encourage your recent efforts to express this collegial concern through the Solidarity Fund of the Latin American Church.

          Four years ago, in Rio de Janeiro, I spoke to you about the pastoral legacy of Aparecida, the last synodal event of the Church in Latin America and the Caribbean.  I stressed the continuing need to learn from its method, marked in essence by the participation of the local Churches and attuned to God’s pilgrim people as they seek his humble face revealed in the Virgin fished from the waters.  That method is also reflected in the continental mission, which is not meant to be a collection of programmes that fill agendas and waste precious energies.  Instead, it is meant to place the mission of Jesus at the heart of the Church, making it the criterion for measuring the effectiveness of her structures, the results of her labours, the fruitfulness of her ministers and the joy they awaken.  For without joy, we attract no one.

          I went on to mention the ever-present temptations of making the Gospel an ideology, ecclesial functionalism and clericalism.  At stake is the salvation that Christ brings us, which has to touch the hearts of men and women by its power and appealing to their freedom, inviting them to a permanent exodus from themselves and their self-absorption, towards fellowship with God and with our brothers and sisters.

          When God speaks to us in Jesus, he does not nod vaguely to us as if we were strangers, or deliver an impersonal summons like a solicitor, or lay down rules to be followed like certain functionaries of the sacred.  God speaks with the unmistakable voice of the Father to his children; he respects the mystery of man because he formed us with his own hands and gave us a meaningful purpose.  Our great challenge as a Church is to speak to men and women about this closeness of God, who considers us his sons and daughters, even when we reject his fatherhood.  For him, we are always children to be encountered anew.

          The Gospel, then, cannot be reduced to a programme at the service of a trendy gnosticism, a project of social improvement or the Church conceived as a comfortable bureaucracy, any more than she can be reduced to an organization run according to modern business models by a clerical caste.

          The Church is the community of Jesus’ disciples.  The Church is a Mystery (cf. Lumen Gentium, 5) and a People (cf. ibid., 9).  Better yet, in the Church the Mystery becomes present through God’s People.

          Hence my insistence that missionary discipleship is a call from God for today’s busy and complicated world, a constant setting out with Jesus, in order to know how and where the Master lives.  When we set out with him, we come to know the will of the Father who is always waiting for us.  Only a Church which is Bride, Mother and Servant, one that has renounced the claim to control what is not her own work but God’s, can remain with Jesus, even when the only place he can lay his head is the cross.

          Closeness and encounter are the means used by God, who in Christ always draws near to meet us.  The mystery of the Church is to be the sacrament of this divine intimacy and the perennial place of this encounter.  Hence, the need for the bishop to be close to God, for in God he finds the source of his freedom, his steadfastness as a pastor and his closeness to the holy people entrusted to his care.  In this closeness, the soul of the apostle learns how to make tangible God's passion for his children.

          Aparecida is a treasure yet to be fully exploited.  I am certain that each of you has seen how its richness has taken root in the Churches you hold in your hearts.  Like the first disciples sent forth by Jesus on mission, we too can recount with enthusiasm all that we have accomplished (cf. Mk 6:30).

          Nonetheless, we have to be attentive.  The essential things in life and in the Church are never written in stone, but remain a living legacy.  It is all too easy to turn them into memories and anniversaries to be celebrated: fifty years since Medellín, twenty since Ecclesia in America, ten since Aparecida!  Something more is required: by cherishing the richness of this patrimony (pater/munus) and allowing it to flourish, we exercise the munus of our episcopal paternity towards the Church in our continent.

          As you well know, the renewed awareness born of an encounter with the living Christ requires that his disciples foster their relationship with him; otherwise, the face of the Lord is obscured, the mission is weakened, pastoral conversion falters.  To pray and to foster our relationship with him: these are the most essential and urgent activities to be carried out in our pastoral mission.

          When the disciples returned excited by the mission they had carried out, Jesus said to them: “Come away by yourselves to a lonely place” (Mk 6:31).  How greatly we need to be alone with the Lord in order to encounter anew the heart of the Church’s mission in Latin America at the present time.  How greatly we need to be recollected, within and without!  Our crowded schedules, the fragmentation of reality, the rapid pace of our lives: all these things might make us lose our focus and end up in a vacuum.  Recovering unity is imperative.

          Where do we find unity?  Always in Jesus.  What makes the mission last is not the generosity and enthusiasm that burn in the heart of the missionary, even though these are always necessary.  It is rather the companionship of Jesus in his Spirit.  If we do not we set out with him on our mission, we quickly become lost and risk confusing our vain needs with his cause.  If our reason for setting out is not Jesus, it becomes easy to grow discouraged by the fatigue of the journey, or the resistance we meet, by constantly changing scenarios or by the weariness brought on by subtle but persistent ploys of the enemy.

          It is not part of the mission to yield to discouragement, once our initial enthusiasm has faded and the time comes when touching the flesh of Christ becomes very hard.  In situations like this, Jesus does not feed our fears.  We know very well that to him alone can we go, for he alone has the words of eternal life (cf. Jn 6:68).  So we need to understand and appreciate more deeply the fact that he has chosen us.

          Concretely, what does it mean to set out on mission with Jesus today, here in Latin America?  The word “concretely” is not a mere figure of speech: it goes to the very heart of the matter.  The Gospel is always concrete, and never an exercise in fruitless speculation.  We are well aware of the recurring temptation to get lost in the cavils of the doctors of the law, to wonder how far we can go without losing control over our own bailiwick or our petty portion of power.

          We often hear it said that the Church is in a permanent state of mission.  Setting out with Jesus is the condition for this.  The Gospel speaks of Jesus who, proceeding from the Father, journeys with his disciples through the fields and the towns of Galilee.  His journeying is not meaningless.  As Jesus walks, he encounters people.  When he meets people, he draws near to them.  When he draws near to them, he talks to them.  When he talks to them, he touches them with his power.  When he touches them, he brings them healing and salvation.  His aim in constantly setting out is to lead the people he meets to the Father.  We must never stop reflecting on this.  The Church has to re-appropriate the verbs that the Word of God conjugates as he carries out his divine mission.  To go forth to meet without keeping a safe distance; to take rest without being idle; to touch others without fear.  It is a matter of working by day in the fields, where God’s people, entrusted to your care, live their lives.  We cannot let ourselves be paralyzed by our air-conditioned offices, our statistics and our strategies.  We have to speak to men and women in their concrete situations; we cannot avert our gaze from them.  The mission is carried out by one to one contact.

A Church able to be a sacrament of unity

          What lack of focus we see all around us!  I am referring not only to the squandering of our continent’s rich diversity, but also to a constant process of disintegration.  We need to be attentive lest we let ourselves fall into these traps.  The Church is not present in Latin America with her suitcases in hand, ready, like so many others over time, to abandon it after having plundered it.  Such people look with a sense of superiority and scorn on its mestizo face; they want to colonize its soul with the same failed and recycled visions of man and life; they repeat the same old recipes that kill the patient while lining the pockets of the doctors.  They ignore the deepest concerns present in the heart of its people, the visions and the myths that give strength in spite of frequent disappointments and failures.  They manipulate politics and betray hopes, leaving behind scorched land and a terrain ready for more of the same, albeit under a new guise.  Powerful figures and utopian dreams have promised magic solutions, instant answers, immediate effects.  The Church, without human pretensions, respects the varied face of the continent, which she sees not as an impediment but rather a perennial source of wealth.  She must continue working quietly to serve the true good of the men and women of Latin America.  She must work tirelessly to build bridges, to tear down walls, to integrate diversity, to promote the culture of encounter and dialogue, to teach forgiveness and reconciliation, the sense of justice, the rejection of violence.  No lasting construction in Latin America can do without this unseen yet essential foundation.

          The Church appreciates like few others the deep-rooted shared wisdom that is the basis of every reality in Latin America.  She lives daily with that reserve of moral values on which the life of the continent rests.  I am sure that, even as I say this, you can put a name on this reality.  We must constantly be in dialogue with it. We cannot lose contact with this moral substratum, with this rich soil present in the heart of our people, wherein we see the subtle yet eloquent elements that make up its mestizo face – not merely indigenous, Hispanic, Portuguese or African, but mestizo: Latin American!

          Guadalupe and Aparecida are programmatic signs of the divine creativity that has bought this about and that underlies the popular piety of our people, which is part of its anthropological uniqueness and a gift by which God wants our people to come to know him.  The most luminous pages of our Church’s history were written precisely when she knew how to be nourished by this richness and to speak to this hidden heart.  For it guards, like a spark beneath a coat of ashes, the sense of God and of his transcendence, a recognition of the sacredness of life, respect for creation, bonds of human solidarity, the sheer joy of living, the ability to find happiness without conditions.

          To speak to this deepest soul, to speak to the most profound reality of Latin America, the Church must continually learn from Jesus.  The Gospel tells us that Jesus spoke only in parables (cf. Mk 4:34).  He used images that engaged those who heard his word and made them characters in his divine stories.  God’s holy and faithful people in Latin America understand no other way of speaking about him.  We are called to set out on mission not with cold and abstract concepts, but with images that keep multiplying and unfolding their power in human hearts, making them grain sown on good ground, yeast that makes the bread rise from the dough, and seed with the power to become a fruitful tree.

A Church able to be a sacrament of hope

          Many people decry a certain deficit of hope in today’s Latin America.  We cannot take part in their “moaning”, because we possess a hope from on high.  We know all too well that the Latin American heart has been taught by hope. As a Brazilian songwriter has said, “hope dances on the tightrope with an umbrella” (João Bosco, O Bêbado e a Equilibrista).  Once you think hope is gone, it returns where you least expect it.  Our people have learned that no disappointment can crush it.  It follows Christ in his meekness, even under the scourge.  It knows how to rest and wait for the dawn, trusting in victory, because – deep down – it knows that it does not belong completely to this world.

          The Church in these lands is, without a doubt and in a special way, a sacrament of hope.  Still, there is a need to watch over how that hope takes concrete shape.  The loftier it is, the more it needs to be seen on the faces of those who possess it.  In asking you to keep watch over the expression of hope, I would now like to speak of some of its traits that are already visible in the Latin American Church.

In Latin America, hope has a young face

          We often speak of young people and we often hear statistics about ours being the continent of the future.  Some point to supposed shortcomings and a lack of motivation on the part of the young, while others eye their value as potential consumers.  Others would enlist them in trafficking and violence.  Pay no attention to these caricatures of young people.  Look them in the eye and seek in them the courage of hope.  It is not true that they want to return to the past.  Make real room for them in your local Churches, invest time and resources in training them.  Offer them incisive and practical educational programmes, and demand of them, as fathers demand of their children, that they use their gifts well.  Teach them the joy born of living life to the full, and not superficially.  Do not be content with the palaver and the proposals found in pastoral plans that never get put into practice.

          I purposely chose Panama, the isthmus of this continent, as the site of the 2019 World Youth Day, which will propose the example of the Virgin Mary, who speaks of herself as a servant and is completely open to all that is asked of her (cf. Lk 1:38).  I am certain that in all young people there is hidden an “isthmus”, that in the heart of every young person there is a small strip of land which can serve as a path leading them to a future that God alone knows and holds for them.  It is our task us to present the young with lofty ideals and to encourage them to stake their lives on God, in imitation of the openness shown by Our Lady.

In Latin America, hope has a woman’s face

          I need not dwell on the role of women on our continent and in our Church.  From their lips we learned the faith, and with their milk we took on the features of our mestizo soul and our immunity to despair.  I think of indigenous or black mothers, I think of mothers in our cities working three jobs, I think of elderly women who serve as catechists, and I think of consecrated woman and those who quietly go about doing so much good.  Without women, the Church of this continent would lose its power to be continually reborn.  It is women who keep patiently kindling the flame of faith.  We have a grave obligation to understand, respect, appreciate and promote the ecclesial and social impact of all that they do.  They accompanied Jesus on his mission; they did not abandon him at the foot of the cross; they alone awaited for the night of death to give back the Lord of life; they flooded the world with his risen presence.  If we hope for a new and living chapter of faith in this continent, we will not get it without women.  Please, do not let them be reduced to servants of our ingrained clericalism.  For they are on the front lines of the Latin American Church, in their setting out with Jesus, in their persevering amid the sufferings of their people, in their clinging to the hope that conquers death, and in their joyful way of proclaiming to the world that Christ is alive and risen.

In Latin America, hope passes through the hearts, the minds and the arms of the laity

          I would like to repeat something I recently said to the Pontifical Commission for Latin America.  It is imperative to overcome the clericalism that treats the Christifideles laici as children and impoverishes the identity of ordained ministers.

          Though much effort has been invested and some steps have been taken, the great challenges of the continent are still on the table.  They still await the quiet, responsible, competent, visionary, articulated and conscious growth of a Christian laity.  Men and women believers, who are prepared to contribute to the spread of an authentic human development, the strengthening of political and social democracy, the overturning of structures of endemic poverty and the creation of an inclusive prosperity based on lasting reforms capable of preserving the common good.  So too, the overcoming of inequality and the preservation of stability, the shaping of models of sustainable economic development that respect nature and the genuine future of mankind, which unfettered consumerism cannot ensure, and the rejection of violence and the defence of peace.

          One more thing: in this sense, hope must always look at the world with the eyes of the poor and from the situation of the poor.  Hope is poor, like the grain of wheat that dies (cf. Jn 12:24), yet has the power to make God’s plans take root and spread.

          Wealth, and the sense of self-sufficiency it brings, frequently blind us to both the reality of the desert and the oases hidden therein.  It offers textbook answers and repeats platitudes; it babbles about its own empty ideas and concerns, without even coming close to reality.  I am certain that in this difficult and confused, yet provisional moment that we are experiencing, we will find the solutions to the complex problems we face in that Christian simplicity hidden to the powerful yet revealed to the lowly.  The simplicity of straightforward faith in the risen Lord, the warmth of communion with him, fraternity, generosity, and the concrete solidarity that likewise wells up from our friendship with him.

          I would like to sum up all of this in a phrase that I leave to you as a synthesis and reminder of this meeting.  If we want to serve  this Latin America of ours from CELAM, we have to do so with passion, a passion that nowadays is often lacking.  We need to put our heart into everything we do.  We need to have the passion of young lovers and of wise elders, a passion that turns ideas into viable utopias, a passion for the work of our hands, a passion that makes us constant pilgrims in our Churches.   May I say that we need to be like Saint Toribius of Mogrovejo, who was never really installed in his see: of the twenty-four years of his episcopacy, eighteen were passed visiting the towns of his diocese.  My brothers, please, I ask you for passion, the passion of evangelization.

          I commend you, my brother bishops of CELAM, the local Churches that you represent, and all the people of Latin America and the Caribbean, to the protection of Our Lady under the titles of Guadalupe and Aparecida.  I do so, in the serene certainty that God who spoke to this continent with the mestizo and black features of his Mother, will surely make his kindly light shine in the lives of all.

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