#✧ ˚ · . ✦ LETTERS IN A BOTTLE ADRIFT AT SEA. / ANSWERED.

[heartslight]

a letter from @feudals that reads ❛  how lucky am i to have something that makes saying goodbye so hard.  ❜

wasn’t there something so beautifully tragic about it all? champion of the heart / kept from fraying at the seams by the bonds that ribbon them all together! but wasn’t it those very same bonds that continuously pulled away at newmade stitches? but wasn’t it those very same bonds that continuously worked to repatch newmade tears? she laments their inevitable separation but sora knows ( hopes and prays and begs and ) that like with every relationship made, this thread would not so easily break! ❛ it’s not a goodbye! it’s ‘ see you soon. ‘ i’ll be back before you know it. ❜

hand reaches out to grab her own, quiet reassurance pressed into kagome’s palm as he offers a childlike grin. ❛ i’ll stay even longer next time i visit. and next time, we’ll do everything you want to do! so make sure you think of lots of activities, okay? ❜ and oh, wasn’t there something so beautifully tragic about it all?

[haevenlie]

tag dump !

☪      °    ADJUST.       ≺  OUT.  ≻ ☪      °    SOFTHEARTED IN A WARZONE.       ≺  IN CHR.  ≻ ☪      °    THE WANING MOON STILL EXISTS.        ≺  ANSWERED.  ≻ ☪      °    A PLACE TO BELONG  :  A MYTH ISN’T IT?       ≺  CHR STUDY.  ≻ ☪      °    LIKE THE MOON  /  YOU COME AND GO.       ≺  VIS.  ≻ ☪      °    SUN & MOON  :  WE BYPASS CONSTANTLY BUT YOU CAME FOR ME IN THE END.       ≺  BOND  :  CHIYUKI.  ≻ ☪      °    SEND A LETTER IN A BOTTLE ‘PON THE SEA.  THE MOON WILL PULL IT TOWARDS HER.       ≺  PROMPT.  ≻ ☪      °    SUN & MOON  :  WE BYPASS CONSTANTLY BUT YOU CAME FOR ME IN THE END.       ≺  BOND  :  CHIYUKI.  ≻ ☪      °    IN QUIETER TIMES.       ≺  COMMENTARY.  ≻ ☪      °    ADRIFT IN THE STARLESS SKY.       ≺  REBLOGS.  ≻

[theuniversitychallengereview]

UC 51.04 - Emmanuel, Cam vs St Andrews

Here’s your first starter for ten - what links Wenlock and Mandeville of London, Kingsley of Partick Thistle, and Manny and Ellie of Emmanuel College, Cambridge? 

Okay, that was a pretty easy one, but I don’t write the questions for the show, so cut me some slack. Anyway, that’s right, they are all mascots. 

Wenlock and Mandeville represented the London 2012 Olympics (they were apparently formed from the final girder of the Olympic stadium [presumably through some sort of arcane alchemy] and have a single eye which is meant to be a camera, implying that they are part of some sort of state surveillance authority, disturbingly). 

Kingsley is the game-day mascot of Scottish football team Partick Thistle, and looks like this, which is perhaps even scarier than the idea of the London mascots keeping tabs on you. 

Manny and Ellie, meanwhile. are a lion and duck respectively, and sit in the centre of the Emmanuel quartet for tonight’s University Challenge first round match. Emmanuel are making their first appearance on the show since the third of three consecutive quarter-finals in 2019. Manny and Ellie accompanied them on each of those campaigns, beginning with the Bobby Seagull-captained 2016-17 side. 

That year they also had a Klein bottle - called ‘Kleiny the Bottle’, which had been made for Bobby by one of his Year 8 students. Other teams have had a good mascot game at various times (St Andrews appear to have a lobster this year for example), but in terms of sheer consistency and brand recognition I think Emma are probably the most reliably solid UC team on this front.

St Andrews are one of the most reliable UC teams on another, less desirable front, as their current streak of seven appearances without making a quarter-final is only bettered by Nottingham with nine. Unlike Emmanuel, this is one reputation they will be hoping to shake off, starting tonight against Manny, Ellie and the rest of the Emma team. 

Its Ellie who gets proceedings underway with an incredible buzz on a question about whether or not duck quacks echo, but unfortunately these points are disqualified on account of her being a duck, and inanimate, and the fact that I made all of that up.

The actual first queston goes to Emmanuel’s Thatte, who takes far too long (though still quicker than the rest of the contestants) to recognise a Benedict Cumberbatc from a list of his roles, one of which was his character from Starter for Ten. They grab a pair of bonuses on Shakespeare to take a twenty point lead, before Thatte takes his second starter in a row to make it thirty.

McMenamin, who has the most Scottish name of anyone on the St Andrews team, but who is actually from London, guesses Physics for the next starter on the basis of the letter P in the initialisation APS, and is right. The Scots quartet are off the mark. Fennell takes the first picture starter on equatorial countries, but their weaker bonuswork leaves them fifteen points adrift.

I was about to tell Paxman off for his pronunciation of Iga Swiatek’s name, but it turns out he’s totally right, and it is I who is the fool. Still, Emmanuel don’t know that she’s from Poland either way. It doesn’t matter, because they are miles clear. Their lead is helped by a neg from St Andrews, which Wrathall picks up. The bonuses which arise from this are on Ru Paul’s Drag Race, which delights Emmanuel.

The music starter is far too easy, and Fennell gets St Andrews involved again by identifying Oliver! a few beats into ‘Consider Yourself’... They get a couple of the bonuses to close within forty five points, but Thatte stops any thoughts of a comeback. They get all three bonuses on modern piracy, including one on Captain Phillips, about which they have an amusing discussion, nearly going with Captain Tom, before that man Thatte remembers the correct answer.

Paman lets Alderson off for saying the Sea of Bothnia rather than the Gulf of Bothnia, and St Andrews continue their renaissance with the second picture starter, and after the bonuses they are somehow only five points behind! We have a match on our hands! Where did this come from?

McMenamin negs the very next starter, but Pullinger starts conferring when it is offered to Emmanuel, and they don’t get it either. Pullinger then comes up clutch with the best buzz of the match on the next starter, getting David Copperfield from the words [which eponymous Dickens character has to wear...].

A brilliant buzz from Wigg keeps St Andrews right in it, and a very quick hat-trick on the bonuses ties the game at 125! The next starter rambles on for a while but it is Wrathall who holds his nerve to buzz in correctly. They dawdle a bit on the bonuses, and Paxman hurries them along very sternly to stop the babbling. They don’t manage to get any of them and Fennell ties the game again by identifying George III as being on the throne at the start of Wuthering Heights. 

They scrape a solitary bonus, and start panicking on the last question, but the gong sounds, and confirms their victory.

Final Score: Emmanuel, Cam 135 - 140 St Andrews

What a finish from St Andrews! They looked nowhere with five minutes left, and even they don’t look like they quite believe it, as their faces of wonder throughout the credits can attest. For Emma and their mascots, 135 might be enough to come back as a high scoring loser, and if that is the case they won’t be too annoyed - Alex Guttenplan won the whole thing for Emma in 2010 by going through the play-off round...

[kkruml]

I don’t even know your name Chapter 17

@smoakingwaffles my yoda, love ye I do.

Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 2.5 | Chapter  3 | Chapter 4 | Chapter 5 | Chapter 6 | Chapter 7 | Chapter 8 | Chapter 9 | Chapter 10 | Chapter 11| Chapter 12 | Chapter 13 | Chapter 14 | Chapter 15 | Chapter 16

AO3

Previously

He heard the shower turn on and he smiled reflexively, looking down at his dusty and disheveled appearance, the exertion from her move still on his skin. One hand was already discarding his shirt as he stepped into the hallway towards the bathroom.

He stopped to take one final sweep of the flat, their flat- and eyed the pile of envelopes on the counter.

The corner of a thick manila envelope caught his attention- he saw the distinct mark of a hospital name printed. His smile faded and his brow creased as two fingers, slightly shaking, pushed the pile of envelopes enough to see the return address and he froze.

Massachusetts General Hospital- Surgical Residency Admissions Office

His eyes stared at the envelope as his pulse filled his ears; his world slowly faded to black as he stumbled backwards and hit the hardwood floor.

Jamie

It was her birthday; she deserved a perfect night.

She deserved to be happy. No matter where she was. He wanted- needed- answers. He feared what she would say. He was desperate to know. But he would have to wait.

One more night to cherish her before it all crumbled away.

One night to imagine every possible scenario that ended with her leaving.

Just make it through tonight.

Claire

I had never thought much of my birthday. My childhood had been spent on archaeological digs, scouring books in libraries for ancient secrets. The calendar hadn’t meant much to me until med school. And now, with Jamie, I eagerly checked my schedule against his, looking for precious hours to spend together.  

Having spent the better part of the day packing and unpacking my little corner of the world and settling it amongst his, I had been given the best gift of all.

Jamie.

And- that- I intended to celebrate.

We had ordered another round- two drams of Glen Grant and two pints of stout. Jamie’s arm stretched along the back of my chair as my arm rested softly at his side. The final syllables of Joe’s punch line prompted a snort from Gail as I hiccupped into my glass and I laughed, trying to find my breath.  I felt the low hum reverberate from Jamie’s chest and I leaned into the sound, one hand cupping his knee as I felt the line of his thigh press against mine.

Flashes of the life I had always wanted finally came into focus. Nights were not filled with formal dinners and expensively ostentatious bottles of wine, with etiquette and manners at the forefront and education and politics meticulously woven in. No. Instead, they were filled with pub food, cheap beer, good whisky, and my favorite stories made new again with Jamie by my side.

Joe launched into another memory from our neurology rotation and I felt a long sigh from Jamie. His eyes were focused on Joe, head nodding slightly as he listened but I caught the slight tick of movement in his cheek, as if he was wincing, though it did not fit the story he was hearing.

He had been quiet tonight; I had eyed him speculatively more than once, sensing fatigue. His breath came hard at times, as if a weight lay on his chest. His eyes were hooded and I scarcely saw the sea of deep blue, but felt the familiar heat emanate from his chest and I settled myself next to him, basking in the warm glow of bliss I hadn’t felt in a long time.

I felt the drum of Jamie’s fingers along the chair, against my shoulder. My eyes searched for his, but he stopped short of meeting my gaze. Instead, one corner of his mouth curled slightly as he pulled his arm from me to take a drink of whisky.

Jamie

Boston.

His ears heard the deep, velvety voice, but all he could focus on was the neat, even print on the envelope.

Boston.

That word, that thought, kept trickling back into his mind despite his best efforts. He fought every urge to ask, and each time their eyes met he felt his tongue fight the word as it tried to form. Instead his hand found hers and pulled it to his mouth, gently kissing her knuckles. He heard, almost felt her sigh as his lips lingered against her skin for a moment, soaking in her smell and touch, before resting them both on his thigh. His heart pulsed both in love and in pain at the light hum of her laugh while anticipating the next line in a well-worn and beloved story.

Boston.

He wanted to be near her, encompass her, pour himself into her and drink them both together. The sting of the word would shock his senses and it took all his energy not to retreat. He needed space, needed to be near her, needed to be alone and yet together all in one moment. His thoughts spun in an endless circle as Joe’s voice seeped in, feeling ivory skin locked between his fingers. He set back against the chair, cold and firm, exhaling hard as he nodded, hearing faint traces of the words floating around him.

The tension between his shoulder blades could have snapped with a light touch. They walked slowly up the steps to their flat. Their flat- the words sent a hot spike into his chest as his mind started swirling once again.

As he pushed the door closed behind them, he turned to see her staring at him, close- too close, not close enough. Her eyes found his, whisky eyes glowed in the dim light- embers burning into his soul.

“Jamie,” she whispered; her voice low and full.  She smiled as her eyes softened and her hand reached for his. “Take me to bed.”

He felt the hot spike penetrate his rib cage as her words hit him. His feet were locked in place, his hands burning to feel her skin against his. He wanted nothing more than to kiss, touch, caress every inch of her but felt his heart contract at the thought.

Her eyes flickered in doubt, her smile fading as her hand fell slightly. “Please?”

The word broke his spell. He stepped towards her and without a word his lips found hers as his fingers locked into her curls. His tongue traced hers as she moaned into his mouth, her hands reaching for his arms, fingers pressed into muscle. Without breaking their kiss, he slowly walked her back into the apartment, his hands moving to her waist, pulling her closer against him.

Her skin pulsed against his. Fingertips traced the lines of her curves as her breath filled his lungs. His tongue dipped from breast to rib cage and across her ivory skin. His lips grazed her collarbone and lingered against her neck, soaking in the faint traces of lavender on her and as it mixed with the honey on his breath. Small gasps escaped her lips as her back arched, their hips pressed against each other. Her fingers grasped for his curls and pulled his face to hers, deep blue drinking in her deep amber.

He entered her slowly, savoring each sensation, watching her lower lip quiver as he moved gently, purposefully. His eyes traced the lines of her face from her cheek to her chin, the curve of her lip as she brought her face to his. His eyes watched every movement, memorizing every sound that escaped her lips. Shadows of this moment would haunt him long after heat of her skin had left his fingertips. He pressed deeper, seeking for possession, both of her and his own. As the rhythm slowly brought them to pieces, she cried out his name- her voice written on his soul as he shattered around her. 

Claire

I felt weightless, adrift. My hand reached for him and found his pillow, empty. The deep contentment that coursed through me the night before dissipated as I yearned for his warmth, his steady heartbeat pulsing around me.

I found him sitting at the table; shoulders slouched slightly as he sipped his coffee, eyes fixated on the crack in the wood. My cup of tea was sitting next to him, as it was every morning.

I smiled as I walked over and placed a hand on his shoulder and as I kissed his cheek, I felt his muscles tense. “Good morning, Sassenach.”

“Good morning, sleep well?” I asked, trying to coax a smile but was met with hooded eyes.

He took a small sip and as he swallowed, I heard a low, “Mmph.”

“Jamie,” I asked, “Is something wrong?”

One hand rested on a thick envelope, fingers drumming lightly as he slowly slid it to me. His eyes finally met mine and burned my skin.

 Massachusetts General Hospital- Surgical Residency Admissions Office

 My eyes stared at the emblem, and my heart stopped. One hand trembled as I broke the seal and slowly pulled the top sheet out enough to see the first few words. I blinked twice before trying to focus on each letter.

 Miss Beauchamp, We are pleased to announce the opening of a position in the Surgical Residency Program.

 A thousand fragmented thoughts flashed across my vision as I stared at the words, unable to move or speak.

“… Boston, then?” His voice was low, almost a whisper, but it was thick with anticipation.

My face lifted from the blue and white emblem on the envelope to see his eyes- a dark storm behind a carefully crafted dam- staring back at me, waiting. “Jamie…”

My heart was pounding against my ribcage and my lungs struggled for air as I tried to piece it all together.

Boston. Scotland. Jamie. Home.

“Jamie,” I tried again, my voice was hoarse and shook slightly. “I applied for this program but that was over a year ago, that was before…”

“Before me.” His eyes dropped back to the table, he pressed his hands together and rubbed one palm with his thumb.

“Before a lot of things.” I tried to clarify, but his eyes were a thousand miles and two hundred years away.

“If ye hadna met me, would ye go?”  

“It’s more complicated than that.” My hand reached for his and tried to interlock our fingers. His hand did not resist but his fingers lay motionless. The movement that had all been but a reflex was suddenly a distant memory. I tried to clear my throat, to find focus, “I was weight-listed there, a position opened up so I’m next in line… if I want it.”

“Claire,” he paused, and raised his face to mine, eyes wide and unassuming. “Do ye want to go?”

“To this program?” I clarified, trying to find a few precious moments to sort out my thoughts.

“Aye.”

“It’s an incredible program. Anyone would lucky to be there.” My voice shook slightly as I tried to steady it.

“Yer no’ answerin’ my question.” His accent was growing thicker as I felt a distance form between us.

“Do you want me to go?” I felt my chin quiver as tears threatened.

“No-“ The word sounded broken as he took a deep breath, and shook his head slightly. “No I dinna want ye to go,” his eyes were a tumultuous storm as his voice shook. “But ye need to do this. Ye need to go to Boston.”

“But Jamie-“ the panic was seeping into my voice as I stared at him, his face as flushed as mine felt. “Things are d-different now.”

“I wilna be the reason ye miss out on this,” he pushed his chair away from the table, eyes focused as he took a deep breath before turning to leave the room. The sound of his feet on the hardwood floor pulsed in my chest to the beat of my heart.  

“Please,” my voice cracked as I my head fell into my hands, fingers shifting into my curls as I felt the tears form. “Please don’t do this.”

He paused, turning back to see me. I heard two deep breaths before I felt slow, careful footsteps behind me and I felt large hands encompass me. His arms locked around me as his chest rested against my back.

“Mo nighean donn,” his face nestled into my curls, his lips finding my cheek as he sighed heavily.

My hands grasped his arms, strong and warm as I tried to steady my breathing. “Jamie-” but the words wouldn’t come. I closed my eyes, feeling the nearness of him and letting him fill my senses.

“I dinna want ye to leave, but I canna bear to be the reason ye stay.” His arms tightened around me as I felt a warm droplet meet my cheek, and I felt a small cough from Jamie’s chest.

The tension in the air was snapped by the deafening sound of my phone ringing. I stared at the screen, unmoving, still clenching Jamie’s arms, unwilling to let him move. My eyes locked onto the name calling and I felt my heart beat loudly in my chest. One hand slowly reached for the phone, shaking slightly.

On the fourth ring, I finally hit answer.

I tried to compose my voice, failing miserably, "Gail?”

“Claire-Claire! Please, you have to come to the hospital. It’s Joe…” My mind went blank as the phone slipped out of my hand and hit the table. Arms around me tightened as I felt a cold chill in my bones, his heat unable to penetrate my thoughts.

“Claire? What’s wrong?”

Flashes of images ran through my mind but all I could manage through a wisp of a voice was “Joe.”

[webcricket]

An Angel’s Elegy

Characters: CastielXReader ft. Sam and Dean Winchester

Word Count: 2420 (Act I)

A/N: Act I of a five-act series charting Castiel’s grief after losing the reader in childbirth. Despite her death, the reader remains an integral part of the story.

Summary: An anguishing journey about the intertwining of love and loss - adrift in a sea of grief and self-blame after losing his love, Castiel abandons hope. Leaving his newborn Nephilim daughter to the care of the Winchesters, he seeks absolution for your death at any cost. Will he ever find his way home?

Beta’d by: The Queen of Angst @willowing-love​ who has my everlasting gratitude for helping hone these words [and, I’m sure, a bottle or two of my tears stored on a shelf somewhere for her own personal amusement].

Miss an Act? Here’s the Masterlist:

webcricket.tumblr.com/post/181477590760/an-angels-elegy-masterlist

“Hope” is the thing with feathers - That perches in the soul - And sings the tune without the words - And never stops - at all -    Emily Dickinson

Act I

Father forgive me, Castiel prays, clutching the soulless husk of your body to his chest. Through the deafening cracks of his vessel’s fracturing heart, he becomes vaguely aware of the sputtering wet cries of your newborn daughter flooding the room – his daughter. What I’ve done, it’s unforgivable, he rebukes himself, throat bobbing in a thick swallow of guilt.

“She’s…she’s gone, Cas. Let her go,” Dean’s gruff voice echoes hollow in his ears, demanding the angel’s attention with increasing insistence. “Your daughter needs you. Cas-”

“No,” Cas growls. Through a haze of desperate tears, the angel recognizes and ignores the looming figure of Sam in his periphery trying to push a loosely swaddled pink-flushed wriggling infant into his unwilling embrace. “Y/N, please-,” pleading, he smooths his fingertips tenderly across your forehead to sweep aside the sweat-dampened hair gathered on your brow. Cradling your cheeks, he wills you to look at him, “-please.”

“Sammy.” Dean flattens a palm to his brother’s shoulder, barring his efforts.

Sam’s dazed regard shifts between Dean’s grief-stricken greens, the crying babe, and the unresponsive angel.

“Not now,” Dean mouths, reaching out to take the child in his arms. “Give him space.”

Sam’s lip quivers. “Yeah, yeah sure.” He bites the quavering flesh to immobilize it. Relieved of the delicate burden of care for the creature you charged him with delivering safely into the world, emotion brims to streak his cheeks. Allowing the magnitude of what happened to sink in and seep free, he weaves his useless hands through his hair and knots them behind his neck.

“Shh, sweetheart,” Dean coos, rocking and pacifying the girl as he and Sam move toward the door, “everything will be alright. I promise.” He says it to her as much as he says it aloud to convince himself, his brother, and his inconsolable friend.

The angel perceives no solace in the remark. It’s not the Nephilim born into this world, her very conception a testament to the power of his love for you, which anguishes him now. Rather, it’s the knowledge that by loving you purely with every atom of his celestial being and giving in to his weakness by succumbing to that forbidden temptation named love, he doomed you to this fate. He condemned you the instant his eyes first alit upon you, sky blue irises churning in wonder to encounter so beautiful a soul. He understood too late why love was not meant for angels.

Grace exhausted in attempt after failed attempt to revive you, he begins to shake you. Fraught fingers fumble to set your limbs in motion. The calloused pad of his thumb brushes over your pale lips, caressing the curve of your cooling cheek to hook your chin, tilting you to face him – as if these gentle actions might rouse you from a deep slumber. Staring into the glazed far off focus of your unblinking eyes, your dull gaze looking toward horizons where he cannot follow, he shivers to see the emptiness of expression where once shone a warmth and brilliance to rival the sun. You promised him everything would be okay. He wanted to believe you. He held on to your unyielding faith and bravery those too brief happy months of the pregnancy right up until your life ebbed and slipped like water through his fingers.

The murmuring of a grief-stricken guttural growl stirs in his lungs and erupts into a deafening cry aimed at the heavens. The sound of your angel’s heart breaking quakes the foundations of the bunker, fissuring the reinforced concrete walls and shattering windows as the shockwave assails upward to reverberate utter grief upon the pearly gates of Heaven itself.

Dean,

If you’re reading this, well...

We defied the odds so many times, but this time I knew where I was going. I knew the risk and I accepted my fate because she’s worth it. This is my ending, but it’s also a beginning. This life growing stronger inside of me day-by-day – she’s beautiful. I feel her goodness in my heart. Her light will save the world. There’s no darkness anymore; no shadow of doubt – I’m filled only with hope.

You’re a good man, Dean Winchester. You and Sam, you’re the best men I know. I’m fortunate to call you brothers. I know this is too much to ask of you both. I’m asking anyway because I must. There is no one else I trust with this task. No one who would understand. No one more capable of seeing this through than you two amazing idjits.

Dean, please take care of my girl and my angel. No matter what happens next, I know you will always listen to your heart and do what’s right by both of them. Protect her with your life. Love her as your own. Raise her to be as strong and sentimental as Sammy and as selfless and stubborn as you. Don’t let her forget I believe in her and love her with all my heart.

And my angel – Dean, Castiel will be so lost. He tries to keep a brave face, but when he thinks I’m not looking I see the fear and pain in his eyes. All the love in his heart, it’s not enough to save me and I know he blames himself. With me gone, he’ll be searching for answers. Answers you won’t be able to give him. Answers he may destroy himself and others in search of. Answers he will never find until he forgives himself.

He needs you, Dean. Try to be patient with him. Give him room to grieve. Time to understand and to remember. He’s angry with himself, and you know all too well that’s the worst kind of anger. Remind him that I love him, that I don’t regret a single minute. He’s my happiness, and this miracle we created with our love – I’ve never wanted anything else.

What he needs now is Hope. Dean, you and Sam – you hold on to that hope for him until he finds his way home.

Love Always, Y/N

The handwritten letter gripped between Dean’s fingertips flutters to the table, his attention drawn to the hasty footsteps clanging on the iron of the map room stairs. Rising from his seat in the library and crossing to the threshold overlooking the room, he sees Castiel wrenching the door handle at the top of the landing. “Where are you going?” he asks, cadence coarse as he sniffles back the fresh flow of tears prompted by the discovery of your note.

The angel pauses, allowing the door to swing shut. Chin falling to his chest, he doesn’t turn to look at his friend as he speaks. “Away, Dean,” he mutters, barely loud enough for Dean to discern. “There’s nothing in this place for me but her memory.”

“You think Sam and I aren’t thinking about her every single minute? That we aren’t hurting and missing her, too?”

“It’s different.”

“How?” Dean ascends the first several steps.

“She’s gone because of me. Because I dared to love her.”

“Cas, you have a beautiful little girl that needs you here. She needs her father.”

“I’m not fit to be anyone’s father.”

Dean’s muscles seize in an upwelling of resentment; his already red-rimmed eyes discoloring further in the crimson hue of rage as his blood pressure spikes. Cas struck a chord – the Winchester has had more than enough of making excuses for absentee fathers to last one lifetime and he will tolerate no more. He bounds up the remaining stairs by twos, growling and grabbing a fistful of beige trench coat to spin the angel around where he stands. “It’s been two days. Two days!” he roars, breath bellowing hot against the angel’s expressionless aspect. “I get it, I do. You’re grieving. But you haven’t even looked at her, Cas! She’s your daughter! You don’t get to walk away from this – from her. I won’t let you.”

Two days, or an eternity; it all feels the same to the angel. Entombed in that moment, he relives those fateful minutes in the staggering quality of detail only a celestial mind can conjure. For all his promises and power, again and again he’s helpless to stanch the ebb of life from your body. Each time he blinks he sees the bright flicker and fade of light in your eyes and the glimmer of a smile ghosting your mouth upon hearing your daughter’s healthy cries. Over and over he hears that final wilting wisp of breath flutter past your parted lips – his name on your tongue in an unfinished utterance.

He refused to let you go even when there was no longer anything corporal to hold. A numb sentinel beside your hunter’s funeral pyre, sky blackened by smoldering wood and bone, acrid air permeated the fabric of his clothes and crept in to begrime the very core of his celestial being until there was no escape for his senses. What remained of you charred and flew upward in flame – upward to a Heaven where he is not welcome to tread. His fiery devotion diminished to smoke and ashes beneath his fingertips.

“Are you hearing me?” Dean jerks roughly at the angel’s coat collar.

In response Cas slams his palm to Dean’s chest, hurling him against the wall with a sickening crunch.

Dean doubles over coughing, sputtering flecks of blood, the wind knocked out of his lungs, several ribs broken.

“Everything I touch turns to ash.” No longer apathetic, anger bristling, fury gleaming white hot in his piercing blues, Cas strides forward to grasp Dean’s shoulder, forcing him upright and stooping to search his strained face. His teeth and jaw grind, punctuating every gritty word. “Everything and everyone. Do you understand?”

Snatching at Cas’ arm for a handhold, gasping for every shallow stab of air punching through his ribcage, the hunter teeters and spits crimson in the struggle to stay on his feet. “Cas-”

The angel’s vice-grip clamps deeper until Dean yelps and his knees buckle. Lip snarling, Cas lets go with a shove, warning, “Do not try to stop me again.”

“Cas, don’t-” Dean manages to choke, reaching out to catch at the hem of Cas’ swaying coat.

Cas slips away from his grappling fingers. Forcefully heaving the door wide, the metal screams in protest, straining on the hinges.

“Cas!” Dean gasps again, crawling after him. He collapses against the door jamb as a violent spasm of coughing accosts him. He kneels there, too incapacitated to intervene as he watches Cas’ retreat.

“Try to be patient with him,” your words resound in Dean’s ears, so near and so real his gaze darts sideways searching for you in the empty air.

“Patient my ass,” Dean snorts and wipes the trickle of blood from his mouth.

“Dean? Are you in here?” Sam’s voice drifts upward.

Dragging himself to his feet and staggering to the railing, leaning on it for support, Dean glares down at his brother. “What?” he rasps.

Sam carries your daughter, awkwardly extended at arm’s length, scrutinizing the diaper and onesie he simultaneously succeeded in putting on backward. “Something doesn’t seem right here.” He peers up at the landing, brow knotting in concern at Dean’s battered condition.

“That’s for damn sure.” Dean presses a hand to his bruised ribcage and hobbles down the stairs.

“What the heck happened to you?”

“Cas left,” Dean grunts. “I tried to get between him and the door.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah.” Dean slumps into the nearest chair. “Hey, you can’t keep holding her like that, give her to me. Like this-” He lays her to his chest. “There we go, sweetheart. Uncle Dean’s got you. That’s better, eh?”

Already larger than a newborn should be, she bobs her head up from the flannel of his shirt to blink bright blue eyes at Dean and burble happily.

“She needs contact. Needs to know we’re here. That she’s loved,” Dean explains, rubbing a small circle into her back. “Ya gotta talk to her, Sam. Tell her everything’s okay.”

“Dean-”

“I know, Sammy. I know,” Dean stops Sam from saying what they’re both thinking – that there’s a chance Cas isn’t coming back, that everything is as far from okay as it gets. Coping skills set by default to maximum brood, he believes dwelling on the potential aloud is pointless. “When was the last time she ate?”

Sam runs a hand over his exhaustion-lined face and through his uncharacteristically unkempt hair. “I, uh, I thought you were making a formula run.”

“Right. Time for plan B.” Dean fishes the Impala’s keys from his pocket and tosses them at his brother. Crinkling his nose, he adds, “Better grab some more diapers while you’re at it.”

“Yeah, yeah, more diapers, check.” Sam yawns and aims his weary frame in the general direction of the garage mumbling to himself about whether fully human babies go through as many diapers in a single day as this child.

“And pie!” Dean shouts after him.

Without turning around, Sam weakly waves in acknowledgement.

A faint smile contours Dean’s lips. “Wait’ll you get your first taste of pie, princess. You’re gonna love the stuff.” Kissing the fuzzy crown of her head, his nose lingers, inhaling the perfume of her skin – soft and sweet and so reminiscent of you. “Your momma sure did. Maybe more than me, and that’s saying something. Couldn’t get enough blueberry pie with you growing in her belly. She’d sit right over there in that chair-” His regard flits to the seat occupied by a favorite fleece blanket of yours and his smile withers. He keeps talking through the scratch of sorrow thickening his throat, because if he can keep on talking maybe the bunker won’t feel quite so empty. Maybe with enough words he can cushion this innocent life he holds from the hurt. “Right there, swiveling and shoveling that gooey crumbly goodness straight from the tin by heaping forkfuls. She had Cas running all over Kansas night and day just to get more pie. And your daddy, he-” Dean’s lids squeeze shut with the effort required to will away the coarseness coloring his tone. Not completely stifling his bitterness over the angel’s desertion, he exhales a long sigh. “Well I guess he loves her more than anything else in this world, doesn’t he?”

She begins to fuss.

“Okay, okay. You’re right. Everything’s gonna be alright.” Readjusting his support, he soothingly bounces her despite the searing pain radiating through his ribs and the worry burdening his thoughts. “He just needs a little more time.”

Continue reading Act II:

 webcricket.tumblr.com/post/173228719397/an-angels-elegy

[blueanddeepblue]

The trail starts out wide. A road really. Big enough for both of us to walk side by side. —– The night before, Alexis and I camp at Deep Creek, packed in among families with their mountain bikes and barbecue grills and behemoth tents and their hammocks stacked three-high celebrating Labor Day. We haul out our packs and shift gear around on the picnic table in the dark: sleeping pads and bags, camp stove and pots, emergency first aid kits, camel baks, rope, binoculars. Noted chronicler of Appalachian customs, Horace Kephart, says that “to equip a pedestrian with shelter, bedding, utensils, food, and other necessities, in a pack so light and small that he can carry it without overstrain, is really a fine art.” As connoisseurs of fine art and as people unaccustomed to camping in bear country, Alexis and I sit there looking at the bear canister wondering how to fit a week’s food supply into its small, plastic body. Canister is a deceiving term; it’s more a barrel-shaped lunchbox, smaller than those igloo contraptions your dad took to work throughout your childhood. But by the evening’s end, after all the arrangements, our packs seem lighter and emptier than they should, maybe because we’re not hiking in the desert and we don’t have to carry our water supply. We sleep, hoping that we are pedestrians soundly equipped. After morning coffee, we drive up from Bryson City with fog and mist blanketing the Great Smoky Mountains and shrouding the beginning of the hike in mystery, like a gift waiting to be opened -Alexis and I giddy children. —– The trail starts out wide. A road along a stream. We walk side by side. There is a newness, an excitement. It’s been months since I’ve seen her. But there is also a simple familiarity. We descend a short ways before starting a gradual two day climb towards Clingman’s Dome, the highest point in Tennessee, followed by another three days alongside Forney Creek. Alongside us Noland Creek drops pleasantly over boulders covered with moss and lichen, a background noise that a Texas boy like myself equates more to a waterfall than a creek, as most of the creeks I knew growing up were seasonal at best. It’s late summer in the Smokies and Noland roars softly, like a highway in the distance. We reacquaint ourselves to the rhythm of conversation, to a cadence particular to those who share intimacy. We fall into step. We adjust our packs at the shoulders, on the hips, at the chest, and try to ease out the kinks in our knees, on the lower back, near the nape of the neck. Some conversations are like a collision of atoms. I think that’s what drew me to Alexis in the first place, the way conversation would bounce between topics and stories and big ideas, whirling and spinning closer and closer to answers or revelations, the way talking with her would make my skin feel alive. It’s like that again. And the trail is wide. A road really. We walk side by side and point out the fungi here, a red flower over there, the way the light hits the water through a gap in the trees, the way the rocks make the stream look like blown glass. We hurl atoms step by step. —– Horace Kephart has sad, deep eyes, like a bloodhound, and (at least in most of the pictures that remain of him) a thick mustache. He is thin and wiry, the embodiment of an outdoorsman at the turn of the 19th century, replete with the independent spirit that only a checkered bandana, a short brimmed mountain hat, and a wooden pipe can instill. I first ran into Kephart when reading John Graves’ Goodbye to a River, a wonderfully meandering account of a canoe trip down the Brazos and one of the finest pieces of nature writing that Texas can claim. Graves simply calls him “Ol Kep”. Kephart, a man of dual lives, is probably best remembered for his writings about camping and for advocacy efforts to create what is now known as Great Smoky Mountains National Park. Camping and Woodcraft (1906) is still considered by many as the encyclopedia on outdoor excursions; if you’ve ever wondered about how well certain woods burn, Ol Kep provides a hierarchy for the burn-ability of soft-woods and hard-woods in relation to dryness; if you’ve ever pondered the difference between types of tent canvas, he’ll let you know when to use duck, sea island, or egyptian cotton - he’ll also let you know their respective weights; if you’ve ever debated how to cook possum, he’s got an opinion on that too. Buried within arcane and detailed observations of outdoor living, Kephart also embeds gems of wisdom, truths about the human condition which are still relevant today. —– Along Noland Creek the sun breaks through the trees in rays and makes the leaves glow electric and yellow among the green. We lay out on the rocks in the middle of the stream like lizards soaking it up. We hammock in the afternoon and gather firewood for the evening. Later we eat ramen, and later still we fall asleep to the sound of water rounding out the edges of stone, softening the corners and turning millions of tiny, round rocks into even smaller grains of sand, carrying them to the oceans and blowing them into the deserts across the world. —– Prior to becoming an expert on wilderness places and peoples, Ol Kep was mostly a bookworm. After being the librarian at Cornell, Kephart moved to Italy to purchase and catalog books for a wealthy collector. Somewhere along the way he met and fell in love with a woman from New York and exchanged letters with her. Eventually he moved back to the states, married Laura Mack, had six children with her, became the head librarian at both Yale and in Saint Louis, made advances in classification and library organization, published articles in a myriad of magazines, and had a nervous breakdown. It was the nervous breakdown that led him to western North Carolina, “looking for a big primitive forest where [he] could build up strength anew and indulge [his] lifelong fondness for hunting, fishing and exploring new ground.” Sometimes escape comes at a price, though. He’d never see his wife or children again. But he would know the woods. And he’d know the bottom of a moonshine bottle, which may be what drove him to the woods anyways; it’s hard to predict which way the wind will blow a man, or what path he’ll walk down to find a bit of solace. —– Day two is the longest and hardest of our hike. After climbing to the lookout tower at Clingman’s dome to peer into a fog that covers the 360 view, we start the three and a half miles down to our campsite. The trail grows narrower and rockier as we descend, rock-scree rolling beneath our feet. Darkness falls fast, and clouds darken. We pull out our tarps as the rain falls, at first a gentle pattering, soon a thunderous downpour. We give up on dry shoes and yell out plans for setting up camp in the rain. At our campsite, plans become obsolete. Dinner is abandoned. We try to keep things dry as best as possible, then settle into our tent and wait till morning. We have fifteen hours to go. Grey in the tent slowly becomes black, like a world where color has been drained by an unseen hand turning down a dial, like a plug being pulled in a tub of murky water. —– When Alexis and I met, both of us were going through divorces. Conversation erupted. We talked about relationships and what happened with them when they fell apart. We talked about what it was like to see the person you married and feel like they were a stranger. About how suddenly you feel adrift in something that used to seem so good. She hopped on the back of my motorcycle and we’d go swim or get BBQ. There were things I could share that I couldn’t with anyone else, things that people who aren’t looking at the inside of a crumbling marriage can’t possibly understand and don’t usually want to talk about anyways. It’d be like trying to hang out with a bunch of Red Sox fans and strike up conversations about the Yankee’s bullpen - they’d have opinions and know a lot about baseball, but they’re primarily rooting for the other team. Nobody wants to see a marriage fail, so when it does, it’s hard to find people who want to hear you belabor the finer points of love’s dissolution. Not that my friends aren’t wonderful, they truly are. But I’d already been through several separations with Sarah, already had some of those conversations. But with Alexis, it was more than that. It was intimacy. Not a physical one, nor like the head-over-heels love of the movies. It was the discovery of a shared experience. It was finding someone who was walking through the same thing as you, and who could help you see that it would be okay. It wasn’t always pretty. She was there for long walks with me when the anxiety set in, when I felt my heart rising in my chest, trying to strangle me from within. I was there for her when she couldn’t find the strength to eat, when food seemed strange and alien. There were tears sometimes. There were questions that had no answers: How come you can love someone and then not love them? Is love even supposed to last forever? Who are we anyways and why are we here? Questions that I imagine are a far cry from most first dates, the usual lists of hobbies and favorite movies and where one went to school. But questions that helped me know it was alright. That helped me see the world was still a wonder waiting to be unfurled. That the world would always be a wonder, and that it mattered not if the questions had answers, but only that we asked them. It was also magic. We climbed a hill at my friend’s ranch, a 12 pack of Lone Star in tow, and watched the Persied rain down meteors. We danced in the honky-tonks because sleep wouldn’t come. We walked the streets and felt the lightning in our teeth, in our bones, and we looked for that same light in the hills and the the stars and the flowers and in the water as clear as glass. We jumped in and swam with reckless abandon because it felt good to be alive again. We woke again every day to the newness of it all. And soon, we found that the water was all around us, that wonder had encircled us like a secret cocoon, like a blanket on a winter’s day or a soft breeze in the heat of the afternoon. Link Wray says that living is better than dying, and food tastes better than gold. I still think he’s right. —– Most of Kephart’s life revolved around the corresponding rhythms of writing and booze, with the woods being his sanctuary for both. He worked tirelessly to push for the creation of a National Park in the Appalachians, writing about the people and places that make the region so uniquely fascinating. He became the foremost expert on how to live in those woods, and he championed the simple, yet profound ways that the locals had been living in that region long before he came along. Nestled among bits of information about how to hike or navigate or clean a fish, he fashioned philosophical gems to remind his readers that nowhere, absolutely nowhere, is a man as free as when he lives simply, with a few meager provisions and the willingness to go where the day beckons. Or that man can never truly be lost, as long as he doesn’t lay expectations to where he’ll end up, instead exploring with purpose the path ahead. Kephart lived out his days exploring the woods, finding out everything he could about the world around him. Cataloging because it’s what he did best. Organizing hierarchies and making lists and asking questions about the woods. A cut of the same cloth as Muir or Thoreau or Emerson, climbing trees in a thunderstorm to feel what a tree feels, trying to wrestle life itself out of the chaos of living. Kephart would eventually die in a car wreck on a moonshine run along with a fellow passenger. The driver lived, only to die on the same stretch of road ten years later. —– As Alexis and I walk along Noland Creek, along Forney Creek, in the same woods that Kephart loved, I wonder if the ruins beyond the creek are remnants of one of his makeshift cabins. If that giant elm near the campsite was brought down by a thunderstorm that made ol Kep shudder in his bones. I wonder how many times Kephart, too, marveled at the way the light hits the water and explodes into a thousand tiny suns. After the storm, the sun comes out again. Alexis and I stop in the places where the light lingers through the trees and let the warmth seep into our skin. We traverse several stream-crossings, the water running higher from last night’s rain. The water reaches our calves, our thighs, but we don’t topple. We find sticks that other travelers before us have used to ford the stream, and we reach for each other when the sticks don’t seem to be enough. We reach camp midday and make a clothesline with some paracord that was left at a previous campsite by an accidentally generous occupant. Our clothes and sleeping pads and bags and tents and pillows get strung up to dry. We do yoga and stretch out along the creek, dipping down into the cold water and coming up feeling alive and new, drying out like lizards on the rocks. The following day dawns the same but new: sun among the trees and a slow awakening. The trail ends much like it began, slow and wide. A road really. Big enough for both of us to walk side by side. There is a tunnel that leads back to the road where our car is parked. Inside the tunnel it is cool and dark, and the end of the tunnel frames the woods, making brilliant the greens and browns that we’ve been walking in for the past five days. It’s good to feel Alexis’s hand in mine again. It’s good to see a new road in front of me. It’s good to feel the change of seasons and feel the wind on my face. And it’s fitting that I have a Kephart quote running through my brain: “It is one of the blessings of wilderness life that it shows us how few things we need in order to be perfectly happy.” ------------------------------------------------------ *I’m no historian; this is a rough sketch of Kephart’s life at best. For more info, go here: https://www.wcu.edu/library/digitalcollections/kephart/aboutproject.htm

[noahelowyn]

You find a boy with a bottle held to his ear. When you ask him what he’s doing, he tells you he’s listening to a story. This is that story.

The story I’m about to tell you may seem far too ludicrous to you, a sliver of madness spun into words. That much is fair, but I assure you such is not the case. This story is as true as the hooting of the owl, as pure as the flight of a moth. This I know, for it was a lonesome boy who told it to me, and he had heard it in the bottom of an empty bottle, and there, in such an echoing nook, lies have no place.⁣

Perhaps I should begin with Uil and her unique and ever-beautiful moths, or perhaps I should do so with Eol, the man with ashen hair whose breaths compose the winds. But none of that would be wise, the beauty of their whimsicality, of their stories, would be lost in the harbor of reality. And so we shall sail in a journey together to realms beyond, where the sun is not a thing, and the moonlight shines a dim, beautiful green; where seven islands the size of villages lay adrift in a sea of flowers, far too far apart from one another; where the foliage of the trees bear the life of spring and the colors of fall; where Uil and Eol and five others whose stories are still to be found dwell, in solitude, somewhere in the heart of each island.⁣

The name of that place is yet to be known, and I pray it remains forever that way.⁣

The day was boring in nowhere, as most days were. Boredom is a boulder in the soul, and solitude is said to be the mother of boredom. Uil sat on the seashore where the sand is black and tender, her feet buried in the flowers that composed the quiet tides. Moths, large and small, colorful and dull, flew about her. Some played in her auburn curls, others alighted on her horns. She drew a deep, exasperated breath, and let herself fall on the sand.⁣

“I think I love you,” a voice, like a hiss, whispered in the passing winds. “No. I’m certain of it. I love you.”⁣

Uil lay in silence for a moment. The moths flew above her, fluttering with questions. Then, it struck her. The boulder shattered. A smile bloomed on her lips. She stood up, closed her hands, and opened them. A thousand moths came out of her palms, all vibrant and fluffy and beautiful. She drew letters in the patterns of their wings and rearranged them in a sentence. Then, with a kiss, she sent them flying opposite to the breeze, so that they would find Eol, the father of all winds.⁣

“But you’ve never seen me,” her message read.⁣

The moths were slow, but that was the beauty of it all. They took days to reach Eol, but in those days the boredom faded and excitement and daydream settled in both of their hearts. ⁣

Uil was dancing in a grove of figs when she heard Eol’s reply, “I do not need to see you to know how beautiful you are. I see it in the colors of your moths, in the patterns of their wings, in the grace of their flight, in the beauty of your imagination. It all speaks of a beautiful mind and a gorgeous soul, and that’s all that matters.” There was a deep silence, the usual heavy quietude that came after the end of his whispers. But then a gale stole a bouquet of flowers from the sea, placed it on her arms, and brought another message along, “Do you love me?”⁣

Uil paced. Moths flitted in her heart. Her eyes drew to the seam of sea and sky. It was dark, green, and calming. She knew the answer. It had been a constant in her mind. But her mind was a safe place, one that couldn’t be breached. But perhaps, at last, it was time to unlock the gate guarding her thoughts. ⁣

She wrote the answer in her moths, but when she saw them lined up, something felt wrong. She drew a deep breath. Her eyes returned to the horizon and, before her thoughts could stop her, a thousand new moths bloomed out of her skin. Each one of them held a part of her clothes and fluttered as fast as they could, lifting her from the ground. A moment later, she was soaring the sky.⁣

“Against the wind!” she shouted, and her laughter made all things sparkle.⁣

It was on the fifth day that an island, small and with trees bent outward like an unfurled flower, adorned the horizon. The moths left her there, alone, with a thumping heart. She looked around. The winds were peculiarly quiet. They had been like that for the last three days. She went against them, and in the heart of the twisted forest, she found a man with curly hair and pearl-white eyes. He was waiting for her with a bouquet of flowers.⁣

“You came,” he said and smiled. “I was right.”⁣

“I did.” She stepped closer, the hooks of joy curving her lips. “Right in what way?”⁣

“You were as beautiful as I imagined.” He nodded and walked toward her. “Was it a pleasant journey?”⁣

She blushed. Two paces separated them. Then one. She grabbed the bouquet. “The most pleasant of them all.” Their eyes met. Silence settled. Her answer pressed against the locked gate. And then she let it free. “I love you too.” ⁣

⁣l’s smile widened. His eyes sparkled and his heart became a whirlwind of emotions. His hands slid around her waist. She placed the bouquet aside and closed her eyes. Their lips met.⁣

And for a moment the winds ceased blowing. ⁣

[heartslight]

a letter from @gonchayas that reads " i see you trying to be a martyr. "

the title is worn like a medal of honor.

when the worlds demand for your life to be continuously put on the line / when the metal in your hand begins to grow lighter with every denizen of darkness slaughtered / what else is a child meant to understand from it all? death has become as much a friend as anyone else, so much so that not even the concept can frighten the youth ( there are no stories told of heroes too afraid to act, after all! )

the title is worn like a medal of honor, wrapped around his neck.

there was a tone of disdain to their voice — had sora imagined it? the idea strikes an unpleasant cord within him WHAT WAS SO WRONG WITH THROWING YOUR LIFE AWAY IF IT WAS FOR THE SAKE OF YOUR BELIEFS OF YOUR RESPONSIBILITIES OF THE WORLD YOU LIVE IN but to react on such negativity would be the antithesis of what it meant to be a hero of the light! sora has come to terms with the fact that with wielding the keyblade came the reality that his life was to be forfeited at a moment’s notice / that if the worlds so demanded, he would be expected to bow his head and allow the blade easy access to the skin of his neck.

the title is worn like a noose / like the leash that leads the sacrificial lamb towards the altar of their slaughter. but sora was well aware of the destination and still he prances on because that was to be expected of him. still, he greets death like an old friend because that has quickly become a continuous companion ( he’ll soon know death better than he does riku or kairi. isn’t that such a tragic thought? )

konstantin places the title upon him and sora can only shrug and sora can only smile and sora can only laugh because what else is he expected to do? there’s blood on his hands and darkness in his heart and sora can only laugh and laugh and laugh AND THERE ISN’T ENOUGH LIFE IN HIM TO SACRIFICE TO FIX THE HURT HE’S CAUSED BUT SORA WILL LAUGH AND DIE AND DIE AND DIE IF THAT’S WHAT IT TAKES TO MAKE THINGS RIGHT. but that’s what’s to be expected, so that’s how it’ll be!

❛ well? ❜ the weight of the worlds rests upon his words and still, the boy can only smile and laugh. ❛ do you think i’m doing a good job? ❜

[heartslight]

a letter from @sunhalf that reads “ the truth is: i hated you. i wanted you out of the way. i wanted my life back. “ xion part TWO ( lost prompt. )

aaahh.. it really is such a relief to hear! something that has plagued the both of them / the unmendable rift caused by forces outside of their control — sora’s long wanted to line the pieces up, his and hers. xion had no reason to forgive the cruelties done to her under the masquerade of righteousness, nor would sora expect her to! their hurting will be mended when you return to end it; if they had been forced into sacrifice for the sake of his own life, then didn’t it stand that sora owed them their right for freedom? no more puppets on strings, no more better halves — the past wouldn’t be something that keeps him from moving forward anymore. now they sit in the world of light, all parts equal and true. 

melted ice cream drips down the side of his thumb and sora has to rush to lick it up, nearly dropping the popsicle in the process. ❛ i can’t really blame you! i think anyone would be furious, in that situation. ❜ memory flickers back into the world of sleeping dreams / into the moment when realization had settled upon the braveheart and the cold of dread took hold of his heart; xion had found her own heart, nestled in twilight skies and sea salt.. and it had been ripped away, all for his own sake. ❛ i never knew, not until roxas showed me during the mark of mastery. he shared his memories with me, and seeing all three of you together.. it hit me, how wrong the entire thing was. ❜ maybe it was easy to brush them aside / to pretend like their existences were a more necessary sacrifice because of their ties to the organization, because of their title as nobodies, because they weren’t the heroes of the story.. sora didn’t really understand it. maybe he never would.

❛ it took a lot of tears.. but i’m glad we’re both here, xion. i’m glad i got to finally meet you! ❜ that’s what it meant to be a hero, right? a happy ending achieved —— for the pain to finally be ended. ❛ i’m glad you were able to get back what i took from you. i'm glad you can sit here, and proudly proclaim how you feel! ❜

[heartslight]

a letter from @sunhalf that reads ' Strelitzia...impulsively kisses his cheek! Don't look at her too hard after, she's red all the way to her ears. '

it all happens in a ‘ blink - and - you - miss - it ‘ moment. honestly, was sora starting to lose his heroic edge? no.. maybe the fault could be thrown on yozora, for delivering the exact kind of puzzle book they knew sora would be easily susceptible to. regardless — because he had been so engrossed in the activity, he hadn’t even realized her incoming presence! strelitzia lands a perfect sneak attack and the poor hero is left blinking in realization, absolutely floundering about once the pieces fall into place. head whips around so fast, it’s a wonder a muscle wasn’t pulled ( there was an audible crack, though! from how long he’s been hunched over this specific word search! ) and sora doesn’t shy away from the way he’s gaping at her.

❛ that’s——! that’s not fair, strel! you caught me completely off guard! ❜ but there wasn’t a trace of authenticity to the accusatory tone he picks up, all the more evident by the smile sent her way. embarrassment still occupies some space in their relationship, but sora isn’t ignorant to how easy it’s become to settle by her side, in how simple it was to find respite between her fingers. even with his own flush spreading all over, sora still finds the courage to reach out to her / to grab hold of her face and bring her close / to press his own kiss, a perfect mirror of the one she gave him!

❛ there. that way, we’re even! ❜

[heartslight]

a letter from @pietys that reads ❛ if there ever comes a day when we can’t be together, keep me in your heart, i’ll stay there forever. ❜

the sentiment behind her words was easily understood by the hero of light, for who else was more experienced in the art of separation? it would be easy to sink along to the melancholic nature of it all / to wallow in acceptance that the day of inevitable departure grows ever closer... but that hardly sounded like any fun! so he offers runa a lopsided smile, followed by full body lean against her that was way too dramatic to be taken seriously! ❛ what are you, some sort of poet? the rhyming was a little too much. besides, that’s already a given! ❜ as if there could ever be a day where his friends would reside anywhere else? ❛ whether we're together or not, you’re always in my heart! now, c’mon! stop being so sappy and let’s go! ❜

[heartslight]

a letter from @solears that reads " can you memorize. "

he considers the question for a moment, truly sinking into the thought. could he memorize? there's no arguing the absolute splatter that's become of the memories within his head / an amalgamation of experiences and colors that have become too intertwined for anyone to ever really separate. sunsets and starry skies clash within the heart, the taste of sea salt turning acidic from centuries of grief. there was too much that could be said, a question too loaded for someone as fractured as sora — and lea probably knew that, too! ❛ sometimes, on a good day! ❜ best to offer a half - honest answer with a carefree shrug of the shoulders than a true dive into the heart! ❛ but even then, it's a pretty big maybe. ❜

[heartslight]

a letter from @burserks that reads " i’m free of all the lunacy. i never want it back. " ( not accepting )

well, after everything that’s happened, that’s good to hear! sometimes, the first step into the world of healing was to voice out your long - term goals! so sora finds himself nodding along to isa's words, even going as far as to raise a hand in an excitable cheer! ❛ that’s a good attitude to have! the past is in the past, you know? oh, but you should probably start whispering your mantra now — i don’t think the others are going to appreciate you speaking during the classic kingdom movie. ❜

[heartslight]

a letter from @undahlia that reads " we pay a price for all our choices made. " ( not accepting )

they weren't friends, not yet. lauriam as a whole was a being still too unknown to him, a stranger who looked just a little bit too much like someone else. it's an art form that sora hasn't perfected yet ( the skill to separate somebody from nobody ) but it becomes a little easier, the more he does it. not to mention, it helps to hear the former organization members voice out their laments with so much emotion dripping from the words. ❛ you don't have to tell me twice! ❜ they weren't friends, not yet — but chatting so casually always helps in bridging that divide! ❛ there's a consequence to everything, but the trick is to not hold on to regrets. if you make a bad mistake, you learn and grow! ❜ that's what it means to be human, right? ❛ if you worry about every little thing you do, you're gonna get really bad forehead wrinkles. ❜

[heartslight]

a letter from @terranorts that reads " you have no choice. " ( not accepting )

❛ is that what he told you? ❜ it's pointless, talking to the remains of an empty shell — whatever fragments of heart left within that chest have been left to rot, poisoned by the parasite that's taken control. but wasn't it a gift, the ability to find even the smallest speck of light flickering within the all - encompassing dark? wasn't it a hero's duty to never turn away a cry for help / to offer their saving grace whenever asked for? 

even now, sora's not all that ready to raise kingdom key — not without a proper attempt at conversation. words could hit harder than any metal, after all! ❛ is that what xehanort's making you believe? because you know it's not true. ❜ there's a momentary pause / a hesitation in calling out a name.. but whose? this wasn't terra, that much was clear. but this.. wasn't xehanort either, the way the rest of the ' true ' organization wasn't xehanort. sora thinks of the agony that came with being forced to bear a name not your own / thinks of replicas and sunsets and wonders if the person standing before him had ever wanted to be called a name that was nobody else's but theirs.

there's not enough blind belief to send the weapon off in a shower of light, but there's enough to shift into a relaxed stance — just a smidge. ❛ there's always a choice. no matter the outcome, you always have a choice in what you do... so, what are you going to do? ❜ no, that wasn't right. 

❛ what do you want to do? ❜

[heartslight]

a letter from @dearlybeloves​​ that reads  i tried to hate you.  i wanted so much to hate you. / axel     (   not accepting.   )

     sora can understand the sentiment. hate had been all he’d carried in his heart the moment he’d learned what axel had done — the secrets kept, the friends he’s stolen away. axel was a member of the organization, so it was his fault that sora wasn’t on the destiny islands now / that they were all worlds apart ( that’s not true, the light in his heart knows. that’s not true but things were easier to swallow when there was something to pin the blame on. ) even now, with the man disintegrating away in embers of darkness, sora knows this wasn’t a loss; this was another bad guy, getting what they deserved.

     so then, why did his heart weigh so heavy? tears prick at downcast eyes and sora couldn’t begin to make sense of the disarray he found his heart in — what had axel done, to deserve such a reaction? could one sacrificial act truly be enough to wipe away the monstrosities committed? axel mumbles how badly he wanted to hate sora, and sora can understand where the sentiment was coming from. for as much of a lie as the emotions were, there was no lie in the way they resonated with sora. ❛  i want to hate you, too. you stole my best friend away, you threw her into this danger — i should hate you.. but i can’t.  ❜ and oh, how did that confession upset him / left him mixed and muddled with a myriad of clashing emotions and sora didn’t even understand WHY he felt such an intense sadness at axel’s fading, WHY it was even bothering him so much, SORA DIDN’T UNDERSTAND ANY OF IT!

     ❛  looking at you, disappearing like this.. it feels like my heart is breaking. i’m so angry at the things you did, at what the organization did to my friends and i.. but i feel like i’m about to cry.  ❜ and the uncomfortable reality was that at the root of it all, there was nobody to blame for the onslaught of emotion but sora himself —— because who else could be responsible? this heart that beats / these overflowing feelings belonged to nobody but himself ( UNLESS, UNLESS, UNLESS? ) ❛  i don’t know why, but i don’t want you to disappear. i don’t know why, but i’m going to miss you. i’m going to miss you, axel. thank you.. for everything. ❜

     how much easier, things could’ve been —— if only he could’ve been hated.