PILGRIM SOLDIER

           she would’ve reached 17 yesterday. a meaningless number now, but she knows it to be true. she thinks it’s counting years. is that young? she thinks. did i die young?

           something else is important, too, about this particular point in time, about the particular position of earth in relation to the sun. in fact, it’s more important than the number 17. this has no number. only an ache so deep that she’s washed over with the sensation of wanting to sit down and cry.

            did i cry before...?

           abruptly, the ocean stills and it takes the wind with it. the ocean shouldn’t be still. the ocean should be rolling and writhing with life and play.

     “What else would they have you destroy, little one?”   he asks, harsh-voiced from unshed tears, but with something there, too, that is not harsh.   “The worst violence has been done already, and it was not to that poor creature.”

  Not rough. Not angry. Not even disgusted. 

  As if the beast is still a child, and only a child, and has no power to hurt him itself.

  Of course, she could — how can he help but be aware of it? with every hair standing on end on his nape, with his hard-drumming heartbeat. But patient Odysseus matches the dog’s stare for a long moment, and he stays steady on his feet.

     “You were a friend to me not long ago. I’ve not forgotten it, nor can I even now. I cannot pay you back your kindness if you kill me.”

          THE HUMAN’S WORDS are static, but something about his expression keeps dog’s attention in a focused, almost curious manner. it blinks its many red eyes, only half obscured by that soiled rag, and steps over the child’s body. a low, hissing growl bubbles around the viscera still caught in its throat, and as if to soothe that itch, another jaw opens up just beneath that one, and emits a louder growl still.

           kindness.

           dog stops in its violent prowl, and instead rears its head back as though it’s just stuck its nose in something unwanted. something sears the inside of its ribcage, hot and white and pulsing, and at once dog begins to writhe and to whine and to howl. claws scrape at the floor, its head lashes back and forth -- it doesn’t remember. it hurts.

hlksjlskdj im just being showered in love what the h*ck -- never apologize!! it’s very gratifying to hear that someone’s taken in interest in my girl ;; 💙!!!

but to confirm, yes! nahia is able to do all of those things on a case by case basis, but it tends to skew more emotional than physical most of the time. but like i said, case by case basis! for example: there’s stuff i write with @questionsofmoraliity, where matthew murdock is a professional in getting his angry catholic ass beat, so a lot of the times nahia will give him a +10 to constitution or w/e to keep him on his feet. because god knows she’s been there before, broken and bleeding in the dirt. now she can pay it forward.

her official patronage is of fishermen, shepherds, teenage girls, pilgrims, victims of suicide, and “those that have no place.” it’s often shortened to that last bit: saint nahia of getaria, patron to those who have no place. and that’s a big ol’ catch-all for people who feel alone or that they don’t fit in their daily life, because that’s how nahia felt all her life before she died :( it’s also! a call-back to how joseph and mary went to every inn in bethlehem, but there was no place for them. so that’s where the emotional soothing comes in!

         CONTEMPLATION FURROWS nahia’s brow, and she is silent for a long interval, seemingly unaware of how that tends to throw off normal conversational pattern. she stares at the ocean below. follows each and every ripple as harahel’s words settle in her psyche.

          ‘ but...surely... ’ she chooses her words carefully -- harahel is kind to her, but he is still older than her. he still ranks above her station. taken the wrong way, her next words could be taken for blasphemy, or at least, the beginnings of a slippery slope. even so, she finds herself unable to stop. ‘ ...surely there is an in-between. a...a middle ground. the edge of the coin. it cannot...it cannot all be that simple, can it? is that what humans are? a middle ground? or is that purgatory? ’

           more questions churn within her like the waves of the ocean below, but she bites back her tongue, and ultimately tucks her chin into her chest. ‘ i’m sorry, harahel. i know you receive many questions. ’

        LOOKING AT THE other before her fills the young pilgrim with a nebulous, primal fear, like she’s stuck in the dark without a torch. unwittingly, she takes a step back, swallowing hard.

          ‘ i...i am not sad, i... ’ it’s hard to keep her voice steady when all the hairs on the back of her neck are standing on end. and as much as she wants to look away, she finds herself unable to tear her gaze away.  ‘ i merely do not...do not know you. ’ or what you are.

nahia doesn’t have the traditional ‘-el’ suffixed name angels tend to have because her dominion is so specialized -- she was created solely for protecting a) mary’s heavenly sanctuary and b) the basilica of the annunciation, and since her life is dedicated to protecting that one important human, god thought he should give this angel a human name to make her more approachable / blend in more with what mary is used to.

     Harahel readies an apology. So often was he called upon for answers to questions he simply could not answer. The burden of so much knowledge left him more or less unreliable, in truth. Still, he smiles kindly at the younger.

“Please, sister. You needn’t resort to such formalities in my presence.” never had he been too fond of them. He played into them just as she was in this very moment merely out of respect, but he always felt inclined to encourage casualness in his own presence. “I cannot promise any answers you make be seeking, but you are always free to ask anything of me.”

       DESPITE THE LINE of her shoulders remaining tense, her wings plume just that littlest bit in flustered gratitude. it’s hard being young -- every interaction with one above her station is a gamble that does not often work in her favor, and so when he offers sister in a voice that soothes, not sneers, the queen’s gatekeeper is further coaxed from her formalities.

        DOG LOOKS UP from its kill, its many red eyes burning through the ragged blindfold that wraps its skull, and keeps absolutely still. blood and viscous black dribble seep from between its teeth in long strands, making stomach-churning pattering sounds against this young boy’s cheek. there is no recognition animating any part of this beast’s body -- no tilted head, no pricked ears, no investigative tail wag. this thing isn’t alive. this thing just exists. and it hurts.

                                            D...ESTROY...