#bookmanjunior

Send ♫ for a battle theme between our muses. (accepting)

     it felt as if he had taken a dive and was now coming back to the surface, leaving dark waters behind him, with the only difference that he did not take air in all at once, nor did he open his eyes; or rather, when he tried he felt such a sting of pain in one of them that he closed them again immediately. Being unable to use the sight ( at least for the time being, he hoped ), he relied on his fingers to try to understand where he was. They brushed against fabric both under and on his body, cloth which surely did not belong to his clothes: a bed, maybe? But how had he ended up there? His last memories were of a hill, stars above him, voices and screams not too far from him. And then...

— 〆 for a childhood story 

“ In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit. My last confession was— uh, 6 months ago. ”

He sits stiffly, the wooden bench from the booth uncomfortably underneath him. He looks worn out, with dark circles under his eyes and sunken in cheeks. He is pale and his eyes have lost their glimmer. They’re the eyes of a dead man. The last time his mother made him confess was when he had stolen candy from one of the children on the street. She had been angry, with a frown on her face and her hands on her hips. When she had sent him to confess this morning, she had also frowned, but it was a worried one. Her hands had been tightly clasped together and she had been unable to keep her voice from shaking.

                 “ You may speak. ”

He exhales shakily, holding his hands feverishly in his lap much like his mother had done earlier. They resembled each other, he knew. He took after her and he took quite some pride in that.

“ I have been— seeing things. Hearing things. My reflection talks to me and I often reply, ” his tongue tumbles over the words, struggling to turn them into a sentence. It had been easy to confess when he had taken the candy. He could barely talk now. He feels sick to the bone, disgusted by the images in his head. He feels like he is going to throw up like he has so many times before the past few weeks.

                “ What does your reflection say? ”

“ I— It asks me to join it, sometimes. Sometimes it says I will die. It smiles, when it says that. It scares me, I keep thinking about it and I can’t sleep at night. ”

                “ And what do you reply? ”

“ I ask it what it wants from me. It says I will become holy, but not before I commit a sin. I asked it what I need to do, but it said the time isn’t right yet. It told me a tool will be sent my way, a present, but it didn’t want to tell me what the present was. I had a nightmare that night, though. I was standing in front of the mirror again and there were big caterpillars coming out of my ears and my mouth and bursting through my skin and I couldn’t breathe— ”

He chokes on the words, breath and heart rate increased significantly. He tries to calm down, but it’s hard. The memories and visions flash clear as day through his mind, blinding him, blocking any thought of reason.

                “ Have you seen those caterpillars before? ”

“ N-No, but I did see them after. In the corner of my eye. Sometimes it feels like—It feels like I can feel them inside of me… ”

                “ Are you seeing them right now? “

“ … No. ”

                “ Are you seeing or hearing anything else right now? ”

He gags, but the priest doesn’t know. His fragile, young body trembles as he looks down, to his hands. They reek of blood and they are not his. The fingers are pale and long and they are rotting. The flesh, burnt and slashed and damaged beyond repair, hangs on by a thread in places, showing stringy muscles and broken bone. His fingernails are black and long, curled with blood and earth and scraped off skin stuck underneath. The skin, whatever is left of it, is dark grey, unnaturally so, as if the skin belongs to a dead man buried deep beneath the earth. From the wounds on his hands crawl insects, maggots, centipedes, spiders, in and out, the mushy sound of their thousands of legs on soft flesh sickening him. He wants to scream till his vocal cords snap and crawl his eyes out to never see these horrors again and rip off his ears because the laughing, the laughing, the laughing just won’t stop——

❛🌸 @bookmanjunior ┉

Eyes the brilliant shade of amethyst are blown open wide at the sight before her—the blood, the one seated in the middle of it all. Her heart breaks, shatter, tatters when her eyes lay on his body and for a second, she fears he’s not breathing.

But when she sees that he is... 

“Lavi!” she screams, voice carrying and echoing down halls she wasn’t meant to walk in. She doesn’t care. He’s in front of her now; he needs her in this moment and she doesn’t care if protecting him kills her, Lenalee won’t let him slip through her fingers again. 

She’s at his side in an instant, Innocence pushing her forward to clear the gap set between them and he’s bloody, broken, bruised and a flash of fear screams at her that this damage goes deeper, that Lavi will never be the same, but none of that matters in that moment. Lenalee only wants him to be safe and away from this godforsaken lair the Noah have trapped him in. 

[Morality Meme]🌟:Do they consider themselves a good person?👑:Is your muse honorable?☯:What do they think of 'good' and 'evil'?

   -- 🌟 --  When Allen looks at himself, he sees his flaws, as anyone would, however he sees them in greater proportions. He obsesses over them and consistently pushes them deep, deep down into himself in hopes that by acting as if they aren’t there he can create himself anew. So no, he does not see himself as a worthy individual, however he does likes to believe in the idea that he may be a decent one.

   -- 👑 --  Honorable? Doubtfully in his own mind, but you have to admit Allen has this kind of effect on people, his impression lasts whether its good or bad. So maybe he is honorable, but Allen might never see himself in that way.