@unweaponāā asked: "Love feels so distant now, i-it doesn't seem possible." Cursed! A cursed boy! Curse after curse nothing seems to work out! Emil gripped his tattered clothes with long skeletal fingers. There were sounds of crying but no tears. "Nobody could love someone like me, how I look, how I am. But! I still want to protect them, the people I love. That can't be wrong can it?"
Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā ššššš”āš¬ š°šš«š¦ šš«šššš” šš šš”š š¦šØš®šš” šš„šØš§š š¬š¢šš šš”š š©šš«ššš«šÆš¢š š”š²š¦š§ šØš šš¢š«šāš¬ ššš¬š¢š«šš¬. šš®š ššš§ššš«š§šš¬š¬, šØš” ššš§ššš«š§šš¬š¬ š¢š¬ šš„š°šš²š¬ šš„š«šššš² šš§ šØš«šš”š¢š šš§š š š šš«ššš§ šš§š šš§ šššš§ šš§š š”šš„š„āš¬ š¬ššØš«šš”š¢š§š šš¦ššš«š¬. the skeletal-magicked boy is not unlike the terrified hollow-eyed burnish children back at the bunker camp: their laughter is secreted away within their shivering bodies, their innocence forcibly peeled from their soft flesh, their heartsā stripped of sunlit joy and starved out of hope. forlorn and haunted and forgotten. ripped out of their homes and hunted down for manifesting mutative powers that are much their birthright as the breath filling up their lungs and the blood flowing through their arteries. to anyone else, to the people in power, to the authorities who wield their polluted intentions as though they are waving around holy swords, the burnish children are necessary casualties, sheep to the slaughter, sacrificial and entirely dispensable. tempered fury simmers, settles, but it is crackling beneath the surface like logs in the hearth. butāāthis child, though achingly similar, stands apart.Ā
lio smoothly crouches down to eye-level, dry lips parting open around a response. and then, an impulse possesses him, slithers inside of him like shimmering smoke: he peels his gloves off each finger, slowly, carefully, so as not to startle or frighten. the cool air feels strange on his bare hand, so long confined within the snug embrace of the gleaming leather. he does not dwell too long on it; rather, lio presents his hand, palm up, fingers curled inward. the familiar song of heat engulfs him and it is like a homecoming, like a revelation, like delirium. a single flame flickers to life, its root the center of his ivory-pale palm. lioās ethereal bejeweled eyes peer at the machine who is a boy who is the fullness of a ripe moon. with his other gloved hand, lio reaches out tentatively and gently beckons the bony fingers to uncurl so that he could hold them within his grasp, soft as gossamer. he dare not offer vulnerability and sanctuary to anyone else, the longing to be known and loved be damned. but, here, it is a rhapsodic unmasking. a kind of sharing, the glabrous universe unraveling for them. Ā Ā
Ā āā Ā donāt cry, little one. Ā āā Ā his voice is coaxing, a low deep lull. Ā āā Ā your selfless kindness is as true as starlight and you arenāt lesser or any less deserving of love because of the way that you might be perceived by others. Ā āā Ā love unfetters as much as it binds. is is both treasonous and faithful. lio exhales and the bright benign fire dances, sways to the sound of a tuneless enchantment. Ā āā Ā the people you love are endlessly lucky to have your devoted protection and allegiance. there is nothing more precious than altruism. but donāt tear yourself apart in the process. youāre not cannon fodder. youāre not kindle or the ash. so, what iām trying to say is: it isnāt wrong but your life isnāt forfeit and you donāt make yourself worthy of love by surrendering it. either way, my assistance is yours should you ever need it. Ā āā Ā
ÉŖÉ“Źį“x į“į“ŹŹ Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā / Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā Ā į“Źį“”į“ŹsĀ į“į“į“į“į“į“ÉŖÉ“É¢ Ā
