'I know of someone who can heal him' Judeau says some days after they've rescued Griffith from the tower in Midland. 'I heard the Elf King can right all wrongs. I heard he can heal him.' 'So,' they all agree in their shared silence. 'Let's set sail. Let's take him there.' an au where the eclipse doesn't happen when it happens & they take griff to elfheim to heal him, for notelin

Ein knows Gaelio never feels like a sketch of a human being, not finalized, never completed. Sometimes he wonders if Gaelio also knows that Ein is just a sketch. - Late sixties, Paris.

He bites into the plum, not ripe enough, and wonders if all good memories will sting worse than the bad ones—You don't really know who you are and still you're unworthy, he's so much more, he's not you in any way. He never was.

Narcissistic, to gaze upon one's figure during penance, to feel pride in one's own sanctity. Narcissistic, too, to mortify the flesh without spiritual guidance by a superior.

Dio looks him down and up from his side of the bed then says "Yes, I can teach you to dance."

On Thursdays last period is Math. Time passes filled with stupid loud laughter and threats of murdering Mutsu, who's as usual putting the teacher in place, and Matako thinks again that she's really cool.

At night inside his tent to no one he would whisper asleep with a dry, tired tongue, "He wants me" and the glint of the sword in the dark, an all seeing eye, looked over him. "Yes, he wants this too," would whisper his tongue at once sweet and bitter from the wine and the honey, and he'd fall in a slumber where silver threads formed a path he could walk without faltering.

The feeling was different this time, like an open hand receiving white bread, or at least Pucci thought so; his breath was calm and he watched Dio's hands on the books with attention.

Pucci slid the wooden partition and through the lattice watched the darkened figure: Dio, his hands close together, kneeling in mimicry of repentance.

Dean Martin songs bring forth the golden light of a neapolitan day spent with Caesar. In the corner of the sunlight flooded room the needle dances on the record as it spins.

Caesar shrugs his shoulders, then rests the palms of his hands in the warm sand, watches it stick to his shirt, to Jojo's clothes, watches Jojo's hand burying themselves further in warm grains of a sand that looks toasted, sticking to the dark hairs on his arms.

When he's handed the piece of paper Joseph figures there's no one else who would announce himself in such an old-fashioned, outdated manner. Probably thinks it's cool, he guesses, some sort of trademark, and he smiles, despite himself, despite news of Holly's health, because at least some things never change.

Caesar teaches him Italian out of boredom, not being asked, and pretends not to enjoy enunciating every word as if Joseph couldn't really understand.

He'd thought—rationalised—then, after the funeral, when the neatly folded uniform was handed to him by a soldier whose name he knew but couldn't pronounce, what good would old, worn out clothes do to Kircheis' parents?