[ eyes closed, folding his hand against his chest, he smiles, small and gentle.
a protection charm, huh? ] Such a powerful thing. I'll do the best I can.
[ wouldn't that be nice?
part of being a cleric is being a believer - a bastion of faith, of understanding of the power of the gods, of prayer. he's led dozens of services, held the hands of grieving widows and sobbing children, heard the confessions of the lost. watched as desperate residents of solistia prayed, brand give me strength, draefendi, guide my bow - dohter, save him, please save him, i can't live without him, please save him, i need you to save him, please -
...but in his own experience, those words are empty. they are prayers for nothing. when people heal, they heal from so much more than the provenance. they are comforting, empty nothingness, that people cling to the idea that the gods will change their lives, will make things better.
mika's protection charm is likely nothing, but to her, it must mean something. to someone, it must mean something. in empty words comes faith, and in that faith comes comfort. comes guidance. comes the light.
in moments like these, with his brittle faith, he can understand why they do it. and briefly, in moments like these he finds himself at the bedside of roi mistral again.
he takes a deep breath. eyes closed. his voice is as clear as a bell, strong despite any pain: it commands silence in the audience, of the crowd. he will make the audience understand the gravity of this moment, the gravity of what they are asking. what they are taking.
he recites the prayer out loud. ]
Acknowledge, we humbly beseech you, a sheep of your own fold, a lamb of your own flock, a sinner of your own redeeming. O Sacred Flame, by whose mercy the faithful departed find rest, send thy light and offer absolution. Those who look upwards are radiant, and their faces shall never be ashamed.
[ he opens his eyes, now, and glances to the side at mika, and curls his hand. the warm, golden light forms into a shape - a blade, glowing warm and holy and true. it is not to smite the wicked. it is to send someone home.
temenos takes a deep breath. ]
May your whole spirit and soul and body be kept blameless, in the coming of a new dawn. He who calls you is faithful; he will surely do it. Through the gods, grant thy mercy.
[ the hand holding the blade comes up. the wound in his shoulder twinges. he ignores it. oh, holy light. ] Amen.
[ at this close of an angle, guided by his abilities and the loss of something deep, he turns the blade of light and pushes it, solid and true as a real sword, through her chest. the flesh gives.
his bad arm drops down enough to act like a cradle - in hopes he might catch her, when she falls. ]
no subject
a protection charm, huh? ] Such a powerful thing. I'll do the best I can.
[ wouldn't that be nice?
part of being a cleric is being a believer - a bastion of faith, of understanding of the power of the gods, of prayer. he's led dozens of services, held the hands of grieving widows and sobbing children, heard the confessions of the lost. watched as desperate residents of solistia prayed, brand give me strength, draefendi, guide my bow - dohter, save him, please save him, i can't live without him, please save him, i need you to save him, please -
...but in his own experience, those words are empty. they are prayers for nothing. when people heal, they heal from so much more than the provenance. they are comforting, empty nothingness, that people cling to the idea that the gods will change their lives, will make things better.
mika's protection charm is likely nothing, but to her, it must mean something. to someone, it must mean something. in empty words comes faith, and in that faith comes comfort. comes guidance. comes the light.
in moments like these, with his brittle faith, he can understand why they do it. and briefly, in moments like these he finds himself at the bedside of roi mistral again.
he takes a deep breath. eyes closed. his voice is as clear as a bell, strong despite any pain: it commands silence in the audience, of the crowd. he will make the audience understand the gravity of this moment, the gravity of what they are asking. what they are taking.
he recites the prayer out loud. ]
Acknowledge, we humbly beseech you, a sheep of your own fold, a lamb of your own flock, a sinner of your own redeeming. O Sacred Flame, by whose mercy the faithful departed find rest, send thy light and offer absolution. Those who look upwards are radiant, and their faces shall never be ashamed.
[ he opens his eyes, now, and glances to the side at mika, and curls his hand. the warm, golden light forms into a shape - a blade, glowing warm and holy and true. it is not to smite the wicked. it is to send someone home.
temenos takes a deep breath. ]
May your whole spirit and soul and body be kept blameless, in the coming of a new dawn. He who calls you is faithful; he will surely do it. Through the gods, grant thy mercy.
[ the hand holding the blade comes up. the wound in his shoulder twinges. he ignores it. oh, holy light. ] Amen.
[ at this close of an angle, guided by his abilities and the loss of something deep, he turns the blade of light and pushes it, solid and true as a real sword, through her chest. the flesh gives.
his bad arm drops down enough to act like a cradle - in hopes he might catch her, when she falls. ]