okay but here’s why I actually straight up started crying towards the end there.
when the Hells first arrived in Uthodern, the atmosphere was fear. the city was dark. temples were closing their doors. the center for knowledge, where so many people came for answers, did not have knowledge. did not have answers. people were scared. scared that they couldn’t find help, scared that they couldn’t reach out to loved ones, ask if they are okay.
and suddenly, within their very walls, within their homes, a horrible beast sprouted forth from the heart of the city. there was death, there was destruction. there was despair. because if their own home wasn’t safe, then nowhere was.
the darkness was winning.
then a woman with purple hair and odd markings spoke into the captain of the guard’s mind and told him that things were better. things were okay. and he believed her. because what else could he do but to cling to hope?
because that’s what the Hells brought with them, as this terrifying celestial beast that once brought death now steps out, wearing a peach bow, surrounded by the radiance and light that the city so sorely needed. he is guarded by such an odd group, but they all exude calm. there is a small gnome wearing a pink handknit sweater riding on its back.
they guide this noble, beautiful beast through an entire city, and the whole time they are showcasing to everyone that the darkness is not winning. not now. not while there is still hope kindling in our hearts. not while ancient beasts can once again see the stars.
the world may be ending, but it hasn’t ended yet.
not if Bells Hells can help it.
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i keep thinking about rick’s relationship with birdperson, because GOD is it complicated.
BP is the only person rick is fully comfortable being emotionally vulnerable with. he literally adopted a phrase in BP’s native language that would ensure that BP (and ONLY BP) could know just how deeply pained, miserable, and insufferable his existence is.
“i am in great pain.”
he is constantly sweet to BP, except for when he put his heart on his sleeve and got rejected.
rick has offered this man the world- he’s offered BP his very existence. his speech at blood ridge was essentially,
“be with me and i’ll be your willing servant- worshipping what you value.”
even if it came across to BP as insensitive.
here is this person, the ONLY person alive, that rick has ever cracked open his shell for. the only person he’s let watch him bleed- because something, for some illogical reason, makes him feel safe when he’s with him.
calmness. stillness. a comfortability he’s not scared of trusting.
he thought he’d lost him, too. watched BP be shot to death- right after he’d laid his trust out bare for him once again.
the relief that flooded over him at realizing that BP wasn’t dead must’ve been immeasurable.
but, oh god, the way his gut must have twisted in confusion when he couldn’t break through to him.
the way he resigned to his death being at the hand of his unrequited love. the way he looked up, willing to let the only person he’d felt safe with take his life. accepting that.
he saved him, put him back together, but every time he tried to bring him back, BP either wanted to claw him apart or run away from him.
he put his life on the line to go in and save BP from himself.
still, he let him choose to fly away. let him reject him again.
i think that rick considers BP the “great love” of his life- if only because he can’t let himself let go. if he does, if he stops and allows himself to move on, then... what were the last three decades of his life for?
i’ve given you my heart and, though it will be stuck in a perpetual standstill of longing, i’d rather you not give it back.
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There is a place that is believed to exist on the outer limits of his consciousness. In a midday dream, he can see splendid flora in the distance that has always been properly attended to. On that horizon of health stand, adequately watered, trees whose fruit’s flesh bears an unfamiliar taste of safety and satiety. If almost pious in execution, their roots run underneath gratifying grasses in non-judgmental soil. Blessed is the sunlight that tickles the brown skin of the dreamer—a man trapped in a reality where his vines cannot reach their apex. The most profane of skies curses away his blooming season without fail or equivocation.
Impossible Garden || eddiemustwrite
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