If there’s one precious thing I learned after all this years of worship, I would say that the Gods have a lot to say, but They are also silent. To me, the gods are like colossal, green and full of life mountains: always there, always watching. Sometimes we hear Them, Their silence but loud and thunderous voices, through the fresh and blissful winds. I do believe the Gods wants us to learn through our experience with Them, but we have to learn how to listen to Them.
I close my eyes. And I pray. I listen. I remain calm and quiet, just like Them. Then, I feel Their presence, Their warmth. They say a lot with silence. Always there, always watching.
I wish you would write a fic where it's basically pirates of the Caribbean with angels and demons because why not it seems right up your alley.
betwixt the devil and the deep sea
(His name was not always Jack Sparrow.)
He claws his way up from Hell blindly, not so much running toward as running from. (The cold slush of the third circle follows in his bones, a reminder.) He runs to the edge of Hell, where the ice gives way to the skin of the world, stretched thin as a drum. It breathes, in and out like a living thing.
When he steps onto the trembling skein it gives under him, and—
The feeling is alien and he is choking on it, lost in it, dizzy with the warmth all around him. He struggles to find which way is up and around and here. To understand where he ends and the-warmth-that-is-not-him begins. He has never died (he isn’t sure he can) but it might feel like this.
His sight clears slowly, and he is up to his neck in water, only water. He has never known water to be warm; its currents rock him, and he flails to keep his head above the waves. In every way he looks, the horizon circles him like arms. (When he breathes, the air is warm.)
The sun refracts on the water, scattering light into his eyes. All is quiet.
(He is so blinded, grateful, it takes him a while to notice the pain stealing under his skin with the tide.)
By the time he scrabbles to shore, his flesh is bubbling, peeling away blackened strips. Later, he learns it’s the salt—it makes the sea something close to holy water, a bulwark for the Divine Enemy’s precious apes. The ocean is a thing evil cannot touch.
He sits there and watches the tide come in and out, picking at his skin as it scabs over. His whole being aches, salt in his eyes and mouth; he is shivering and alone beneath a sky too wide to wrap his arms around, but it is not Hell. None of it is Hell.
His first attempt at laughter comes out grating and startled, waterlogged, choking. It sounds like the crash of the tide.