the sparrow and the sky

// This fic is for the HQ!! Ghibli Zine! Thank you to the organizers for this wonderful zine!

Nausicaä AU, daisuga. Art by @i-like-to-look-at-your-back

Check out more works @hq-ghibli-zine !! Words: 3114



To A Far Away Land



”The flute?”


Tanaka assessed him as he tightened the buckles of his suit and slipped his leather gloves on.

”All set?”

”Yup,” Suga nodded. Tanaka was quiet and tugged at Suga’s sleeve smoothing out the wrinkles carefully, as if lost in thought. Suga inspected his features a moment, and then flashed a bright smile at him.

”It’s all fine! I’ll be back by dawn. Don’t worry.”

Tanaka hummed.

”The eastern wind is strong today.” The he grinned: ”So bring my glider back in one piece!”

”I’ll try,” Suga laughed, and punched his shoulder, laughing harder as Tanaka stumbled, holding his arm.

Then Suga took the glider and lifted it above his hands, running upwind and then jumped, and as the glider took under the winder and rose higher, Suga hoisted himself on it and started the engine with a press of his sole on the start pedal.

Tanaka watched him go until he was but a spot in the horizon.

Then, with a grim expression, he turned back for the village.


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Fragment 1

by Sappho (trans. Anne Carson)

Deathless Aphrodite of the spangled mind,
Child of Zeus, who twists lures, I beg you
Do not break with hard pains,
O lady, my heart

But come here if ever before
You caught my voice far off
And listening left you father’s
Golden house and came,

Yoking your car. And fine birds brought you,
Quick sparrows over the black earth
Whipping their wings down the sky
Through midair–

They arrived. But you, O blessed one,
Smiled in your deathless face
And asked what (now again) I have suffered and why
(Now again) I am calling out

And what I want to happen most of all
In my crazy heart. Whom should I persuade (now again)
To lead you back into her love? Who, O
Sappho, is wronging you?

For if she flees, soon she will pursue.
If she refuses gifts, rather will she give them.
If she does not love, soon she will love
Even unwilling.

Come to me now: loose me from hard
Care and all my heart longs
To accomplish, accomplish. You
Be my ally.


Whispers of precision and sacrifice
A King polishing his crown of razor wire
Jesters cry and the audience applauds
As he brings the reinforced steel home

Down the droplets run against the stubble
The red maze weaving past facial obstacles​
A few collect and grow beneath the chin
Plunging to the remnants of a lost palace

Echoed though time, the cry of a lost army
To kingdom come they witnessed a war lost
Forced to pillage the bread from children
They survive in sackcloth and worn sandals

How can the helpless guide the needy,
the brokenhearted fix a crumbled nation
When the titular hungers and thirsts himself
Drinking heartedly from his chalice of death

I am the least of any death row prisoner
Having brought ruination with speech alone
Having poisoned with the touching of lips
A cancer that cannot be removed wholly

Upon a bed of desecration, hang my chains
Tying down the strength of angelic wings
To keep the beautiful sparrows from flight
Just because I never got to taste the sky

Was I not born with the softness of a child?
Why then, have the calluses overwhelmed
Causing my touch to be one of disgust
Vindicating liars and diminishing my sight

With each step taken, earthquakes erupt
Making me question my right to walk
Perhaps I should give in to summers heat
And rest in the pool of my own degradation

A crown is only fit for blood royalty
In my finest of hours I am a pauper
Sitting in the ashes of my own demise
Scraping the mosquito bites with rocks

Haziness has overcome my every step
I struggle to keep on the winding path
Screaming “How will I ever find home!”
As the rusty crown digs into my palm

The Sorrow of Love

by W.B. Yeats

The quarrel of the sparrows in the eaves,
The full round moon and the star-laden sky,
And the loud song of the ever-singing leaves,
Had hid away earth’s old and weary cry.

And then you came with those red mournful lips,
And with you came the whole of the world’s tears,
And all the trouble of her laboring ships,
And all the trouble of her myriad years.

And now the sparrows warring in the eaves,
The curd-pale moon, the white stars in the sky,
And the loud chaunting of the unquiet leaves,
Are shaken with earth’s old and weary cry.

You Can Call Me Bruce (IV)

Pairing: Bruce Wayne x Reader

Warning: Age gap

Summary:Alfred’s twenty six year old niece comes to pay him a visit at Wayne Maynor. Taken by surprise, Bruce tries to warm up to her and make her feel at home, but things begin to go further than planned, and he begins to worry he’s gotten himself into a compromising situation.

Previous Parts:

A/N: When you say the fourth bit will be the last but then you add in more drama just for the crack of it and end up extending the story :))))

@whovianayesha, @30inlovewiththecoco1 @incendia8

@doubtinglord @lonewhitewolf488


He knows.

The words echo on and on and on in Bruce’s mind as he quickly shuts the door to his bedroom, hands jittery, and locks it. His heart is jaggedly beating in his chest. His head, nebulous and cloudy and feeling like it just might burst, tries to grapple for sense and calm.

But all that rings out in the elder man’s head are those two words.

He knows.

It’s over; his disguising it, his lying and pretense that its not there, that he feels nothing. Not anymore. A moment ago, standing in the door of Y/N’s bedroom, Bruce felt these feelings swell up once more and immediately tried to hide them. To suffocate them.

But once he met the gaze of his butler, standing in the hall with a venomous glare and telling Y/N to go back in, Bruce knew that his secret was out.

Alfred knows.

He feels panicky, on edge, but even more so disgusting and vile. More than he did before. Bruce never knew it was even possible, but here he is—on his bed, carding his hands through his hair and panting and panicking because now Alfred knows just how sick he is.



The clouds in the sky swim in heavy pools of grey, spread over the skyline of Gotham as it rumbles with thunder. They haven’t had rain for a solid week, and the heat of the past few days has everybody praying for it.

Bruce stands in his window, hands fisted in his pockets and watching the outside world through the clear glass. The leaves on the tress outside rustle in the breeze and birds take flight from the branches. He can see a sparrow, small and frail flit from its nest and fly off into the sky, and he only feels something tug at his heartstrings at the sight.

He’s been feeling that an awful lot of late. Tugging, wrenching—his heart has been an unstable mess, and his mind as well is a perfect match. Dissarayed. Confused.

Why is he confused?

He shouldn’t be. A concept so easy to grasp shouldn’t boggle a mind of a grown-man of his caliber; a concept that something—someone—so unattainable is off limits, forbidden. And yet he can’t help but feel baffled and irritated at the same time.


Beautiful, young, forbidden Y/N. The thought stirs in Bruce’s mind like venom and with a sigh he bows his head in shame. Y/N.

He’s been feeling things towards her for the past few days she’s been here, and it’s been driving him insane—she’s been driving him insane. Her and her perfectly soft hair, swaying and flowing down her shoulders in a rich shade of y/h/c; her eyes, glinting with joy and innocence of a child, and her smile.

God, her smile.

Bruce can’t get over how infectious it is. How outrageously pure it is and, how, ironically, he feels the exact opposite just thinking this. Dirty and impure are simply tags that can’t seem to describe the guilt weighing down on Bruce, because now it’s no longer his dirty little secret. It’s no longer a hush whisper in the corners of his mind, no longer mere thought.

Because now word is out, and Alfred knows.

Alfred knows , Bruce is sure, and more than anything he isn’t happy about it. He can tell just by his general attitude and his protectiveness, the way he’ll usher Y/N away when they’re having breakfast an Bruce walks into the room; the way she’s never home in the evenings when he gets back from work, out having dinner with her uncle, and he can’t help but feel sullen.

He didn’t want this. He didn’t a rivalry, strife between Alfred and him. God, Alfred has been and still is like a father to him. The last Bruce wants is for something to come between, and yet it’s too late. Alfred knows about how Bruce feels towards Y/N, and it angers him.


He freezes. That voice—he’d know it anywhere.

He wants to turn around and see, assure that it’s her, but his body refuses. He remains still, and her voice comes again.

“Can…”She begins reluctantly. “…can I come in?”

Bruce gulps. Sweat beading upon his forehead, he forces himself to nod. There is no need for tension, he reminds himself. Innocent until proven guilty, and what not…“Sure.”

“Thanks.” She pushes through the door and the elder-man finally allows himself to turn and meet her gaze, blood-drained from his face and hands still in his pockets. He watches Y/N smile a shy and apologetic smile, and his heart wrenches. If Alfred knows, then she must know too…..

“I finished my presentation.” She begins with her hands clasped together like a young-schoolgirl. “I stayed up till midnight last night and barely got any rest, but it’s finally done. All that’s left now is sending it in. To say I’m nervous would be an understatement.”

Bruce can’t help but chuckle. He knows that feeling too well.

“Don’t be.” He says. “With someone like me as your subject, you’re bound to win a B plus at least.”

Y/N laughs. “Don’t get cocky.”

“I can’t help it, sorry.” The mood is lighter, he observes, and Bruce is grateful for that. There’s no reason to harbor any discomfort or tension here—not now and not with Y/N, he realizes, and he can’t help but feel stupid for thinking so in the first place.

“You’re not going to work today? I could have sworn I saw your suitcase and coat out in living room.”

“I’ve got the week off. Finally.”

“Good for you.”

“Isn’t it? I can finally sit down and try and clear my head. Rest up.” Bruce sighs, turning back to the window. His shoulders sag and he shuts his eyes. “I feel bad telling this all to someone as young and optimistic as you, but work can really weigh you down. I’m exhausted—and not just physically. My brain’s practically mush at this point, too.”

Shrugging, Y/N moves closer to him, Bruce listening to the sound of her approaching footsteps. “Don’t. I don’t mind listening. Plus it’s always good to know what I’m in for once I’m done with school beforehand. You know—to mentally prepare and what not?”

A sardonic chuckle escapes him. “Trust me—your life is going to be far easier than mine. You don’t have to worry about a thing.” He says, before realizing a soft petite hand has been rested on his shoulder.


Bruce tries to calm the storm stirring in the pit of his belly, suppress the swirling in his chest, and shuts his eyes. Counts to ten. Y/N’s hand begins stroking; up and down, up and down, her touch tender and comforting as it moves along the expanse of his shoulder.

“Bruce…?” She says. With brief glance, he catches her eyes, shy and fixed on the floor as she continues her ministrations.

“What’s the matter?” Something then tugs at his heartstrings. That look on her face; sad, remorseful. He can’t the concern that swells in him, and he turns his body fully to Y/N. Her hands move back to her side, and she looks up, somewhat startled before her face relaxes.

Bruce’s eyes rake over her features. “Y/N…?” His voice is tentative and dripping with concern.

Silence creeps into the room. And then the young girl, with a sullen sigh, shuts her eyes.

“This is about me, isn’t it?” Her gaze levels with his.

And Bruce swears, at that very moment, the world stops spinning.

The warmth in his body begins to drain starting from his fingertips to his neck, creeping slowly but steadily, a haunting sensation. In his chest his heart is rapid. In his head, his mind has quit working. He can still hear the patter of the rain outside. He cans till see her. See Y/N. She’s standing ehre right before him and she knows.

She knows.


Bruce’s mind begins to melt away along with his composure, and he sharply turns away, tearing his gaze from the young girl.

“What did you say?” He tries not to let the panic leak into his voice.

Y/N is still standing there, still knowing. He can hear her swallow. “This…this whole shitstorm about you needing to rest up? Needing some time to yourself? It’s because of my stay here, isn’t it? It’s a bother to you.” She’s rambling, voice strenuous and weary and yet accusing at the same time and Bruce refuses to face her; because he’s standing with his gaze to the rain, his heart beating rapidly until he catches what she says, and it stops.

He stops. And then the world starts spinning again.

And then he’s laughing.

Chuckling. He can’t help it—the sounds bubble out from him gradually, spilling from his lips as he turns to Y/N.

“What’s so funny?” Y/N asks.

“Did you just actually use the word shit-storm?”Bruce can’t help but laugh; if he hadn’t thought that she was a kid before, he definitely did now.

His chuckles halt, but at the sight of Y/N’s face flushing and then the abashed ones that escape her, they start up again. They’re both laughing. Not coarse loud laughter or humble titters, but somewhere in the middle. Somewhere casual enough for the former tension to lift and for relief to flood Bruce.

“Shut up.” She nudges his shoulder and he catches her hand, holding it there until all of a sudden the laughs drain away, replaced by a comfortable silence.

Her hand on his chest.

On him.

Bruce’s expression, calm and confident, gives away none of his true feelings. Excitement. Limerance. There’s a warm glow in his chest and it’s as though a cage of wild butterflies has been released behind his rib-cage.

Y/N’s face then flushes, and he can tell she feels it too.

“Uhm…”She tries to get out. Her hand doesn’t leave his chest.

Bruce has to go over this a second time in his mind: her hand doesn’t leave his chest.

It stays there. Comfortable, still, like it’s part of him inbuilt into his anatomy. And Y/N herself, stuttering and abashed like a young school girl, is glued in place. Mouth faltering, she gives up any attempt of speech at the end and goes silent.

And with nebulous clouds swimming in his head, Bruce’s mind is racing—God, it’s racing and he’s been too big of a coward to do anything before…but maybe now is the right time.

Shit shit shit…

His hand guides her hand to his chest and its right above his jagged heartbeat, as his other hand moves slowly—ever so slowly—and snakes around her waist.

And he pulls her in.

And their faces are inches apart, and they both say nothing because definitely, this is something they both want but have been too coy to instigate. She’s much shorter than him, and Bruce bows his head just to look into her eyes, Y/N tipping hers back.

And they’re this close when the door bursts open.

And they both jerk away like two sinners caught in a church, both their hearts threatening tot tear through their chests. He turns his head to the door and….


Alfred in the door, placid and composed and looking like he did not just witness one of the most sinful acts about to take place.

“Y/N.” Is the only thing the grey-haired man manages, eyes flitting to those of his niece. Bruce follows them. Her lips are parted and she’s breathing rather heavily. Her eyes glint with a sinful desire that was once present in his very own, he observes, and her chest is rising and falling twice as fast as his.

It’s still raining outside. Alfred still stands in the door.

“I thought I’d find you here.” The old-man says casually before his eyes move to Bruce, and he bows subtly. “Master Wayne.”

Confused and paranoid, Bruce manages a simple. His ears are beet red as his his neck and his face, and he feels like he’s just been renched in steam. “Hey Alfred…”

“Uncle Fred….” Y/N cuts in, tone chipper and calm. That in itself takes Bruce by surprise. His heart is pounding even faster than before, but in different way now. He feels like a thief caught in the act, a Priest caught kissing a Bishop.

Did he see any of that? he wonders. He hopes not. He hopes that they’d managed to shoot away from each other before the door was opened.

With a smile, Y/N crosses the room. “I was just telling Bruce how I finished my presentation and thanking him for the help.” She says. “It only seems right.”

“Well then.” Alfred’s gaze shifts to Bruce. “I would have helped Y/N myself, but I doubt anybody wants to hear about my escapades tending to Wayne Manor. Thank you, Master Wayne.”

“Y-you’re welcome….” Bruce says in a breath, and before he knows it, the door is shut and he’s the only one left in the room. They’re gone and he’s alone once again.

With shallow breaths, Bruce reluctantly raises his hands and takes a long hard look them.

A moment ago, they’d clutched onto the body of the girl he cares for. A moment ago, if Alfred hadn’t interrupted, he would have stripped her of her clothes and guided her to his bed.

A moment ago, they’d had a mind of their own.

He clamps his eyes shut and sighs, long and heavy, hands pressed against his forehead. Okay, Bruce tells himself. Think. Try and think. Try and discern this jumbled up mess that, although he didn’t think it possible, got even messier a few minutes ago.

Trawling his mind for answers, Bruce tries to pace his thoughts when his something buzzes to life in his pocket.

He stops for a moment, and reaches into his pocket, finding his pager. Retrieving it, Bruce takes a long hard look at it. He never uses it on regular days, being one of Batman’s little toys, and so he’s surprised it’s seven in his pocket, more so, going off.

His hands are shaking. He squints, trying to get a better look, and then wishes he hadn’t.

It’s from Alfred. Of course it’s from Alfred—who else would page him on his Batman equipment other than the very man who designed it?

Bruce feels the blood drain from his face. Upon the miniature screen reads a message saying “We need to talk.”


When Y/N gets back to her room, she tries not to squeal as she immediately shuts the door, locks it, and hurries to her bed.

Her heart is still beating like a dolldrum in her chest, as she sits down and pulls her legs up onto the bed, trembling. She can’t stop trembling. Her entire body feels like it’s been bathed in fire, every inch of her skin hot and hyper-sensitive.

So she’d nearly kissed him. And he’d nearly kissed her. And she was still shaking from it all.

A gust of wind wafts through her room, and she sighs, bowing her head as her mind races. All that she can think about is Bruce. Bruce, Bruce, Bruce. Bruce and his salt and pepper hair. Bruce and his smile. Bruce and his calloused hands running up and down her waist, coating her skin in gooseflesh.

Y/N feels another jolt shoot through her, and she groans, throwing her head back against her pillow. She can’t help it; Cheshire grin crawls onto her face.


Bruce held her.

Bruce nearly kissed her.

She says it over and over in her head. Then she says it once more, and then she says it out loud to herself, whispering the words so quietly, so sacredly as though they’re a prayer. To Y/N, they might as well be. To her, that man is her god and his body is the temple in which she wishes to worship, but for now her devotion must be paused, for there are other things standing in the way.

She recalls hers and Uncle Fred’s conversation the other day.  He’d told her he knew. Told her he knew and he understood, and he could see why a girl like her can love a man like him, but it’s too dangerous. Too risky. He thinks that Y/N will have her heart broken, and he says that its best to forget it all, but how can she forget the man that makes her heart beat ten times faster?

For now she doesn’t know where they stand. She’d told herself that nights before, but now things seem even more complicated.

Y/N lets her hand float up to her lips, and she caresses them tentatively, frightened that being too harsh might somehow wash away the static running through her veins. Bruce. If only, Y/n thinks, he’d leaned in a bit closer.

If only they’d had some more time.



Posted at 1am in the morning :))))((((

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The idea that God is an oversized white male with a flowing beard, who sits in the sky and tallies the fall of every sparrow is ludicrous. But if by ‘God,’ one means the set of physical laws that govern the universe, then clearly there is such a God. This God is emotionally unsatisfying… it does not make much sense to pray to the law of gravity.
—  Carl Sagan

amusewithaview  asked:

Late night headcanon for MCU After Dark: Jane is indeed a 'new soul' in the sense that she doesn't remember any past lives. Her family, however, is a fascinating mix of old and new. Her father and mother are immortal, some of her siblings have chosen to be too, and Uncle Jack keeps trying to turn her exploratory drive from the sky to the sea.

This is the greatest idea ever, especially if her Uncle Jack is a Captain Sparrow. (And she has an Uncle Jack from the sky?? Y/n/maybe????)


SKY ONLINE Hi there, i am Sky and i am 16 years old. I live somewhere in Europe and thats where most of my stories are going to be based, different countries in Europe. I like books, music, writing, science, gaming, film making, playing guitar, fashion, sewing and gardening. Feel free to ask any questions that are not too personal and request different stories, imagines and other stuff and if they get 5 or more likes i will write them. Ill try to do everything except Kpop. Sorry. Love you all, xoxo Sky. SKY OFFLINE

Originally posted by yeayme94

I heard the sky was falling, and I wanted to help.

In the aftermath of loss, we do what we’ve always done, although we are changed, maybe more afraid. We do what we can, as well as we can. My pastor, Veronica, one Sunday told the story of a sparrow lying in the street with its legs straight up in the air, sweating a little under its feathery arms. A warhorse walks up to the bird and asks, “What on earth are you doing?” The sparrow replies, “I heard the sky was falling, and I wanted to help.” The horse laughs a big, loud, sneering horse laugh, and says, “Do you really think you’re going to hold back the sky, with those scrawny little legs?” And the sparrow says, “One does what one can.” So what can I do? Not much.

~ Anne Lamott, Stitches: A Handbook on Meaning, Hope and Repair (Riverhead Books, October 29, 2013)

Intricate-throned undying Aphrodite,
snare-weaving child of Zeus, I beg of you,
do not break my heart with longing or sorrow,
o queen,

but come here, if ever before
hearing my cries from afar
you listened, and leaving your father’s house
you came, yoking

your chariot of gold; and beautiful they bore you,
swift sparrows across dark earth,
whirling quick-beating wings, from heaven
through mid-sky;

suddenly they arrived; and you, blessed one,
a smile on your immortal face,
asked what I had suffered this time, and why again
I called you

and what I wished most dearly to happen
in my tormented heart; “Whom should I persuade,
contriving that she respond to your love? Who,
Sappho, wrongs you?

For if she flees you, soon she will pursue,
and if she rejects your gifts, yet she will give them,
and if she does not love you, soon she will love you,
even unwillingly.”

Come to me again now, and free me from
unbearable distress, and as much as my heart
longs to accomplish, make it so, and you yourself
battle at my side.

-Sappho (Lobel-Page 1)

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Redwall Playlist: “Homeward Bound” by BYU Vocal Point ft. The All-American Boys Chorus

Oh, mateys. Do you know what I think is one of the most lovely things about Redwall? The spirit of wanderlust is embraced. Redwallers who were rambunctious or restless to seek other lands could leave Redwall to pursue that calling. Their hearts were not chastised for wanting to leave; they weren’t guilted into staying at the Abbey because the elders believed they knew better. How much more beautiful that must have made a homecoming be for those wayward souls.

- - - - - - - - -

In the quiet misty morning
When the moon has gone to bed
When the sparrows stop their singing
And the sky is clear and red

When the summer’s ceased its gleaming
When the corn is past its prime
When adventure’s lost its meaning
I’ll be homeward bound in time

Tonight, as the sky was still just bright enough to provide a silvery lighting, I had gone out to add stakes to my tomato plants. They had been moved yesterday into the main garden bed so that they would fair better while I’m gone. They’ve gotten big and need more supports.

The fireflies were already out. We have so many here that you can’t walk a few feet without one buzzing past your ear. As I walked up to my garden bed, stakes and ties in hand, I caught sight of the moon. For the first time this year, I won’t be able to go out to the hunting land do perform my full moon ritual. It’s odd, knowing I won’t be anywhere near that land this full moon. Not pleasant.

Tonight, with the sky still light and no stars out, the moon was shining so brightly that it left spots in my vision when I looked away. It was beautiful and calming and reassuring. Then I looked at my garden bed. Then I looked past the garden bed.

I live in the middle of a neighborhood in a valley. We’re in the country, but the yards are fenced and deer and coyotes are usually only seen on the slope up. Directly behind my garden bed, right by the field and by the autumn olives, was a doe. She was huge for a doe. I just kind of stopped, staring at her and not moving because it was difficult to believe that there was a deer in the yard. My glasses were on, so, for once, my vision was completely clear.

She stared back at me for at least a solid minute, bizarrely relaxed. Then she very calmly walked away and past the bushes, never raising her tail or running.

The particular significance is that this month we are studying the Huntress goddess, who I strongly associate with deer. Does, in particular.

I don’t believe it was a goddess come to say hello in the form of a deer. But it was something that seemed to settle in me, like a wave of reassurance and relief.

A Poem by Yeats
A Poem by Yeats

The brawling of a sparrow in the eaves,
The brilliant moon and all the milky sky,
And all that famous harmony of leaves,
Had blotted out man’s image and his cry.

A girl arose that had red mournful lips
And seemed the greatness of the world in tears,
Doomed like Odysseus and the labouring ships
And proud as Priam murdered with his peers;

Arose, and on the instant clamorous eaves,
A climbing moon upon an empty sky,
And all that lamentation of the leaves,
Could but compose man’s image and his cry.