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cherrywoes · 3 years

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inferno.

𝘼𝘾𝙏 𝙊𝙉𝙀:

𝗖𝗛𝗔𝗣𝗧𝗘𝗥 𝗧𝗪𝗢. 𝘍𝘓𝘈𝘕𝘌𝘜𝘙.

— a person who strolls the city in order to experience it. “deliberately aimless.”

THE MORTAL WORLD was as he recalled it to be; wild, lush, and potent with life. The grass beneath his feet was cool and damp, as if there had been a light rain just seconds before he stepped out of the portal, and real. He could touch it with his fingers, feel the sunlight and energy coursing through its very veins, could feel the way the earth beneath him trembled at his touch, bowed against his power and immensity. He could pinpoint every human being on the planet down to their heartbeats, their individual thoughts and emotions, to a degree where he was certain his powers could rival even Lucifer’s, as glorious as his former brother had been.

He twisted a blade of grass between his fingertips, watching the pieces split and tear apart under the force, much like his soul and the darkness rolling like a thundercloud within him. His wings grew a steady black the longer he stood apart from his angelic soul, each feather turning more jagged, more rough, the sharpened edges growing dangerously serrated. His wings were no longer the slate gray he had sported all his life, proud of the line he toed when forever opposed both heaven and hell; they were now black as pitch, sparkling like oil in a field of water. He could even feel horns beginning to rise from the top of his skull, long, delicate things that curled around the back of his head and ended in points just above his eyes in a mimicry of a diadem.

The Nameless One was no longer an archangel, or any sort of being that existed previously. He was new; he was fresh from hell, born out of both light and dark, without a shred of divinity left within him—except maybe there was. A small spark, barely there, fighting against the evil within with all of its might, bent on surviving, existing in a world where it was unwanted.

“Who are you?” A man stepped out of the treeline. He crushed poppies and baby’s breath as he walked, uncaring of the tiny lives he had snuffed out. His hair was cropped short to his head in a style that the Nameless One had never seen before, and he wore clothing made of mixed fabrics, even shoes of bizarre color that sparked no memory within him. He was foreign, and yet he was not, for the Nameless One could smell the divinity on him, could smell Hell on him like a second natural scent, an odor of sharp citrus and brimstone. He was no more powerful than any other Second Sphere angel but could easily sit within the top of those ranks, for certain. “Answer me, Fallen One.”

Here was an angel the Nameless One did not recognize, but knew had participated in Lucifer’s crusade against God besides. He allowed the grass strands to flutter to the ground at his feet, wings—all six pairs of them—rolling in circular motions to ease the ache of centuries of torture from his shoulders and spine. While the scars on his body were forever healed, the pain within continued to linger, dragging down his coil of flesh and bone until he was almost mindless. The gravity of this world pulled upon him like chains, made him ache, made him hurt, made him feel heavy in many ways that he could not put a name to but knew existed.

“You’re an archangel,” the man continued when the angel offered no answer to him. His expression appeared almost permanently angry, or stern, and he took a step closer to him, eyes flickering over his wings and features. “But you’re not Lucifer, and all of the others are already here. So... you can only be the Nameless One. Am I right?”

“Congratulations.” The Nameless One’s voice was a multi dimensional purr, shaking the atoms around them and causing the air to physically vibrate. The flowers wilted near his bare feet, succumbing to the raw power that filtered off of his skin in harsh waves; the trees bowed towards him; the mountains trembled. “Your assumption is correct…” He paused, flicking through the other angel’s memories with razor sharp metaphysical claws until he found the right one. “Iraphel.”

“It’s Iwaizumi now.” Iraphel, or Iwaizumi, crossed his arms. At the Nameless One’s questioning look, he added,”To exist here, we must have human names. You’ll have to choose one if you’re going to stay here.”

The archangel turned his head back to the portal, sealed off and permanently closed. No other would be going through it if he had the choice; keeping Lucifer in Hell was the best opportunity he would have at being free of his beliefs and doctrine before armageddon. And Lucifer would be loathe to part with his divinity, besides, he assumed, still too caught up in heaven, in their Father, who he so desperately loved and despised in the same breath. He would not be going back to that, to an angel who regretted his decision and affirmed it by the very existence of Hell—no, he was too proud, and he had already betrayed his friend once. A second time would be unforgivable.

“I have no intention of returning to Hell.” The Nameless One rubbed his wrists where he could still feel the imprints of the cuffs used to bind him in Cocytus. He would likely never get rid of the phantom pains, but it was a small price to pay for such freedom, where God had turned a blind eye and relied on humanity’s sense of morality to provide the right path for them. “No, I don’t think I ever will.”

“Right… Well, you’ll still need a name.” Iwaizumi’s eyes darted up and down his physical form, still covered in the inhuman toga given to him in hell. “And normal clothes—”

In a brief moment, the Nameless One was clothed. He had mimicked the outfit of a human nearby, had chosen him at random, and altered the outfit to fit his human body as he pleased. It was strange to wear so many layers; a pair of undergarments, pants, a shirt, and brown overcoat that ended just at his knees. Even the shoes would take getting used to, flat and close toed and restricting. He had learned much from that human just by browsing through his mind, but it was such a small part of a vast world, he was beginning to learn. “Is this acceptable?”

Iwaizumi blinked. “Yeah, but… I guess it’s fine. Now you just need a name.”

Another facet of humanity plucked from an unknowing human; he paired one with another that seemed reasonable, disliking several of the meanings that came from some of them, and came up with one he liked, to a degree, and felt he could live with for some time if needed. “Oikawa Tooru.”

“Did you get that from someone else?” Iwaizumi inquired. At Oikawa’s nod, he shook his head and grumbled under his breath. “Just how powerful are you?”

“I am unsure.” Oikawa shrugged and knelt down to pluck a dead flower from the ground. It dissolved in his hand at the touch, crumbling into a fine black powder that smelled just like Cocytus—icy and unforgiving. He allowed it to fall to the ground with the strand of grass in a mimicry of snow, each individual flake following its own path just as he would. “Separating from my divine soul has amplified my powers. It will be some time yet until I am able to control them properly.”

“Well… Shit.” Iwaizumi exhaled a sharp breath and ran a hand through his hair. He rocked back on his heels, tilted his head to the sky, and groaned. “Right, huh, okay—let’s get you out of here. We can deal with the rest when it comes up.”

Oikawa held out a hand towards where he knew the city was. “Lead the way, Iwaizumi.”

For the next several years, Oikawa—his identity as the Nameless One shed from his mind like an old skin—roamed the city of Tokyo and the entirety of Japan in search of knowledge. From farming to technology, he wanted to know it all, to learn about this world his Father coveted so much, to know if he could learn to love it as strongly too—but instead, he found something else. Something equally as precious, a diamond among moissanite.

A human girl.

“Oikawa, look!” Tiny hands reached up to shine a reflective piece of multicolored glass up to the sun. Rays of blue, red, pink, and yellow reflected upon soft flesh, the corner of a [color] eye, and fewest strands of [color] hair shining underneath the light. “Look what I made today! Isn’t it pretty?!”

“Of course it is!” The archangel peered over her shoulder to look up through the glass with her. It was a depiction of an angel, ironically enough, dressed in a white gown and a golden halo hovering above its head. Interestingly, it looked much like Lucifer, with dark hair and blue eyes, though that had to have been an artistic choice and not because the child knew what the Morningstar truly looked like. “Can I keep it, [Name]-chan?”

Over the years, he had picked up on the language, dialect, and social mannerisms. It had allowed him to form a personality that was more acceptable among humans, most of them unused to the formality that angels had ingrained into their very existence. Iwaizumi had helped him along in that regard, forcing him to use casual slang, contractions, even made him learn other languages, although any language other than Japanese or Spanish was difficult for him.

Suspicious [color] eyes flickered up to regard him. “You promise you’ll keep it safe?”

“I promise.” As an afterthought, he held out his hand and stuck out his pinkie. “Pinkie promise! I’ll keep it safe, or you can hit me if I haven’t.”

In that time, he had come across her—[Name] [Surname]. A little orphan girl with no parents, no home, not even a penny to her name. It had been an accident that he met her in the first place, injured from a fight with an angel that had left him grounded for some time. She had tended to him as best as she could, but his wings just weren’t safe enough for childish hands to heal, and since then, he had a fond spot for her despite Iwaizumi advising otherwise. Human connections were dangerous, he’d told him, especially ones that came from the heart.

But, Oikawa mused, every time his best friend shook his head at him when he returned from the orphanage, what Iwaizumi didn’t know wouldn’t kill him.

“How will I know if you haven’t though?” [Name]’s nose scrunched cutely in thought. “I’m at the orphanage all the time and you don’t live here.”

Oikawa hummed in thought. [Name]’s orphanage, centered in the middle of Eden, the safe realm that the first Fallen to crawl out of Hell had created to hide them from the world, was only a few blocks away from Oikawa’s apartment. While humans were allowed to enter Eden, they could never leave once they learned of their existence, and if they still wanted to, then their memories would be wiped clean. It was likely that was what would happen to [Name] one day, if she was adopted.

“You’re right.” He nodded his head in agreement. Then, with a flourish of his hand, he produced a brilliant white light in his palm—bright, but also dim, and full of color. [Name] gasped at its beauty, reaching for it with greedy hands. “No, no! This is part of my soul. You can’t just grab it like that, it’s too fragile.”

She frowned at the scolding, but dropped her hands. “I’m sorry.”

“No need. Just be more careful,” Oikawa advised.

He had been waiting for the right moment to do this. Iwaizumi had often told him he needed to find a safe place to put the remnants of his divine soul, and what better place than a human he was fond of?

“Here.” The bright light floated above his hand for a moment before shooting into [Name]’s chest. Her hands flew to her collarbone, patting the area, and she showed no sign of pain; but Oikawa could sense her like a beacon now, a human with a hint of divinity within her. “You can keep this; as long as you never break it, I’ll make sure to never break your glass.”

The smile that erupted upon her face was both heartbreaking and beautiful.

“Thanks, Oikawa!”

one | masterlist | three

taglist: open.

#oikawa tooru x reader #oikawa x reader #haikyuu #haikyuu!!#haikyū!!#haikyuu x reader

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sinesalvatorem · 7 years

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On Not Forgetting

I basically remember my high school experience as being a lot of empty monotony punctuated by a few experiences that were incredibly valuable. One of the most valuable such experiences was when I was asked to participate in the National Memories Project.

The National Memories Project, like every other project I’ve ever been asked to participate in in high school, was clearly run by people almost as ADHD as me. There was an initial flurry of activity before the idea quietly died and the material we compiled never ended up on the radio. But, like, oh well. I am honestly not in a position to judge.

The basic idea of the project was to get bright young high schoolers to go around meeting senior citizens and asking them questions while having a (digital) tape recorder running. After we’d had our tape recorders for two weeks, we all met up to talk about what we’d gotten. Most of the other folks in my school had like ten minutes of recordings total from two people. When I asked why only that, they said it was because they hated being near old people, so they were only going to do the minimum effort.

Meanwhile, I had almost 6 hours.

While I will admit I often do things by half measures, I tend to do that first half really thoroughly. This legitimately seemed to me like a great idea and, while I had nothing against talking to the elderly, it basically hadn’t come up before. There was little overlap in social circles, after all.

My first problem was having no idea what to ask. I decided to settle on five questions to begin with: “What’s your name?”, “When were you born?”, “What was your life like growing up?”, “How have things changed since then?”, “If there was one thing you could restore, what would it be?”.

With these in mind, I went to visit and interview my grandmother. While I visited her home roughly once a week (until she passed away), I hadn’t really asked historical questions. I decided that I would ask her the questions I had, let her ramble as much as she liked, and then ask followup questions launching from anything she brought up. At the same time, I’d scribble notes on which questions were most informative and what I should ask other people when I interviewed them.

She spoke to me for almost two hours and, in that time, I gradually saw a vision of the past that I hadn’t gotten before. Furthermore, I got a framework for what to ask about, so that I could fill in more information when I asked other seniors. Finally, I got referrals from her, so that I would know which of her neighbours or friends or church members would be receptive to an interview.

I learned about the period preceding our independence. How the economic system was under British rule. How some of us went off to fight in the Second World War as part of the British Army. How shocked everyone was when the RAF landed here with the first airplane ever seen in our country.

I learned about the independence process. The context behind a lot of the terminology and in jokes I heard around me which referenced events during the independence process. What social and material conditions prompted the move toward independence and how different sectors of society reacted.

I learned about what various people thought of the Revolution. How they perceived life under Socialism and the goals of the Socialist movement. What they thought of the subsequent collapse and US invasion. Who they blamed for the collapse and whether they believed the later invasion was justified. Whether they preferred the current liberal democracy to our earlier system.

I learned about how various technological developments affected society. When radio first arrived during my grandparents’ childhood, and television arrived during my own parents’ childhood. How people used to crowd around the windows of the middle class folks in town to watch their TV, and how you used to have to walk a mile to the bank to make a phone call.

I learned about how civil society itself changed. About how Catholicism was the backbone of civil identity, which was shared by >90% of the population and almost universal in the working class. About the explosive growth of Protestant Churches that had pushed back Catholicism until it was barely over 50%. About how access to education expanded. From the days when poor kids went to school part time until leaving after sixth grade, to the present day, when the first two years of college cost the equivalent 40 US dollars per semester.

And, throughout, the small slices of life from each individual. The man who, as a boy, used to climb coconut trees to watch the sea whenever he was upset. The woman who, as a little girl, set up a stall in the marketplace where she pretended to sell rocks and napkins. The man who used to catch crayfish in the river and once screamed like a little girl when a massive frog jumped onto his head.

But it was particularly interesting to learn what they wanted to restore. They cared less about politics than I might have expected, and were mostly fine and dandy with things like gender equality and various immigrant groups. They instead wanted to restore things like the slower pace of life when you could just sit in a tree and watch the sea. They wanted the comradery that came from having twenty kids huddled around a window to watch a grainy television screen. They wanted the feeling of working toward a Great Project that they had during the independence process, or the later Socialist revolution.

But the most common complaint was that they wanted their grandchildren to talk to them the way they used to talk to their own grandparents. And, based on how happy all of these strangers were to have me listening to them, I knew that this was important to them.

I’ve occasionally seen people recommend that you read old books in order to better understand the perspectives of those people. That it is incredibly easy to forget today what seemed most obvious and essential yesterday.

Every age has its own outlook. It is specially good at seeing certain truths and specially liable to make certain mistakes. We all, therefore, need the books that will correct the characteristic mistakes of our own period. And that means the old books. All contemporary writers share to some extent the contemporary outlook—even those, like myself, who seem most opposed to it. Nothing strikes me more when I read the controversies of past ages than the fact that both sides were usually assuming without question a good deal which we should now absolutely deny. They thought that they were as completely opposed as two sides could be, but in fact they were all the time secretly united—united with each other and against earlier and later ages—by a great mass of common assumptions.

-C S Lewis

For the same reason, there’s much to be said for speaking to old people. While they are less of a snapshot of the old perspective - because their own thoughts have of course been developing all the time up to now - they are people who at least lived in the old perspective. If the past is a foreign country, they are the expats who used to call it home.

Furthermore, they’re also responsive and holistic in a way that old books are not. Historians like boring diaries because they record all sorts of things that wouldn’t have seemed interesting then, even if they’re surprising now.

Similarly, seniors are a repository of lots of information that isn’t especially filtered for “Was it interesting in its time?” They remember all sorts of random anecdotes about their lives that give a flavour of the times but would never have made it into a book that was aiming to be read in those times. After all, old books were written for the people of old times - not for posterity.

And they’re responsive in that they handle queries better than an old treatise might. When something in conversation activates your “Wait, you did what?” response, you can ask more questions to walk you down that road. You can get a much more varied survey of the historical frame of mind in much less time than if you read books linearly.

Of course, as someone with a special interest in history, I may be biased in thinking that this is the coolest thing ever. However, I also think it’s valuable. Knowing how people used to think helps you figure out how things got to where they are today. Seeing how different the past was can help you to understand how much change can happen when you look ahead. Seeing ideas you never considered before can help you to broaden your horizons. Also, like, learning things is fun.

So, if you agree with me on any of this, I encourage you to read old books, speak to old people, look through boring journals, and open yourself up to just how much of the past you might be missing from your current vantage point.

#tragic backstory #history #education #c s lewis #my family #country of origin redacted

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