A/N: Because Libra is such an intriguing character. One of my favorites, actually. I can't stop thinking of how he would react upon finding his beloved is the vessel of an almost-immortal dragon of doom. And that's how this happened. Also, I can't help but wonder if he truly believes in all his prayers and whatnot. He has all this darkness inside yet he shows such a saintly exterior. That gets the gears working. In this little one-shot I've envisioned him as having a darker inner voice. But don't we all have one? It may be helpful sometimes, may console us or reproach us depending on circumstance. No matter what though, I believe it just seeks to look after us, hence this is under Hurt/Comfort.
All Will Be Well
"It is a thing of evil to feel pride," he would say with a dry mouth that hungered and knees that ached from kneeling with no respite.
And yet, did he not feel a surge of the same sensation which he so tried to revile? Did he not sense himself to be good and better than others who were not humble as he? And did he not press his palms harder, one with the other, regretful and proud that he caught himself and then regretful again upon feeling pride for it?
"I am sorry," he'd plead with his golden hair covering his face as his face dipped lower, lower, almost touching the stone floor in the cathedral. "For I sin, and I cannot stop."
And he admitted it, and oh there went again his ego soaring. How honest, how he repents. Someone, give him a pat in the back.
"Shut up," he'd hiss to himself.
How the the pure of heart make themselves suffer. Isn't that right, dear immaculate Libra? Isn't your shame something to brag about? The world out there bustles onward whilst you take your time to grovel and reflect on your infinite minimality; how noble, how very noble indeed.
"You don't know me…"
Sure I do. Have we not been together all this time? Through bad and worse braved it all have we, or haven't we? Since beginnings lower than dirt, have I not been there to provide some semblance of comfort in the dark? And the dark you know all too well, do you not? Now now, not with the clamping of hands over ears. When has it ever worked?
"All will be well… Our father in the heavens-"
Shouldn't you be repenting over lying, in either case?
"..."
You didn't think yourself quite so sly, did you? It isn't pride, although pride be present, but rather love which in shame has you?
"It's not-"
But it is. It's to selfishly crave, and to hungrily overjoy. Is she not the one which you've preferred over all others, when favoritism is a sin beyond cruel? You self-indulgent craven. Abandoned the martyr's path; for what? For that smile which your own provokes, for a delightful cleavage responsible for the fire of your loins?
"Stop it!"
Are we not allowed this?! Are the gods still generous for giving us flesh which aches only to deny us the one reprieve from pain and this wretched insatiable want?
"It's her kindness…"
And her all too familiar hands.
"Her soft gaze."
The unbroken paleness of her warm skin.
"It's… nothing so-"
What?! This is our one joy! To hell with Naga and her teachings! Humbleness is for the brilliant and acclaimed. For those like us who have only the earth at our feet and the heavens above, are hunger and restlessness not the true virtues? Hope for us is to believe that our footprints won't be washed away if we step hard enough, it's to sign our names with fire and blood to sear the very memory of history!
"Grant me strength to be humble, O Gods."
And off you go. Asking, asking, always asking! Tell me of a time when reducing yourself before an altar yielded the materialization of the things we lack.
"The barest graze of your light upon my soul should from darkness keep me."
You believe that, don't you? You believe in them, up on their stardust palaces, dressed in the fibers of the cosmos. You believe in their infinite grace and let lie in the whimsy thereof your heart. You're a true dreamer, my darling.
"Keep me… under your aegis…"
What a magnificent storyteller he is, ladies and gents. In the name of all which is holy and shiny and made up, are his lies not the most soothing hogwash you've ever heard? I say, not even the most deeply deranged and disturbed know how to envisage lovelier fiddle-faddle.
"Gods…"
Turned a deaf ear on us, my friend. Long ago. Long before either of us came to be. Don't blame yourself. I'm certain, if not utterly convinced, that your words could send mountains crumbling to sea. But the gods can't hear us now. There is a thick, black cloud hanging over us that won't let them see.
"No."
The wings of despair, dear Libra. Can you feel the cold breeze their flutter brings to our face? Or maybe, that is just her hand. You've felt it on our cheek, and it felt good and right.
"She isn't…"
But if she was? You wouldn't love her any less. That's it. Repent, sinner. You can't stop yourself. It's the old tale of the serpent biting its own tail. But do not worry.
"Gods… protect her… take me, but keep her safe…"
Trust me, all will be well.