[ A last ditch effort as the timer ticks down on this planet that he's come to care so much about. Subaru is familiar; a force that stands to lose everything on the cusp of victory will turn to desperation. And in turn, will sow unpredictability. Witnessing the scene unfold, he tempers the brief curl of anxiety he feels at Caelus's isolation with the surge of adrenaline following the voice that manages him to reach him.
There is a way. His will, that same will that puts the stars within reach, that doesn't shy from the cosmic burn of them, the grief inherent, must be able to push through.
Even without a full grasp of what's transpiring, he feels as though he doesn't need it. What's gathering here at the gates of this planet is something that can only be done by someone like Caelus, he's certain. His reach, his influence, his ability to connect others...
Subaru can't hope to ever achieve the same. But if Cyrene chooses him so, if she calms his wings, even if only for a brief, beautiful moment in time, then he will choose too. He's never been content with the absolution of doing nothing. So, he writes it as he's always written it: not onto paper or skin but into the fabric of this dreaming reality. In the blooming ink of his will, the gate of stars he was born to. A spell that might crack the desolation of being confined, that might allow light to pour out.
A spell that says, "I am here."
They're familiar strokes. The same as those he's imparted on paper and sticky notes, onto the palm of his hand.
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There is a way. His will, that same will that puts the stars within reach, that doesn't shy from the cosmic burn of them, the grief inherent, must be able to push through.
Even without a full grasp of what's transpiring, he feels as though he doesn't need it. What's gathering here at the gates of this planet is something that can only be done by someone like Caelus, he's certain. His reach, his influence, his ability to connect others...
Subaru can't hope to ever achieve the same. But if Cyrene chooses him so, if she calms his wings, even if only for a brief, beautiful moment in time, then he will choose too. He's never been content with the absolution of doing nothing. So, he writes it as he's always written it: not onto paper or skin but into the fabric of this dreaming reality. In the blooming ink of his will, the gate of stars he was born to. A spell that might crack the desolation of being confined, that might allow light to pour out.
A spell that says, "I am here."
They're familiar strokes. The same as those he's imparted on paper and sticky notes, onto the palm of his hand.
Ignite it. Light the way, Caelus. ]