...
Azrael, Pre Colonial Philippines, 1039, Confidant Well-being.
Finally, the patients are headed to the refugee center, bringing warmth to one involved in the recent conflicts.
...
Are you sure you're okay?
It echoes through their mind despite the heavyweight barriers, escaping a groan; their finger splinters the wood, stirring the air below it, soon plucking it out to find dirt sprinkled below the alignment of the nail—Azrael cares less.
Their thoughts intricately twirl around each other, ripping themselves into tinier, vague ideas; their mind possesses an erratic grain of these, the complexity only the luminary can handle this mess.
Azrael regains consciousness through the fluttering of their arms, turning to a child familial in their eyes, much not they recognize it entirely. They blink at it, watching it scoot farther. The child frowns and sighs, resting their back on a slope.
People pass and wave, others awe pity-written, and exceptionals awe admiringly—the sudden thought of it all crumbling in one move strikes them, what bosh!
The moment stretches wide, wide enough to irritate.
"So-"
A door next to their face creeks open and scatters a variety of associates wielding tools and engaging in conversations.
Azrael piques in front of them, swiftly retracting to their position at the notion of eyes fixed on their embodiment. The child inhales sharp, fluttering their hands, and swinging their shoulders back—seem formal, seem formal.
Uh,
Oh no
"Azrael," a voice like none slips through their ears, stern and warm; "what do you think caused the recent conflict?"
The man studies their posture, starting a reassuring sentence to be interrupted by the younger's: "-I... think it's because of the immigrants." Azrael watches the employee nod and strides away, "But- don't hurt them, please! I think they didn't do anything!"
"Well then, I'm out when you need me."
They come to a standpoint abruptly and plod to the exit.
"Wait," The mystery warps their body and tightens their muscles, the flame of emotion spreading everywhere inside, they want to forget they did such, no more questions asked! "How did you keep the severely injured belligerents?"
They mumble curses, "Well!" They jolt at their incompetent reaction, whipping their hands at the floor, raising their hands to the level of their shoulders, and waving them. "Well... I think it was just my greatness at healing, I- I mean I'm a babaylan after all!"
The employee creeps out the hallway, fortunately.
...
Azrael, Pre Colonial Philippines, the beginning of 1040, Well-beings.
"Step on this platform," Instructs the child, stretching their foot on a specific square; they lift a wooden blade and thrust it in an unnamed direction. They raise their eyesight to a crowd of trainees attempting to copy their stance, the bliss in their heart infecting their mind—they're fond of this assignment.
Everyone adds their accent and culture in their motions, an adorable detail despite the solemn purpose of this training.
...
YOU ARE READING
DOmI
Historical Fiction(don't be fooled by the cover the drawings in this are random doodles) Soooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo this is my first book im sensitive anyways, description: Azrael's family has always gone through bad things like tragedy and poverty and stuff l...
