here's a map, here's a shovel (here's my achilles' heel)
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He cleans the filth of Hell away from her soul and it burns. Not like fire, no, but like a steaming bath on the edge of too hot. Agony for a split second before it soothes, before it heals.
Her skin feels scrubbed raw and bloody. The hand does not leave her arm and it’s grip only grows tighter as they take flight.
They rise and he is purifying her, carving out the dried blood from beneath her fingernails, scraping it from the roots of her hair, from the inside of her eyelids. Will there be anything left after the holy light fades? She doesn’t know if there’s enough of her humanity left after the corruption is washed away to survive.
The holy light holds her with so much tenderness she could cry.
It’s been so long since she’s been held.
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