Dutifully, Mayoi drops to his knees, clasping his hands right at her statue. He prays. He prays harder than he ever has before. As someone who has feared holiness all his life, who has trembled at the thought basking in any kind of pure light, who has spent their life in darkness beneath the ground, he prays not for things like salvation. He prays to the Moon who has always been home. Who has shown him kindness and welcomed him to the surface like a patient mother. Whose light was always gentle and yet still allowed a place for the shadows he felt at home in.

He has always loved the moon, and he has always loved so strongly that it could hurt him. He gives her every ounce of that he can. He prays so that the love he reaches out with might in turn become something to turn the tide of the battle. If this is what he can do, he will gladly give it his all.

As he prays, he will begin to sing. He knows not the words, but the melody comes to him easily. Mayoi never appears to be strong until he is raising his voice, and with it the strength of his resolve.