03-12-2026, 04:00 PM
She longs for sound, but not this kind of sound.
She wants shuffling wings, serene song, the soft steps of the Goddess never too far to hear.
Instead, she has this—the near-silence of the winter forest punctuated by the landing of snowflakes that only she can hear. Her injury grows insulted by the winter's frozen hostility, a greater devil than any of the nether-beings she has encountered during her brief time on earth. Brief, but growing, now. She lies to herself, pretends to know how many moons have yet passed since her descent. Pretends to understand why the Goddess chose her.
A step, not far off. She twists her ears thirstily to catch their sound. Bleary from the exertion of a recent time-warp (can you blame her for skipping this miserable season?), she wonders if perhaps the Goddess has returned to welcome her disciple home, to wish her a job well done. But what job have I done? Lillia wonders. A line creases upon her creamy brow, its depths accentuated by the glow of her halo. How can I finish my mission if I am beginning to forget ever receiving it?
But it is not the Goddess who rounds the corner.
No, of course not.
It is a man, taller of course, and quilted in a deep violet reminiscent of deep wells of blood beneath a midnight sky.
He trudges through the underbrush lightly coated in snow. And upon his face a weary expression not dissimilar to her own.
A flicker in her chest reminds her of the hope she embodies, of the warmth she can bestow upon others. But she ignores its beckoning familiarity, wondering perversely if the personification of sadness before her might have wounds she could sap.
Not to lighten his burden.
To help her feel anything at all.
"Hello," she says from her position off his dwindling path. The snow falling between them obscures and reveals her eyes, set intently as they are upon his. Her voice, usually lyrical and saccharine, plays instead a morose, cynical ballad into the cool air. "Tell me... Is it nice to meet you?"
She wants shuffling wings, serene song, the soft steps of the Goddess never too far to hear.
Instead, she has this—the near-silence of the winter forest punctuated by the landing of snowflakes that only she can hear. Her injury grows insulted by the winter's frozen hostility, a greater devil than any of the nether-beings she has encountered during her brief time on earth. Brief, but growing, now. She lies to herself, pretends to know how many moons have yet passed since her descent. Pretends to understand why the Goddess chose her.
A step, not far off. She twists her ears thirstily to catch their sound. Bleary from the exertion of a recent time-warp (can you blame her for skipping this miserable season?), she wonders if perhaps the Goddess has returned to welcome her disciple home, to wish her a job well done. But what job have I done? Lillia wonders. A line creases upon her creamy brow, its depths accentuated by the glow of her halo. How can I finish my mission if I am beginning to forget ever receiving it?
But it is not the Goddess who rounds the corner.
No, of course not.
It is a man, taller of course, and quilted in a deep violet reminiscent of deep wells of blood beneath a midnight sky.
He trudges through the underbrush lightly coated in snow. And upon his face a weary expression not dissimilar to her own.
A flicker in her chest reminds her of the hope she embodies, of the warmth she can bestow upon others. But she ignores its beckoning familiarity, wondering perversely if the personification of sadness before her might have wounds she could sap.
Not to lighten his burden.
To help her feel anything at all.
"Hello," she says from her position off his dwindling path. The snow falling between them obscures and reveals her eyes, set intently as they are upon his. Her voice, usually lyrical and saccharine, plays instead a morose, cynical ballad into the cool air. "Tell me... Is it nice to meet you?"