Globe Memories

There is awe, of a magnitude far beyond anything that he has ever experienced in his short life - The presence of the Goddess he had longed to serve with such fervour that Her Light drew him inexorably, inevitably to this most holy of places. For much of his life he has felt small, and never more so now than when he kneels within Her Fulcrux, yet it is so very different, with Her. He feels as if he is a tiny spark, or a fleck of metal that reflects a minute glint of the glory that is Her fury, that most glorious and inspiring light of judgement that resonates with his soul like an artfully plucked chord. Her voice is as the sweetest music, a soft melody that is as a cool balm upon his heart. "That is the purpose of anger - to inspire action, and to draw from the well of strength to do what must be done. There is a time for forgiveness, but there is a time for zeal and fervour, too. To seek to rid oneself of anger is to rid oneself of the power to enact change in the face of adversity and evil." He knows, now, with this revelation, that he cannot be anything other than utterly Hers, in all things - and so he offers unto Her his swords, and all that he is, and ever shall be.

He drinks deep of the Fonts, seeking, in his youthful impatience, to grow to know Her all at once. The drive to be as familiar with Her thoughts and moods as She is is overwhelming in its implacable impetus, so that he might judge best how to ward Her from all that might seek the vulnerable portions of Her heart - Be it from within, or without. The memory shifts, the lines and details possessing the clarity of freshness, as he studies the Font before him from a thousand eyes, his view older, more patient. Wiser. Set aside, now, are the childish dreams of playing knight protector, those bright and innocent toys dulled by the knowledge of their inherent futility, and the resignation to that cold reality. In their stead, the harder, comfortless blade of reality - He cannot protect Her how he wishes to, but he can ease Her burdens in other ways. Small. Insignificant, even, when alone, but even the greatest beach in the world is made from countless grains of sand. One at a time, he resolves to himself, unto eternity.

Though the memory is one of pain and terror, those qualities are dulled into harmlessness - Cruel edges smoothed out to form the framework upon which the shining latticework of other, brighter sentiments are woven. Divine knuckles whiten as Her fingers tighten upon the grips of the blades they grip, and with it a spike of sheer, animal fear, dulled and distant, as if sanded down for this imparting. The undeniable urge to protect his beloved Lady's sacred ground is absolute in its irresistable need, a desperate hand that clamps about his numb, shivering limbs and sets them jerkily into motion once again, forcing pleas through the constricted knot that is his throat - He must do something, ~anything~ to draw that terrible wrath away from this place.

A simple set of lovingly interlaced memories - Fleeting things, each bright and shining as shooting stars, and all the more beautiful for their ephemeral nature. Laughter, again and again, but each rendition distinct from the last. Some are soft as a sighing breeze, a gentle melody of quiet mirth, while other memories are brilliant, glimmering flashes of startled, silvery music, all of which meld together to form a symphony that sings within his heart, more wondrous to him even than the Song of Creation.

It is almost comical, in a way - He is gossiping, after a fashion, with his Goddess, about the Divine. It is a strange and unexpected delight, but a gift that he cherishes with all of his heart. She is gracious enough to accept his offer to take the blame, should any be cast due to this conversation, and that thrills him such that his nerves sing with giddy joy. Finally, some minute, near insignificant way to protect Her - but a starving man is grateful beyond words for the most meager of crumbs.

They squabble. It is, when viewed through the rose-hued artwork of the stained glass memory, one of his very favourite recollections. The sheer relief of being near Her again, of feeling the cool, careful touch of Her Light, after the harrowing absence of his trial, is enough to bring him to his knees, sobbing - But he does not. Instead, he bickers with Her over cleaning his hands in the luminous waters, and his heart feels as if it will rupture with the utter joy that surges within it, even as She makes a cool, nipping remark that slides off him like rainwater. How could he be anything but delirious with the love of Her?

The veil is drawn back, and he forgets how to breathe. There is nothing of him to spare towards such earthly concerns as air, so completely is he captivated by the unparalleled rapture of seeing Her face in full. Surely, he thinks later, even the first dawn was never so effulgent with beauteous light, nor so resplendent with elegant, calm radiance. Every day, he does not believe that he can grow to love Her more deeply. Every day, She proves him wrong.

He stands before the healing mound, as he has done for months now, and spares barely a thought for the petty words and posturing of the Bloodtide and their ilk. His focus is consumed entirely by worry for his Lady, by the frustration at his inability to shield Her from the idiotic doubts of the faithless. He longs to give Her respite from Her constant work, aches to be able to take Her away from it all so that She can rest, but he cannot. So he stands a futile vigil that is nothing but a gesture of his Devotion to Her, and hopes that it provides even the faintest, fleeting flicker of comfort.

He practices for years. The days blur into one another in an indistinct smear of endless repetition, going through the motions of his performance for so long without rest that his limbs feel filled with molten lead. He stumbles, often, or the angle of his sword is off by the barest degree - An intolerable error, which he will not blacken his Lady's eyes with. The singing should, he had thought, have been the easiest, but weaving three voices at once, while dancing, and bending the light of his wings into shapes is more taxing than he would ever have believed. It is mentally exhausting, and the merciless perfectionism he subjects himself to permits only the barest of rests. More than once, the sword toss ends with the point embedded into his chitin as he struggles not to snap the length of steel in two from sheer, seething frustration. Yet he persists, until he can improve it no further, for that is the very least of what She deserves for his proof of Devotion.

She is so weary it frightens him. Still, even when She is at Her lowest point, She indulges him. As the trembling arc of his wing hovers uncertainly above Her, he yearns to shelter Her within it, to shield Her from the world and everything in it - But he does not. He retracts his outstretched feathers and simply sits with Her, and talks, for it is all he can do. Six vows. He has promised Her so much, and he will swear yet more in the time to come. Anything, for Her.

The touch of the sanguine petals buckles his knees, and it is as much reflex as his will that saves him from sprawling at Her feet. The barest drop of what She experiences constantly, and he is nearly undone by it. Rather than feel shame, he grows more determined, the pressure of what the lotus contains hardening his resolve. He binds the flower over his heart, and through the constant, aching weariness of its touch, he feels a fierce satisfaction at having a tangible, real way to ease Her burdens - If only a little.

The child formed all of stars is a miracle of brightness and sweet innocence. She brings light and radiant joy to the city and all that she touches, a effervescent beacon of gleeful love that he holds so very dear. He wonders, many times after she has returned to her place within the firmament, if this is what it might be like to have a daughter. Was it the fierceness of the love that made someone a father? The instinctive urge to guide, to protect, or something else? He does not know. What he is certain of is that he is so proud of her that he is fit to burst, and he will never again look upon the starlit sky without hearing the tintinnabulation of her laughter.