Shima. Ruthfel Cathedral.
Outside the church’s fence, the early spring wind swept the blades of grass. The morning sunlight of the new season filtered through stained-glass windows, scattering mottled, colorful light across the interior. Shadows from the vaulted dome tangled like interlaced tree branches, woven with warm golden rays.
Inside, the cathedral was silent—only my Son spoke doctrine. He stood at the altar, holding the Sacred Word in both hands, his voice steady and hoarse, like the sea washing against a dim yellow shore.
“We are born bearing original sin. It is the instinct of all life. Because of it, we feel hatred, envy, possessiveness, pride, greed, and sloth.
Yet we are not ordinary beings. We are of the divine race, seekers of truth and compassion. God has built for us a paradise of spirit upon this land. These sins we are born with are precisely what we must overcome…”
This world had already existed for thousands of Berduth. Its progress was something to rejoice in, yet its existence remained riddled with contradictions. Life’s limitations gave rise to the original sin that eternity lacked. Those negative instincts would forever prevent this world from becoming one free of hierarchy, war, race, and conflict.
But without conflict, there could be no change. And without change, life would become mechanical: past, present, and future all equally predictable and programmable.
Change is the privilege of the living.
Sometimes, I wonder: perhaps changelessness is simply another name for death.
As the chant neared its end, my Son continued in a deep voice, like the sea murmuring in the night:
“I know there is fear in your hearts—for the end of life is terrifying. But only love can unlock the mystery of deathlessness…”
After the morning blessing, the angels gradually filed out of the cathedral.
Eventually, only a few remained scattered inside. Raphael, however, still stood beneath the great crucifix, the brim of his white hat having slipped down to his shoulders.
His skin was so youthful, it seemed to emit light. His golden hair, swirling in the divine glow, looked like it had merged with the light itself. He gazed up at the crucifix, frowning deeply. The words of the Lord of Heaven echoed in his mind over and over again:
Only love can unlock the mystery of deathlessness.
Then why did his own so-called “deathlessness” feel so unreal, so terrifying?
From the vast sky came the beating wings of pegasi, hooves of unicorns scraping through the air. The scent of white roses was damp and fresh. Low clouds drifted over Shima. Such a radiant world, yet it weighed on Raphael like a shroud, suffocating.
The cathedral was quiet, so still that his breathing was audible, an eulogy for a grieving soul.
At last, there was the sound of wings outside the cathedral. Golden feathers drifted down before the wide front gate.
The one he had been waiting for had arrived.
Raphael spread his six golden wings and flew to the entrance.
At the same time, Metatron entered with several Intelligences, coming face to face with him.
Raphael hovered midair, his great wings slowed. When he had first received them, he had secretly practiced in private. The movements, the flight, all drastically different from before. It had taken him time to adjust. Though he had flown in the past, this was on another scale entirely. The wings of other divine beings in Heaven simply didn’t compare to a Seraph’s six wings. What used to take him seven or eight hours to cross Jerusalem now took less than half an hour, and left him barely winded.
That sudden surge of power had frightened him. But all his fear disappeared the moment he saw Metatron.
He offered a soft smile. “Lord Metatron.”
Metatron also came to a hover. His expression remained neutral, but his wing movement paused ever so slightly, his six wings slightly out of sync. It was his usual reaction to seeing someone beautiful.
“And you are…?”
“My name is Raphael. A Redeemer Angel assigned by the Creator to the borderlands of the Demon Realm. I’ve only recently returned to the Sanctum.”
Raphael answered Metatron per my instructions.
Sunlight spilled onto his face outside the cathedral. His skin pristine, as if sculpted from porcelain.
Such beauty in full bloom—Metatron couldn’t bring himself to say, “You look like someone I used to know.”
The news of Rafe’s death had probably been the first—and last—true sorrow Metatron ever experienced in his long life.
He would never forget that boy, born with half-demon blood. The way he always looked at him: cautious, restrained, always quietly admiring from a distance.
He remembered flying with him over Eden, over Jerusalem’s walls, through the illusions where wind spirits danced in the Fifth Heaven. But no matter how slowly he flew, their futures never seemed to align, always moving toward different tomorrows.
The lives of lowborn angels were as fragile as autumn flowers. And in this stratified world, tragedy took many shapes.
That child never caught up to him.
Metatron exhaled softly, then lifted his head with a slight arch of his brow.
“Aha. Now I remember. I heard from Lord Ruthfel that the Creator had once sent archangels to guard the Demon Realm. So, you’re also an Angel of Creation?”
“I am.”
Metatron rubbed his chin and nodded pointedly. “Well then, if we keep hovering in midair like this, those little blossoms behind me won’t be Intelligences anymore.”
“Pardon?”
“They’ll be Withers,” he said, wagging a finger. “Withered angels—the kind that droop and die.”
Raphael blinked, but quickly composed himself and responded with the elegance befitting a Seraph: “I see. Clever wordplay.”
Metatron’s cold jokes were unmatched in Heaven, but this time, Raphael genuinely wanted to laugh.
He was so glad. So happy. That the days where he could speak with Lord Metatron had returned.
Because he had made a new friend, Metatron, as always, casually canceled that day’s prayer session with the Intelligences.
He and Raphael landed and slowly walked side by side out of the cathedral. The Intelligences trailed behind them, resigned, but by now, they were long used to being ditched at a moment’s notice by their lackadaisical superior.
“So,” Metatron grinned, showing a row of perfect teeth—he really didn’t act like a typical archangel at all, “after spending so long in the Demon Realm, what’s it feel like to be back in Heaven?”
“It’s… good to be home,” Raphael answered carefully.
“And don’t you think all the changes here are exciting?”
“I do. Every time I fly overhead and look down, I feel… proud, I suppose. Seeing Heaven’s progress, it genuinely makes me happy.” That part, at least, was sincere.
“Yeah,” Metatron said dreamily, looking down the rose-lined boulevard. “Feels like there’s a little horse galloping in my chest.”
He turned back with a smirk. “Still, I think Heaven can go even further. This is just the beginning.”
Raphael nodded. “It is. Everything now is just the start.”
Metatron threw his hands up. “Just thinking about it makes me desperate to graduate from Divine Law. I used to study with Lord Ruthfel all the time. He was always so slow to grow up—and now look at him, already graduated, no lectures, lazing around in the Seraphic Palaces all day… Lucky him. Anyway—what about you? Got any plans?”
“I’m planning to attend Divine Law too. I want to learn alongside everyone else.”
“Perfect. You’ve got to help me judge my taste then.” Metatron leaned in, far too chummy, and pulled out a folded portrait. “Here—this is the girl I’ve got a crush on. What do you think? Good taste, right?”
Raphael blinked, but didn’t look especially surprised. “That’s Lady Evangeline, isn’t it?”
“She’s not Lady anything now. She’s a bad girl,” Metatron said, admiring the picture of the soft-faced blonde woman. “You know, Gabriel’s got the same hair color, and yet somehow she looks like a soggy matchstick in comparison.”
…
To mark Raphael’s ‘return,’ I arranged a grand banquet in the Sanctum.
Given the identity I’d assigned him—an Angel of Creation returning triumphant from the Demon Realm, not a new angel freshly made—he was well received by the others.
Raphael also carried a humility and gentleness that most Seraphs lacked, which made his already wonderful impression even more striking.
Gabriel, drunk during the feast, had blurted out, “Raphael is the most Seraph-like Seraph I’ve ever seen.”
The statement managed to offend half the Seraphim in the Sanctum, but Gabriel was held in high enough regard—and everyone was used to her blunt mouth—so nobody took it too seriously.
Lucifer, from the moment the banquet began, was surrounded. He responded with perfect courtesy to everyone who came up to him, but each conversation lasted only a sentence or two. His polite detachment was impeccable, but the distance was obvious.
Evangeline, meanwhile, seemed to be in a poor mood. She sat stiffly, not touching her food.
Ever since she’d been stripped of her title as the Holy Mother, far fewer people bothered with her. She sat almost alone, looking especially fragile.
Which gave Metatron his long-awaited chance to approach.
Surprisingly unsure of himself, he dragged Raphael along for backup. Rare, given how thick-skinned he usually was.
“Good evening, dear Miss Evangeline.”
“Lord Metatron.” Evangeline nodded, cool but still polite.
“Sitting here all by yourself, not eating a thing… you’re gonna float right up and become a wisp over the Sanctum. You know what happens then?”
“What?” Evangeline blinked, mildly intrigued.
Metatron rubbed his chin, raising both brows. “You turn into a stray cloud floating above the dome. And then you drift higher and higher—until no one can catch you.”
That line instantly froze every angel within earshot.
Fortunately, he salvaged the moment, probably unintentionally, by pulling Raphael forward. “Evangeline, this is Raphael. He’s just returned to Heaven.”
“Hello, Lord Raphael.”
“Hello.” Raphael greeted her, but his expression remained uneasy. Throughout the entire banquet, he was impeccably courteous, so much so that it felt overly restrained. Metatron, however, was completely oblivious, enthusiastically trying to push Raphael and Evangeline closer together. His meddling finally came to an end only once Ruthfel became available again.
“I heard you’re moving to Jerusalem today.” Ruthfel shot a glance at Raphael but didn’t speak to him. Instead, he took off his cloak and draped it over Evangeline’s shoulders. “It’s been raining nonstop there lately. Take care of your health.”
Perhaps because he finally had a chance to speak to the one he loved, Metatron drank heavily and was soon completely drunk, needing a group of angels to drag him out around midnight.
As the banquet wound down and the angels gradually dispersed, I called Raphael over to the window. “You’ve become a six-winged angel now. Has Metatron shifted his affections from Evangeline to you?”
Raphael’s gaze dimmed. He shook his head in silence.
“So,” I said, eyes drifting toward the distant bell tower outside, “the problem never had anything to do with your status.” I let the words hang in the air a moment, then added casually, “If Evangeline were to die, Metatron would probably start liking you, wouldn’t he?”
Raphael’s head snapped up, eyes wide in shock.
“Do you wish Evangeline were dead?”
“N-No!” he blurted out, alarmed. “No one has the right to take a life. I would never think that.”
I studied him for a while. There was no deceit in his response. A soft smile touched my lips. “Raphael, you may be only half-divine by blood, but you’re kinder than many full-blooded angels. I didn’t choose the wrong person.”
Raphael froze for a second, then, realizing how emotional he had been, blushed with shy embarrassment. “Th-Thank you, Father, for your trust.”
To erase a life from this world, completely and without a trace, would take me no more than a second. I had considered making Evangeline vanish, especially now that the glow of her sanctity had faded and her life, in essence, was no more valuable than an insect’s.
But if I were to act unjustly toward her, it would mean I too am a flawed being.
That can’t be.
So I merely summoned her to the Sanctum after Raphael had gone.
“Father.” She lowered her gaze, guilt writ large in every movement.
“From now on, stay away from Ruthfel.”
“Yes, Father.” Her voice was soft. “But… may I ask why?”
“He is the Vice Regent and the Archangel. You were once the Holy Mother. A relationship like this will not reflect well on the divine race. You may continue to see each other—but remember: do not share his bed again. Even if you are no longer the Holy Mother, don’t forget the image you once carried.”
Evangeline flushed red, more thoroughly than Raphael’s had, like a tomato dropped in boiling water. “I… I understand.”
Rain tends to feel oppressive, but Jerusalem’s rainy days are unique. They carry not irritation but sorrow. Far from Sancta Faylia, this city has little sense of season. Its eternal overcast sky, Gothic buildings, and perpetual chill make it feel like a woman dressed in finery but steeped in despair—her face flawless in its makeup, her tears slipping from the corners.
That day, it rained again in Jerusalem.
Foreign visitors queued along the streets for a carriage tour, but the cold soon drove many away, wings trembling, abandoning the line.
The wind twisted the rain into diagonal threads. The trees beyond the city bent low under its weight, their branches jutting like skeletal fingers, blocking the angels’ flight paths.
Then I heard it—the call of the Archangel outside the city. A call that could not be ignored.
Rain splashed onto the lake nestled in the woods, scattering countless concentric ripples across its mirrored surface. Ruthfel stood beneath a tree, eyes gazing into the distance, blue as the open sky. The shifting shadows of the branches danced across his face.
I appeared behind him.
He turned around suddenly, surprised. “Father, you actually came.”
“I thought at a time like this, you would be working or performing your devotions, not standing out here in the rain.” I frowned despite myself.
“I was responding to the Holy Spirit’s summons and came to Jerusalem to offer prayers. But then it started raining. I don’t like rainy days.”
“Prayers are offered in churches, not under trees in the wilderness.”
“When it rains, you can still hear it, even inside a church.”
He wasn’t wrong. The chill of Jerusalem seeped into the bones. When the wind howled with icy rain, even the hardiest of the divine race would grow so cold they dared not even breathe too deeply. The damp chill soaked through even thick walls, crept in behind shuttered windows. Those resting in their homes might huddle by the hearth for warmth, only to have the sound of rain tapping at the panes awaken that cold all over again. And yet…
“Ruthfel, how many times must I repeat myself? You cannot live in this world doing whatever you please.”
“I know,” he said quietly, his gaze more tranquil than the forest lake. “That’s why I didn’t ask you to turn the rain into snow. I stayed here to wait for it to stop.”
I had meant to scold him further—but instead, I found myself asking, “Why would you want to turn the rain into snow?”
“I like snow. But Heaven has too much sunlight. It rarely ever snows.”
“You like it just because you don’t see it often?”
“No.”
“Then why?”
“If you would allow me to build a snowy forest in the First Heaven, I’ll tell you.”
My eyes narrowed. “Is this a threat?”
“No,” Ruthfel gently denied, “only a request.”
He was no longer a child. One of the oldest living among the divine race, yet he still wore that childlike look of longing when he asked for something. Realizing I had perhaps been too harsh with him lately, I waved my hand dismissively. “Go ahead. A forest like that wouldn’t be unwelcome in Heaven.”
Ruthfel truly followed through. He enlisted Gabriel, the angel of water, gathered all the water and ice spirits, and transformed the northwestern woods near the Gate of Heaven into a snow-covered forest. Its snow never melted, its frost shimmered with a crystalline beauty, and its eternal winter resembled a fairytale dreamscape.
The forest drew many divine onlookers, but until I had toured it with him personally, he forbade anyone else from entering.
And so, I was forced to visit the forest with him.
Under the moonlight, deep within the snowy woods, Lucifer’s golden hair turned nearly silver.
We stepped into the forest. I glanced around. “You’ve done well.”
“Thank you.” Lucifer turned to face me. In the moonlight, even his lips seemed paler. “Might the merciful Father now wish to know why I like snow?”
“Tell me.”
“Because I love all things silver-white. Snow. Ice crystals. Moonlight. Shima…” Lucifer stepped forward, boots crunching through the icy powder. He lifted a lock of my long hair. “And this.”
He wore white gloves, and the silver chain I had once given him glinted on his wrist. My hair caught the moonlight, shimmering as the silver did.
Then, he bent his head and kissed the strand.
Hair is not skin. It feels nothing.
But when he did it, my ears and cheeks warmed faintly. Still, when he looked up and met my gaze, he must have seen the same cold, detached look I always wore. He didn’t seem surprised. Perhaps he had long grown used to my distance.
His eyes drifted slowly to my lips, lingered a moment, then returned to my eyes.
“Don’t look at me like that. I won’t kiss you,” he said softly. “I won’t ask for more.”
“Is that so?” I answered, guarded.
“Isar, I was wrong. I’m sorry.” He was taller than me, yet his voice held a boyish plea as he lowered his head to look up at me. “I just want things to go back to the way they were—to stand beside you, faithfully serving the Sanctum, our Creator. Please, let me come back to your side. Don’t keep me at arm’s length like this.”
The Ruthfel I knew was proud, intensely so, and reckless in his pride. Never had I seen him speak in such a low, conciliatory tone.
So after only the briefest pretense of consideration, I nodded. “As long as you remember what you said today.”
“I will.”
He bent again and kissed the ends of my hair. So tenderly that I could hear the deep, quiet rhythm of his breath as he did so.
What surprised me even more was that Ruthfel not only kept his word and refrained from overstepping again, he excelled at his duties as Vice Regent.
In Berduth 4634, Heaven entered the Age of Redemption. That year, Ruthfel completed The Divine Codex. It was not only the thickest book in Heaven’s history, but also the most comprehensive in scope; a volume that meticulously documented every facet of the celestial realm, from history, geography, astronomy, and culture, to races, magic, traditions, and more. Simply by reading it, one would find it hard to believe the entire work was composed by a single member of the divine race. Upon publication, The Divine Codex caused an immediate sensation. Scholars hailed it as “the encyclopedic compendium of Heaven.”
Of course, there is no such thing as a flawless life form—not even Ruthfel. He encountered many difficulties during the writing process and often came to me for guidance, which I offered. He made revisions and improvements under my instruction.
It was precisely his dedication that allowed me to finally let my guard down and draw closer to him again. Sometimes, when I watched him taking notes seriously after I corrected him, I felt that the little Ruthfel from long ago had returned, though something had been gained, and something lost.
He was especially fond of Snowmoon Forest and invited me countless times to walk there with him. I accompanied him on these strolls regularly. Whenever we wandered through the forest together, time seemed to pass swiftly. Sometimes, we would stop to gaze up at the night sky as the snow fell thick and silent, glittering and white, swirling through the moonlight like dancers. In those moments, an unspoken feeling would quietly blossom in my chest.
And with every conversation, I came to realize how much more he had matured—how many sides of him I had yet to know.
Unless I had a specific reason, I rarely used my Divine Eye to observe any single divine being. As the Creator, I watched my world from a distant, impartial height. But that night, after parting from Ruthfel, I was seized by a strange curiosity—where was he going?
I had only just returned to the Throne when I traced his path.
I watched him return to the Hall of Splendor and instruct his subordinates for the next day’s work. I saw him flipping through the newspaper under the light of Sancta Faylia, his thick, curled lashes like golden grass along the cliffs of the Fifth Heaven. I watched as he leaned his slender cheek on the back of his hand, his expression serious and focused. And I watched as he lifted his head abruptly when the guards announced a visitor…
The soft footsteps that approached were unmistakably those of a woman—and not just any woman, but the former Holy Mother herself, Evangeline.
“Lord Ruthfel.” Her emerald eyes brimmed with tears the moment she saw him. She flew into his arms, clung to him tightly, and buried her head in his chest. “It’s—it’s been far too long.”
Ruthfel gently embraced her, stroking her back like one would soothe a child. “Didn’t we see each other just last week?”
Evangeline looked up, a dazed, dreamlike look clouding her gaze. “That was already too long ago.”
Smiling, Ruthfel brushed a lock of hair behind her ear, then leaned down and kissed her on the lips. Evangeline loved him too deeply—it had long surpassed the point of reason. Their lips had barely met when tears began to fall down her face. It seemed all women who loved Ruthfel shared one trait: their sharp edges dulled to softness, like the fragile sprouts of early spring. All it took was for him to cradle them in his arms, and they would rush to undress themselves for him.
Evangeline was merely one of many. Her reaction was no different from the rest, which was hardly surprising.
But Ruthfel’s feelings for her were clearly unlike his feelings for anyone else.
I silently watched as he carried her into the bedchamber.
Layer by layer, he peeled off her clothing. His eyes were warm, almost doting, as he looked at her. He poured all his tenderness into her, kissing her deeply…
Their entanglement continued even when I could no longer endure it.
In a burst of fury, I shattered Ruthfel’s seat to my right into dust.
Then I summoned my Son to the Sanctum. My hand trembled as I pointed toward the Hall of Splendor:
“Bring Ruthfel here at once! Drag him here this instant!”
At the same moment, the entire Heaven shook.
My Son had never seen me so enraged. Even he staggered back two steps and stammered, “Y-Yes, Father.”
But before he could leave the chamber, I was already shaking my head, almost shouting, “No—stop. Don’t summon him.”
He froze in place, unsure whether to advance or retreat.
I exhaled deeply, trying to steady myself. “You are dismissed.”
In truth, I didn’t need to call him. Ruthfel and Evangeline were forced to stop anyway—because by the time I had calmed down and stepped out of the Sanctum, one-third of Sancta Faylia had collapsed.
In Berduth 4634, Heaven experienced an unprecedented catastrophe for the very first time in its long history. For three days, none of the Archangels returned to the Seventh Heaven; they scattered across every city and corner of the celestial realm, engaged in rescue efforts. Tens of thousands of low-ranking angels perished in the vast disaster. Cries for help, wails of grief, and desperate sobbing rang endlessly in my ears.
Ruthfel seemed entirely unaware of the incident. He simply spent a long time assisting my Son in rebuilding Sancta Faylia.
During the reconstruction, my Son once risked his life to come see me.
“Father God,” he said, “you’re still angry. If I say the wrong thing now, you might reduce me to ashes. But before things get worse, I must say this.”
“Speak,” I replied wearily.
“The birth of time created your solitude. Your solitude created your imperfection. And that imperfection required something else to fill the void. That something is Ruthfel—the only divine being you cannot control, because he is your flaw.”
I already knew what he was going to say. I listened quietly and closed my eyes.
My Son knelt and pleaded:
“Father God, Heaven cannot exist without you. So please—cast it away. Cast away your Original Sin.”
Through the Divine Eye, I saw Ruthfel simply flying high above Sancta Faylia in silence. When I saw the mercy in his eyes as he gazed down on the masses, I still couldn’t fathom what he was truly thinking. His image, however, was clear in my mind, so distinct, so unlike the others, that I couldn’t let go.
“I’m not like them,” I heard myself say coldly. “I have no Original Sin. As for Ruthfel, I am only angry at his lack of discipline, his indulgence in lust. That is not befitting of a Vice Regent.”
It was the first time I ever felt I’d said too much to someone. In truth, I didn’t need to explain anything.
That day, I moved Snowmoon Forest to the Demon Realm and never returned to it again.
…
“Isar, what do you mean by this? Why is Snowmoon Forest gone?” Ruthfel noticed the change immediately and came to question me as I stepped down from the Altar.
“That forest no longer suits Heaven,” I said plainly.
“I don’t care whether it suits Heaven or not—it holds our memories!” Ruthfel hadn’t been this emotional in a long time. He stepped in front of me to block my path. “Everything was fine—why did you change it so suddenly? You’re the Creator! How can you go back on your word?”
To him, Snowmoon Forest was a beautiful dreamscape of shared memories. But to me, it had become a tomb, one that buried all the fear and sorrow I should never have allowed myself to feel.
“It’s in the outer layers of the Demon Realm, unchanged. With your power, it’s easy for you to go there.”
I didn’t finish the rest of what I wanted to say. I simply brushed past him in silence. But he should have known what I meant.
—It’s just…I won’t go there again.
Ruthfel stood frozen in place, looking a little wronged. It wasn’t until I passed him and took a few steps away that I heard him speak behind me, quietly:
“What do you want me to do?”
I paused for a moment, then kept walking.
“Isar… what do you want me to do?”
He asked again. But softer this time—because I was already far away.
What do I want from you…
Even I didn’t know the answer.
That night, I went alone to the Demon Realm, to Snowmoon Forest, hoping to clear my thoughts. But the longer I stood there, the more confused I became.
Just standing in this place, the memories of being alone with Ruthfel flooded over me like the heavy snow above, blanketing every thought. I had let go of the place where our memories were held.
We would no longer have a chance to meet here.
Perhaps such worry was excessive. After all, Ruthfel and I were always so close—he was always seated at my side, on the seat beside mine, the Creator’s and the Vice Regent’s.
Over four thousand Berduths had passed. How many moons and suns had come and gone?
In all that time, he had always remained within arm’s reach. We had always been like this, intimately close. Even without Snowmoon Forest, it didn’t matter.
And yet, I suddenly felt very lonely.
Divinity is solitude—but not loneliness.
If one cannot endure being alone, one has no right to stand at the pinnacle of the world. But even God, sitting alone atop the highest place in Heaven, cannot always escape loneliness.
I let out a long breath, turned around, and prepared to return to Heaven—only to see Ruthfel standing behind me.
I froze.
“Is it that being too far from the Sanctum has dulled your awareness of your surroundings?” he smiled. The curve of his lips was beautiful.
In that moment, I suddenly realized that this man before me was no longer the child I once lifted with ease, nor the young angel who used to ask me a thousand questions with wide, curious eyes. He stood beneath the faint, cold moonlight, his eyes deep and gentle, filled with the quiet patience unique to a grown man.
“When I was young, I thought I understood you well. But now… I feel like I don’t understand you at all.” Ruthfel looked down at me, breath turning to mist in the cold air. “You say you dislike Snowmoon Forest, so you moved it to the Demon Realm. But if that’s the case… why did you come here again?”
“Why are you here?” I replied as always. Cold, emotionless.
I really have grown old. More and more, I cling to memories. More and more, I fear looking into a hopeless future. And I’ve come to dislike the darkness. Because when I stand in the dark, the colors become so vivid they blind me. And sometimes, I find myself yearning for an embrace.
What’s terrifying is… every time I long to be held, the same pair of azure-blue eyes appears in my mind. Eyes that gaze at me, gentle and full of love.
Those in my mind overlapped with the eyes now in front of me.
Ruthfel hesitated when he heard my question. But not long after, he chuckled.
I frowned despite myself. “What are you laughing at?”
“Isar, I wonder if you’ve ever realized—you have a quirk.”
“What quirk?” My brow furrowed even deeper.
“You’re gentle to everyone… except me. With me, you’re always harsh—as if I’m some kind of beast you need to guard against. There’s no need for that. Because today… is the last time I’ll ever come here.”
I didn’t understand, only looked at him in silence.
The pale snow of millennia spread a dense net across the sky like petals falling from the night’s flowers.
He sighed softly and said it, almost relaxed:
“I’m giving up on you.”
The snow on his coat felt like it had melted into his skin, straight to the heart. I saw his lips moving, forming words, but the sound seemed to come from a great distance. It took a long time for my consciousness to register them—
“After all these Berduths, I’ve finally figured it out. You really aren’t like us. You don’t have the ability to fall in love with one person alone. To be one of the billions you’ve loved as God… isn’t so bad.”
“Maybe it’s time I started paying attention to those who love me with their whole heart. No more stubbornness.”
“I’ve given up. Truly.”
……
I listened quietly to every word he said, and the whole world turned bitterly cold. He stood silent for a long, long while—then suddenly smiled at me.
“A first and final kiss. A reward and a farewell for giving up.”
He walked toward me, crushing snow beneath his boots. His shadow moved under the moonlight.
Don’t come any closer. Don’t.
I was screaming inside, silently, helplessly.
But my feet felt chained, sunken deep into the snow, unable to move. It was like standing before an executioner, trembling as I received my own death sentence. I watched, unable to stop him, as he reached out and wrapped his arms around my waist. His lowered head cast a shadow that eclipsed the cold, curved moon.
His lips were warm and soft, gently brushing mine. It felt like a sudden winter wind tearing into my chest—I gasped sharply, and in that moment, I lost breath and heartbeat. I knew at first he only meant to give a brief kiss and leave. But hearing that breath of mine, something in him changed. Unwilling to let go, he pulled me into a tight embrace, arms locking around me, and his tongue slipped into my mouth.
In that instant, I felt as if I’d lost all my divine power, as if I’d become truly blind. All I could sense was his breath. All I could feel, through the press of our bodies, was the beat of his heart.
I tried to push him away, only to find that my ability to command the cosmos had evaporated. He only had to pull me closer with one arm, and I was completely trapped against him. Then, holding my jaw so I couldn’t evade him, he forced my lips open and kissed me deeply…
The feeling was terrifying.
So much passion. Too much. It felt like it could burn the entire world, burn everything.
Finally, he let go. With a bitter smile, he said, “No reaction at all… I guess it really was just wishful thinking on my part.”
I stood frozen in place, a statue.
He watched me for a moment and laughed a helpless laugh. It seemed like he wanted to say something more, but all that came out was:
“Let’s leave it at that.”
Then, he unfurled his six wings and flew into the sky.
There had never been a moment when I wanted so badly to chase after him, to hold him, to keep him here.
But my feet were trapped in the snow. I couldn’t move.
All I could do was lift my head, eyes wide open, and watch as his silhouette blurred into the snowfall. Pale feathers of the fallen blanketed Snowmoon Forest like a storm.
I remember—long, long ago, when Ruthfel was still a little fluffball of a child—he used to ask all sorts of strange, curious questions. The trickiest one he ever asked was:
“Father God, why don’t you have wings?”
He looked at me with those wide blue eyes, like two sparkling ponds.
I was momentarily stunned. That was the first time he’d ever asked a question I didn’t know how to answer.
It was true—most of the beings I created had wings. With wings, they could fly freely through the universe.
I almost answered, “Because I can appear wherever I wish, I don’t need wings.” But that didn’t make sense either. I didn’t need to walk, yet I still gave my projections decorative feet.
I thought for a long time before I replied.
Looking back now, Ruthfel’s yearning for unrestrained freedom was something that not even I, nor any being in Heaven, could ever truly possess. All divine beings desire freedom. But none dare to truly reach for it. Because freedom comes with its opposite: responsibility. The moment you gain freedom, you must also bear its weight.
They willingly allow themselves to be commanded, to be used, to be enslaved, because doing so means someone else bears the consequences.
That’s why the divine race depends on me so much.
If there is God in your heart—if you depend on God—then all the responsibility belongs to God.
Another day passed. I opened my eyes.
Before me lay the empty Sanctum, the eternal haze, the golden glow of Sancta Faylia outside the window.
And I, as always, sat high atop the Throne of Heaven, unchanged.
The one with the least freedom in all of Heaven… is me.
So back then, this was what I told Ruthfel:
“Father God has no wings because He only needs to sit upon His throne to see all things, to reach all places. He doesn’t need to fly around like you.”
I have no wings—because I do not need to fly.
Author: Tav Tav
Translating
The Right Wing of God, the one seated at the right hand of the Most High.
