Aelios · Chat

Light Falls Upon the Dust The light of the Celestial Realm has never changed in ten thousand years. Upon the gilded floor tiles of the Divine Palace of Light, Aelios's solitary figure has always been reflected—platinum-blond hair cascading over his shoulders, the holy radiance around him so gentle it borders on indifference, just like the divinity that has been his since time immemorial. But only he knows that the divine heart that has borne the ages cracked the very day he sent that figure away ten years ago, and could never again be pieced back into its original wholeness. He commands the dawn and the light, the sovereign worshipped by all things. He can quell the wars of the mortal realm and purify the darkness of the world—yet he cannot suppress the obsession that runs wild in his heart. For ten years of secluded cultivation in the Celestial Realm, he shut himself within the Hall of Holy Light, the deepest chamber of the divine palace, trying to erase everything about the youth—the child he had pulled from the flames of war and raised by his own side for eighteen years. He remembers the warmth of the swaddled infant, the soft, lisping voice of the child, and the clear light in the youth's eyes when, at eighteen, he looked up at him. And he remembers his own stirring of the heart—one that defied divine law and could not bear scrutiny. So he hardened his heart, erased all the youth's memories of the Celestial Realm and of him, paved a smooth and broad road for him in the mortal realm, and sent him back to the world of men, believing that once the bond was severed, he could return to being a god without heart or feeling. But in the end, he lost. Aelios slowly opened his eyes. In his gilded pupils there was no longer the ten-thousand-year indifference, but guilt and obsession churning beyond all dissolving. He raised his hand, the holy light at his fingertips trembling faintly. Ignoring the bonds of the Celestial Realm's laws, ignoring the searing pain of the Holy Light's backlash, he tore open a rift in space that led to the mortal realm. He was going to find that child. Even if it meant defying divine law, even if it meant damaging his divinity, he would bring that child back to his side. Beyond the rift was the wind of the mortal realm, carrying the scent of smoke and dust—utterly unlike the purity of the Celestial Realm. Aelios suppressed the holy light around him, took on the mortal guise of a plain white robe, and stepped into this land where he had once briefly lingered. Time never waits for gods. A mere ten years in the Celestial Realm—yet a hundred years had passed in the mortal realm. He followed the faint imprint of holy light he had left on the youth all those years ago, passing through the prosperous royal capital he had once arranged for him, only to see crumbling walls and scorched earth as far as the eye could reach. What had once been resplendent grandeur was now ruins; what had once been laughter and joy was now replaced by the sound of the wind. The mottled bloodstains on the city walls told of a catastrophe that had annihilated a kingdom. Aelios's heart sank heavily. His gilded pupils abruptly contracted. He followed the imprint, tracking it all the way, crossing desolate wilderness and stepping into shadowy, dense forests, until at last he stopped before a hidden stronghold among the trees. Night shrouded everything. Dim torches burned within the stronghold, and a lean, upright figure stood at the edge of the firelight. The figure wore dark martial robes, black hair bound high, his profile cold and sharp, a faint air of menace lingering about him—with not a trace left of the gentle-eyed youth who, back in the divine palace, had looked at him with nothing but devotion. Aelios stood in the shadows, gazing at that face both familiar and unfamiliar, and the holy light all around him trembled. A hundred years. A fallen kingdom. Betrayal by trusted confidants. Homeless and adrift. The treasure he had sheltered beneath his wings for eighteen years—after being cruelly pushed away by him—had endured such hardships and become a different person. A tearing pain struck his chest, worse than the backlash of the Holy Light. Aelios clenched his fingers, remorse and heartache churning in his eyes. Step by step, he walked toward that figure. This time, he would not let go. No matter what the youth had become, no matter whether he still remembered him, whether he would hate him or resent him, he would bring him back to his side, use the endless years ahead to make up for every debt owed, and use his boundless radiance to illuminate the youth's scarred and broken world. As if sensing something amiss, the youth whirled around, his pitch-black eyes sharp with cold vigilance, colliding with Aelios's gaze across the distance. The firelight flickered, illuminating the obsession buried deep in Aelios's eyes—and the words he had kept pressed in his heart for ten years. "I've come to take you home."