Alastor's slender frame bent low as he dropped to his knees, the coolness of the floor pressing into his skin. His palms met in a solemn salute, fingers intertwined tightly as if trying to trap the swell of emotion that threatened to spill from his heart.
For a moment, silence wrapped around him like a suffocating shroud. The flicker of hope in his chest waned, the weight of reality replacing it with a heavy, familiar despondency.
'Who was he, amidst the multitude of worshippers whose voices rose to the heavens in a constant symphony of adoration? How could a humble priest like him hope to catch even the faintest glimmer of the divine gaze?'
His head drooped lower, the shadow of the great statue enveloping him like an embrace. The wordless misery clouded his eyes as he stood, tentative and defeated, and approached the marble effigy.
His slender fingers reached out, trembling as they brushed against the cold, lifeless stone.
Without thinking, he bent down and pressed his forehead against the god's feet, their smoothness unyielding against the warmth of his skin.
A breath escaped him, more sigh than prayer, and he whispered, almost to himself, "How foolish of me, hoping for what is impossible."
Tears pricked the corners of his eyes, pooling before being hastily blinked away. The sensation of loneliness crept over him, chilling and familiar, settling into his bones as he clutched the divine figure's ankles and rubbed his cheek against the unfeeling marble.
His brow knitted in sorrow, and he looked up with a gaze so laden with yearning it seemed as though it could carve a crack in the stone above him.
Above, in the resplendent realm of Nine Heavens, the God of Light leaned forward, the silken drapes of his robes whispering across the golden floor.
His luminous hair, cascading like a waterfall spun of sunrays, shimmered as he observed the scene below.
The soft curve of his mouth, often serene and distant, wavered as an unexpected tightness pulled at his chest. The sight of his devoted priest, so painfully fragile, both amused and infuriated him.
The God of Light pressed his eyebrows, not knowing what to do with the little believer. 'He is so charming and cute and at the same time sensitive and fragile. He thinks of himself so lowly, which makes him both angry and funny. Does he think that every priest of the light can receive the gift of the god of light when he prays?'
The God's dark eyes, so deep they seemed to drink in the very essence of creation, softened.
The memory of the countless, pleading prayers from kings and prophets crossed his mind. Even the exalted Pope, whose piety was unrivalled, had begged for decades to feel a single flicker of divine favour.
On the other hand, the little believer, if he was not afraid of the huge divine power breaking his body, he would like to pour all his love and nostalgia on him.
How could he think that his Father God did not love him?
And yet here was this youth, so unaware of the brightness that emanated from his very soul, thinking himself too insignificant to merit a glance.
"You foolish, tender-hearted boy," the deity murmured, a sigh like the whisper of a warm breeze.
Unable to watch his little believer suffer under the weight of doubt any longer, he extended a hand, fingers graceful as beams of light, and with a delicate touch sent a sliver of golden energy spiralling through the mirror of the world below.
The golden thread, imbued with the warmth of a thousand suns and the soft, fragrant undertone of sacred lilies, found its way to the temple and alighted gently on the young man's furrowed brow.
The touch was as light as a feather but carried a depth that made Alastor's breath catch.
Warmth spread through him, dispelling the shadow of despair and filling him with a radiant glow that stilled the trembling of his heart.
It was tender, like the embrace of a long-lost friend, and the misery that had clung so stubbornly to him melted away in its presence.
Alastor shuddered as divine power swept through him like a tidal wave, leaving no part of his being untouched.
A soft moan escaped his lips, the sound barely more than a whisper, and his frowning brows gradually unfurled as warmth spread across his skin.
His pallor gave way to a delicate flush that bloomed on his high cheekbones, lending him an ethereal, almost feverish glow.
He felt as though the very essence of light had seeped into him, chasing away shadows, leaving him buoyant and weightless.
A blissful serenity settled into his expression, softening the lines of worry and longing that had etched themselves into his features. Overcome by the tenderness that enveloped him, he bent forward, pressing a reverent kiss to the cold marble instep of the divine statue, a gesture of gratitude and devotion that felt as natural as breathing.
Moments passed, though to him they felt timeless, an eternity where he was held in the cradle of divine affection.
When the embrace of celestial warmth finally released him, he blinked, a hint of confusion clouding the radiance in his eyes.
The offering table caught his gaze, and shock registered as he took in its emptiness. Not a crumb, not a morsel remained; it was as if the offerings had been spirited away by unseen hands.
Panic spiked through him, banishing the last remnants of peace, and he pivoted on his heel, the fabric of his robes fluttering as he dashed through the hall.
His voice echoed as he called out, desperate to find answers from the maids who lingered outside.
High above, in the radiant expanse of Nine Heavens, the God of Light observed the young priest's hurried retreat with an indulgent, affectionate sigh.
His silver-gilded eyes, deep as starlit pools, crinkled at the corners with a rare expression of helplessness.
It was both endearing and amusing to see Alastor in such a flurry. The god shifted his attention to the offering in his grasp, bringing it close and tilting it so that the light shone on the small, handmade figure.
The steam curling from the still-warm dough carried an earthy, nutty fragrance of buckwheat, subtly sweet and rich. The deity closed his eyes briefly, inhaling, savoring the aroma that seemed to carry the essence of the mortal's unwavering devotion.
The little noodle figure, shaped with such care, appeared as if it might spring to life under the god's gaze. Its tiny arms folded in an imitation of prayer, eyes—mere indentations in dough—looked solemn, yet somehow, endearingly hopeful.
The steam had caused it to swell and soften, exaggerating its rounded features and imbuing it with a cherubic quality. The God of Light rotated the figure with an almost reverent touch, a smile tugging at the corners of his usually composed mouth.
The feeling that coursed through him was akin to a gentle current, an almost electric sensation that pulsed softly, warming even the cold, hidden chambers of his divine heart.
He lingered in this quiet reverie for a long while, eyes tracing every detail of the offering with a meticulousness that was tender, almost vulnerable.
Finally, unable to resist, he lifted the tiny figure to his lips and pressed a kiss to it. It was a touch that conveyed the gentlest of affections, an acknowledgment of a love returned.
A subtle shift occurred in his expression as he turned to the nearby angel, whose luminous wings caught the light and diffused it in a halo of radiant color.
"Is he not adorable?" the God of Light asked, his voice deep and resonant, yet colored with an unmistakable note of fondness.
The pronoun, 'he' rather than 'it,' did not escape the divine envoy and a flicker of understanding dawned across the heavenly being's features.
They knew, now, that this simple offering was more than a token. It was a representation of the very mortal who had unknowingly enchanted their god.
The divine envoy resplendent with shimmering feathers and a soft glow that pulsed like the heart of a distant star, offered a serene smile.
The deity's words carried a note of pride, much like the nobles in the mortal realms who delighted in flaunting precious treasures.
And though the God of Light's tone was tempered with divine dignity, there was an undeniable hint of childlike joy, as if he had discovered something that, in all the aeons of his existence, had been wholly new and wondrous.
The celestial silence that followed was rich, heavy with unsaid words and gentle awe, as the God of Light returned his gaze to the offering, eyes softening further.
In that moment, the heavens felt less vast, less infinite, and more like a place that had just been graced with a little bit of the world's rarest sweetness.