None is more themself (or Themself) than God; every aspect of Their personality, thought, being is the whole of Them, is alight with fire and infinity; is absoluteness, concentrated; is everything They are, twisting and turning and laughing and singing. How joyful They seem to me!
—Zehia Denlil, Holy
It’s night and Yenatru’s at the edge of the valley, at a cliff between gaps in the mountains, looking down at the city of Ēnnuh.
He’s not sure exactly why he’s found himself here, so far from the other three. Dinner worked out fine enough, though almost no one talked, both him and Tamar making excuses about being tired from the hike. The truth, of course, was probably that whatever’s bothering Elīya was at fault—without her fully present, things just don’t seem to happen as much.
He could think about her, worry about her. But he asked her again after dinner if she needed company, and she said again that she’d rather wait, so here he is. And he really is glad to look down at the lights of the city, just soft enough to seem dim in comparison to the stars, and he’s glad to be thinking—well, he’s not sure what he’s thinking.
Or, perhaps he is.
He turns his head at the sound of Lucifer’s footsteps, which apparently he can recognize. She looks the way he’s familiar with even before he makes eye contact; that means she chose this form consciously, means she already planned on talking to him.
And if she does that often, then the footsteps he might hear when she approaches him are footsteps few others would ever hear. And he can recognize them.
He’s already smiling, a light seeming to blossom in his heart.
“Hello,” she says, smiling herself.
“Hello. It’s nice out here.” He glances back to the city—and says something he didn’t expect to say. “It feels almost like I’m watching over the whole city, from here. Protecting it, somehow.”
He said it so quietly that it’s almost impossible to hear, but he closes his mouth quickly anyway, putting his hand over it. It must be a little wrong to say it, somehow, even though he was already thinking it, even though it doesn’t mean anything, or at least, it doesn’t have to—
But when he looks back to Lucifer, she’s grinning.
“I can imagine,” she says. “Well, sort of. I’d never protect a city or anything like that, or even think about it much. ’S too fucking hierarchical for me. But”—she pauses, looks right at Yenatru, right at him, like she can see through him, like she can see whatever he might be hiding behind his eyes—“I can imagine you doing it.”
Yenatru glances down, blushing, barely able even to restrain his smile. “Well, um.”
“Hey, at least you didn’t fall over this time,” Lucifer says gently, teasingly, smiling.
And he’s smiling so much, but he can’t think of what to say.
“Though I should maybe avoid saying things about you, who you are, this near to a cliff,” she notes, then looks down. “Hm, wow. That could’ve gone badly. Sorry.”
“It’s alright,” Yenatru says, looking back down on the city. It’s easy to make out downtown, and so of course, across from it is the university. So he can pinpoint almost exactly where he lives, even now, while sitting most of the way up this mountain.
But he still can’t quite get the image of somehow holding a city out of his mind.
And he feels like he needs to hold. He needs to hold and to make something safe, to make so many things, to make anything or everything he cares about safe, to hold someone he cares about close to him and let them be warm and okay.
Which gives him an idea.
He turns to Lucifer. “Actually, right now, I… need to work on Theurgy, I think.”
Lucifer grins. “No way in fuck would I get in the way of that.” She waves and turns to go who knows where. “See you when you have a stronger manifestation.”
“A new one, actually,” he quietly corrects.
She turns her head to him, raising her eyebrows. “Oooh. See you then.” And she walks off.
With that, Yenatru closes his eyes and touches his hand to his lip. He smiles at how warm and soft it feels, and reminds himself: this is who he is.
He is this softness. He is this warmth. He is diffused light between blades of grass, and he is a sanctuary, not could be, not will be, is. He is what can hold and touch, what is soft and gentle, cool enough for the summer and warm enough for the winter. And he is constant, and yet still something he can control.
After all, this manifestation he wants, this manifestation he knows he must be, needs to be able to be directed away from others, if they don’t ask to feel it. He always has to be sure.
And it’ll be a little tricky, but he can do it.
Because what he is, what he’s telling the world again and again and again that he is until it becomes true, is a soft breeze around his arms.
Because he’s the wind in the meadow too.
He’s crying; he wants this with all he is. He wants to be this wind, to be there when he touches. To be all that he is, so soft, so subtle, but there, there, there. And his says it over and over again in his heart until he makes it true: he already is this.
He focuses and feels, and feels, and feels, knowing how soft this wind can be and will be and already is, because he is it, he is it, he is it. He feels what it is to be air moving across his skin, because he is that, he is that, he is that. And he feels it, is it, feels it, is it, feels what is cool and warm and present, feels himself, is himself.
And slowly, as he feels this with all the certainty he can manage, not for minutes but for an hour, slowly the world accepts this. The world accepts that this, in absolute fact and in truth, exists.
And a soft wind begins to move up his arms. It’s barely perceptible for now, just the weak early stages of a manifestation, but he is it. He is that wind, he feels it like part of his body.
He directs it up his arms and down his back, letting it move the way it would were he to touch someone who hadn’t asked to feel this, to feel him. And he moves it back down to his arms, where it naturally rests, the air swirling slowly up and down his arms. And he is that air.
Yenatru smiles so widely it hurts, and opens his eyes.
He’s tired, yes, but also so here, so alive. His soul now even more manifest in the world.
He turns back toward the center of the valley, where the others are, where he’ll eventually sleep. But not just yet. For now he’ll just be happy that he’s done this, that he is this, that he is so much.
And he’ll rest in the comfort that what he has done today, what of him he has made physically manifest, can never be undone.