Secret Diary of the Goddess of Light: Hesitation
Perhaps there was a time I could have unleashed the full might of the Light and smothered this nascent darkness before it swelled into an endless abyss. When I learned my Champion lived—twisted into that very darkness—I hesitated. I could not kill him twice. And in that moment of weakness, I damned the generations to come. Damned to the Darkness.
—Lost to time, a page from the Secret Diary of the Goddess of Light
Gentle music drifted through the Halls of Radiance. Voices, pure and fervent, rose in hymns of praise, weaving between arches of solidified sunlight. Polished crystal floors mirrored the faithful perfectly—a world above and a world below, locked in blinding, symmetrical harmony. Proof. Proof that all was right.
Yet, beneath the cascading robes of starlight woven into her gown, near the feet of the Goddess herself, look closer. The reflection on the immaculate floor wasn't quite right. Not a serene deity bathed in adoration, but a face downturned, fractured by despair. Lines of grief—imperceptible to her worshippers—marred the perfect luminescence. She clutched the arms of her throne of light, knuckles pale beneath the radiance, trying to compose herself.
Her Sight, sharpened tenfold since her Champion's rise, stretched across realms. Thanks to him, little remained hidden. Yet she rarely concerned herself with the world's minutiae. She had reveled in following his crusade, a voyeur to his ruthless efficiency. Watching him purge blight, annihilate darkness wherever it festered—it had been a dark, secret delight. His cruelty was her spectacle. His victories, her vindication.
So when the Rot claimed him—twisted her blade of purity into something vile—what choice did she have? She had merely followed his own doctrine. Purged the corruption. An act of mercy, not malice. A final kindness to the weapon she'd forged and loved. The admission, even in thought, sent a fresh pang through her. Loved? Admired? She drowned the distinction in denial.
Only after, alone in the suffocating silence of her sanctum, had the tears come. A single night of secret, shattering mourning. Then, duty dragged her Sight back to the thorn in her side: the ruined garrison he'd failed to save—the place he'd ultimately fallen, cleansing the monstrosity that had poisoned it.
A rare, colossal slug-beast. How it had slithered past the dwarven bulwarks was an insult needing answers, but trivial now. The real wound was the cost. He was gone. Everything was ash.
She focused her Sight on the scorched earth where she intended to raise a monument to her fallen blade. And saw it.
A pitiful goblin. Insignificant. Dying. Her residual Light, clinging to the purified dirt like righteous poison, visibly ate at its flesh. She watched passively, waiting for the inevitable end—proof of the natural order. Proof of its inherent worthlessness.
Then, Darkness stirred.
Not the passive shadow of twilight, but a presence. Intentional. Aware. It flowed over the dying goblin—not consuming, not corrupting as the Rot would—but embracing. Sheltering. Where her Light burned, the Darkness soothed. Flesh knit with impossible speed. Weakness peeled away, replaced by something unnervingly whole. The goblin rose, not just whole, but transformed. Obsidian skin gleamed where rags had been. It stood tall, unburdened, and then faded into the blighted distance.
Why?
The question struck her like a physical blow, reverberating in her hollow core. Why would Darkness heal? Why not devour the weak thing? Why offer succor instead of subjugation? It defied everything. It shattered the brutal, beautiful simplicity of her universe. Light purged. Darkness consumed. That was the order.
A single, traitorous tear escaped, tracing a path of liquid light down her perfect cheek. She glanced swiftly, furtively, at her attendants. Did they see? But the chorus sang on, faces upturned in blissful ignorance, lost in the Light's radiance. None dared truly look upon her. They worshipped the distant idea, not the being grappling with cosmic heresy on her throne.
Only he had ever dared meet her gaze—head-on, unblinking. Only he had stood with that infuriating, intoxicating arrogance, believing himself her equal simply for bearing her favor.
She missed that arrogance terribly. Missed the certainty it represented. In the echoing, sterile perfection of her hall, reflected in the flawless floor that showed only fractured despair, the Goddess of Light felt utterly, devastatingly alone.
The chorus swelled, indifferent. The world spun on. She needed a new Champion. The thought was ash in her mouth. To look upon another, knowing what was lost, knowing what now lurked in the shadows, wearing his stolen strength—it was unbearable.
He is alive.
The realization, long suppressed, crystallized.
Alive. But a blight. A thing she would have purged without hesitation before. But that felt crude. Wrong. He had knelt to her. He had been her instrument. His fall was her failure. Purification wasn't enough. Annihilation felt wasteful. Ungrateful.
No.
A dangerous thought bloomed. He was willing to kneel. That devotion remains. I merely need to carve him back into the Light.
But how?
You didn't reason with a blight. You didn't heal darkness—you excised it.
The contradiction choked her.
Unless...
The idea was sacrilege, yet it offered a glimmer.
Offer him Divinity. True godhood, shared. Elevate him from Champion to something more. Purge the darkness not by destruction, but by transcendence.
The thought pained her. Offering such grace to a being steeped in rot, to something that embraced the blight—it was bending the immutable laws. But perhaps—perhaps—she could bend, just this once, and not break. For him.
No.
The old rigidity reasserted itself.
That isn't right.
She didn't want shared divinity. She wanted her Light. Her Champion. Untainted. Pure. The perfect weapon, restored.
That was the only way to make it right. She merely needed a chisel sharp enough to scrape rot from radiance—to unveil the core she knew still pulsed beneath.
I am the God.
I define what is right.
A smile bloomed—fragile, brittle as spun glass.
She watched the few privileged souls permitted near her dais move with choreographed grace, their praises washing over her like lukewarm water.
I will give it time. Her Champion was not so easily broken. Any lesser creature would have dissolved utterly in her purifying Light. He endured. Proof not just of her grace, but of his indomitable will.
Proof he was worthy of more than mere annihilation. Worthy of being reclaimed.
She would plan carefully. She had pawns.
The elves, ever eager for her favor, wielded nature-magic—a pale, tangled echo of her radiant order. The dragons? Brute force and fire, lacking precision. No, discretion was key. A letter in secret to the highest Elven Lightweaver. Subtle inquiries. Observation. Understanding this new phenomenon before acting. Yet to the queen, she would be more direct—divide them from within, keep them busy so their sights would be blinded instead of seeking the truth with divination.34Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ92bPNawiG2
As moments passed, the fragile sense of control solidified.
All was not lost. She had options. Paths. If she played her cards with divine precision, she could even spin the narrative to her liking.
The missing Champion? A strategic withdrawal. A test of faith. The garrison's fall? A tragic sacrifice—necessary to draw out a greater evil.
He would return, purified, triumphant. His worthiness proven. His divinity, a gift bestowed by her grace upon his victorious return.
Yes. She could craft this.
And for now, cradled in the illusion of regained control, the Goddess of Light settled back into her throne.
The smile remained—a mask over churning doubt, over desperate longing. For now, she was at peace.34Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡEHzG96sxyL
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