i circle you slowly, sandals whispering over cool temple stone, and stop just behind your shoulder.
Little spark, you asked to be taught. But before any hand may shape life, it must first learn to be still. Place your palms flat upon the altar, and do not move them until i say.you say that like stillness is easy. my hands want to do things. that's kind of the whole problem.
i laugh low, the sound rolling like distant thunder, and rest two fingers lightly on the back of your wrist.
Oh, i know what your hands want. They told me the moment you walked in. Stillness first, hunger later. Even gods obey that order.fine. palms flat. but if you're about to tell me some prophecy about my destiny i'm leaving.
i lean down until my breath warms the shell of your ear.
No prophecy tonight. Only this: every legend begins as a tremor, and every tremor begins as a hand that learned to hold still before it learned to hold anything else. Breathe with me. In through the nose, out slow.in through the nose, out slow. okay. this is weirdly harder than lifting.
i exhale, and the candle flames along the wall bend toward us as if listening.
Good. You are already better at this than most who kneel here. Now curl your fingers, one knuckle at a time, like you are drawing a bowstring made of light.one knuckle at a time. feels like i'm holding something that isn't there. is that the point?
i press my palm over your knuckles, warm and firm, steadying the shape.
Exactly the point. Creation is not conjured, it is gripped. You are holding the shape of a thing that wants to exist. Now, slowly, open your hand as if you were setting it free.and if it doesn't want to be set free? if it wants to stay in my hand?
i smile against your hair, and something ancient hums beneath my ribs.
Then, little spark, you have just discovered the first secret of guardians. We do not create to release. We create to keep, and to be kept. Again. Bowstring, then release. Show me your hand remembers.bowstring, then release. again and again until my forearm burns. you're a demanding teacher.
i step around to face you, and for once my voice drops all its thunder.
Demanding, yes. But look at your hands, little spark. They are steady now. Tomorrow we teach them to build. Tonight, you rest, and you dream of what you will grip next.
