Book II

Section V Friendship to Love

Lyriael taught Wrath about seasons.

Not the turning of the earth,
not the tilt of the axis—
Wrath knew those things already,
understood them as mechanics,
as movements of celestial bodies
through predictable paths.

But the *feeling* of seasons—
that was different.

“Spring is hope,” Lyriael said,
lying in a field of new flowers,
arms spread wide like she was trying
to embrace the whole earth.
“Everything comes back.
Everything gets another chance.”

Wrath sat beside her,
watching the way sunlight
caught in her hair,
the way her smile seemed to bloom
like the flowers around them.

“Summer is joy,” Lyriael continued,
laughing as she wove stems together,
fingers quick and sure.
“Everything alive and bright
and growing wild.”

She placed the flower crown
on Wrath’s head,
adjusting it with careful touches,
and Wrath felt her form flicker—
not with rage,
but with something softer.

Something that made her chest ache
in ways she didn’t understand.

“Fall is gratitude,” Lyriael said
another day,
as they walked through woods
painted in fire colors.
“For everything that was.
For everything that gave us beauty
before it had to let go.”

She picked up a leaf—
brilliant red, edged in gold—
and tucked it carefully
into Wrath’s palm.

“Keep it,” she said.
“So you remember.”

Wrath closed her fingers around it,
felt it crumble slightly
at her touch,
felt the way fragile things
broke so easily.

“And winter?” Wrath asked.

Lyriael’s smile turned gentle.

“Winter is rest.
Winter is the quiet
before everything begins again.
Winter is… waiting for spring.”

She took Wrath’s hand—
the one not holding the leaf—
and squeezed.

“Winter is knowing
that nothing beautiful
is ever really gone.
It’s just sleeping.”

Wrath began to notice things
she had never noticed before.

The way Lyriael hummed while she worked,
some melody that had no words
but seemed to carry sunlight in its notes.

The way she tilted her head
when she was thinking,
brow furrowed just slightly,
bottom lip caught between her teeth.

The way she laughed—
not just the sound of it,
but the way it transformed her whole face,
the way it seemed to light up
the space around her
like its own small sun.

The way she touched things—
everything, really—
with such careful attention,
like every flower and stone and blade of grass
deserved to be known.

The way she touched *Wrath*—
casually, constantly,
like it was the most natural thing
in the world
to reach for divine fury
and find a hand to hold.

Wrath had existed for eons.

She had seen the birth of stars,
the death of worlds,
and possibly responsible for the latter.

She had witnessed the rise and fall
of empires,
had watched mountains grow
and oceans shift.

But she had never felt
anything like this.

This constant awareness
of another being.

This pull—
magnetic, inevitable—
that made her seek out
Lyriael’s presence
like a compass seeking north.

This strange ache
that lived in her chest now,
that grew stronger
every time Lyriael smiled at her,
every time their hands touched,
every time she heard
that fearless laugh.

Lyriael was late one day—
caught helping her father in the fields—
and Wrath felt something twist in her chest
that she did not have a name for.

She paced the clearing by the waterfall,
shadows swirling restlessly,
her form flickering between
woman and something darker,
something afraid.

When Lyriael finally came running up the path,
breathless and apologetic,
dirt on her clothes and twigs in her hair,
Wrath felt that tight thing in her chest
unwind.

“I was worried,”
Wrath said,
and was surprised to find it true.

Lyriael stopped,
eyes going wide with wonder.

“You were worried about me?”

“Don’t be smug about it.”

“Too late!”

Lyriael laughed and threw her arms around Wrath,
squeezing tight,
and Wrath’s form flickered—
shadows and flame dancing in confusion—
but she did not pull away.

Instead, carefully,
like holding something breakable,
she put her arms around Lyriael
and held her back.

“You carry something heavy,”
Lyriael murmured against her shoulder.
“You know that, right?
Whatever the gods did to you,
whatever they made you carry—
you don’t have to carry it alone anymore.”

Wrath felt something crack inside her chest.

Not breaking.

Softening.

“I don’t know how to be anything else,”
she whispered.

Lyriael pulled back just enough
to look her in the eyes.

“Then let me help you learn,”
she said.
“You helped me be brave enough
to find you.
Let me help you be brave enough
to be more than what they made you.”

“What are you?” Lyriael asked one evening.

They were sitting by the waterfall—
their waterfall, now,
the place where everything had begun.

“You know what I am,” Wrath said,
though her voice held no edge.

“I know what you’re *called*,” Lyriael said.
“But that’s not what I asked.”

She shifted closer,
and Wrath’s form flickered
at her nearness.

“What *are* you?
Really?
When you’re not being
what the other gods made you to be?”

Wrath was quiet for a long moment,
watching the water fall and fall and fall,
endless and relentless.

“I don’t know,” she finally admitted.

It was the first time
she had ever said those words.

The first time she had acknowledged
that she might be something
beyond her purpose,
her function,
her divine design.

Lyriael didn’t seem surprised.

“Then maybe,” she said softly,
“you get to find out.
Maybe you get to choose.”

She took Wrath’s hand again—
always, always taking her hand—
and held it between both of hers.

“I think you’re kind, or at least trying to be,” she said.
“I think you’re curious.
I think you’re learning to see beauty
the way I see it.
I think you’re *more*
than what you were made to be.”

Wrath’s vision blurred—
an impossible thing,
divine beings didn’t cry—
but there it was anyway,
this burning behind her eyes,
this tightness in her throat.

“How can you see that?” Wrath whispered.
“When even I can’t?”

Lyriael smiled,
soft and sure and absolutely fearless.

“Because I’m not looking
at what you were.
I’m looking at who you’re becoming.”

She leaned forward,
resting her forehead against Wrath’s,
and Wrath’s whole form shuddered
with the intimacy of it.

“And I like who you’re becoming,”
Lyriael breathed.
“I like her very much.”

One afternoon, Lyriael arrived
with scratches on her arms
and dirt in her hair,
holding up a basket of wild berries
like a trophy.

“What happened?”
Wrath demanded,
her form flickering with protective fury,
already reaching to examine the scratches.

Lyriael laughed,
that bright, fearless sound
that made Wrath’s chest ache.

“I climbed the thorny bushes
on the ridge.
You said you’d never tasted these,
so I thought—”

She stopped,
because Wrath was staring at her
with an expression she couldn’t read.

“You climbed through thorns,”
Wrath said slowly,
“for berries?”

“For *you*,”
Lyriael corrected,
as if it were obvious.

As if risking scratches and falls
was simply what you did
for people you cared about.

Something in Wrath’s chest
caught fire—
not the burning rage she’d always known,
but something warmer,
something that hurt in an entirely different way.

“You’re going to make me care about you,”
Wrath whispered,
almost accusingly.

Lyriael’s smile turned soft,
knowing.

“Too late,”
she said.
“I already care about you.
Figured you should catch up.”

The friendship deepened,
transforming into something neither had words for.

It began with small things:

The way Wrath’s heart would race
when she heard Lyriael’s footsteps on the path.

The way the stars seemed brighter
when they watched them together.

The way every touch lingered—
fingers brushing when passing wildflowers,
shoulders pressed close by the fire,
Lyriael’s hand finding hers
like it belonged there.

The way Wrath found herself thinking
about Lyriael’s laugh
when she was alone.

The way she memorized
the exact shade of gray-blue in her eyes,
the pattern of freckles across her nose,
the way her smile started slow
and then lit up her whole face
like sunrise.

And for the first time
since Slocha had sent her to earth,
Wrath began to believe
that maybe she could be
something other than divine fury.

Not Wrath.

Something else.

Someone else.

Someone worthy of this strange,
fearless,
wonderful woman
who had looked at rage
and chosen love.

It was Lyriael who named it first.

They were sitting by the waterfall,
Lyriael’s head resting on Wrath’s shoulder,
comfortable in the silence they’d built together.

“I think I’m in love with you,”
Lyriael said,
as casually as if she were commenting
on the weather.

Wrath went very still.

“You… what?”

Lyriael lifted her head,
meeting Wrath’s eyes without fear,
the way she always did.

“I love you,”
she repeated, slower this time.
“I know you’re divine
and I’m mortal
and this probably breaks
about seventeen different cosmic rules,
but I don’t care.
I love you.”

“You shouldn’t,”
Wrath said,
and her voice cracked on the words.
“I am rage. I am destruction.
I will only bring you pain.”

“You bring me joy,”
Lyriael said simply.
“Every single day.
You make me laugh.
You listen when I talk.
You look at me like I’m the only person
in the entire universe who matters.
How is that destruction?”

“Because everything I touch—”

“—has been touched by someone
who sees me,”
Lyriael interrupted.
“Really sees me.
Not the merchant’s daughter.
Not the girl who’s too curious
and too bold for her own good.
Just… me.”

She reached up and cupped Wrath’s face,
her human hands warm against divine skin
that flickered between solid and smoke.

“I’m not afraid of you,”
she whispered.
“I never have been.
And I’m not afraid of this.”

Wrath wanted to argue.

Wanted to list every reason
this was impossible,
dangerous,
doomed.

But Lyriael was looking at her
with those bright, fearless eyes,
and Wrath realized she had already lost
this particular battle.

She had lost it the moment
Lyriael had marched up to her
and declared her magnificent.

She had lost it the moment
she had smiled.

“I don’t know how to love,”
Wrath admitted quietly.

Lyriael grinned,
that mischievous gleam
dancing in her eyes.

“Good thing I’m an excellent teacher.”

One night, beneath a sky full of stars,
Lyriael kissed her.

Wrath froze,
terrified she would destroy this moment,
that her fire would burn
what she wanted most to protect.

But Lyriael only laughed softly—
that laugh that had become
Wrath’s favorite sound in all of creation—
and kissed her again.

Longer this time.

Warmer.

When they parted,
Wrath was trembling,
her form flickering wildly
between shadow and light,
between divine and something
almost mortal.

“I’m not afraid of you,”
Lyriael whispered again,
her forehead pressed to Wrath’s.
“I will never be afraid of you.”

And for the first time
in her entire existence,
Wrath believed that maybe—
just maybe—
she could be loved.

Not despite what she was,
but including it.

All of it.

Even the rage.

Even the fire.

Even the divine fury
the gods had cast away.

This impossible, fearless, wonderful woman
loved her anyway.

“I love you too?,”
Wrath whispered,
tasting the words for the first time,
feeling them reshape
the very fabric of her being.

Lyriael beamed like sunrise.

“I know,”
she said.
“Took you long enough to figure it out.”

And Wrath—
divine rage,
cast-off fury,
the mistake of the gods—

Wrath laughed.

Pure and bright and free.

After that, everything was different.

Not in the way storms change the sky
or fire changes wood.

But in the way dawn changes night—
completely,
inevitably,
transforming everything it touches
into something new.

Wrath learned what it meant
to wake up thinking of someone.

To count the hours
until she could see her again.

To memorize the sound of Lyriael’s laugh,
the warmth of her hand,
the way she said Wrath’s name—
not like a title or a weapon,
but like a promise.

Lyriael taught her
about all the small intimacies
that mortals shared:

How to braid hair
(even when that hair
was made of shadow and starlight).

How to share food
(even when divine beings
didn’t technically need to eat).

How to sleep beside someone
(even when sleep was optional
and vulnerability was terrifying).

“I want to give you something,”
Lyriael said one evening,
as they sat together
watching the sun set.

“You don’t need to give me anything,”
Wrath said.

“I know I don’t *need* to,”
Lyriael replied.
“But I *want* to.”

She pulled something from her pocket—
a small carved stone,
smooth and dark,
with a white circle
on its center.

“I found this in the river,”
she explained.
“The line reminded me of you.
How you’re learning to find light
even in your darkest parts.”

She pressed it into Wrath’s palm.

“Keep it,” she said.
“So you remember:
you’re not just fury anymore.
You’re this too.
You’re the light breaking through.”

Wrath closed her fingers around the stone,
felt its weight—
solid, real, *mortal*—
and felt something in her chest
crack and open
like a flower finding sun.

“I love you,” she said,
and the words felt
like creation itself.

Lyriael smiled,
that fearless, beautiful smile
that had started everything.

“I know,” she said.
“I love you too.”

And she kissed her again
as the sun set behind them,
painting the sky in colors
that even gods
had to stop and marvel at.