The forest outside the human realm was silent, almost reverent, as if even the wind dared not disturb the small clearing where Azeriel had set her down. The canopy above filtered the sun into soft, golden streams, but none of it reached her eyes; they were closed, vacant, and yet in that stillness, her small chest rose and fell with the fragile rhythm of life. Illyria—once the orchestrator of worlds, the breaker of fates—was now a child in the most literal sense, eleven years of age in this human realm, stripped of every memory, every sense she had wielded to command the heavens and the earth. Her body, small and delicate, seemed almost unreal against the dark-green backdrop of the forest.
Azeriel's hands, broad and cold as obsidian, trembled slightly as he adjusted the blanket around her tiny frame. He had expected resistance, fury, maybe even defiance when he found her like this. Yet the child before him was utterly still, almost empty. A strange, gnawing sensation twisted within him, a mixture of frustration, possessive desire, and a creeping emptiness he could not reconcile. Useless. She is useless. My prized possession… and she is nothing. The thought clashed violently with the image of the power she had once held, the way she had defied gods, created worlds, and bent illusions and time to her will. She was his conquest, his "toy," yet now she was soft, pliant, innocent, almost… human.
Her tiny fingers twitched, reaching instinctively toward him, seeking warmth, seeking presence. She did not speak, did not call out, but the way her hand lingered in the air, moving closer to his chest, communicated a purity of trust that shook him more than words ever could. Azeriel bent down, his face inches from hers, his piercing gaze softening despite the surge of his pride and irritation. Why do I care? She is… useless. She is mine, and yet… I feel the weight of her silence.
Illyria's hand brushed against his cloak, trembling as if testing whether the world was safe. She could feel him—though her eyes could not see, her ears could not hear, her skin could not fully sense—she could feel the heartbeat, the warmth, the presence. Her mind, empty of memories, was still somehow tethered to instinct, to a fragile form of understanding that he was not a threat, despite the destruction and chaos that surrounded him in the mortal world. And so she moved closer, guided by a trust she could not name, a yearning for connection that transcended words.
Azeriel's eyes narrowed, and yet there was an unbidden warmth in his chest. What am I doing? he thought, voice unspoken but echoing in his mind like a tempest. He had sworn to the human king to prepare her as a weapon, to cultivate her power, to use her. And now… she was nothing. Powerless. Hopelessly, devastatingly innocent. The duality of his desires clashed violently: he wanted her, yet he despised her weakness; he wished to claim her, yet he feared the vulnerability she evoked in him. Why did I bring her here? Why did I take care of her? She is mine… yet she is empty. She is mine… and still, I cannot look away.
Illyria, for her part, lifted a small hand and pressed it against the parchment that lay beside her—the only means she had to communicate. With trembling fingers, she wrote: Dad. The word was unsteady, shaky, yet deliberate. The simplicity of it, the innocence of it, struck Azeriel like a blade. His breath hitched; a god who had never felt anything so intimate, so pure, had no frame of reference. He had destroyed realms, commanded armies, bent reality itself, yet this child—his possession—calling him Dad twisted his very soul in ways he had never anticipated.
He looked down at her, and for the first time, he saw not a tool, not a weapon, not an extension of his desires, but a fragile being who trusted him completely. His mind raced. She has no power. She has no memory. She is… she is mine. And yet… why do I feel this pull, this… helplessness? He wanted to scold her, to assert dominance, to remind himself that she was property, a prize, a creation to be wielded. And yet, every instinct in him recoiled. He could not bring himself to speak the words. She did not need him to explain, and yet she had called him something so intimate that it unraveled his control.
Illyria's small form shifted closer, pressing her head against his chest. She could feel the rhythm of his heartbeat, the solid presence of his being, and it was enough. Even in her emptiness, in the vacuum of lost senses and absent memories, she found comfort. She had no sight to see him, no voice to call to him aloud, no hearing to hear the cadence of his thoughts—but she had this. This connection. And it was enough.
Azeriel knelt beside her, the sharp angles of his jaw softened by an almost imperceptible sigh. I am a god… and yet I am undone by a child. The thought was both infuriating and intoxicating. He had trained, manipulated, observed, and dominated mortals and immortals alike. He had never faced resistance, never felt helpless. And yet now, he could not deny it. She had stripped him bare without moving a muscle, without uttering a word. She was powerless—and that powerlessness was a weapon in itself.
For five years, he would care for her. He would tend to her as though she were the most delicate creation in existence. In the human realm, she would awaken slowly, gradually, under his watch. Her senses would return in fragments: first touch, then smell, then the faintest stirrings of sight and hearing, each one a treasure he would observe and protect. And through it all, she would remain his—the innocent, memoryless child who called him Dad.
Yet Azeriel's mind twisted in shadows. Why do I keep her here? he asked himself again and again. I told the king she would be my weapon. I promised her destruction, her obedience. And yet… I care. I guard her. She is mine. But what am I doing? Why do I feel… this? Each day, each tender act, each moment of her trust grated against his pride, his desire to dominate. Yet he could not stop. She is mine. She is mine. And yet… she is not a weapon. She is… more than I ever intended.
Illyria's small hands reached instinctively for him, tracing his cloak, feeling the warmth of his presence. She could not speak; she could not hear. She was a new being, reborn into a life without memory, without the weight of the Spirit Realm, without the burden of the blood magic and illusions that had consumed her. Yet in her innocence, she reached for him. And he—Azeriel—allowed it.
He fed her, clothed her, kept her safe. Every movement, every gesture, every whispered thought of hers, even though she could not voice it, pierced him like a dagger coated in honey. He had destroyed realms. He had bent mortals and gods alike to his will. And yet, this child—this fragile, eleven-year-old girl who had lost everything—had undone him entirely. I am taking care of her… and I do not know why.
Her eyes fluttered open after the first month. They were unfocused, tentative, but alive. She could not speak yet, could not form words, could not summon the power she had once wielded like a tempest. But she reached for him, her tiny hand pressing against his chest as if confirming a reality she did not remember but could sense. Her fingers brushed the fabric, traced the lines, and finally, she picked up a small tablet and scribbled in her delicate hand: Dad.
Azeriel's expression, unreadable for so long, fractured. A mixture of awe, frustration, longing, and something softer he refused to name swept across his face. She remembers nothing… and yet she trusts me. She calls me… Dad. He knelt beside her, fingers brushing hers, ensuring the word was held, understood, acknowledged. The duality of the moment—the mortal, innocent girl and the god who had destroyed her world—was a twisted mirror of fate and desire.
Time stretched, days turning into months. He watched her relearn the simplest things, guiding her like a protective shadow, correcting her steps, teaching her to eat, to walk, to observe the world without fear. And through it all, his mind battled itself. I promised the king I would make her a weapon. She is no weapon. She is a child. And yet… I cannot let harm come to her. She is mine. She is mine… and yet she is helpless. Why do I care?
And in the quiet of the forest palace he had crafted for her, Azeriel allowed a small smile to touch his lips. A god, he who had possessed and dominated, was now caretaker to a child who had lost her identity, who had lost her senses, who had lost her memory. Yet she was alive. She was his. And he—unwilling, unspoken, unadmitted—was hers.
The forest outside held its breath. Birds sang, leaves rustled, sunlight fell in golden shafts, and the human realm carried on unaware of the drama unfolding in that silent, sacred clearing. Within, Azeriel and Illyria existed in a fragile, tragic, exquisite bubble of duality: she, the innocent child calling a destroyer Dad, he, the god who had ruined a realm yet could not turn away from her trust, her presence, her life.
And so, in the quiet, for the first time in eternity, both master and child existed in a fragile equilibrium, suspended between devastation and innocence. Azeriel's fingers lingered over hers, tracing the delicate lines of her hand as though memorizing the contours of a treasure that could vanish in a heartbeat. She is mine, he reminded himself over and over, yet the words rang hollow against the surge of unfamiliar, ungovernable emotion rising in his chest. He had commanded armies, broken gods, and bent the laws of reality, and still, he found himself paralyzed before a mortal child stripped of memory, of power, of will—but not of heart.
Illyria's tiny hand pressed harder, instinctively seeking him, as if confirming that he was real, that he existed to protect her even though her own mind had been erased. The simple gesture, the trust embedded in the faint pressure of her fingers, broke through the final walls of his pride. The god who had never feared, never hesitated, now found himself cautious, gentle, careful. What am I doing? Why do I… care? He did not answer. There was no need. The presence of the child, her warmth, the faint pulse of life against his palm was answer enough.
Days stretched into weeks, each one a study in quiet devotion. Azeriel observed her awaken slowly: first the flutter of her lashes, then the faint awareness of light and shadow, then a tentative recognition of the sounds around her. She did not speak; she had no words, no memory, yet the intelligence in her movements hinted at the girl she had once been. Every glance, every tentative step, every tentative breath was a reminder of the vast gulf between what she had been and what she had become. And yet, in this fragile, suspended time, she was still Illyria—his Illyria.
The child's first interactions with the world were painstaking. She reached for objects, touched leaves, felt the texture of cloth, and learned to navigate the small clearing around their secluded palace in the forest. Each moment was an exercise in wonder and vigilance; every step could have been a misstep, every touch an accident. Azeriel watched, corrected, guided, but never rushed. He allowed her the slow reclamation of sensation, the gradual return to life, all while keeping a careful distance from power she no longer possessed. He could not risk her encountering remnants of her former self too soon; the balance was delicate, and he knew he would lose her to memory before he had fully contained her trust.
And yet, the child's presence stirred in him something unnamable: pride and exasperation, possessiveness and tenderness, desire and bewilderment all entwined. He had destroyed kingdoms, bent gods to his will, and yet he could not govern the simple human truth of her trust in him. She is mine… and yet I cannot command her heart. The thought was both infuriating and intoxicating, and he found himself drawn to her in ways no god had ever been drawn to mortal life.
Illyria's fingers discovered a small parchment one afternoon. With painstaking care, she traced the word she had written before: Dad. The letters were shaky, uneven, yet the intent was unmistakable. Azeriel's chest tightened as he saw the innocence and certainty in the child's actions. A god, a destroyer of realms, stood undone by a simple, written word. His lips parted, as if to speak, but no words came. What could he say? That she was powerless? That she was his possession? That he would guard her at all costs while secretly fearing her return to strength? None of it mattered. She called him Dad, and that was enough to shatter him completely.
The child pressed the parchment against his chest, as if sealing her trust into his very being. Azeriel bent low, letting her small hand rest over his heart, feeling the beat, the life, the presence that was hers to feel but that he had come to treasure. He marveled at the contradiction: she was utterly powerless and yet, in her innocence, had the greatest power of all—the power to claim him, to evoke in him a protective, possessive, unrelenting care that no mortal, no god, had ever inspired.
Weeks turned into months. Each day was an exercise in patience and quiet observation. Azeriel fed her, bathed her, clothed her, taught her the simplest movements, all while his mind roiled with contradictions. I am taking care of a weapon I no longer can wield… a child I cannot dominate… and yet, I cannot turn away. She is mine. I am hers… and yet, I do not know why I care.
Illyria learned slowly, exploring the world in small increments. Her senses returned one by one: first touch, then smell, then faint recognition of sound, and finally, tentative glimpses of light and shadow. With each regained ability, she grew more aware of Azeriel, more dependent on him, yet never afraid. The bond between them, fragile and unnatural, strengthened in silence. She could not remember her past, her realm, her powers, or her life as a creation of worlds—but she knew, in the deepest recesses of her being, that he was safe, and that he was hers to rely on.
One morning, after nearly a month of quiet rehabilitation, she awoke fully. Her eyes opened, hazel and bright, though clouded with innocence. She could see the world, though not as she once had; she had no memory of the Spirit Realm, no recollection of the battles, no trace of her creation powers. Yet she reached for Azeriel instinctively, pressing her hand against his chest, the rhythm of his heartbeat a reassurance she could not name. Her lips parted, an attempt to speak, but only a faint sound emerged. The word failed, and with a soft sigh, she instead grabbed a small tablet nearby and scribbled the word she could not speak: Dad.
Azeriel's expression, stoic for so long, fractured completely. A god who had mastered all realms, who had commanded armies and destroyed worlds, was now undone by a child's innocence. He knelt beside her, fingers brushing hers, confirming her intent, imprinting her trust into his own being. In that moment, the duality of their lives became a single, fragile thread: she, the lost and powerless child calling him Dad, he, the god who had destroyed a realm yet found himself incapable of enforcing his will upon her innocence.
The forest around them was quiet, serene, as though the world itself recognized the extraordinary nature of their bond. The sunlight dappled the clearing in golden hues, the breeze whispered through the leaves, and all was still, holding its breath. Azeriel allowed himself to sit with her, to watch her grow, to guide her through the mundane steps of life. Each movement, each sound, each small success was monumental. Each tiny laugh, each discovery of touch or texture, each regained sense was a triumph, a reclamation of life he had not anticipated.
Days bled into weeks, weeks into months. He watched her relearn everything, guiding her carefully, ensuring she remained safe, that she did not encounter remnants of her past too soon. And through it all, his mind twisted endlessly. I promised she would be my weapon. She is no weapon. She is a child. And yet… I cannot turn away. She is mine. She is mine… and yet she is powerless.
And so they existed in this quiet, delicate balance. A god and his memoryless, powerless child. She, innocent and trusting, calling him Dad, and he, conflicted, possessive, protective, and utterly undone by her presence. In this forest palace, within this human realm, they became each other's world: she, the lost child rediscovering life, and he, the god learning the impossible art of care, of love, of ungovernable attachment to that which he had once sought to dominate.
Five years would pass. Five years of growth, of learning, of slow reclamation of being, all under the watchful, possessive eyes of Azeriel. He would tend to her, guide her, protect her. And through it all, she would never know her past, never wield her powers, never remember the realm she had saved through unimaginable sacrifice. She would simply exist, as she now did: a child, innocent, calling her destroyer and god Dad, and in that trust, a fragile, heartbreaking miracle was born.
And in the silence of the forest, in the golden light and whispering leaves, Azeriel finally understood. Power was nothing. Memory was nothing. Even divinity was irrelevant. What mattered—what had undone him utterly—was the fragile, untainted trust of a child who called him Dad.