The temple, once forgotten and fallen into ruin, began to transform under the hands of Erian and Seirion.
Every morning, Seirion brought fresh water and fruit. Every afternoon, Erian swept the corridors with infinite patience, placing the rubble into baskets that he himself then helped carry away.
Sometimes Seirion repaired cracks with a simple snap of his fingers, other times he let manual effort do its work, as if wanting to keep pace with Erian's human rhythm.
Meanwhile, Vanys rolled down the corridors like a restless child, bumping softly against walls, ricocheting off doors, and always returning to Erian's lap.
Seirion observed it all with a mixture of fascination and fear.
Fascination, because never before had he shared his eternity with someone in such a simple, almost domestic way. And fear, because with each passing day he felt the boundary between the divine and the human grow thinner.
