gods on a hill

The hill was known to the villagers as the Aeternum, a place whispered about in reverent tones. It was said to be sacred, though no one knew why. The children of the village, curious as ever, often dared each other to climb it. Most of them stopped halfway, their courage failing as the air grew strangely sweet and the grass felt too soft underfoot, as if the hill were alive.

But this time, three of the boldest—Lila, Tomas, and Mira—decided to go all the way. The clear blue sky stretched endlessly above them, the summer breeze carrying the scent of flowers and fresh fruit. Laughing and teasing one another, they climbed higher, their childish courage outweighing their parents' warnings.

As they reached the top, they stopped abruptly.

There, sitting on a smooth stone, was a figure unlike anything they had ever seen.

The god of life.

His golden robes shimmered in the sunlight, the white accents glowing faintly as if they held the light of the heavens. His presence was calm but immense, filling the air around him with an aura of quiet majesty. The children were struck by his face—or rather, the lack of emotion on it. His features were perfectly still, as if carved from marble. There was no smile, no frown, no trace of joy or sorrow.

On his lap, however, lay another figure, one that made the children freeze in awe.

The god of death, Admatha.

Admatha's pale skin was as radiant as the moon, his black robes with gold accents contrasting starkly with the vibrant colors of his companion. His face was serene, his eyes closed as he rested, his head cradled in the god of life's lap. Even in sleep, there was an air of dignity about him, as if he were fully aware of the world but chose to dream anyway.

The children could smell the gods before they dared to breathe a word. The god of life's scent was warm and inviting, like ripe fruits under a summer sun. The god of death carried the fragrance of flowers, subtle and soft, like blossoms on a cool night.

"What… what are they doing here?" Lila whispered, clutching Tomas's arm.

"Sleeping," Mira said, her voice trembling, though she couldn't tear her eyes away from the gods.

As if hearing them, the god of life turned his gaze toward the children. His golden eyes were deep and unyielding, but his face remained impassive. He did not speak, but his gaze seemed to ask a silent question: *Why are you here?*

The children felt their knees weaken, but Tomas, the boldest among them, took a step forward. "We… we didn't mean to bother you," he stammered. "We were just curious."

The god of life blinked slowly, his expression unchanged. Then, in a voice that was soft and steady, like the rustling of leaves in a summer breeze, he spoke. "Curiosity is the essence of life. It is not a sin."

The children let out the breaths they hadn't realized they were holding.

The god's hand moved gently, brushing a strand of pale hair from Admatha's face. The motion was deliberate, almost tender, though the god's face betrayed no emotion. "This is a place of rest," he said. "You may stay, but only in silence."

The children nodded quickly, sitting down on the grass a few paces away. They watched in awe as the god of life turned his gaze back to the sky, his hand resting lightly on Admatha's shoulder. The god of death shifted slightly in his sleep, his face peaceful, as if the weight of his eternal duty had lifted for a brief moment.

The children stayed until the sun began to set, the golden light bathing the hill in warmth. As they stood to leave, they glanced back one last time. The gods remained as they were, a picture of perfect balance—life and death, motion and stillness, warmth and coolness.

When they returned to the village, the children found it hard to describe what they had seen. "It was like a dream," Lila said.

"But it was real," Tomas insisted.

And Mira, the quietest of the three, smiled softly. "They were beautiful."

The memory of that day stayed with them forever, a reminder that even in the grand cycle of life and death, there was a profound and unspoken harmony.

As the golden hues of the setting sun bathed the hill in a warm glow, the children disappeared into the distance, their laughter faint but lingering. The hill grew quiet once more, the stillness broken only by the soft rustling of the breeze.

Admatha stirred, his pale lashes fluttering as his serene sleep gave way to wakefulness. Slowly, he opened his eyes, their deep black depths catching the fading sunlight. A faint smile curved his lips, a smile that was both tender and mischievous.

"Were those children watching us?" he asked, his voice smooth and rich, carrying the weight of the eternal yet tinged with warmth.

"They were curious," the god of life replied, his tone as calm and measured as ever. "Curiosity is natural to life."

Admatha chuckled softly, sitting up and stretching with a grace that seemed almost otherworldly. "And what did you tell them, Lumiel?" he asked, turning to face his golden-clad companion.

"That they could stay, as long as they were silent," Lumiel replied, his expression as impassive as ever, though there was a faint flicker of amusement in his golden eyes.

Admatha tilted his head, studying Lumiel's face. "You truly are a wonder, my love. Even when surrounded by children's awe, you wear that same blank mask." He reached out, his pale fingers brushing against Lumiel's cheek. "Sometimes I wonder if I'll ever see a smile from you."

Lumiel's gaze met his, steady and unyielding. "I smile often, Admatha," he said, his voice as serene as ever. "Just not in the way you expect."

Admatha leaned closer, his smile deepening into something playful. "Then perhaps I should try harder to coax one out of you," he teased, his voice lowering slightly. "After all, if I can make flowers bloom in the dead of night, surely I can make *you* crack a grin."

Lumiel blinked slowly, his golden eyes reflecting the fading light. "You're incorrigible," he murmured, though there was a softness in his tone that betrayed his affection.

"And you love it," Admatha countered, his laughter soft and melodic as he leaned back, resting his head against Lumiel's shoulder.

Lumiel's hand moved of its own accord, brushing through Admatha's pale hair with a touch so gentle it could have been the wind. "Perhaps I do," he admitted, his voice quieter now, almost a whisper.

For a moment, they sat there in perfect harmony, life and death entwined beneath the twilight sky. The golden light faded into the deep blues of night, the stars beginning to shimmer above them.

"Do you think they'll remember us?" Admatha asked, his voice soft and contemplative.

"They will," Lumiel replied. "But not as we are. They'll remember the awe, the wonder, the stillness. It's enough."

Admatha smiled again, this time with a touch of melancholy. "You always know the right thing to say, Lumiel."

"And you always know how to make even eternity feel fleeting," Lumiel replied, his fingers continuing their gentle motion through Admatha's hair.

And so they sat, the gods of life and death, watching the stars come alive in the endless sky, their quiet flirtation a testament to the balance they shared—two beings eternal, yet finding endless moments of joy in each other's presence.