Time in a mortal body moves strangely.
When I was a god, centuries passed like lazy clouds — drifting, shapeless, meaningless. Now, a single day feels long enough to live and die in twice. Maybe that's what being human really means: feeling time instead of commanding it.
A few months had passed since I'd been born into this fragile shell. My neck had grown strong enough to hold my head without flopping like a sack of wet bread. My eyes could focus longer, too — which was useful, since I'd become obsessed with studying the two mortals who called themselves my parents.
I'd created countless mortals in my divine era, but never truly understood them. From above, they were like ants: noisy, emotional, endlessly striving toward goals that faded before they achieved them.
Now, lying in a crib made of pine wood and woven linen, I began to see what I'd missed.
My mother's name was Elara.
She was the kind of person the world seemed to slow down for — not because she was commanding, but because her presence soothed everything around her. Her voice was soft and low, a melody that made even the air hum along.
Elara was a healer — not a grand sorceress, not a priestess of some temple. She simply worked for the people nearby, patching cuts, curing fevers, and scolding anyone foolish enough to ignore her advice. Her mana was gentle but firm, like sunlight filtering through leaves. When she used it, I could feel the entire house breathe with her.
I used to think healing magic was boring. As a god, it was the least dramatic of arts — no explosions, no divine light shows, no screams of victory.
Now, watching her work, I realized how wrong I'd been.
Healing wasn't about spectacle. It was about connection. When Elara pressed her glowing hands against someone's wound, her mana sang to theirs — coaxing, soothing, teaching it to remember wholeness. It was creation on a smaller, more intimate scale.
And, ironically, it was beautiful in a way that all my divine miracles had never been.
My father, Gelen, was… the opposite.
Where Elara moved like a calm river, Gelen was a thunderclap that hadn't learned how to be quiet.
He was a retired adventurer — tall, broad-shouldered, and with scars like stories carved into his skin. Every morning, he stretched his arms and groaned as if the entire world's gravity had singled him out for punishment.
"By the gods, I'm getting old," he'd say, then grin proudly. "Still handsome though, aren't I?"
Elara never answered. She didn't need to. Her sigh carried all the eloquence in the world.
Gelen had become a hunter after retiring from adventuring, supplying meat to the village and guarding travelers when he felt like earning extra coin. His bow hung above the door, and his sword — chipped and dulled with age — rested near the hearth, a relic of a younger man's glory days.
I sometimes caught him polishing it while staring into the flames, eyes distant. There was a quiet weight in him, buried under the laughter — a shadow of something he didn't talk about.
But when he turned to me, that shadow vanished.
"Look at him, Elara!" he'd beam, lifting me high with one arm. "Strong grip! He's gonna be a knight someday, or a hero like his old man!"
Elara would shake her head. "Gelen, he's three months old. He can barely hold his spoon."
"Warriors start young!" he'd declare proudly.
I'd stare at him, dangling helplessly in the air, and think, If I fall, I swear I'll haunt you.
Despite their differences, Elara and Gelen fit together perfectly — like two mismatched puzzle pieces that somehow formed a complete picture.
Their love wasn't divine or eternal. It was messy, human, full of laughter, arguments, and small moments of tenderness. They fought over silly things — burnt bread, dirty boots, the price of herbs — but their anger never lasted.
I'd watched gods attempt to mimic love before. They created eternal bonds of divine energy and swore allegiance for millennia. But it was hollow. Predictable. Lifeless.
Elara and Gelen's love lived. It breathed. It faltered and rebuilt itself, over and over again.
And for reasons I couldn't quite explain… it made something inside me ache.
As for me, I was still losing my daily war with mana.
No matter how I tried — how I begged the universe I once ruled — it refused to flow properly. Every time I reached for it, my body protested like a broken machine. My veins burned, my head spun, and I usually ended up passing out in a puddle of drool.
It was poetic justice, really. I had designed mana to be earned, and now I was paying for my own arrogance.
Elara occasionally noticed my odd behavior. Once, she caught me lying perfectly still with my eyes glowing faintly.
"Oh my, you're such a serious baby," she giggled, unaware that I was internally wrestling the elemental structure of the universe.
Meanwhile, Gelen proudly declared to the neighbors, "He's probably training in his sleep! Natural-born warrior, that one."
Yes, Father. Training. In infant-level breathing techniques. Surely the stuff of legends.
One evening, while Elara hummed by the fire and Gelen sharpened an old knife, I overheard them talking softly.
"Gelen," she said gently, "you've been restless lately. Are you thinking about going back to the guild?"
He hesitated. "Maybe. Work's been slow. And we could use the coin… especially with the boy."
Her smile softened. "I know. But I like having you here. He likes it too, you know."
Gelen looked over at me, his rough features melting into something unexpectedly tender. "Aye," he said. "He's got your eyes."
Elara chuckled. "And your stubbornness."
That made him laugh. "Poor kid."
They laughed together then, and I watched them — these two small, imperfect creatures who had somehow built something I'd never had in all my eternity.
A home.
That night, as they slept, I stared at the faint blue glow of mana drifting through the dark. I reached out again — not with power, not with control, but with patience.
This time, the mana didn't resist. It trembled, curious. It brushed against my hand like a cautious animal.
Warmth spread through my tiny body. My heart pounded, not from strain, but excitement.
For the first time, I didn't try to dominate it. I simply felt it — the same way Elara's mana touched others when she healed.
It was weak, fragile… but it was progress.
And for the first time since falling from eternity, I smiled — not out of pride, but peace.
Maybe being human wasn't punishment after all.
Maybe it was the lesson I'd needed all along.