Erria

you lift very slowly one black tree
and place it against the sky: slender, alone.
And you have made the world. And it is huge
She stumbled upon the world through a window, a mirror. The glass cracked from side to side but not of a curse— Sylhi, dear friend and cousin, had expelled all bad magicks from her skies. The snow is only clean crystals now, like feathers insulating the earth from the cold (it's only that we stand upon it that we freeze). The lightning is almost gentle, a teasingly gruff uncle from a family dinner, a flare of ozone trees.

With this gentleness she's doomed to pining, so for decades she watched Enceladus. Gazed upon him like the brightest bit of light in charmed skies. Erria isn't disposed to unhappiness— lets herself be only a bit maudlin every time Enceladus passes by.