A Real Goddess Would Let Nobody Die

"I'm so sorry, Cindershine," Mama muttered. "You shouldn't need to live like this. Hiding yourself. Afraid of who you are. Blessed and afraid of it! I'm so, so sorry."

There was no point telling Mama not to worry, or bothering with any words at all. Instead, Cindershine nuzzled into the sooty palm on her cheek.

Every night, Mama trudged home from the outpost, beaten down by the same day that would restart in a few hours. Every night, she fell into her daughter's hug. Every night, she pulled herself up, mixed soot from the hearth into some of the oil she was supposed to use to keep her own hair pretty, and worked the grime into Cindershine's to keep it a dingy, duller red. And every night, she blamed herself while using the leftovers to hide the rest of her daughter's 'blessing.' An underlayer to dim everything above her shoulders. Darker blotches under her eyes. Just the right mix of shadows, here and there, carefully blended, to blur her face into something barely pretty enough to keep being given light, mostly indoor work around the outpost. Cindershine could survive being leered at while she dusted, fetched stuff, and sorted documents, but she wouldn't last a week in the mines or a single sunny day in the fields.

It took an artist to hit the sweet spot without anyone suspecting, but that was fine, because Mamawas an artist. No one but her daughter knew how much talent the world was wasting in this nowhere outpost. No one but her daughter cared.

They both knew their luck would run out eventually. They never talked about it, but they both knew. Any worship, spring or autumn, could be the last time they ever saw each other, if a bored Zyzz happened to pry too deep. Or it could be the next time Cindershine got caught in a heavy rainstorm, if the wrong eyes got a good enough look at her. Or maybe a supervisor emptying a mug over her head. Even just a single time being stuck somewhere until her roots grew in too far, or Mama not getting her oil, would be all it took. It didn't even need to be anything to do with Cindershine's 'blessing.' There were plenty of girls in the Zyzz domain whose mothers were gone, and plenty of mothers who'd lost their daughters, for no special reason at all. Already, Cindershine barely got to see her brothers, ever since they got taken to the mines, one by one until only Cindershine was left.

Mama had a hand on both cheeks now, staring so hard that it made Cindershine squirm.

"You're more than this," Mama murmured, quiet but firm. "Meant for something more. She didn't kiss your soul so you could be prettier for supervisors. Not to make a better prize for some suck-up cleric, neither. We just can't see as far as Her."

Mama believed what she needed to believe, and her daughter let her. Privately, Cindershine had her doubts. It wasn't like she was the only person ever born with red hair. Hers was just really red, beneath the soot. But what made her doubt most was every time she was forced to sweat in autumn scarves and sleeves on sunny summer days, unless she wanted her skin to go straight from wintershine to cindershine. It didn't seem possible that a real blessing from the True Goddess, not some fake, would have such a bad flaw.

That wasn't to say Cindershine never felt blessed, but it was Mama who made sure her scarves were wrapped just right, Mama who 'wasn't hungry' whenever anything started to get too small or threadbare, Mama who showed up out of nowhere to make sure Cindershine never got more than leered at, and Mama who never hated her for being supervisor spawn. Mama, not the Red Goddess.

"Listen to me, Cindershine," Mama urged, still quiet but firm. "If She ever shows you where to go, you follow what She says. Don't come get me. Don't stop and think about it. You follow Her Light, and you don't look back. Or if She sends someone for you, don't you dare tell them you need to say goodbyes first. You forget about me, you forget about your brothers, and you leave. You leave, and you be who you're meant to be."

"I am who I'm meant to be," Cindershine insisted, just as quiet and firm. "You're the Mama I'm meant to have."

"I'm serious!" All at once, Mama's voice went from firm to cracking, and her eyes were wet. "Hide, for as long as you need to. Survive. But never wish you weren't blessed. Never throw it away. Never do anything that won't wash off when the time comes. And when it comes, wash it off. Back straight, head high, and shine. Promise me."

That was a promise Cindershine could keep. She nodded.

"Only what will wash off." Anything else would feel like losing.

"And shine," Mama demanded. "Straight and proud."

...Not like any of this would ever matter. If Mama needed her to say it, she would say it.

"As soon as it's safe, I'll wash 'til I'm shining," Cindershine promised. "Straight and proud."

Mama exhaled, gave a few quick nods, and tucked some tarnished strands behind Cindershine's ears.

"Hide it, but never cut it," she urged. "Survive, wait, watch, and be ready. Then when something really strange happens, that's your sign. That's what you've been waiting for. When it comes, don't overthink it. Don't miss your chance. Just go. No goodbyes. No looking back. Walk beside Her, head high, and if you're ever feeling shy, don't stop shining. Shine brighter until nobody can stare."

---

Suri swore She could feel it in Her pool, pulsing upstream from the tunic's will: the sub-sentient bundle of instincts comprising Mennie's Echo was triggered. This cutie pie from the southern tip of the world, whose family and childhood had been stolen from her, was going to have the cleanest, healthiest, most completely flawless nails that had ever existed, so free of any hint that they might once have been tainted that she would doubt her own memory.

When the feeling resonating in Suri's pool shifted from something like <hold on, sweetie, I'm almost done> to <there, isn't that better?>, Suri had a decent idea of what to expect when She unclasped Her hands.

...Immaculate. Sheen worthy of divinity. Not a single nick, mark, or ridge to be seen. Every nail glimmered with a faint blue aura, mostly reflected but partly from traces of mana, just like the water nearest Suri's feet.

'No half measures, huh Mennie?' Suri thought, and could swear She got a smug <hmph!> in reply.

"All set," She announced.

Slowly, Pyra withdrew her hand back toward herself, staring down at her fingertips, struggling to accept what her own eyes were seeing. Her hands had already been subjected to the same careful maintenance as the rest of her, but there was a rather noticeable jump from 'carefully maintained' to 'that's what the True Goddess of Beauty looked like at fifteen.' Suri could sympathize pretty much perfectly with that '...can this really be me?' feeling. Her Own transformation might as well have happened seconds ago, in a room with very similar lighting.

Although She sat ready and waiting for Pyra's still-painted left hand, it stayed where it was, resting on her thigh. So be it. Tonight, for once in her life, Pyra would be the one who decided what happened and when.

"This is you," Suri assured her, while waiting. "All I did is help a little more of your own potential show."

Not a single false word. The best deceptions were full of truth, and the Zyzz needed deceiving.

A few shoulder-shaking heartbeats later, Pyra's mouth opened, and she drew in breath to speak...then her lips resealed, and she swallowed whatever she had been about to say.

Afraid to ask if she could stay as she was, no paint at all? Or maybe the reverse, afraid that asking for Suri's blue might be too bold and presumptuous?

"Speak your mind," Suri encouraged softly.

That turned out to be enough to get her to speak, but only after she spent quite some time searching for phrasing she felt was safe enough, heart pounding away so insistently that Suri's stomach was tickling with secondhand nerves.

"Pyra believed that the most beautiful of all goddesses would distill sacred paint from pure divinity, like the goddess wove the sacred cloth and towel, and cover the red and black already on Pyra's nails with beautiful, heavenly blue. But instead of the goddess' sacred paint, covering red and black beneath, there is no paint at all."

And now poor Pyra was covered everywhere in a fresh sheen of sweat, which Suri suspected had little to do with the heat.

But it seemed she was used to pressure and nerves. That had been masterful phrasing. Everything delivered with a calibrated dose of flattery. No direct request, for either paint or no paint. An implied suggestion that she would have been pleased to be painted. No suggestion that she preferred not being painted. And everything framed so that the most illustrious Keyic Heiress might be content with a gentle scolding and an explanation of why divine paint was different from divine clothing.

"Your knowledge of blessings is impressive." Compliments. Reassurance. Calm and consistent. "It's true that most self-proclaimed blue goddesses couldn't have cleaned the paint off your nails. I am not like them." Not in any way that mattered. "If it is what you truly want, I will paint you Myself, anywhere you wish, but only if it is what you want. That is the Keyic custom. You are worthy. In private, you will never displease Me by speaking your mind."

Pyra dipped her head, carefully keeping her eyes visible.

"Most divine goddess, Pyra will speak her mind. With deepest humility, it is her devout wish to be painted with the goddess' sacred, beautiful, heavenly blue, on every nail and also on her face, and to have no other paint beneath. No other paint ever again."

"Is that what you truly want, for yourself?" Suri checked. "If you prefer no paint at all, then that is what I want you to ask for."

"Pyra does not prefer no paint at all." Instant. Unreluctant. "Wherever Pyra is the Heiress' beautiful, heavenly blue, no one will be upset. No one will wonder why. But if part of Pyra is not painted, others will think that part of Pyra should be their part, and when the Keyic Heiress refuses, there will be tension. Also, Pyra wants her Keyic clothing to belong on her, like she was always meant to wear only Keyic styles. That means all of her should match her clothing. If it is agreed that Pyra is especially beautiful in her Keyic outfit, it will be easier for the Keyic Heiress to take her from the palace."

Suri smirked. Careful, bigots! Force a girl to act like an obedient pet with no thoughts of her own, and you might end up deluding yourself into thinking she's an obedient pet with no thoughts of her own. Value her only for her appearance, and she may end up with a keen understanding of the value of appearances.

Pulling Her feet from the spring, Suri spun toward Pyra, held Her hands out palms-up, and started three vials and brushes.

"Nails," She clarified, raising Her left hand, then raised Her right. "Lips, and eyes. If anyone ever tries to paint you with anything else, send them to Me."

Wide and unblinking, auburn eyes bathed in a blue glow watched the growing vials and brushes, and Suri carefully noted Her objectivity cracking. A red mana-colored mid-teens Heiress-to-be, wearing blue clothing she couldn't make for herself, had been a rather irrationally prominent character archetype in pre-wedding what-if fantasizing. If that character's curls were straightened, and fell to her waist instead of her shoulders....

"...Pyra understands." The answer came distracted and hushed. "...She is...profoundly grateful...and truly honored."

When the vials were finished, Suri set them down, one at a time, pointedly right next to Pyra's cloth.

"Yours," She declared. "What's next? Paint your right hand, or clean your left hand?"

Instantly, Pyra offered her still-painted left hand, exactly the choice Suri had been hoping for. It was not the choice of someone afraid of causing offense, picking based on whatever she thought the 'most illustrious Keyic Heiress' would find more flattering. It was the choice of someone who knew her own priorities and trusted that it was safe to say what they were.

"So, have you thought about what styles you might like to try?" Suri asked. "Anything you liked and didn't like about the first design? Would you feel proud to wear it?"

This time, there was no immediate reply. Instead, those blue-tinged auburn eyes drifted from the vials to the spring, staring into their reflection in the patch of glowing water. With her free hand, Pyra traced her face, then her neck and shoulders, watching as her reflection mimicked her.

"Pyra knows the girl in the water is her," she explained, once she found the words. "But it is like she is watching through another girl's eyes while that girl looks at her reflection. Pyra is astonished that a girl can be so beautiful as the one in the water, but...there is no pride, because it doesn't feel like her. She knows it is her, but it doesn't feel like it. So..."

She shrugged, and trailed off.

What happened to a girl's sense of self when she spent years warping her own mind, dissociating, until the world's second strongest red mage was fooled? What happened when she spent years living in a body that moved how and where it was told to move, ate what and when it was told to eat, was waxed when someone else decided to wax it, and stood in passive silence while it was dressed and painted?

Could Pyra even recognize Cindershine in her own reflection? The paint was off her face, but between groomed brows and her life-consuming skincare routine, she might look like a completely different person.

Belatedly, Suri realized that Pyra didn't appear to have a single mole anywhere. No one was born that way.

With sheer force of will, She kept Her face blank, calm, untroubled, smothering wrath, disgust, and horror lest they be misinterpreted.

"Pyra," She said, in the gentlest voice She knew how to make. "Earlier, I encouraged you to pick the outfit that you would feel most proud to wear in the hallway. That was an incredibly stupid thing for Me to say, so here's a better idea. If you can, think of someone who loves you, even if they're gone now. Think of the person you love more than anyone else in the world. Do you have someone like that?"

Still staring at her reflection, Pyra gave no reply, but her wistfulness was all the answer Suri needed.

"Imagine you were going to see this person, and they were going to see you walk in. The best surprise they've ever had." Suri paused, to give Pyra's possibly-damaged mind time to paint the scene. "What are you wearing? What style would make you feel proudest?"

There was a long, total silence. Pyra spent it staring at the water, and at her vials, and at the volcano etched farthest left on the wall, and after her left hand finished, at all ten fingers splayed in front of her, all ten nails immaculate and literally shining.

Rearranging herself, she swung her feet toward Suri and sat on her towel.

"Something light and free," she said, staring off into a dream. "A single layer made of heaven that lets her show, and hugs her shape. But elegant---she is not for lust. The style the goddess showed was good. Pyra thought she looked cute and...cheerful? She would be glad to wear it in the palace. But the proudest style is more elegant than cute."

Suri flipped rapidly through Twilight's summer catalogs. Most of Villacqui's wardrobe could work, but the problem was Pyra's petiteness. The resizing would be tricky, and the design's original aesthetic might be lost. But there were worse fashion restrictions than being cursed with the same proportions as the Beauty Goddess. Twilight did love cute and cheerful, but when She decided to go for elegant...there would be plenty of selection.