Chapter Text
A dove's wings are fragile.
Tiny little fragments of bone and feather, stretched and conformed in cusps of milk white and bitter snow. Each are unique in their forms; one feather may find itself to be pointed slick and straight, while its brother cowers small and meek. Perhaps the light reflects slightly sweeter upon the former, while the latter settles with the cusp of a morning glow upon its figure.
When they flutter, a sort of mythodic symphony is created. Each is different in their approach, yet all work towards the same goal–flight. Flight, freedom, escape. All these terms to transcribe the simple act of a few feathers fluttering in tandem.
However, such a concept begs the question–is a creature with wings truly free, if its domain is boarded by the curve of the earth? Can a thing with limits, areas in which its wings will bubble up and melt if it goes near, safely have the label of a "free flyer" upon them? Places where they cannot go, where predators lurk, where the unexplainable hoards its explainable.
These are the thoughts that plague the mind of one particular young dove. Born beneath a branch of frost and cold, plagued with visions of the things teyvat cannot prevent, a girl no older than six lays upon her mothers lap.
"Mama.." the girl chokes, fragile little fingers gripping onto the silken material of her night gown, "Mama, please.. wake up. Please stop bleeding."
Crimson and white mix terribly nice together. Awfully, terribly nice.
The little dove sobs, wings muddled with the blood of its kin–once a soft, gentle white, now dirtied and tainted with the labours of mankind's selfishness.
"Shh." A man hushes, scooping the girl up, "It's okay, you'll be okay. Stop.. stop crying."
She sniffles, eyes wide and spewing with tears, "But.. but Mama–"
"Your mother's dead. She's gone."
The skies, as it occurs to her for the first time, have their limits too. Things like "forever" and "paradise" exist within the pages of her storybooks and fairytales.
A little dove has to learn these things if it wants to fly, after all.
And that, in itself, is Olbers Paradox–the question as to why, if the sky has its limits, its box of boundaries, why is it still dark? Why do we fill our boxes with memories, precious things we cherish, when ultimately our skies still remain dark?
Why do we live, if we are to die anyway?