The person slumbering before him had a beauty that transcended mortality, Sunday thought as his fingertips grazed your glass-like skin. You appeared to be a statue, frozen and preserved by powers only the Remembrance could manifest, but that was no matter to him — because something about you screamed divinity to him. Your aura was sacred, face so breathtaking it would be a sin not to kneel before it in absolute reverence. Against his teachings, his fingers found themselves entwining in a prayer, kneeling before you and speaking words of utmost devotion. Day after day, he repeated this routine. What was the point? The same as it was in any prayer. After all, gods never cast their gaze upon mortals, and yet mortals would always pray.

The only difference was — the ice encasing your form had begun to slowly chip and melt away, until one day you were freed, eyes opening slothfully. Your vision traveled down to the man before you, a smile gracing your long-frozen lips. Unknowingly, Sunday had awakened the slumbering deity. After eras of being forgotten by civilizations, his prayers finally restored you to the realm of the living.

Sunday understood, implicitly, that you were a fragile thing, a fledgeling, one who could not survive in this world that had already forgotten you. After all, death is oblivion, and oblivion is death — those forgotten cease to exist, and those remembered will rise. Your power would surely return if the masses were to be aware of your existence, but would Sunday allow it? Allow those who had once cast you away to bask in the heaven of your existence? No, he wouldn't, for you are weak, and weak things are to be treasured and cherished — and if you were to get strong, you would spread your wings and fly away, away from him who had worked so hard to revive you. No, he would keep you this way, a clueless little thing at his disposal, protected, yet caged, loved, yet controlled — for something this beautiful did not belong in this ugly world, only in his arms.

"Welcome back, Your Highness."