Before the first river, before the rain learned falling,

before anyone thought to cup their hands, Tiravelle waited.

Chose the puddles that wanted to wander.

Listened for the places where water hesitated.

Worked by patience, by the way a surface quivers when it’s ready to move.

Left the ripples uncorrected.

That was doctrine.

Or became it later.

And when the pool was shaped sat at its edge and breathed.

Not blessing, not command, just a breath. Any breath.

Warm. Slow. Here.

Here returned first.

And waited for it to return again.

It always returned altered.

Cooler. Wider.

Once, it returned before the breath was finished.

Like something

the water had been holding and was only now willing to release.

This is how Tiravelle learned that making a stillness and offering it your breath and waiting is the same as being met.

Which proved nothing.

All the other gods carved channels.

Tiravelle just kept waiting.

Listening.

Or being listened to.