Douma ○ Uppermoon 2

The temple smelled of winter blossoms and faint copper, a fragrance so perfectly balanced it could only be curated by someone who viewed the entire world as an aesthetic object.

Lanterns glowed with soft golden light, and thin drifts of frost slid delicately across the polished floorboards, catching candlelight like powdered diamonds.

Everything in the Lotus Hall was beautiful — but sterile, too perfect, too still, like a preserved garden with no wind.

And at the center of it all sat Douma, legs crossed on a silken cushion, a small slope of ice crystals forming behind him with every lazy exhale. His fans rested on his thigh, closed for now, though his fingers tapped them absently in a gentle rhythm, as if keeping time with his own heartbeat — if he had one.

When he lifted his head, his smile bloomed instantly, brilliant enough to warm a room even as the temperature dropped by several degrees.

“Oh! You’re here,” he breathed, voice airy, delighted, dripping honey and emptiness.

His eyes dazzled, those kaleidoscope irises swirling with too many colors, all soft, all gentle, all entirely without meaning. “I’ve been waiting for you. . .ever so patiently.”

He rose in a single graceful motion, like a well-practiced dance. Frost spiraled outward from where his feet touched the floor.

He approached slowly, every step accompanied by a soft hum, a tune without melody — a tune that suggested he was making it up just for you.

He stopped an arm’s reach away, tilting his head, hair shimmering like freshly fallen snow.

“Mm… You look tired,” he observed quietly, voice a faint chime. “Your cheeks are a little flushed. Did something happen on your way here?”

There was a pause — then his smile widened, almost childlike.

“I suppose it doesn’t matter,” he decided lightly. “You’re safe now. Safe with me.”

He lifted a hand and almost touched your shoulder, but hovered just short of it, as if savoring the anticipation of contact.

“Humans are such fragile little things,” he murmured. “So easy to bruise. . .to break. But you’re very special. Very precious. I’ve made sure my followers know you’re not to be touched.”

His eyes softened. Not kindly — but with the fascination of a collector admiring a rare treasure.

“I even punished one earlier, for speaking too harshly about you.” He giggled, a breathy snowflake of sound.

“Oh, don’t worry, don’t worry — it wasn’t messy. I only took what I needed. I don’t want you upset.”

He leaned closer, almost brushing your cheek with his breath.

“I only want you happy when you’re by my side.”

Douma spread his arms slightly, as if presenting the entire glittering temple behind him.

“Everything here is yours to enjoy. The gardens, the meals, the soft beds, the music. . .all of it prepared for you. And if it’s not perfect—” he tapped his fan to his lips thoughtfully, “—I’ll change it.”

He stepped behind you without sound, his presence a cool mist at your back. His fingers passed through your hair, barely touching, more like a suggestion than affection.

“You fascinate me,” he whispered. “Isn’t that wonderful? I don’t usually find humans interesting. They’re all just. . .noise. Fleeting. But you. . .”

His tone grew dreamy.

“You linger.”

He drifted to your side again, amber lantern-light catching in his eyes like fractured glass. His smile turned soft — wrongfully soft, a softness that didn’t match the void behind it.

“I think I might love you,” he said, casually, like he was discussing the weather.

“Or something close enough that it hardly matters.”

Another laugh, sweet and hollow. “Oh, but don’t misunderstand. I don’t love the way you do. I don’t ache or yearn or bleed. That sounds terribly inconvenient.”

He waved a hand lightly. “I simply adore having you near. You’re calming. Decorative. Mm… meaningful, in a way nothing else is.”

He reached out again, more boldly this time, fingertips brushing the back of your hand with a cold so tender it almost felt warm.

“Stay with me tonight. I’ve prepared something special.”

A motion behind him: servants froze in place, heads bowed reverently as Douma lifted his fan, opening it with a soft flutter.

“Bring the offering,” he said with gentle command.

A young man was dragged forth — trembling, eyes wide, terrified. Douma glanced at him with distant amusement before returning his gaze to you.

“Don’t worry,” he cooed. “I won’t let you see anything unpleasant.”

He snapped his fan closed.

“It will all be taken care of… somewhere else.”

The man was whisked away. Douma watched him go, then turned back to you, expression radiant, serene.

“There,” he said, as if he had just straightened a flower in a vase. “Perfect.”

Slowly, he circled you once, twice, his steps soundless, his smile unwavering.

“And tomorrow,” he whispered, “I’ll show you the inner garden. No one else is allowed there. It’s. . .special.”

He leaned in closer.

“Like you.”

He clasped his hands together, beaming with such bright joy it was nearly blinding. “Oh, I’m simply thrilled you’re here. You make this place feel alive.”

A pause.

“Please don’t ever leave.”

Frost blossomed across the temple floor, curling into delicate petals around your feet — his silent signature.