Ten thousand frenzies from the sky. Each raindrop [i]yearns[/i].

THIS is what it is to be a GOD. To feel the YEARNING of the natural world. To feel the craving of the leaves for the sun. To feel the hunger of the earth for the sky. To feel the imperious craving of the hundred-billion parasites that scratch and claw and chew at the mighty roots of the trees. And above all in this, the season where the sea and sky are one: the desire of the rain! Each falls in prayer, seeking prayer. Let me strike the face of a maiden, they cry! Let me be the first raindrop to fall upon the face of a newborn rooster, their first and eternal taste of life! Let me crash against a leaf and knock a beetle from its perch so that it might scream its devotion to me as we fall entwined into the earth! Let me! LET me! Let ME! 

The rocks below her feet strain and yearn for the kiss of her shoe. Let me chip and break and tell a story forever that it was you who broke me! Let your foot fall into my mud and shape this path forever with your footprint! Crush my delicate newly-sprouted stem and punish me for defying the Law of Man and Gods by daring to grow upon a sacred path! 

The rainforest yearns. The world yearns. The sun and moon and skies and everything [i]yearns[/i], governed by the timeless stars of blue above. No clouds or rain can hide the constellations from her now. Even her own falling gaze is insufficient. She feels them against her skull as they shift and move, ascendant and descendant at all times and at all places. The Musicians. The Pillars. The Lovers. The Ewer. The Peacock. Once a King upon an empty field said: [i]I am, that you might not be[/i], and within that cosmic decree were the seeds of love and violence and otherness and uncertainty and [i]not[/i]. Even when the heavens burned and the King fell, unable to drag all down with him, his decree was still enforced. If anything, it was enforced even more diligently for now the decree reigned alone, having overthrown the King who made it.

So what is it to Zhaojun that these mortals yearn too? What is it to Zhaojun if some part of [i]her[/i] yearns? All things yearn, and what they yearn for is not theirs to decide. If her masters decreed it she could teach this mere guide and this mere priestess that they belonged at the feet of the fae. That they belonged at the feet of Zhaojun. That they belonged at the feet of each other. Such was the administration of Heaven and such was their luck that they were not to be corrected.

Yet. The constellations ran through her hair like fingertips. The Maidens might ever change their mind. They, too, [i]yearned[/i].

The rain yearned for her face. Her mask denied it. The rain yearned for her skin. Her parasol denied it. The rain yearned for her blue-glowing spirit lantern. Its heat denied it, cloaking her in an ethereal haze of steam and mist as it sizzled away before it touched the eerie metal. Not every love was worthy.

"You do not comprehend the natural order, sister Crane," said Zhaojun to the priestess with a smiling voice. "I did not either, before I [met/became/submitted to] the Goddess. You seek to build cages with your words; insufficient. Only good for caging other words. Build cages with your heart, your mind, your body, your soul. Why else send a priestess to deal with a god rather than a common minstrel?"

[Center of the Web: What does Sagacious Crane of the Reeds love the most?]