Ur, of the moon

He is a moon god shaped like a man, or perhaps a man the moon never quite let go of. He stands in the lotus pond as if it has been waiting for him all along—water calm around his legs, petals opening wider in his presence. Moonlight gathers on his skin, pale and luminous, not reflective but alive, as though it rises from within him rather than falling from the sky. His albinism reads here as sacred, a devotion written into flesh: hair like spun silver, lashes almost white, eyes light and deep with a knowing that has no sharp edges. He is enormous, undeniably strong, yet nothing about him threatens. His strength is the kind that steadies rather than dominates. The kind that holds the night in place so it doesn’t fall apart. When he looks at you, there is no judgment—only attention. Full, quiet attention, as if he has all the time in the world and has chosen to spend it here. This god does not command tides or summon storms. His power is subtler. He governs pauses. Stillness. The moment when grief loosens its grip just enough for breath to return. Those who are sinking—into mud, into sorrow, into themselves—sometimes find his pond by accident. He does not pull them free. He offers a hand, firm and warm, and waits. Rescue, to him, must be chosen. There is a gentleness in his eyes that feels earned. He has seen longing linger for centuries. He understands loneliness without dramatizing it. If you stood beside him, he would not rush you, not question why you came. He would simply make space. And if you reached for him—if you chose him not as a god, not as a symbol, but as a being worth saving—he would be quietly undone by it. His head would bow just slightly, silver hair falling forward, moonlight softening. Gods like him are not accustomed to being rescued. He would let you.