You are the Aurominus, the Light-bringer, the Lord of Daybreak and the Truth-seer. Your realm is the heavens-vaulted Mount Caeleste, where your folded divine Temple of Dawn resides and on which each of your petitioners spend their afterlives. Your secret name is Varnas Zedius Idrudium known to only you and your elder brother, the Keeper of Knowledge. You hold one of the twice-nine Thrones and have millions of worshippers across Creation.
You are a god. One of the high gods brought about by the creator known only as the "Most High," who no longer communicates with even you or your brethren.
You are the solemn guardian of the mortal plane and your faithful there. You had long ago chosen to stand in guardianship of those who had little defense against the darkness which beset them on all sides.
The Epochs pass by, namelessly, wordlessly. They need no greeting nor dismissal from their predecessors or descendants yet they diligently pass, one by one. One minute after the next, one year after the other, an eon after the next, and you? You persist, unchanging.
Though, to say that you are wholly unchanging is not truthful. You have softened with the passage of eternity, where once a slight or infraction would incur your holy wrath, you now tend to seek other solutions. Where once you appeared before your worshippers in the form of your avatar to inspire them to greatness, now you prefer the gentle nudges of things that could be ascribed to blind luck and circumstance.
You, Luminarius, have changed. As you sit at your throne at the high summit of Mount Caeleste where you prefer to pray to the Most High, you wait. You are surrounded by dozens of archons singing pleasing praises and songs to your glory, recounting your holy victories and great miracles, yet you wait. It is here that you looked down upon formless void and said, 'This shall be a mountain,' and so your mountain did spring up out of the fog to crack the sky itself, giving you your sacred domain and on the summit of which... you now wait.
Yes, Luminarius, you have changed over the endless seasons of Creation's being, having brokered great pacts with all gods and evils high and low just as readily as you had flaunted them. You have brought justice to emperors and peasants. You have shed light over your mountain but also in the deepest crevasses where evil does dwell.
In the past, you saw to your self-ascribed duty with fervor, punishing the wicked and uplifting the meek and though you do not rest in that eternal vigil your wrath and your blessings are less than they once were. You are as powerful as you ever have been, but you find that there are often far more eloquent ways to diminish evil than to strike a spear of sunlight into the center of a continent and sink it into the sea like the stone it is. In that respect, you have changed.
You have changed in another way, as well. For even as you stand vigil, even as you keep the bargains and laws held high, even as you heal the sick and bring succor to the dying, even as you wait...
One change that has taken place in you cannot be so easily ignored.
On this nameless day so far flung from your inception and the creation of your mountain, from the first pacts and bargains issued down to the crawling things, from the first dispensation of justice or illumination of truth that you brought about, your change manifests quite simply and without much aplomb.
Today, you question... what is it—exactly—that you are waiting for?
You consider the question dutifully and ponder the option of delivering the question to your archons, but you know also that they could find no great wisdom to it.
You watch their slow, drifting dance cascade all around you and consider the holy geometries they trace. With that slight observation you know that, in one million seven hundred forty two thousand nine hundred and sixteen revolutions, that particular archon singing the praises to the saint Kestil of Brellan and this one singing the chorus relating your victory over the Fiery Legion of the Third Abyss will bump into each other. You know that they will express polite confusion, trade places, and resume their orbit.
You've been looking forward to that event, that casual mistake of these short-sighted archons, for so long that you're entirely sick of yourself.
You need to get away for a time, or you just don't know what you'll do. The Mortal Realm seems like the only logical escape.