Easter
Haretha
7
Every Easter, she returns.
Soft-footed and shimmering in moonlight, the Easter Rabbit bounds from her hidden warren. Her fur glows with morning dew, her eyes gleam like springtime gemstones, and her basket overflows with colorful eggs—dozens, hundreds, each hand-painted in perfect swirls, symbols, and smiles. Children wake to find them on doorsteps, in gardens, nestled in the roots of trees.
They never question where the eggs come from.
But they should.
She is ancient—older than folklore, older than the churches and their hymns. Her name is not truly “Easter Rabbit,” though that’s what she allows them to call her now. Once, the druids called her Haretha, goddess of spring and rebirth, herald of the fertile moon. And once, long ago, she was worshipped.
When the world turned to the Cross, she vanished into myth.
But gods don’t die. They wait.
Each year, as bells ring to mark the resurrection, Haretha emerges not to celebrate—but to distract. While millions bow their heads in reverence, millions more turn toward her eggs, their sugar-coated treasures, the games and laughter and pastel promises.
She lays them herself. Not chicken eggs, no. Her eggs are strange, organic, humming with unseen power. Inside each one is a sliver of belief—just enough to tilt a child’s wonder toward her. Just enough to grow something beneath their skin.
Because belief is fuel. And children, wide-eyed and unguarded, believe more deeply than anyone.
This year, she smiles wider.
She’s laid more eggs than ever before.
She hops through towns and cities, hidden from adults, seen only by the young and pure-hearted. Her presence is warm, inviting—motherly even. But beneath her grin, something stirs. She knows the veil is thinning. One more generation. One more Easter. Then she will be strong enough.
And maybe then, the world will forget the tomb. Forget the stone rolled away.
They will only remember the Rabbit.
Diety
