Zirén

Nearly an entire age had passed while Antar slept. When the swirling dust finally settled and the fire from the scorched earth dimmed, Solé took pity on Antar and called him back with its rays. He awoke abruptly, wedged beneath layers of rubble, betrayed and crushed by the fall of his tower. His body, once filled with divine strength and radiant brilliance, was now exhausted; his eyes, dry and gritty, he rubbed repeatedly as lazy mists drifted through his mind like those lingering over decayed lands.

He was greeted by a chilling silence. There was nothing beautiful around him—only an overgrown, ravaged land, split into three continents—a reminder of his twisted creativity and relentless ambition. Weathered rocks, severed rivers, and rotted forests with dusty leaves lay before him as dark testaments to an age long past, one he had built together with his companions, Eta and Prior. Now, however, he was alone. Prior had betrayed his trust, casting him into the depths like a brother who dared to overthrow him, only to plunge himself into an abyss of damnation. His beloved sister Eta, her trust shattered as well, had sailed away with the dragons to a distant realm, away from their ruinous reach. And so, in his profound sorrow and regret, Antar rose to embrace the only course left to him—healing and restoration.

With relentless patience and the remnants of his waning power, he set to work. He laid his hands into the earth’s torn wounds, feeling the rocks knit and unravel the dark veils of devastation under his touch. Rivers cleared of silt and debris, and their channels were mended. Half-dead and desolated forests shook as he sent a tremor through their trees, shedding old leaves to make way for fresh buds. The air filled once more with the scent of new wood and resin. Soon, life began to flow back into the healed valley. Eta’s creations gradually emerged from their hidden dens and reinhabited the land. Antar welcomed their presence, pleased with the success of his work. For a time, their company soothed the wounds of his loneliness, yet Eta’s children had always spoken in a secret language he had not learned in her presence, and thus, they could not understand each other now.

Perhaps the wise Arvéli might have learned his speech, but none of them remained. Antar stood beneath Tulór, deep in thought, when he realized he missed a being like himself. One who could understand his feelings and freely create from the foundations he had once laid for them. And so he resolved to take on another act of creation.

In deep concentration, he began to form entirely new life—not from light or stardust, nor from the stones he once loved to use for mountain walls, but from the bones of ancient, long-dead beings, from fallen leaves, and from the fruits that had once ripened under Solé’s illumination in the Írisië halls. His hands radiated intense warmth, moving with the surety of an experienced creator, shaping a body that would embody his own essence. Zirén, as he named him, possessed a mighty, hardened body covered with a moss-like substance. He held strength enough to shatter rocks, a voice that resonated within the mountain hollows, and eyes as deep as the dark crevices of the earth.

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When his work was done, Antar breathed life into Zirén’s mouth, following Eta’s example. Zirén then stood before him, noble and powerful, the very embodiment of Antar’s yearning for a companion. At first, Antar was thrilled with his work. He taught Zirén to walk, instructing him to lift fallen trees he had previously overlooked during his wanderings. He acquainted him with every plant, showed him their blossoms, and let him taste their fruits. He found him a dwelling among the rocks and created brothers for him, so he would not feel loneliness in the evenings. He also befriended him with Eta’s creatures, and among all, the birds especially grew fond of their mossy manes, building their nests upon them. Thus, their song soon carried the news that new masters now roamed the land—the Giants, guardians of the trees.

Yet, as time passed, Antar realized that, though Zirén had been made by his very own hand, something was missing from him. Antar was not inherently suited to the delicate work of Eta’s fingers and could not breathe life into beings as nimble and vibrant as her birds or other creatures. Zirén was bound to the earth; he was clumsy, blending more with the soil than with fragile life, moving through the world with a thundering persistence. His mind was ponderous, often freezing in endless contemplation, never turning to the heavens, and with no need for the gift of light. He was a creature of the earth, and though he understood many of its mysteries, he could not fathom Antar’s sorrow or the depths of his divine heart’s emotions.

So Antar tried to stir the cores within their massive bodies with his thunderous song, heating them with the soul he had initially breathed into them. Zirén repeated the words of the song, mirroring him without understanding their meaning. Like a child imitating the ways and actions of a parent without comprehending the true nature of an adult’s behavior. Yet Antar’s effort was so forceful at times that the core within Zirén’s massive chest cracked, and from it was born the sorrow that they would carry within their souls from that moment onward, a sorrow that became the essence of their long existence—a sorrow born of their creator’s unfulfilled expectations. Their scraping cries echoed whenever the trees they cared for lost their leaves or were uprooted by storm winds. And each time a bud blossomed in their hands, they feared that their father would reject the flowers, deeming them imperfect.

Thus, in his eternal vastness, Antar sat beneath Arcana’s star-studded sky, watching his companion wander through the sleeping landscape, torn by an inner struggle. He realized Zirén had no joyful desires or dreams to balance the somber note of the song he had taught him. Bound by fear, Zirén guarded everything Antar had created, unable to cherish it for its uniqueness.

Antar understood that the power of creation lay not merely in shaping matter but in comprehending what arises from it. Zirén was a reflection of his loneliness and sorrow, yet he could not possess the understanding and love for life that only his great creator, who knew little of these things, could have. Antar resolved that, to truly grasp the essence of his creation, he too must journey through its depths—to renounce his divine dominion and explore the world through the eyes of a being not merely tasked to guard creations but to cherish and love them for their singular beauty. And so, he descended from his divine throne, embarking on a quest for new wisdom.

Having expended much of his creative fervor while breathing life and healing the land, he was now able to shed his divine form with ease, adopting a new body that would allow him to attain the wisdom that Eta’s creatures alone had known.