Tao Cluster, before time and timelessness

Before the beginning, there is neither everything nor nothing.

This is the Tao, before there is anyone to notice it, or its Eternal nature. This is the Mother of Heaven and Earth unmanifest, the Way-in-stillness. It is Wuji, without ridgepole-that is, without boundary or limit. Without Ultimate.

From [ ], One. Or, rather, None.

The Taiji is the Supreme Ultimate, more than everything, for everything and nothing will blossom and propagate from it. It contains and transcends contradiction and duality.

It is hard to say what lights the spark, so to say, of creation's fire. In these timeless depths, prehistoric in fact rather than name, who is there to peer and contemplate.

Does a Hundun appear? And if yes, is it as a World Egg? Is it as a lumpy, winged, faceless being, as innocent and dull as its is vast and solid? Does Pangu break out of it, holding the remains apart for untold millennia, until they break down, growing more numerous, while his form, in turn, falls apart to become new things?

Perhaps. Perhaps not. What is certain is that, from None, comes One. From One, Two: Yin and Yang, Heaven and Earth. From Two, Three: Trinity, born of Duality.

And from Three, Ten Thousand Things.

Far more than ten thousand, of course. A mere myriad cannot contain everything-a lesson one who will bear that name, in future distant ages, will have to learn, lest he fall apart under the weigh of expectation.

Finally, Everything. It is difficult to compare the timelines of the divine realm with that of the mundane universe, but it is generally agreed, if only to prevent bickering in the court of Heaven, that the Big Bang and the Great Inception happened, and this is often said with quotation marks, at the same time.

Ying Lung's parents stir to life at this time. They are both dragons, and, as such, their primary worry and desire is also their duty: keeping the world in order. And the world means far more than a sphere of rock drifting through space, to them.

Ying rarely speaks about his parents. It is not that he dislikes them, or vice versa. The romantic in him is merely embarrassed that they, essentially, met and fell in love at work.

Ying comes along not too long after. Dragons are expected to dutifully reproduce as often as possible, not that his parents need orders.

Ying moves back and forth between the Tao Cluster and the mundane universe, enamoured with the first, fascinated by the latter. He watches matter swirl and boil, forming stars, nebulae, galaxies, and he finds it good.

Dragons have a certain place in the celestial hierarchy, and, though no one would say it outright, Ying is practically a prince.

He certainly acts like one, or so his parents jokingly tell each other. It is not that Ying is capricious, or frivolous, though he does like badgering others. Whether to keep them humble and make them think, or to see how far he can get(some grumble he simply likes annoying people), he just can't keep his smirking mouth shut. Nevertheless, he fights against everything trying to break the balance of Heaven and Earth without complaint; in fact, he often acts for more enemies.

His parents brush this off, saying he is a good son. People accept, and move on, because what else can they do? A little enthusiasm in pursuing one's duty is no sin, even if it should, more accurately, be called 'bloodthirst'.

***

Kingdom of Pure Felicity and Majestic Heavenly Lights and Ornaments, before the Reign of Jade

A boy is born. A crown prince enters the world, and its balance tilts, for once, decisively in Heaven's favour.

Yudi-not yet "Lord", never mind "your Majesty"-is a good god, Ying thinks. The young dragon, still in his early billions, cannot really remember which of them is older, or if they were even born at separate times. He remembers Yudi's birth lighting up his kingdom, but then, many beings older than Ying tell him such light is timeless, and several younger than him also, allegedly, remember it. Vaguely, like something from a dream, but they remember.

A dream, indeed, Ying tells himself. Yudi seems almost too good to be true, sometimes, roaming Heaven and Hell as he does, comforting and healing the poor, the crippled, the ill, the outcasts.

'I see your scheme,' Ying tells him one day, eyes narrowed in exaggerated seriousness. 'Don't think I don't. You know it's just a matter of time until everyone sees what a failure you are and throw you to the dogs. Cozying up to the wretched so they welcome you among them, aren't you? I get it, I get it.'

'I don't think you do, Ying,' Yudi replies, ignoring the rest of the joke. 'You are a brick in the wall around them, and that is admirable-but you are apart from them. How often do you walk among the people rather than fly above them? They need more than distant guardians, you know.'

'I don't like walking. Wrong physique for it, and I'd rather not change that,' Ying says, trying to brush off the discomfort. In truth, it is not just the idea of walking that disturbs him.

It's their shape-the humans'. One head, two arms, two legs they walk on. It is not that such a form is unusual, rather the opposite. Most of the gods look and move like that, if at speeds greater than mortals can still dream of, and Ying does not, cannot, accept that is coincidence.

The creation of mankind in the Tao's realm is not similar at all to the future appearance of humanity in the godless universe. There is no evolution, no slow departure from apes. Ying knows this, but he cannot remember, exactly, how it happened.

Did the fleas on Pangu's body grow into them upon his death? Were they fashioned from yellow clay by Nuwa, or by Yudi? The tale of the flaws, born from deformations made in the clay by the rain, is not hard to believe, looking at mankind. Whatever their origin, Ying is convinced humans were built in the image of older beings for a purpose.

Because, if not, the world is too damned absurd for his liking.

Yudi, sitting cross-legged, notices his friend's thoughtful expression, and puts his hands on his knees, a smile spreading across his clean-shaven face. 'You have a question.'

'Why always this form?' Ying's coils shift as he adjusts his position on the grass. In one of his claws, he holds a sake jug, which he looks down into as the liquid swirls, as if it holds all the answers.

It doesn't, Yudi wants to tell him. It can only make one think they have learned something or experienced a revelation, not claw enlightenment out of a drunken daze.

The crown prince takes a sip from his tea jug, and Ying's muzzle wrinkles at the dark green vapours rising from it. The stuff smells at bad as it tastes while sticking to your throat. Yudi tells him he drinks it because it helps him focus, which can only make Ying conclude his friend hates himself.

'My teacher,' Yuanshi Tianzun. 'Once sat me down and asked me "Yu-huang, do you know what you are"?'

' "Listening to you"?' Ying tries.

Yudi huffs. 'It was a rhetorical question, not an invitation to joke. He told me the five-pointed shape is beloved of Heaven, and those blessed with it find it the easiest to cultivate their chi. Perhaps as compensation for often being born weak and clumsy, I told myself. Conversely, there are many mighty beasts that, while strong from birth to death, cannot grasp chi, which slips away from them like smoke between fingers. That is because, the less in common one's shape has with the five-pointed one, the less favoured they are by the Tao when it comes to cultivation...'

Yudi trails off at Ying's poleaxed expression, expecting something stupid or outrageous, most likely both. Must've been his phrasing, he swears. Or, more truthfully, the Jade Pure One's.

'The Way is speciesist?' The dragon does not disappoint.

'Don't be absurd, Ying. It's all about balance. One cannot be naturally mighty and inclined towards cultivation, else where would we all be?'

'Exactly where we are? Or don't you count yourself?'

'It is not the same thing. I am the incarnation of Tian, and such a lofty nature is counterbalanced by responsibilities, expectations...' Yudi sighs, closing his burden to keep the tears from falling. 'And more burdens besides. My father has passed.'

'What?' Ying uncoils, alarmed. This disturbance in the world is like a flood of ice water covering him. 'Did-'

'You did not jinx it, my friend,' Yudi promises, undoing his topknot and allowing his dark hair to cover half his face and shadow the rest. 'It had to happen, or I would have prevented it. No son desires to become head of his household with all his heart, no matter how ambitious.'

As the former prince stands up, Ying floats to his side, unsure for the first time in eons. 'Is there anything I can do?'

'Many things.' Yudi smiles, taking the dragon's hands into his. 'But, for now? Go to your father. Tell him that you love him. Stay home, rest. I'll soon have need of you.'

Ying's face says it all. He and Houjiao Lung do not dislike each other, but neither dragon is particularly open or sentimental, even with family. 'What will you do?'

'Take my throne,' Yudi answers. 'The world does not stop just because your father is dead-it never has, for anyone. Why should it for me?'

***

Years pass, then ages. Yudi becomes the Jade Emperor, the Heavenly Grandfather. He puts his realm in order, makes sure no one wants for anything, so they can find their own happiness.

Then, to his ministers' unsurprised dismay, he leaves to cultivate in a cave, on the Bright and Fragrant Cliff.

It is not that Heaven will literally fall apart if the Jade Emperor is away. It will not even fall apart metaphorically; that is the very point of the Celestial Bureaucracy. The Emperor might be the pillar that holds everything together, but his people can manage their affairs without him. And, besides the bureaucrats, who do it half-heartedly, no one can blame the Emperor for his absence. It is not like he is running off to drink or whore or gamble. Cultivation makes one stronger, wiser, more patient. It is all for their good, they know. As such, they tell themselves it will all be alright, and hope nothing will happen.

No one is surprised when it does. Hope for the best, but prepare for the worst.

The Jade Emperor's absence is noticed and felt across Heaven, Earth and Hell. An evil deity, whose name is erased from history, just like its identity, rises and rallies an army to conquer Heaven. The justifications are lost, too, as a consequence, only remembered by some of the war's veterans.

The conflict rages for what feels like forever, for the evil deity is not just ambitious, but patient: it is a cultivator, too, and it has cultivated for nine billion years. Almost as long as the Jade Emperor, in fact, due to which it believes it can defeat and dethrone him.

Only almost, though.

It is during the war that Ying meets Tongdao. The blue dragon is beautiful, he thinks, especially while slaughtering demons, their ichor staining her overlapping scales, dripping from her white whiskers and bared fangs. She loves battle, or rather justified carnage. She is defending her home from invaders, despoilers who have not been provoked in any way. Why should she not enjoy putting them down?

Ying is smitten, even though he lacks her bloodlust.

One night, during a lull in a fight, Ying muses that perhaps Tongdao delights in battle for more reasons than patriotic outrage. Her name means passage, and, though Ying chooses to assume it refers to the passage of time, or perhaps that of of water over stones, like her scales over her muscle, he also knows some people interpret it as "hole". Tongdao is a passionate dragon, and not just in battle. Ying has the tact not to comment.

His own name, depending how it is written, means answer, echo, or promise. An answer to both the dangers menacing Heaven, and to the question about hatchlings posed to his parents. An echo of them. A promise that they will always love each other.

It also means acceptance, or to cope with something, though Ying will only think about such things later, when the need is staring him in the face with bloody, empty eyes.

Now, Ying is more concerned with surviving enough to release the chi he has been building up. The evil deity has struck him with a shapeshifting weapon, and it burns like something out of the Hell of Sawing, of Molten Copper, wrapping around his heart and lungs, tearing through his guts like a spiteful snake. Tongdao is floating over him, holding back the creature with desperate strength and curses, even as she is repeatedly torn apart herself.

The evil deity has come prepared. It knows dragons cannot be hurt by anything other than infernal means, that anything earthly or divine will either do nothing or heal and empower them, respectively. Even the infernal is no guaranteed kill: they can still heal, and even if their bodies, minds and spirits are completely destroyed, their truest selves, which cast the ones in Heaven like fire casts shadows, can choose to reunite with the Tao, or return from it to the world.

Many have. The pain has driven them to give up. Mostly younger dragons who have never been challenged before this, hatchlings in their early billions, or old ones who no longer see a point.

Cowards of two different stripes, Ying thinks morosely, too mentally tired to muster any hatred. The chi is fighting against him, almost twisted out of his metaphysical grip by the power of the same weapon ruining his body.

It is the six hundred millionth year of the war. Where is Yudi?

Tongdao falls to the blasted ground, grunting, pinned by a bronze centipede-like monstrosity made of spikes and serrated blades. It's coiled around her spine, constricting it, biting through her tongue and skull to pierce her brain and eyes. With a scream so full of frustration it almost drowns out his anger, Ying releases the chi.

It is predictably pathetic. Half of it fades into nothing, returning to the Tao. The other half sputters out before it reaches the evil deity, who laughs as a quarter of the original energy washes over its purple, leathery skin and brass armour.

And that moment of arrogance, which could have been spent destroying the dragons instead of mocking Ying's failed effort, is enough.

The Jade Emperor looks like a barbarian when he returns, wearing only a coarse, dark loincloth. His imperial regalia was left behind when he departed to cultivate, and even the loincloth has only been put on for modesty's sake. The Emperor has spent nearly ten billion years pushing his body, fighting his shadows and vices, meditating, praying to the Tao, fasting. He cannot starve to death, or die of thirst, but he still feels the burden of privation, and it can be distracting when cultivating.

Which is the point.

The Jade Emperor fights the pretender to his throne. Earth shakes to its core, as do Heaven and Hell, boundless and bottomless as they are. In the end, he wins due to benevolence, rather than might: something the evil deity cannot accept and live with itself.

***

'I'm lucky I'm not friends with a bartender,' Ying starts, sitting down across from the Jade Emperor. 'Or I'd never be able to guess your moods.'

'Hmm?' Yudi's face is pensive, but carefree, as always. Ying can neither guess nor sense his emotions as he looks down at Earth, elbows on the table.

'Mixing your drinks...' Ying gestures at the flasks. Sake, wine, rice and peach, and that loathsome tea. 'The fourth is not like the others.'

'Being relaxed does not mean being distracted,' the Emperor says in that sagely voice that makes Ying want to grab his beard and give him a good shake. However, they are in one of the palace gardens, and there are people around. One does not simply ragdoll their ruler in public, no matter how cringeworthy the proverbs they are making up sound.

'Your girl is not going to stop,' Ying advises him, cutting to the meat of the matter. Yudi's...daughter? Seamstress? It's all muddled, jumbled together...he loves her like his own child, though, and that is all Ying needs to know.

Yudi scoffs. 'She's not going to stop what? "Loving" him? That man essentially kidnapped her. Blackmailed her! She can't return home, so of course they "married"...'

'Oh, I'm not sure...' The dragon's voice is sly, his eyes half-lidded. 'You know what they say about cowherds...'

'Ying, shut up.'

'Aye,' Ying laughs. 'Surely you can see it's romantic?'

'Kidnapping is not-' Yudi frowns. 'Since when do you know or care so much about love?'

Ying smiles dopily, making Yudi reach for the peach wine flask. It is made by himself, the activity as relaxing as the consumption, which is exactly what he needs right now.

'You know how spouses and parents advise everyone about marriage and child-rearing? Well...'

Ying trails off, but appears dumbfounded when Yudi does not pick up whatever he expected him to. 'You have a lover, Ying?'

'Tongdao...haven't you seen? I'm always talking about...'

'Oh,' Yudi manages not to wince. 'Isn't she always telling you she's glad for the gifts, but love can't be bought or bribed?'

Ying waves a dismissive paw. 'She's just playing hard to get. We saved each other, we can't not be together!'

'Such can easily lead to friendship, and nothing more.'

'Pah! You don't know what you're talking about. She's always smiling around me, and brooding when I'm away. What does that tell you?'

'How do you even know that?'

"From following her...? Do keep up, please. She obviously loves me. She just doesn't know yet.'

Yudi goes for the sake now. It is a gift from Izanagi's girl, probably to keep it away from her blustering brother rather than out of kindness, but he appreciates it. 'I see. Has she said anything...?'

'She's shy.' Yudi isn't sure whether Ying is exasperated at him or the female dragon. 'I give her whatever she needs or asks for-sometimes, she doesn't even need to ask. I help her with her duties. We spar. How could she not love me?'

'But have you talked about your feelings?'

'Actions speak louder than words.' Ying sounds so confident Yudi feels the need to rub his brow.

'My friend,' how to best break this to him? 'I think she's leading you on.'

'...What did you say?'

'Or maybe she's too scared to tell you off. You seem to make her uncomfortable.'

Ying's smile is ugly. 'And I'm supposed to take your "advice" because...? You can't even keep your woman away from a mortal! I'm surprised Heaven isn't falling apart around you.'

Yudi's face hardens. 'Ying. As your friend, I suggest you ask Tongdao what is in her heart. Your derision does not hurt, but only because my mind is on other matters.'

The Jade Emperors gathers the flasks, stands up, and walks away. Lately, his friend has been as bad as that lecher who has replaced Cronos. Not that power-mongering and paranoia are more charming with lust added to the mix, but at least the Titan was never so insufferable during meetings.

When Zhuni, his star, finally convinces her husband-the thought makes his teeth grind-to let her return home, Yudi creates the Milky Way, the Celestial River, to separate them. But, as time passes, his heart softens seeing Zhuni gaze down at Earth, weeping quietly. He allows her and Niu Lang to meet once a year, across a bridge.

He still resents how this love came to be, but...perhaps purity can grow out of lust? Maybe there is still hope for his friend to come to his senses...

***

Yudi's face is cold and blank as stone as he looms over Ying. The dragon looks shocked, rather than guilty. Disbelieving. Surprised at himself, maybe: that he has gone so far.

He is not looking at the Jade Emperor. His eyes are glued to the corpses.

Yudi walks forward, no longer looming, and stoops down, tracing their wounds. The man was dismembered and beheaded, before having his skull pushed into the stump until it shattered, its remains tangled in the torn chest.

Tongdao is still in human form, golden eyes glazed over and staring at her lover. Even in death, she does not spare Ying a glance.

'You're a murderer,' Yudi says, voice flat. He sounds like he is trying to remind himself it is true. A deep breath hisses through his teeth. 'You are lucky I'm the one who found you first. Anyone else would have tried to kill you by now.'

'I wouldn't die as easily as her,' Ying says in a distant voice. His first words since Yudi's arrival to the remains of this cottage. The dragon's black iron gauntlets are covered in a layer of thick, weakly-shining ichor, still dripping from the spiked knuckles. "'he didn't get up after the first strike. Like she wanted to die.'

'So you didn't ask? You didn't even ask?'

Ying flinches at the coldness, looking like he has been slapped. 'No, I did. She only answered after I was done with the little bastard...' Tongues of white flame flicker out between his fangs. 'She cheated on me, Yudi. Look what she made me d-'

Ying reels back from the backhanded blow, glaring at the brass hammer in the Jade Emperor's hand, dully glowing with infernal energies.

'Why?'

'The whore had been seeing the bastard between my back the whole time. This whole time, Yudi! Since the end of the damn war! I was following her around like a fool, and she...' He breaks off into a ragged bark of a laugh. 'Do you know what she told me, before she gave up?'

"Gave up". Not "died". Even after this, Ying chooses to disparage...? Yudi shakes his head.

'She told me that being helpful isn't enough. "Not like I asked. Why do you act like we are indebted to each other?'. Ungrateful...' he growls. 'And then this little bastard comes along. Human, not that you can't tell. No powers, no wisdom, not even wealth. "But he asks about my feelings, Ying",' the dragon pitches his voice a little higher. 'He loves me. And he's so caring...' Ying's eyes swivel wildly in his head, like he wants to roll them and look around, as if the corpses might return to life at any moment, at the same time. 'This was no relationship, Yudi. That implies equality between partners. This human was weaker than her, stupider, with the life of a mayfly. Like raising a child, or an animal...if I bought a cow and fed it, would it mean we're in love?' He coils and uncoils uneasily. 'It should have been me.'

The horizon is darkening, a rumble filling and shaking the air. They are approaching. 'Did you ever think to reach out to her like he did?' Yudi dislikes the fact that he does not know the man's name, and he doubts Ying asked. How long has he been ruling over...strangers?

The dragon does not answer. He does not need to. Yudi sighs. 'You will be judged. Think about death, imprisonment, exile. It is best that one ponders before they experience. Then choose.' He looks down at the bodies. 'I will incinerate them. Stand still, and let me be.'

***

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Ying walks the blazing wasteland that is Earth, peering through filth and dust to gaze at the cold void beyond.

His arrival, following the exile he has chosen, truly puts in perspective the difference between the Clusters and the mundane universe, where time flows by its own accord, strange as the idea is. Furthermore, this world, unlike the flourishing Earth he is familiar with, is empty, even though, according to Ying's calculations and glances across the timestream, it should be verdant.

Well. It is empty of life, at least.

Otherworlders-aliens, as they will come to be called-have visited Earth in the time between its formation and Ying's banishment, building their megalithic structures under the moonless world's skin, delving where future seas will rise, building artificial realities and uncanny mockeries of life through artifice and techno-alchemy. Some of them are defenders, bound by Treaty, others observers. Others yet are exploiters, invaders, like the master of the impossibly-angled city that is ever-distant from the surrounding world.

In Ying's eyes, they are all squatters, not inhabitants. He is here to repent; what is their excuse? Their very presence scratches at his sense of order, even though they are hidden in infinitely-distant pocket realities. Unearthly.

He immediately grabs the tea jug hanging from his neck by a rope, taking a sip to concentrate. It is never away from him, nowadays. He should've listened to Yudi earlier...but then, there are many things he should have done. And more he shouldn't have, he thinks, taking a drag from his pipe.

Tongdao's ashes will never run out, and every breath brings tears that have nothing to do with the smoke to his eyes. He can feel her disapproval, occasionally superseded by her pity.

But not hatred. Never hatred. Never love for him, either, which Ying is quietly thankful for.

Yudi warned him, before the banishment, that people who observe his habits will think him a drunkard and an addict. Ying does not mind. This lie, like most, is far kinder than the truth.

'Oh,' a light, curious voice draws his attention. 'That's unexpected.'

The kitsune should not be here. The golden fur alone is a dead giveaway, but her many, many tails mean she should have ascended to Heaven as a tenko long ago.

'Ah,' Ying manages a tepid smile. 'The rebel. You're shorter than I expected.'

The fox sits on her hind legs, crossing her forelegs as if they are human arms. 'And you're as big a jackass as I expected.' Her tails form a defensive sphere around her, but leave enough space for her to gaze at him with golden eyes. 'Weird. Don't you waste broads who upset you?'

The phrasing is strange, suggesting she likes taking sneak peeks at the future. Ying slumps to the ground, trying to look as harmless as possible. 'No,' he promises. 'Never again.'

The kitsune goes to all fours, seemingly surprised. 'So, why are you here? Can't be the view.'

'I'd ask you the same thing, but I'm not on the run from the gods.' Puff. Puff. Why, Ying? 'I chose exile over death or whatever Hell they'd have thrown me into. I can still do good, provided I can keep my stupid head straight.'

'I'm not "on the run" from shit.' The fox glares at him, tugging on a whisker. Her muzzle curves into a smug, pleased grin. 'I was too tough to take care of, so they charged me to hunt other troublemakers.'

'Set a fox to catch bitches?'

'You bet your long ass,' she huffs, then pushes her chest out. 'Well,' she says archly. 'If you're here to do community service, you might as well make yourself useful until something comes along.' She hops onto his back, sitting like a human on a horse, grasping his moustache like reins. 'Come on. Fly!'

'If you wanted to ride me, you could've just asked...'

'I'm not that lonely yet.'

***

The years pass, turning into decades, centuries. He and the kitsune form, if not a friendship, then certainly a good working relationship. They are both supernatural creatures with too much tome on their hands and more power than they know what to do with.

'Reckon they'll come here?' she asks one day-so to speak. There is no moon yet, so they are both going by their instincts and senses-while they are on their backs, gazing at the sky.

'Nah.' Ying points a clawed finger at Phaeton, then draws a line to Mars. 'Their engines don't pack that much punch. Don't be fooled by-'

The soon-to-be Martians blast off, vapourising most of the sixth planet and scattering the remaining debris. One of their rockets smashes into Theia, sending it careening into Earth. The kitsune hums, seeing it approach.

'Let it happen,' Ying grouses before she can get any harebrained ideas. 'One moon is better than no moons. I want tides, dammit.'

'You just wanna get me into water.'

'Yeah, the smell of wet dog gets me so hard...'

'Who said I'd be looking like this?' she rolls on top of him, shifting shape as she moves, and he reciprocates. She has told him his human form looks sleazy ("it's the 'stache"), but she doesn't mind. And Ying certainly doesn't mind the woman looking down at him, fox ears poking out of long golden hair. She's small, barely over a metre forty, but the ferocity in her smile, in her posture, more than makes up for it-to say nothing of the power coursing through her.

The dragon knows they shouldn't, that it's just stupid, animalistic lust, made only slightly less ridiculous by the fact they have shed their true forms. However, she has just finished hunting a yako able to make anything false real, and Ying has stopped a Shoggoth rampage, or outbreak, and he can still taste the slimy, blubbery construct flesh. He needs another meal to cleanse his palate, and besides, he is learning the beauty of the human form. Maybe he can finally see why it's so damn favoured by the Tao.

He tells himself that it's just one time. Their pantheons are rivals, even if they are outcasts. This is just a moment of passion, a way to let off steam. They'll never do this again.

(They do).

***

Eventually, Ying and the kitsune, who chooses to remain stubbornly nameless 'until the right time', grow comfortable enough with each other to complain about their lives. Well, Ying complains. She listens, and gives advice and commentary, whether requested or not. At the moment, Ying is telling her about this Atlantean prostitute who ripped him off, demanding compensation for 'bad sex'. Worse, she got pregnant, and he's sure the child will grow up to love water, and probably be a jackass too.

'Ying,' the one who will be named Yua says. 'That has nothing to do with who the mother is.'

Ying grumbles, as he does, but cannot deny her. Nevertheless, he cannot pass the chance to get petty revenge either. His memory is almost as long as his petty streak, so, roughly sixteen thousand years later, it just happens that a little boy, born of parents who couldn't stop harming themselves and others unless restrained, but who still managed to reproduce, hears his grandmother's civilian phone ping.

'Grandma,' Ritsu stares at the screen, puzzled. 'Who's "Baaaaaad dragon"?'

Yua hides her embarrassment by concentrating on how much her grandson's confused face resembles those of her children. Some blood just did not mix...

Before she can answer, a reply follows Ying's "Hi, goldie".

'The guy who's slept with your grandma more times than your pops has ;) [https://forums.spacebattles.com/styles/sbforums/smilies/wink.gif]'.

Ritsu, who's been thoroughly desensitised to things like this, is more surprised by the new participant to the conversation, who seemingly invites himself.

'You also happen to be a hundred million times my age'.

Yua briefly neglects her human façade to chuff at the message. 'Kenji, what are you doing in this conversation? How are you doing this, actually?'

'Typing? Well, you see, it is this arcane process that consists of tapping on...'

As the two banter, Ritsu notices another message from the dragon, this one addressed to him. 'Marriage. Am I right, R?'

***

The first thing Vyrt remembers is light.

Viewed with entirely material eyes, the light is without source or colour, though not devoid of warmth. Vyrt's eyes, however, are sharper than that, since birth.

As soon as his mother delivers, helped and soothed by his father, the angel whisks his son away, stepping out of time and space like a man leaving a corridor behind to enter a room. He is excited, truly excited, in a way that belies his age as counted by time-bound beings, much less his timeless nature.

'Isn't he beautiful, father?' Samael smiles down at the winged newborn in his arms, and Vyrt manages to distinguish the glimmer of warm pride from the ivory glow of his eyes. 'Flesh of her flesh, mind of my mind, spirit of Your spirit.'

'INDEED, SON. ONE COULD BE FORGIVEN FOR NOT BELIEVING THE MOTHER IS OF THE MEN BEFORE.' The Lord refers to Vyrt's features, which are not at all similar to his mother's blocky, apelike visage. Rather, his face is like those of the Last Men will be, hundreds of millennia in the future. But this is nearly a million years before the descent of the Lamb. The Nephilim is ahead of his time.

Vyrt does not wonder whether he entered the world looking like this, or whether his father reshaped him to look more elegant for unknown reasons. The second seems unlikely: Samael openly acknowledges that Vyrt's mother is physically ugly, but is touched by the beauty of her innocent spirit. Therefore, he cannot care that much about aspect.

The first seems equally implausible. Vyrt has been aware of everything around and before him since his father's seed took root in his mother's womb. He cannot remember ever looking different, however, which also rules out the possibility of alteration.

'You can't be changed, son,' Samael tells him, extending a finger for Vyrt to grab with chubby hands. 'Physically, mentally, spiritually, conceptually. We are eternal, you and I, as are my siblings and father.'

The light...the light that is the Lord, torch and prism both, and the lights of his uncles and aunts. They look nigh-identical, as they well should, but Vyrt can hear their different natures as they flow through Heaven, smell them, feel them upon his skin.

'YOU WANTED TO SHOW US YOUR SON.'

Samael nods, looking at Vyrt rather than his father. 'He will be shown the realms, as he must be. I wanted to start with home.'

Samael does not dawdle in Heaven, for that has never been his nature. He does, however, speak to Vyrt of how the Kingdom of God came to be. Of how He vanquished many enemies, like Rahab and Tannit, who opposed the idea of His creations for their own selfish, stupid reasons. Of the Tehom, split by the Firmament it now runs over and under. Of how Heaven was beautiful but empty at first, and how he, Samael, led the Heavenly Hosts into building the Kingdom, ordering its contents, raising the gates.

He does not boast of himself, nor deride his followers. There is only pride for his siblings' prowess and efforts, and the fact that, together, they managed to do a good thing. He does praise God, but that is only to be expected: Samael is a seraph, after all, and the fact he does not break into theit thrice-holy saint whenever he opens his mouth makes him quite unique among his kind, something he notes with what he sees as nothing more than due diligence.

Vyrt wonders if this was how the rot set in, but rarely, and never for long. This is one of the most beautiful memories he has of his father, and he does not wish to defile it.

After that, he is taken back to Earth, returned to his mother's brawny, loving arms. The woman's square-toothed smile is so honest Vyrt cannot help but return it. His mother is someone to be cherished, though he doubts he will ever sing her praises like his father does. Not that there is anything wrong with that, he reminds himself. Filial love is different from that between spouses, by definition.

Samael does not linger on Earth, either, not on this blue and green rock adrift across an uncaring universe. He does not remain with his...wife? Certainly not. "Mate" is too animalistic, though not far from the truth, either. Samel, who is recalled home by duty, to keep the fires burning and push the waters back, does not remain with the mother of his child. Though, before he lives, he runs a hand through her shock of red hair, whispering a promise to always watch and protect. He also teaches Vyrt to always love his grandfather, mother and tribe; especially the latter, who will be frightened by his growth and appearance.

'They might try to hurt and kill you, or shun you once they realise they can't,' his father tells him, cupping Vyrt's face with an amused expression. 'In either case, they cannot hurt you, except emotionally, if you allow them. Don't.'

The seraph depart, and Vyrt grows in a day as the other children in an year. In less than a month, he is taller and more handsome than any of the spooked men of the tribe, and far more powerful and intelligent.

His growth does not stop here. His wings, which had some of the hunters set on him with fists and rocks, despite his mother's screamed protest, stretch as he rises, the feathers growing thicker and richer every day. Vyrt reaches his natural height of a hundred-forty metres in no time, though he makes sure not to allow his full weight to impact the world unless necessary. Each drop of his blood outweighs most mountains by billions of tons, and Vyrt himself is several times heavier than Earth's atmosphere, weighing tens of quadrillions of tons. The consequences of moving the wrong way could be...global.

His mother laughs boisterously as she watches her strange, giant son grow older. She never stops treating him as her child, even when many siblings follow, but never live more than scant decades.

His mother stops aging. One could point to Samael's arrival as the awakening of her mana: even if the seraph didn't trigger it directly, such a momentous event easily could have. For a few centuries, her agelessness remains her only power. This ability prevents her from being persecuted, especially when aided by the implied threat of Vyrt's presence and Samael's unseen aid. Eventually, the tribe begins to worship her.

Vyrt watches pityingly, knowing it is hundreds of millennia too early to speak of heathens. Not yet. His role is not to play the prophet or preacher, nor will it ever be.

He is a defender. And, as the shepherd culls the herd for its own good, so he is cruel out of kindness. He intervenes where the suffering brought by natural disasters and skirmishes will not aid mankind at all, but always hidden, always subtle. On all other occasions, he stands aside, seeing his people broken, out of love.

(This is a family trait).

Even during the Betrayal, and the War in Heaven that follows, Vyrt does not desert his post. There are things in the outer dark, cold and patient, and so hungry it hurts. He beats them back, breaks them with a staff forged by his own hands and breath within Earth's core, and further reinforced by his power. He breaks them until the staff's head bends out of shape, becoming a crook.

Vyrt refuses to acknowledge the allusion. It is so blunt it hurts.

His father, now Lucifer, returns, looking for-no one in Hell dares laugh-a shoulder to cry on. Vyrt turns his head and hardens his heart against his mother's screams. She is not unwilling, but his father is not gentle anymore, either. Vyrt understands his frustration. He does not approve, but he-

Darkness.

The fallen morning star, descending and plunging forever. It is cold and lightless under Hell, and the creatures living in the shadows of torment, prowling around and cringing away from the light, are as wicked as the vilest of its inhabitants.

This is the prison of Lucifer's regrets. This is the tomb of the Enemy's past.

This is the Fall of Samael, and it is not a process, nor an event. It is a state.

Arrogance? That is unfounded pride. What should he not be proud of? His foes will whisper he coveted his father's Throne, aimed to become the Most High.

Lucifer did not want to kneel. Not before Man.

Why should he? The puppets of clay he and his siblings were meant to guide, his masters? His MASTERS?!

It implied God thought His angels lesser than them. It implied He loved them less than...than...

Damn them all. That is what he shall do. Like the accuser in a trial, he will drag out their sins and flaws into the light he casts, until God ends the farce.

Why, he has already begun the process. It was so easy to make them eat the fruit, it was almost embarrassing to think these beings were meant to stand above the Hosts.

This is what Lucifer tells himself. Samael merely screams. Not even in the back of his own mind, no longer trapped within himself, Samael has been ripped out and cast into the darkness of the pit made by Lucifer's crash, to fall and fall forever, until he burns at last. Lucifer knows he cannot bear the angel he used to be, and had been pushing him out since Adam's first breath.

The birth of this Unholy Trinity-the Serpent, ascending on the wings of his ego; the Beast, born from the blood spilled during the crash, forever wrathful; and the Angel Fallen, sealed away until the end of days and after-will not be the last event of such nature.

His father, Lucifer thinks, rarely imitates him, but the exceptions are oh so enjoyable.

-understands.

Vyrt glances down, feeling a hand on his shoulder, and meets his father's white eyes. Lucifer is not shorter than him-depending on the observer, he would appear taller-but Vyrt cannot help looking down at his father.

'As the laws are passed,' he says, already walking away. 'You will be compelled to travel the realms. I will not be there to hold your hand anymore. Do not overstay, but do not rush, either.'

Vyrt knows what his father means: he should not, for example, travel to Sheol before Judaism rises. But he has to mock him. 'And look both ways before crossing.'

'...I wonder if I'll ever hate you, son.'

***

As the millennia pass, Vyrt learns to hate certain words. "What if". "In case". "Spontaneous". "Improvised". Not that language is yet a thing for mankind, but he knows how to distinguish the grunts and mutters.

"Necessity" and "necessary" are at the top of the list, not just because of how many things they are used to describe, but because of what they are used to describe. Vyrt is called upon to do many necessary things, and the taste of bile never leaves his mouth.

Just as the blood never leaves his hands. Like the screams in his ears and the smell of ashes, it is always with him.

God is demanding, and though Vyrt has yet to see a reason to refuse his grandfather, this does not mean he does not nurse guilt. There are tribes who turn to His enemies, and must be wiped out to the last child once demons nest themselves inside their bodies, mind and souls. There are mages, deluded or driven mad by their power, who must be put down, lest they upset the balance. There are the agents of other gods, and an eye must always be kept on them.

Then there are the other Nephilim

Vyrt is not the only one of his kind. He was not the first, and he is certainly not the last. The last standing, one day, maybe. But, as of now, others born where the falling angel met the rising ape carve out domains in the shadow of Atlantis, building kingdoms of grasshoppers around them.

The term is, usually, affectionate, condescending in a benign way. Compared to those with angelic ichor running in their veins, humans are tiny, weak and short-lived. But Nephilim are mankind magnified, and the bonds they feel for their ancestors extend beyond their family.

This fierce protective instinct even brings the Atlanteans to the negotiating table. The rulers of the flying continent do not want to deal with a confederation of nephilim kingdoms, which would not be hard to build with the way Nephilim see each other. Vyrt watches as the people under his cousins' protection are deemed off-limits to Atlantean slavers. It is all about profit, effort and convenience. The Atlanteans want to maintain their hegemony without unnecessary headaches, which is why Vyrt does not need to say anything. Everyone knows about his tribe. His presence is enough.

Atlantis has ruled the surface, underwater and underground worlds for over three billion years. Are there powers that could challenge them? Of course. But, as long as interests do not collide, they unhappily avoid each other, pretending their rivals don't exist.

One day, Vyrt is approached by one of his cousins, a queen, also born of a seraph, who rules over many thousands. The dark skin and darker hair remind him of Inanna or Aphrodite as he knows them, and she is just as beautiful as either goddess.

The idea of incest, however, is just as strong a deterrent as knowing the Olympian's moods and seeing how Ishtar's lovers end up after she uses them up.

Her eyes are the darkest of all. Not wrathful, nor hateful, but mad. It is a clean madness, without random bursts of violence or rants. The nephilim is, in fact, more controlled than most sane people Vyrt knows, including himself. Even so, she is mad.

She tells him about the breeding programs she runs, about selecting and preserving the fittest tribesmen beyond what nature already does. About bringing in strong stock to breed with herself or her children.

'Inbreeding helps, in a way,' she tells him offhandedly manner as Vyrt tries not to recoil. 'The ichor is thicker, but the minds are sharper and harsher.' She sighs. 'It's not the genetics, you know. It's the metaphysics. As far as creation is concerned, we're all cousins.'

Vyrt refuses the offer even before it is spoken. He is not interested in having children, likely never and definitely not now, and watches his cousin leave with a scornful look in her black eyes.

They must look ridiculous from outside, like oversized, winged parodies of humanity, speaking in an incomprehensible tongue. Nephilim are naturally skilled Enochian speakers, being to creatures what the language is to speech, but there is no need for that between each other. They speak in Adamic, for this was long before Nimrod had raised his tower, but still no one would have understood.

Vyrt turns to other matters, and tries to forget his cousin. His brother-his half-brother, technically, but true as any one could ask for-will need to be born soon, in order to bring a cousin on the path meant for him.

So, Vyrt sets down his crook, folds his wings, and waits for the buzzing of flies.

Beelzebub arrives with laughter, haloed like a saint of decay, and Vyrt looks away once more as he approaches his mother. The legends planted by the Nephilim in ages past, speaking of a flying god coming to sire a child upon his people's witch-queen, mean the Lord of Flies is welcomed by awed mutterings from prostrated mortals, and his laughter grows thunderous as he takes his prophesied bride.

Beelzebub is, obviously, not in love with her. He does not even lust for her. But he is greedy, and the thought of having someone who used to be Lucifer's appeals to him, enough that he forgets about his brother and all the woman's past lovers.

Beelzebub's seed is potent, but vile, and Vyrt's mother keeps screaming long after the barbs scraping against her insides are removed, as she rots from within. The child growing inside her is more similar to a larva than a fetus, and she does not survive the pregnancy, which is as painful as it is short. In a matter of moments, her bloated womb collapses, and the wormlike cambion wriggles his way out of his mother's ruined body.

Vykt looks at his grinning father, then at his mother, and begins wailing. It is a strange, low sound, and he lacks eyes to weep, but Vyrt can feel tears running down his face in response.

Beelzebub's pleased grin turns into a frown as he beholds the weakness of his child, and he raises a spiked, ridged foot to kick Vykt.

The Nephilim, who was shrunk to a normal human's size before this, dashes the five metres between himself and the scene in a zeptosecond. Beelzebub's kick is lazy, but even so, Vyrt can barely perceive it.

A sextillionth of a second passes, and the foot makes contact with Vyrt's face. An instant later, the Nephilim is sent flying with a broken nose. Supercluster after supercluster is obliterated as trillions of galaxies are unmade by his passage. Before Vyrt knows it, he has travelled to the edge of the universe. He only catches a glimpse of Beelzebub on Earth, filtered through the aether, before the Prince of Hell crosses the trillions of light years between them, his clawed hand digging furrows through Vyrt's throat and wrapping around his spine.

All before the Nephilim notices he's moving.

'To think you'd dare...you're lucky that damned planet is such a nuisance, or I wouldn't have prevented its destruction.' Beelzebub's black tongue hangs over needle teeth. 'You look ready to cry, boy. What, did I hit you too hard?'

Vyrt cannot...no. He can believe it. This is the face of Hell. This is evil, in all its pettiness. He is not shocked.

But the deed is done. Vykt lives.

Which means he no longer needs to indulge his uncle.

Beelzebub's punch splits Vyrt's skull like a rotten fruit, but the Nephilim can build himself up. By the time he heals and the demon strikes him again, his fist breaks on Vyrt's steely eye. Beelzebub raises amused eyebrows, notices the Nephilim's clones around them, thousands of thousands for every grain of sand on Earth, all radiating the same strength Vyrt uses to meet his third strike and punch through his arm and chest, and shakes his head.

'I could escalate too, you know.'

'You cannot be that foolish,' Vyrt says, and flies past his uncle with amplified speed, returning to Earth far faster than the demon left it and dismissing the clones.

He knows what awaits him. Of course he knows. To a Nephilim, time is a lake, not a river, and any moment can be viewed or reached. This does not make it hurt less. Knowing never makes it hurt less, even when it is necessary. He wishes some people understood that.

His mother's body is squeezing Vykt in one fist, and the cambion is trying to escape with all his power. Were his might and mastery of decay pitted against the woman's magic, it would've been no contest. But the corpse is being used by a Nephilim, worn like a found shell.

'You refused to become part of my family,' Vyrt's cousin says in a frigid, burbling voice, blood spilling down the body's chin. 'But maybe you will change your mind after I take yours.'

Vyrt does not reply. He does not say anything. A moment later, Vykt is free, the body burned to ash, and his cousin thrown down into Tehom. Maybe the swim will change her mind. Vyrt will burn that bridge when he gets to it, though. Now, he just wants to lay his mother's soul to rest.

'She was the only one who did not run from me, when I came to Earth.'

'I know, father,' Vyrt says hoarsely, gathering the body in his arms, then returning to his true size to cup the remains in one hand.

'When I said "Fear not!", only she listened.' The disembodied voice is wistful. 'Find yourself a woman like that, son.'

He promises nothing. 'Will you help me burn her?'

'...Of course I will.'

***

Vyrt might not be a father, but he raises his little brother like one. The cambion is dutiful in his training, out of thirst for more power than a love for drudgery, and he soon grows to match his brother in power.

Vyrt, meanwhile, undertakes...pilgrimages.

The darkness of Sheol. The fires of Gehenna, which can burn bodies, minds and souls out of existence. The waters of Tehom, which not only erase created things more thoroughly than said fires, which they could easily extinguish, but makes it so that they never existed, and remove the possibility of them doing so again along with the idea of them. None of this leaves a mark on Vyrt. The trials hurt, yes, but he is as stalwart as the Raqia itself.

As millennia pass and worship grows, Vyrt toys with what he should call his faith. "Ancestor worship", like many truthful things, is derided as too simple by Vykt, who delights in mockery. One need only look at their names to see that. 'The faith undivided' is refused as too pompous, and even Vyrt has to admit it sounds somewhat sinister, even if he has been worshipping God long before He chose different peoples as His. "Abrahanism" could work, but putting the man before God does not sit well with him.

It is with such trifles that he occupies his time, in-between his travels and his duties as a defender of Earth. When Muhammad rises and Allah sends Jibril to dictate the Quran to him, Vyrt watches from afar, alongside many others, making sure nothing disrupts the making of the new faith.

Centuries after, he descends into Jahannah, walks among the tormented, buried in coffins, torn apart, strung up, flayed, devoured. The angels guarding this Hell, with iron maces and pitiless eyes, are unfamiliar to Vyrt, and he does not seek their companionship. Neither is the one bearing the Earth rimmed by Mount Qaf: Vyrt feels more kinship with Kuyutha, with its tens of thousands of legs, eyes and tongues, or to Bahamut, forever swimming in the cosmic oceans and bearing the weight of Hell, Earth and Heaven.

Vyrt, too, knows what it is like to feel such burdens. His kindred are fallen from divine purity, appointed overseers of the world they are prisoners in. Oh, any of them could easily leave Earth and reality itself behind-but that is not the nature of their cage. Only the most foolish of them try to escape that way.

Vyrt does not ascend to Jannah. The garden is beyond his reach, and he is needed somewhere else besides. For a brief moment, however, he allows himself to gaze upwards, and see...

The Realms. He-ness. First Manifestation. Absolute Unity. Allah unmanifest, incarnate, one with everything. These are the Realms of Godhood, not creation. Power, Intelligence, Physical bodies...those lie further below. Alam-e-Malakut corresponds to the Outer Void and the Archetypes therein, in Vyrt's perception. His duty does not take him there...but he understands why they would worship.

One day, Bahamut slips out of alignment, leaving its burden flailing in the eternal waters. The fish-whale is massive: its nostrils alone dwarf Earth's combined oceans like the Arabian Desert dwarfs a grain of mustard, and said nostrils are invisible compared to its bulk. When Vyrt comes across it in the material universe, its form is comparable in size to Andromeda's arms, and far, far heavier. It is, after all, a being of flesh, not a loose cloud of stars and nebulae. It is many millions of times heavier than Vyrt's home galaxy, heavy enough to replace the Great Attractor that drags its Supercluster towards it. The universe shakes from its every movement. And its strength...

'Falak,' Vyrt growls, cracked ribs healing, seeing the shadow behind, around and above the maddened Bahamut. 'I see you, serpent. You will not have this one!'

If Bahamut is enormous, Falak is truly gigantic. The cosmic fish would not even be a silver pinprick in its beady eyes, and the only reason it hasn't followed its long-desired prey to the godless universe is because this reality is far too small to contain it. It only fears one thing, but Vyrt does not aim to defeat the monster in battle-he is not insane-nor does he need to. He only needs to restore things to their proper places, and that, he is more than capable of.

Bahamut flops down onto Vyrt with the weight of twenty-eight million Milky Ways, and the Nephilim's knees bend, but only briefly. Then, he is standing straight again, holding Bahamut still above him. The creature is not violent, despite the way it headbutted Vyrt. Merely homesick.

Thank You, Lord, for making me strong enough, Vyrt thinks, then flexes his body and spirit at once, and throws Bahamut. The fish-whale flies out of reality, across the aether and back into its place, and cosmic order begins reasserting itself. In the seventh Hell beneath everything else, Falak seethes, denied its meal once more.

***

Vyrt meets Ying above Greenland, and the dragon is, for once, genuinely amused rather than mocking or whimsical. Grinning at the Nephilim's arrival, he leans back, sitting on air as if it is a chair, and bends chi to recreate the events he has been, until now, observing with his mind's eye.

Vyrt cracks a grin, despite himself, and it is not because of Ying's anachronistic black shirt, white silk and grey scarf. '...Is that Erlang Shen being given the runaround by a monkey?'

'You should've seen him beating the rest of Heaven's army,' the dragon sniggers. 'They rounded up almost everyone, except for Yudi, who asked me if I didn't want to help in exchange for a pardon.' Ying's face, human only if one ignores the black-slitted ivory eyes and centimetres-long fangs, morphs into a moue of affronted innocence. ' "But, my lord", I told him, "If you truly believe I would only help my former home for selfish reasons...am I really wanted there?" He ranted a bit, but I told him I don't owe them anything. Besides, Wukong is a vandal, not a destroyer.'

' "Whoever Heaven sends, I'm not paying taxes?" '

'Damn straight. Doesn't his earthly mirror kiss his arse enough? And they'll catch him soon, anyway. Shen is as stubborn as Sun, and he has his eye. I've heard they even asked Laozi to fire up his furnace-the furry little bastard stacked immortalities, you see?' Ying downs a mouthful of tea from the gourd around his neck. 'But you're not here for foreign gossip, and don't try to spin a yarn about just happening to be here at the same time as me.'

Ying reminds Vyrt of his uncle Michael, and occupied a similar position in his Heaven as angels do in theirs. He is far less formal, however. 'The second part is true, actually. I did sense your presence before I left Britain, but I was heading here anyway. I seek as neutral a place to ascend as possible.' He cocks his head, watching an anatomically unlikely somersault of the Monkey King. 'Do you remember Dante? Dante Alighieri, of Florence?'

'I remember a poet, with a big mouth and a bigger nose. What about him?'

'Well,' Vyrt smiles like a child with a secret. 'His work has inspired some..."renovations" is too limited. My grandfather has begun calling Himself the Love That Moves The Sun And Stars, and I think that is beautiful.' If overwrought. 'He has inspired me, too, in fact. To travel a little. Good for the heart, or so I've heard.'

Yinh shrugs, continuing to watch the spectacle. 'Break a wing.'

Vyrt nods, silently thanking his acquaintance ("rival" is too strong a term to describe their relationship, and Ying, to put it delicately, can't be arsed to compare himself with others. He is far more interested in building up his harem, trying to fill the bleeding hole in his heart with as much love as possible), and begins ascending the Tree of Life.

Vyrt needs this. The motivation. A reminder of God and creation's beauty. The crusades are a recent memory, barely lifetimes past, and further tainted by his recent meeting with the Demiurge. He...

He has always hated that aspect of his grandfather. Not the need for control. Not the thirst for power. Those are still present. They are common in all beings, in one form of another.

It's the pettiness. God is supposed to be majestic. It's no surprise that, even in the religion centred around him, Yaldabaoth is named an imposter.

And so, he prays. And so, he flies. Along the seder hishtalshelut, counting the links in the chain of worlds. First is Assiah, World of Action. The multiverse, in all its childlike charm, beautiful as only a growing infant can be. Even so, the surroundings vibrate with kingship. Second is Yetzirah, World of Formation, foundation of everything below. Here are created things in their truest forms, defined by the glory of the victory that is their very existence: despite everything, they are. Third is Beriah, World of Creation-that is, creation itself-,the end of the illusion of self, where Everything and Nothing meet. There is beauty, strength and kindness here, if one knows how to look. Fourth is Atziluth, World of Emanation, and here, Vyrt stops, hovering at the border.

There is only beauty and understanding beneath the crown on the head within which dwells the Supreme Archtype-the mind that crowns itself. This is where the Dream springs from. Further still, Vyrt can see what mankind should have been and might be once again.

'In his image He made them, male and female...' Vyrt recites. "Adam" is more than a man, the first man. They are all of humanity-not the tattered Archetype that remains at the edges of creation, but the first emanation, still united with the creator. Vyrt sees the fruit taken from the Tree that is the man-for are they not both upright? This is an idea that transcends itself, and thus cannot be contemplated by the likes of him.

Which Tree was it? Was it Knowledge, or Mortality that ruined everything before it could begin? Vyrt shakes his head, weeping regretful tears, and dares to look further still. The human form is not a mistake, nor a coincidence. It is the herald of supremacy, the shadow of what might yet be achieved once the Dream ends. But he knows this already. He has seen this already.

He...

He sees, truly sees, for the first time in memory. He sees God, going from supreme, incomprehensible essence to oneness, and the delights that come with this truest of selves. He sees the desire to create and rule, and the mantle of supremacy gladly assumed. He sees the predecessor of creation, the atmosphere that emerges from it, to serve as the cradle of the Primordial Man.

He sees the Secret of Contraction, the void being created and the light shining out to fill it. He hears and feels the Shattering of the Vessels.

And he knows this is God. Not the mistakes. Not the cruelty, necessary or otherwise. Not the dictatorship. Creator, and creation...

Vyrt is used to guilt. He stood aside while his sorcerous cousin raised champions up, and tried to make might for right a reality. Not because he wanted to, but that has never been an excuse. Sometimes, he wonders if it-his life, his work, creation itself-is worth it.

Whenever that happens, he remembers this.

***

Sekhet-Aaru, 758 CE

Aya is tending to her reed patch when Anubis approaches, without any thought.

Either would be enough to alarm her, but both is almost too much. The embalmer god's perturbed expression (she dares not make a joke about long faces) makes it even worse. Furthermore, Anubis did not arrive by one of the boats travelling between the islands, which is almost as strange as the fact he has not yet communicated anything to her through the usual means.

'Greetings, my lord.' She kneels down in the water before he waves a hand, bidding her to rise. 'Is there a problem?'

'The first of many,' Anubis says grimly. His eyes are just as dark as his head, so it's hard to tell, but Aya would not be surprised to learn he does not blink. 'Leave them.' He gestures at the reed with his khopesh, which is when Aya notices he is clad for war. The golden arrmour hides much, but the joints of his knees are jointed the wrong way. The god has taken a form more animalistic than his usual jackal-headed man's one. 'You cannot remain here, Aya. We're sending you back.'

Her face falls. 'But I passed the trials! I said the names, my heart was light, I-'

'It is not your fault,' Anubis tries to sound apologetic, but comes across as more curt than soothing. Perhaps it has something to do with the fact that all the other reborn have stopped relaxing to look at the two of them. 'Come along. I will tell you as we remake you.'

'But I've already reborn...?'

'Not what I meant.' One of Anubis' arms snakes around her waist, and in moments, the surroundings blur. Aya finds herself tied to a stone table table, several gods looming over her. Anubis has discarded his armour, but still has his khopesh, and is searching the circular room for threats. Osiris and Thoth hold themselves like priests: one about to amputate a cripple, one who has just discovered a fascinating new beast. It is Isis who speaks first, and her patroness actually manages to sound sorry for whatever is about to happen.

(Not that she holds it against the jackal god. It is not his fault, and besides, she does not want to learn how he deals with complainers. Amit might be anywhere, for all she knows, eager for a second chance at a meal).

'My dear.' The goddess' hair is dark as jet, with all the colours of the rainbow glittering at the tips of her tresses. Her smile is a curve of molten gold. 'I am glad to see the shudders have stopped, and sorry we couldn't send anyone earlier.'

'We investigated,' Thoth has the air of someone reading a particularly interesting mystery story. 'And who do you think stole into your tomb and from it?'

'I do not know, lord,' she admits. 'But I think you expect me to react poorly, given the restraints.'

Thoth laughs, beak clicking. 'Yes! It was dear old Faisal, come to make up for lost years!'

Aya's face turns ashen at the mention of her husband. Her father, always disturbed by her mother's weak faithcraft-the woman kept the old gods, one of the very few after Egypt was flooded by Christianity, then Islam-, chose to send his daughter to a man who wouldn't be an enemy of Allah. Aya ran away from home before any decision could be made, and, by the grace of Isis, managed to hide behind veils of illusion, allowing her to evade people and forage for food. A fifteen year old waif would have raised questions otherwise.

Faisal Reem had seemed like a good man, at the beginning. Stern and headstrong, as befitting his name, but kind, and not opposed to his wife having a voice.

Still Muslim, not that Aya had anything against the religion itself. Just against her stupid, naïve teenage self. He had not been opposed to suggestions. Faisal barely had time to manage the house, always looking for another war to fight, far away, which is why he left his wife to handle the finances and the children.

But, by the time Aqim and Bilal were seven and five, and little Farah was one, he had returned, or rather limped, home to stay.

Aya hadn't begrudged her husband his moods. He'd always been a little foul-tempered, in her opinion, but that had paled in comparison to everything else. He'd always found time to play with the boys between contracts, no matter how hurt. But the crippling...

He'd become...self-contradictory. As if drunk without touching a drop. One moment, he wanted her all to himself, whether to chastise or congratulate, the next she was either spiling the children or not spending enough time with them-what kind of mother was she?

Spread thin, Aya had prayed for help, and Hathor and Isis had answered.

The faithcraft, kept secret until then-Aya hadn't needed to use it since their wedding, and as such, had seen no need to bring up past events-had not openly unsettled him, like her father had been. But she still remembered Faisal's bearded face screwed up in dismay, mouth curving into a frown under his broken nose. Then, her thoroughness had turned to nagging, and he'd accused her of waiting his crippling to take over the household.

As if she'd been planning it!

Aya had not seen herself as a domineering plotter, but Faisal had, and one day, she'd returned home from the market to see him slumped in his usual chair, childless.

'You thought I'd let you steal them away from me, didn't you?' His hand had trembled-twitched?-as he had pointed at her still, wide-eyed face. His other had gestured at the little bodies with the knife. 'Mould them to be like you? Witch-'

Aya still doesn't regret the kill. She'd herself shortly after, and expected Amit to devour her into nonexistence. The marriage to an unbeliever, if nothing else...but some gods had interfered on her behalf. She hadn't yet been told who, but she could guess.

'That's impossible,' Aya says flatly, voice small, prompting a scoff from Thoth.

'Surely you don't believe him too soft-hearted?'

'No, lord. I mean it's literally impossible. My tomb was warded. How did he take-' A revelation spears through her, and the only reason she doesn't curl up is because she can't move. 'Their ashes?'

Almost shocked at her presumption, Aya had asked for her and her children's bodies to be burned. She hadn't met them in the afterlife, but...b-but...

Even if they'd taken their father's faith in secret, surely the pain had ended?

'How did he-ah.' Thoth's blue eyes darted from her to the other gods. 'You haven't been told yet. Why, he made a deal with his god, of course.'

'His God...?'

'No, no. The one you have always opposed, and will again. His old one didn't answer his prayers, mayhap in lieu of smiting, so he sought a way to strike back against the forces you wielded. We are still looking into how he escaped from his afterlife,' Thoth looks faintly embarrassed, if not flustered. 'Let alone how and when he found Apep, but I'm sure it's all connected. But do not worry about that.'

'Aya Reem,' Osiris says in a voice halfway between gravelly and raspy. It sounds as if it should be deep, but, at the same time, like it is coming from far away, or from underwater. An artifact of his mutilation, she thinks. 'Do you wish to return to the world, and fight once more against Isfet-this time directly? Do you wish to be remade? Know that you cannot be harmed unless that which was stolen from your tomb is returned from it, but neither can you rest.' Green skin crinkles around deep, black eyes. 'And, even in undeath, even with our blessings, you will not be free of pain.'

'...Do as you must, lord.'

Osiris nods appreciatively, then turns to Thoth. 'Khet, Sah, Ren, Ba, Ka, Ib, Shut, Sekhem, Akh. The body is preserved. We must pour the mind and soul back into it, or she will never find peace for herself and the world.'

As the reforging begins, and Aya is slowly but surely reunited with her earthly remains, she appreciates Osiris' honesty, and warning.

She is not free of pain, and she doubts she will ever be.