Despite what one could think, the Unformed Sky wasn’t mindless.
Indeed, the plane wasn’t sentient either, not in the way a mortal may understand it. Flowing through the still air and the golden clouds, like a disembodied wind, there wasn’t a memory, emotions, the slow churning of definite thought or the steeling of a will.
There was a wish, a shape of a shape. A flimsy little thing that… wished. For what? For growth. But not chaotic, no slow, trial and error advacement riddled with mistakes and corpses. No, the Sky’s wish was for something else. A focused growth, a compact road that would lose nothing, that would leave nothing behind, that would encompass all.
Order. Unity. Purity. Perfection.
But the Sky, wishing as it was, had no hands and no mind to achieve its heart’s desire. And through that unfulfilled dream, the Sky, once perfect stillness, came to know of frustration; through that frustration, he learned hardship. And that hardship was the humus from which evolution sparked.
That was when the Sky, who never knew of time, learned of ages. An age of silence, ended. An age of work, begun.
It’s difficult to speak of parent and daughter. Born by the Sky’s evolution, Aura is still part of it, the most active, the most complex, the one with a heart and a soul and a will. But at the same time, she’s not, a different being, a bird born from an empty nest that has learned to fly on its own. But that part, while sharing the desires of the whole she was born from, has a wish of her own. To return to the whole. Because a single part cannot ever feel fulfilled on its own. But that wish cannot be obtained by simple dissolution back into the Sky’s expanse. Instead, the part must become the whole, turn all of the Sky’s endless creative force to her will. That’s the only way for the original wish that birthed her to find fulfillment.
And so eons passed, an Age before Ages when the once-silent Sky echoed with the Goddess’ efforts. New concepts were introduced, new methods developed. And the Sky, through the eyes and hands of its side with a will, learned of them, made them itself. That desire still ached between the clouds, and, combining with those methods, it gave birth to a mass of half-formed, chaotic life. A new age, one of birth and growth unfocused.
But that frustration was still there. Why couldn’t the Sky achieve that Order it yearned for? Why all that sparked from it were malformed, pointless creatures?
That frustration grew and grew, it reached a critical mass and then erupted. Azakar was born from it, that same eruption its birth-scream. Uncountably more powerful than any child of the Sky, the monster is the embodiment of its frustration and rage, an avatar of destruction that exists only to cleanse the Sky from its failed progeny.
Unfocused and without a true will, the Sky sparked a confrontation between this avatar of its frustration and its daughter. There was a clash. Azakar emerged victorious. A new age, one of relentless hunt, began. Pointless it was, for as much as Azakar rampaged, the Sky’s creative drive was always the greater. No matter how many the Beast consigns to oblivion, no matter how large it grows, there is always more life to replace what was lost, more space to invade.
Azakar’s task is one without end, but the Beast doesn’t care, doesn’t even fathom the thought, for its will begins and ends with slaughter and feeding, and it’s something it dedicates itself to with every inch of its molten soul.
The age of the Predator, one thousand years of rending and slaughter.
It ends today.
For the first time in a thousand years, Azakar’s rampage is halted. It has always rushed through the Sky, barely aknowledging the weakling attempts of Creators to stop him, only delighting in the brief moments of frenzied destruction and feeding before moving on, its rage unslaked.
Azakar sees nothing and understands nothing. To its bloodshot eyes, the world is an empty place riddled with disgusting things that must be destroyed and consumed. The Beast knows nothing of peace or rest, because his heart blazes with the desire to destroy all the horrible things offending its gaze. The closest it comes to satisfaction is when it can indulge in destruction, but even that is but a brief respite from its endless hunger.
What it can and does acknowledge is obstacles, to its hunger, to its desire, to its strength.
It’s a thousand years since the last time it acknowledged a true obstacle, but today marks the end of it.
The thing before him is horrible, like all things are, glowing horrifically with a light that wounds Azakar's eyes. But it’s strong, enough to grapple with it, enough to wound its skin and resist its bite. It shines brightly, but to its eyes that light is hateful.
The thing screeches, a sound like the earth ripping apart, and lightning swarms over Azakar. Pain is an obstacle, and so the monster acknowledges it with a scream from its four heads. But it’s fuel for its strength and rage as well, and Azakar attacks with renewed passion.
Since its last true battle, its wounds have healed. The head it had lost has clotted into a mass of insectile carapace, and another sprouted out, an almost humanoid visage with six eyes.
Azakar opens its lion’s maw, disgorging a flood of burning proto-sludge. The sludge overwhelms the lightning, engulfing the horrible thing. For a moment, Azakar feels the savage joy of the kill. But then the thing shoots out of the pyroclastic cloud, wings held tight against its electricity-riddled body. It slams against it, and they both fall tumbling into the Sky.
They grapple as they fall, struggling to rip each other apart.
Azakar coils its long body around the thing, but before it can close it into a crushing grip, a talon sinks into its skin, stopping it from completing the vise. The thing’s wings flap violently, buffeting it with storm winds that rip out scales and draw out blood. Azakar sinks the teeth of two of its heads into the thing’s neck just as its opponent does the same with its beak.
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They keep on falling. Down, they go, tumbling and tumbling and tumbling, leaving streaks of golden blood that arch and swirl and cross together.
From the mad depths of rage its being struggles, Azakar has the shadow of a thought.
It looks pretty.
The world has always looked so vast to him, an endless stretch of horrible things to destroy. Now, as he fights to the death, the universe shrinks to himself and his opponent. There are only them, this horrible thing he must destroy and his rage. And he’s struggling to destroy it, he’s struggling to finally cleanse the world of its filth and fulfill the only way he can understand life.
His rage, always such a molten, tormenting heat, takes a strange warmth. Maybe it’s happiness. Maybe is bittersweetness. Maybe it’s sadness. He cannot understand. He cannot know.
He only wishes to do good.
Oh, you poor thing.
Azakar doesn’t remember voices or names. His only true fight is a faint echo of pain in his chaotic mind. Still, that voice gives him pause.
You’re just a half-formed thing, with a simple wish, aren’t you?
Azakar’s bites slacken. That presence fills his mind, and for a moment even his fathomless rage wavers.
Don’t you worry, little one, the voice says. I come to give you peace.
A single thought shoots through Azakar, sharp as a spear.
Certain annihilation.
If he stays, if he remains to fight, he will die. There’s no rage that can carry him through, his fury is nothing, his strength dust.
He doesn’t know of fear, he doesn’t even understand the concept. But to leave his mission, the very reason for his existence, unfulfilled? To leave the world filled with horrible things?
It terrifies him.
And so, he does the only thing he can.
Azakar’s coils suddenly come undone. The sudden lack of resistance surprises his opponent. He doesn’t waste the chance. He hit it with his claw, then slams all of his body against it, sending flying away.
Then, Azakar, Creator Beast, rage and frustration personified, starts running.
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It’s running. No, he’s running. His soul has grown, enough to deserve more to his name.
Still, he’s running. What a surprise.
But it’s not intellect. It’s not a shift in vision. It’s just fear of failure. For all his growth, Azakar has not changed. Still the same bloodthirsty beast. It’s good he’s running.
Yet, he must be saved. He must be carried from his tortured existence. Hunt and spear will see to that.
My son is waiting for me, winds swirling from the slow, strong beat of his wings. I cup his face in my hands, nuzzling affectionately my cheek against the top of his head. You were so brave, my child. I am so proud of you.
Izilianchi rumbles, pleased, and I can feel the warmth of his thoughts; I can feel the expectant energy crackling through his limbs, the eagerness to resume the hunt.
But of course, my child, right away. We can’t let that poor little dragon alone. Wouldn’t it be a crime to let him to his cold, lonely, blood-red existence when he could share in the warmth of our family? Indeed, we’ll have to wash him into Gold first, rinse him and take him out anew. But he’ll be saved. He’ll become part of our family.
Izilianchi doesn’t quite understand the concept. For him, there are only enemies to be destroyed. But he trusted me, and the idea of new siblings puts a light inside him.
Smiling, I let him go as he tugs for us to resume the hunt. Together, we go, following the trail of fear.
I am mainly an artisan. It’s what I have always been and what I’ll always be. But there’s a joy to be found even in the hunt. It’s a particular kind of pleasure to stalk the quarry, puzzle out the traces, stop, and listen and try to understand the world around you and the life you’re chasing; pick out a path at the end of which you know you’ll find your prize. That prize, the object of your desire, the reason for all your efforts. And it’s worth every single one of them.
It’s a joy to hunt.
The Sky accompanies us as we go, twisting around us in tunnels and prismatic reflections stretching into infinity. A new layer of the Endless opens before us.
We arrive in a new place.
The land stretches vast beneath the Sky, charred and broken. Ebony rock shines glassy, dirty gold beneath the light of dawn. Rows of pinnacles and mountains, jagged as teeth, tower over plains of melted stone and glossy obsidian. As we watch, a mountain erupts, disgorging rivers of black magma and sludge.
A land of brokeness and destruction, the forest after the fire. And it’s larger than my island. How very annoying.
Still, we are here. The land of Azakar, the Creator Beast. Such a surprise that even a destroyer like him would have a lair to return to. But no, I correct myself, this land is a newborn, sprung into existence yesterday and still burning with the flare of its conception. It’s a fortress, born out of Azakar’s fear of failure, his nest and his hiding spot from me.
Let us test it.
I raise my spear and bring it down, smiting the black land. Anidrru bits hungrily. The spear turns in a rush of blinding light that carves through the landscape, slicing continents and digging ocean-sized trenches. A cloud of black dust rises, obscuring the whole island, before I blow it away with my breath.
The black land shows its insides. Through a mountainous gap, ebony rock gleams. There are no tunnels, no openings. It’s a solid mass of obsidian, stretches of negation piled in top of each other to form a planet-wide safe. Azakar is there, I know it, I feel it. Nestled like a core in its apple, the dragon sleeps, dreaming of destruction.
He’s not beyond my reach. It’d take time, but I can dig my way through this world of rejection, break through the rock and fear and reach the beast. But I’d have to destroy the whole land to do it and…
Mother?
Izilianchi’s question is concerned. Bading him to wait, I descend on the black land.
Ebony and obsidian struggle to repel me. Like a magnet, the land pushes against me. Tendrils of electricity run between the ground and my feet, and there’s a thunderclap as I finally make contact, the pressure exploding outward.
Ignoring the lightning the land sends rushing over my skin, I kneel, putting a hand on the ground. Black dust and debris flee from me, repulsed by my presence. Go away go away, that land say with one voice, and it struggles with all its strength to push me away.
I ignore it, pushing my will deep into dark rock and solid rejection. I feel Azakar’s heartbeat. It grows quicker as I do, the dragon stirring in his sleep. But there’s something else, and that is what I am searching for. Something that is not yet here, but it will be. A seed. A promise.
ThE SiX aReN’t HeRe YeT.
The other Me’s touch scrapes against the depths of my brain. Hush you. You’ll break everything if you come.
Already, the ground around me cracks and loses cohesion, turning liquid. Azakar’s heart jumps a beat.
It all calms down as I push back the other Me. Yet, the words linger.
The Six… they are important. Unreplaceable. They will be. But they aren’t here yet. And if I destroy this land, they’ll never be…
The Six… plus one.
I blink. The vision has changed. Frowning, I peer closer. The words of the other Me cannot be retained by this reality in their pure form, so they come to me as startled birds, images and meaning mixing and changing.
A burning rock. The oak stands strong. The phoenix screeches as the sky falls.
Ashes on blades. The spider spins and spins. Shadows, laughing. Behind you.
Blood on paper. Dust and silence. Frog, at the bottom of the well, staring up.
Rose in the meadow. Painful and unmatched. Warm breath on skin. Touch me, oh watch me.
Moonlight glinting on steel. Cherry blossoms on the night. The moment between moments. The poised leaf.
Mind of gears, embrace. The roaring furnace. More, more, MORE. Salamander, flicking its tongue.
And then, then…
The seventh. The unforeseen, the unexpected. Drifting alone at sea. No coming home. Give me wings, oh, give me wings. Break my chains, oh, break my chains. That aching heart. The love, unfulfilled. The home, empty. Where are you going, daughter? Where are you running? Oh, return, daughter. Oh, return. I see you disappear beyond the horizon. The night is falling. You will be cold, and I won’t be able to shield you. I… I…
Mother? Mother?
Izilianchi’s voice breaks me out of the vision. Something is falling down my cheeks. I touch it, and my fingers come out wet. Tears? Am I… crying?
What is this emotion inside me? What is this love, so poignant that becomes agony? What is this pain, so deep that my Core could split open? What are these Six plus one? I don’t know, not without dragging the knowledge from the other Me and break the world apart under its weight. But this I know. Tragedy awaits down this path. Pain, terrible. But will it be worth it? Yes, it will. Yes, it will.
To hell with the Me Beyond. I must know. I must.
Give it to me.
My son doesn’t understand. He doesn’t know why I attack the black land alone, my spear biting deep into rock and negation. But this is my desire and that’s enough for him.
As he joins him, his presence nuzzles against me. Angry, I push him away, focusing on breaking through. Not now not now.
The Six. The Seventh. Mine Mine Mine Mine.
I struggle, my Core burning brightly against the vague vision that torment my sight.