Finally, I create life.

Simple, trifling almost. I am a mother, and always will be. Part of the me that creates is always pregnant, ever ready to conceive, what is birthed from me limited only by the means of my mind and my hands.

Simple, yes, but unimportant? Perish the thought. What is a mother without children? And where is a mother’s pride and joy to be found but in her thriving progeny? And I am a mother.

I giggle, excited, as I plant my hand in the ground. My island’s skin is pliable, easily giving way under my fingers. The sand beneath welcomes them in an embrace made of ten thousand little grains. I feel them all, feel the potential buried inside them, limited once by their first turning but still ready, still waiting, still pregnant. My touch is all that is needed to ignite it, to turn it into that hot mass to be shaped.

Not like some mistakes. The thought is a venom arrow, easily splintered by affection as I pull the leftover echoes of my first, unfortunate children from the depths of my beings, where they had settled, dregs of my wine.

Not enough to make a soul, let alone a life. The Primordlings were just too chaotic, too imperfect and immature to leave anything more. Yet, it will do to fulfill my promise to them: a new, whole life. The thought makes me smile.

Gently, reverently, I coax the echoes forward. Not much remains. Impressions, shadows, yearnings. They waver, slippery fragments so fragile that they would blow away in the Sky, if not for my grip.

I chip at them, shave away what is not needed, polish what is. Then, I add all the rest. An instinct for immutability. Exuberance, just enough. A dash of joy for life. Handfuls of love, for themselves, for each other, and, of course, for me.

Building a living being is difficult, and even more so is describing the endless minutia that goes into this most supreme of labors, all the tiny adjustments, the endless details. At his core, simplifying, a being is composed of seven elements: consciousness, movement, body, soul, senses, face, faith. Arguably, the last one is the foundation for the others. The faith a being ascribes to will decide its existence. Does a being believe in might make right? The devouring of others? The slow suckling of dead things? Or he ascribes to silent thought, untouched by corporeal needs? Does he believe in living in death, or would he rather consume himself in a raging flare? Does he trust in endless rot or rely on quasi-life?

Faith is this and more, the framework inside of which a being is defined, the logic of which is slave and servant, executioner and upholder.

An additional, eight element lay in fate. A tricky thing, fate is a mark imprinted on a soul, the gentle nudge of an unseen hand toward a scheme, a project, a weave of destinies. An invisible shackle, yet it allows for confluences of events that would be remote under the rule of simple probability.

I think of all these things as I work, forming them, adjusting them and then infusing them into my creation. Step by step, I create in my mind an image of what will be born.

My children will be the children of the Unformed Sky. Their faith will be toward the eternal. They will be unshackled from fate and need. They will be creatures of celestial song and soaring love, of endless energy and burning life.

Perfect.

The image burns brilliantly into my mind, flaring with possibilities and promises. It’s beautiful, it takes my breath away. I cradle it, infusing it with my love and affection. Love, that will spark it. Love, that will make it real.

I let it go.

Unauthorized content usage: if you discover this narrative on Amazon, report the violation.

As my hand comes away, it uncovers a tiny plant. A graceful stalk of golden glass separates in three glistening branches, liquid light flowing through them in place of sap; they twist and turn, forming delicate, crystal-like constructions resembling the secret hearts of snowflakes. The whole plant pulses with a trembling, gentle glow.

I encircle it with my arms, not quite touching, not quite leaving. My Core shines, with love, with affection. My children…

Sitting back, I sing to the sapling. Long I sing, my voice echoing into the vast, silent recesses of the Unformed Sky.

Ilienta, the Tree of Life Divine artifact wrought by Aura the Golden from Materia, the primordial material. It’s still juvenile, but it will soon grow to its purpose.

----------------------------------------

My Tree will grow, it will become what it must. It will become the dream I instilled into it, and then will birth dreams of its own. But it is young still, fragile, raw. It will need protecting.

The clouds shudder and palpitate. The Sky will soon give birth. I don’t know what will be born. It will be life inferior to me, of course, creatures born by random confluences of probability and as such, lesser compared to me. Yet, they will be their own, and so, to be kept away and at bay always.

I must be ready. My children must be protected.

It’s time for a masterpiece.

Sparks and filaments of light fly off my table as I work, molding, forcing, and restraining. By the end, my tools are ready for the task.

Al’Euret, the Forge A basin built out of Prima, the materials of the Gods. It burns with the Goddess’ breath. It yearns to melt and remake.

Al’Zirbin, the Cradle

An anvil built out of Prima, the material of the Gods. It holds the Goddess’ presence. It yearns to cradle and remake.

Al’Terok, the Hammer A hammer built out of Prima, the material of the Gods. It keeps the Goddess’ will. It yearns to shape and remake.

The golden flame burns brighter as I lay what remains of my first children, what wasn’t given to the Tree, into its bosom. It melts them, scouring that ugly red stain of chaos even from faint memory. Until only pure gold remains.

I take it out of the flames, laying it on the anvil. The sediment dances with the shades of the flame. How beautiful. I caress it lovingly for a moment. Then my hammer falls.

Prima is just as stubborn as life is, its molding is finicky and strange. But with the proper tools, even that stubbornness can be burned out, beat out, kissed out, with firm will and firm gentleness, unrestrained disregard and boundless love.

My Workshop fills with flying sparks and dancing lights, and I cannot take my eyes away. I see my new child taking form among the chaos. In the sparks, I see my own existence, exploding in a point of brilliant brilliance. It’s entrancing, it’s magnificent. It’s creation, it’s unmaking without destruction, it’s rebirth. My child, born from this unrestrained moment of creative passion. My emotions soar as I work. My hands move almost by their own mind. I am Creation. I am reborn in this moment alongside my child. I reach, I touch, I see. I understand.

Oneness. All is harmony. We are one.

As I return from the heights of creative passion, I am left staring at my masterpiece.

Goldling A primordial being wrought out of Life Echoes and the Goddess’ will and art. It’s a child of Gold.

The being looks at me. It appears as an owl chick roughly carved out of primeval rock and wood. A groove makes for its beak, and its eyes are two simple holes, refulgent with light.

It tilts its head in question.

Mother…?

It’s a tiny voice, filled with shy affection.

My hands tremble as I reach for it. I can feel it in my mind, a star of fond kindness. My child, my child, my child. Pure, healthy. Perfect.

It rustles weakly as, trembling, I hold it against my Core, before settling contendently. For a long time, we remain like that. I can hear it. Beating gently against my Core. This little heart…

----------------------------------------

The tree reaches just above my head. Slender, golden boughs extend through the air. Gleaming leaves rustle gently, tinkling a silvery choir.

Al’Han, the Tree of Home A tree carved out of Materia, the primordial matter. It sings gently, speaking of home and peace.

Sitting on my hand, my child looks at me. I coax it, gently, and it – he – hops on one of the tree’s branches. He looks around, unsure for a moment, fidgeting, before settling comfortably. He’s home, the one I made for her.

Thank you… Mother…

I smile, holding my hand out to him. He nuzzles it, and I giggle, feeling my Core swell. My child. My son…