With the interruption finished, I return to my work.

I create my next piece by erecting a mound of Materia. I top it with a basin of Prima, into which I lay a Primordial Flame. Then, I take two Wheels, break them in twos and set them around the flame. The half-wheels trace orbits around and above the element, moving faster as they are brought closer to it and slower as they take distance from it. At the center of all, the flame burns brighter, taller, its tongue turning darker and darker, its heart becoming an abyssal black.

Abyssal Flame A flame reaching deep into the property of heat and fire. It wishes not to cease.

A mortal artisan would need a blueprint to follow, an endgame to reach at the end of all the steps of its process. I need no such thing. My inspiration leads me, new insights revealing themselves to me with every step I take, and every work I complete. It’s divine intuition, and it traces a path to the end of which I know I will find what I yearn for: the Sky becoming fully me.

My soul burning with yearning, I build again. I set a Primordial Crystal on the ground, then build a pile of Materia around it, burying it. I smooth and carve it, turning into a perfectly semi-spherical mound. Then, I break three wheels apart and sprinkle the pieces around the mound. Brambles-like, luminescent tendrils shot out of the mound, stabbing some of the pieces, almost like a tree trying to burst free of its prison. But it never does, and the other pieces are left revolving languidly into soup-thick air.

Abyssal Ice

A crystal pushing deep into the manifestation of stasis and cold. It wishes to cease.

Step by step. Step by step, all will be me.

Little by little, the untouched stretch of land fills with new inventions.

Scales of Opposite A machine combining the property of heat and the property of cold. It contains contrast.

Two arms of shining Prima hold a flame and a crystal respectively, cradling them inside box-like containers wrought out of translucent material.

The arms swing regularly, bending upward or backward to bring the two containers almost to brush each other. As they nearly touch, their content sparkle and fizzles, their appearance swapping between ice, fire, or a swirling mix of the twos.

Endless Top A spinning top wrought out of Prima, the material of the Elder Gods. It turns endlessly, gathering and spreading momentum.

The golden top has a heavy, ponderous body that does nothing to slow or stop its lazy revolvings. Tentacles of half-melted gold lash out from it, digging the circular trace into which the body endlessly spins. Some of them reach to touch the ground, wheel shapes forming into them to run along their progenitor, rolling and bouncing as they do, before disappearing back into the liquid that spawned them.

Where the top rolls, golden dust picks itself up from the ground, rolling alongside it. It gathers, forming a cloud of sparkly filaments, before collapsing back into inert matter, only for the process to start anew.

Fierce Stop An invading ice principle. It spreads endlessly.

Tendrils of luminescent azure light spread aggressively from an ever-growing, ever-collapsing knot of pulsing crystals. It reaches out, only to collapse and be contained by an equally aggressive black flame-like gleam, its shimmer forming into masses of grasping hands, thrust out arms and snapping mouths.

A tremor shakes my island, interrupting my work.

I don’t need to turn to see as another Creator, a thing better left without description, is swallowed by my Bane. Claws and feelers tickle my throat.

I sneer. I hoped that my Bane’s presence would at least dissuade these creatures from attacking my island. But it seems that nothing can stop those half-formed wishes from them, not even the certainty of annihilation.

So be it. Their existence will serve better as Echoes for me to forge.

I return to my work.

Frozen Flame A paradox. Perfect balance. Perfect anomaly.

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The “flame” rustles and crackles. It appears as a wizened hand carved out of roots. It shifts even as I watch it, the fingers turning into fire, then into crystal, then back into bruised bark. It twitches and pushes against space, the air deforming and pulsing around it.

The Shapes An array of interlocking geometrical shapes wrought out of Prima, the material of the Elder Gods. It swirls and turns.

Squares, triangles and circles; they all turn and spin on arms of Prima connected to a central, conical body. The shapes fold into each other, spinning and turning and twirling as they do, forming a dizzying mass of movements and forms.

The Sundial A monolith of Materia, topped by a golden flame. The shadow it projects steadily advances, imposing order over time.

The monolith is crudely carved, a primeval thing. The fire burns a foot above the pointed top; it projects a perfectly shaped shadow, which turns slowly and steadily around the monolith. Despite it being the shadow, the firm solidity of its shape sometimes deceived the eye, bringing to the opposite conclusion.

Inspiration blazes through me like a forest fire, pushing me to work to a feverish pitch. Blueprints, ideas, the ways they can be brought into being and then implemented into a grander, greater engine; it all swirls around me as a tornado, of which I am the eye. It’s a giant puzzle I am putting together, one more vast than the Sky itself, each new creation a new piece that finds its place, a new step that opens new vistas for me to look upon.

Still, as I return from the heights of creative frenzy, I am left watching my latest creation.

This… it gives me pause.

Crashing Through A machine combining the properties of pressure, expansion and movement, pulsing with the Goddess’ desire for expansion. It crashes and pushes, searching to break through.

The cube of gold struggles with its own form. As I watch it, it turns liquid, just to reform into a sphere, then into a roughly bird-like shape, then in a hexahedron, a stair and then back into a cube. It struggles against the twin chains of rocky Materia holding it to the ground as if wanting to take flight.

I inspect it, carefully. My other creations can be allowed to litter my island’s grounds. Their exuberance for expansion is easily quelled. But this one…

“This one is disruptive…”

My works aren’t spread randomly. I build them to form a carefully shaped formation. Nothing can be allowed to disrupt it.

In the Cupboard then, until its time has come.

The machine is struggling between the forms of a pentagon and an arm when my Cupboard’s door closes behind it. I pat it with affection. Its time will come.

Turning, I am reminded that my Workshop needs some of my time as well. Still, after giving it some thought, I decide not to intervene over it. The reason is purely sentimental. I have grown attached to the rough form it bears now, I suppose.

Leaning against the empty doorframe, a little smile plays across my lips. Yes, attached. My home. My Workshop. It will remain as it is forever. At best, I will add a door to it, one that won’t be a total disgrace. But there is no need for a window, or any other addiction.

But I want somewhere I can watch my realm grow.

The work to build such a thing is a labor of love, as all my works are.

The Chair A leaning chair wrought out of Materia, the material of Creation. Built out of the Goddess’ contentement and satisfaction with her works. It is made to give sight and fulfillment.

The leaning chair squeaks gently as I set it beside my Workshop’s entrance, and then again when I sit on it.

I sigh contentedly as I relax on it. I never get tired, but that doesn’t mean I cannot enjoy a moment of peace, especially as I spend it gazing over a realm of my making.

My island is a marvel for me to see. Wherever I look, I see my creations, littering the grounds in rows, moving and turning and sparkling in their endless motions.

My Core swells with the sight. My island. My kingdom. A place of peace and work and creation. I giggle into my hands, swaying and shaking.

Attracted by my rising emotions, my son leaves the Materia he was nibbling on and flies to me. I extend a hand, and he lands on it, his claws gently grasping my fingers.

Mother…

The child’s consciousness is a spark of quiet affection.

He has grown, his body has become more elongated and sleek. His wings are now sheathed in Prima, the metallic material shaped into straight feathers, each of them covered by rows of tight, tiny scriptures. His face has grown upward, his beak turning into a wicked point.

Cupping his chin, I nuzzle my cheek against his head. His soul purrs with contentment as he reciprocates, joyous of his Mother’s attention. It’s a happy moment of family, and, as I cut off the tiny tendrils forming between us, I have to remind myself that we’re not the same being, not completely at least. He’s still my son, my Family. His thoughts and feelings are clear to me.

In the distance, the Bane sprouts a myriad of feeder tentacles, biting to pieces an egg-shaped, centipede-like creature. It tastes like chicken.

I gently but firmly turn my son’s attention away from it, from that savage part of my soul where Au’Makh resides. Sweet son, you’ll have your share of battles, but not yet, not so soon.

Reaching inside me, I retrieve bits and pieces of the monster. I mash them together with some of my own dew, and snap my fingers. A golden ball emerges from my palm, sitting on it as I grasp it gently.

My son watches it curiously as I offer it to him. I encourage him, and he takes a tentative nibble. The ball gives way pliably to his beak, and his eyes blaze more strongly as the rejuvenating energies inside course through him.

I smile as he gorges himself. Grow big and strong, my son. For your purpose.

Leaning back into my chair, I look into the distance, tapping a finger against my cheek. I have a million million things to entertain myself with and create, but nothing truly urgent. What to do what to do…

Leaving my son to his feast, I trace my island. It has truly grown now, spanning almost one hundred of my steps. Making my way through rows of inventions of elements, the forest of gold spinning and crackling and jolting and growing, I reach my Tree.

Ilienta is blooming. The buds have blossomed in delicate, four-petal flowers with pistils that quiver and whisper.

Caressing a flower, the blossom reaching for me in yearning, I whisper a song to it. It grows before my very eyes as my voice touches it, the petals shivering as they extend, their shine turning a different shade.

I am happy, but then my face falls. The flower unfolds its petals, revealing a wispy little creature that watches me with curious eyes.

“Unworthy…”

My fingers extend, crushing it instantly. They mob the branch, nibbling and licking until no remainder of the failure is left.

I sigh, retracting my fingers to their original shapes. Failures are to be expected, I suppose. I am still an apprentice to my craft, nothing to it.

And that is true even when it comes to my craft, I think looking toward the field of inventions and elements. Until now, all my Works were complex maybe but never difficult. There will come a time when even my instinctive knowledge won’t be enough, and only focus and determination will win the day. The thought is deeply annoying, and I find myself wishing to disprove it.

As I sink myself into planning, I don’t notice the shape moving between the clouds.