I protect. I hold the line.
This is my reason, and my reason is what I am. My reason is all. There are no other paths.
Mother made me. She is wise and ancient. By her will, the world is shaped, and so am I. Mother gave me the reason, and that’s why the reason is all. She drew me from the darkness, filled my mind with the glow of knowing, showed me my purpose. Made me her first son. For that, I am hers, ever dutiful.
The world is shadows, but Mother shines brightly. Her love warms my feathers, her fingers hold me, her sign make me. The world is shapes, dark and unknown. Mother is light, certainty, an unshakeable foundation. Mother is absolute. In her light, I feel more pleasure and fulfillment that it can be put into words.
From the moment she drew me from oblivion, Mother held me, and I wished for nothing. Her love and trust nurtured me. Her art shaped me. I supped on the milk she generously provided me, warmed my heart to her light. I grew, both in mind and body, preparing for the time when the task she graciously bestowed upon me would be mine to fulfill.
But before the appointed time, the danger arrived. The Fearsome Shape. The world, once so peaceful and pure, broke before its stride. The shadows, unknown yet silent, ruptured in a chorus of screams and chaos.
My coward heart trembled before it. Gladly I took shelter in the house, hiding while Mother battled it. I cowered, waiting, not daring to move, hiding beneath my wings.
A disgrace.
The silence was the reward for my cowardice. The terrible, terrible silence.
I won’t pound my chest and take as merit that my faith in Mother never flagged. When she ordered me to hide and shelter, I knew the Shape would fall before her. When the terrible silence fell, I knew she would return. During the long times of waiting, as the house shook around me, my faith held strong. Mother would return. It’s not merit. It’s the son’s duty to believe.
It is expected, just as expected was Mother’s return.
I wish I was more composed, and shown myself as strong and poised as Mother is. That I was a trueborn first son, welcoming Mother to an untouched home.
I can only hope she can forgive my feathers and my tears against her cheek as I pitifully cry for her return.
I still have a long way to go before I can fulfill my purpose.
----------------------------------------
These are the thoughts my son has as he cries, overjoyed by my return.
Poor little darling. Poor little light.
“You did so well,” I coo, stroking his feathers and head, allowing his tears to flow on my skin. He deserves it, poor thing. And me, I am such a disgraceful mother for allowing my son to suffer like this.
I hide the thought away from him. Poor thing, he must not suffer for causing distress to his mother, it’s not his fault. Rather, I must redouble my efforts to make sure that such a thing never, ever comes to pass, ever again.
Together, we walk my island.
One thousand years of absence isn’t much. Compared to eternity, the concept itself is meaningless. In the coming and going of work and inspiration, it’s a drop in the sea. But a millennium under siege is… significant.
As I walk my island, I am dismayed by the damage.
Al’Huota’s main body is damaged, and its balance is almost totally compromised. The island tips and wobbles, tracing a line of golden sand among the clouds, threatening to tip over with each moment.
But it held my absence, and that is to be thankful for. It is also to be thankful that the island is no complex machine, or I could have truly returned to find nothing. A disquieting thought, and one I am glad to put aside.
My creations have suffered the most. The carefully arranged array of wonders has been reduced to a field of scattered rubble, puddles of slag and energy-leaking wreckage.
I stop to look at one. Despite it looking like a mass of melted candlesticks stuck together, I am tentatively hopeful. Maybe, by random, wild chance, it managed to become something useful?
Celestial Thingamajig It spins. Celestially.
Stolen story; please report.
Just to prove its point, the thing swings a bent arm around. It manages half a circle before its own momentum pulls it down. The whole thing drops in the sand like a passed-out drunk.
I pass a hand on my face, breathing. Thankfully, my child is there to soothe me. The little darling flits around me, still excited about my return.
Steadying myself, I continue my inspection.
It’s a long, depressing slog. For the most part, my creations are broken beyond repair. The few still in working order have spread aggressively, degenerating in devouring fields that have nothing of their primitive quality; and so are useless.
My most simple creations are an exception. The most complex machines have been broken down by their own leaking energies, which prevented them from regenerating and mutated them in the long run. But my old works were too simple and too compact for such a thing to happen. Even as I watch, the broken fragments of a Monolith start to pick themselves up, dragged from their resting spots toward the ragged stump left of the construction.
Focusing on it, I flood the construct with energy, accelerating the process. The fragments thrum and shimmer as they practically launch themselves back toward the stump. Like the pieces of a puzzle, they set themselves with discipline, each of them back in their perfect place, until the Monolith is whole again, thrumming and shimmering.
It’s a relief for sore eyes, a lesson on the value of simplicity. But it doesn’t change the whole picture.
My work is… wasted.
What’s worse, Others infest the island. A colony of ooze-like creatures emerges from a shattered container, everything in their little corner having been turned to slag by their touch. Even as I watch, they enthusiastically attack another of my creations, burying it under their crawling bodies.
A Creator, a slug-thing with an amorphous mass of fog in place of a head, clings to the underside of my island like a monstrous barnacle. It suckles on Al’Huota’s creative energies, having grown so swollen that its tiny wings cannot sustain it anymore. All on its own, the dumb beast has stranded itself on my island.
I find another of the same kin in my own Workshop. This Creator is a mass of leech-things, united by a single proto-will. They cling to every surface and every tool, squirming contentedly as they nibble and gnaw on the energies brimming inside.
Seeing my own house desecrated like that is already something, but it’s the sight of my forge, the flame having been snuffed out, that finally tip me over.
Dagger teeth sprout from my gums as I open my mouth. Darkness stains my golden eyes, turning them into soulless orbs of ebony. My fingers lengthen into claws, and my nails elongate. My elbow breaks with a snap of bones and then reforms into a double-jointed form. My skin, liquid gold, turns into solid darkness.
As I raise my transformed hands, the sound that emerges from my maw is as mournful as is bloodthirsty.
The Reaper makes quick work of invaders. Those that aren’t devoured wholesale by my island, dragged screaming into rock and sand, meet their end on the point of teeth and nails, ripped apart into bloody chunks to be greedily consumed.
My island is cleansed.
[+50 Exp] [Exp: 190/700]
What brings me back from the murderous heights is the fluttering of startled wings.
My poor child, scared by his other Mother. As I search for him, I find him peeking in fear from the Treehouse.
The tiny, tiny voice is trembling, uncertain. Mother?
I reach for him, cooing gently. Poor little songbird. You were scared. It’s okay. It’s okay to be scared. But Mother wouldn’t ever hurt you, sweet goldling. The Reaper is not for you, never for you. It’s for the Others. Never for the children.
They trust me, the little darlings; they come out of their shelter for me. He comes to me, tiny wings and a little heart.
I welcome him in my embrace, a tiny star of love in the sea of my soul.
“Were you scared?” I murmur, caressing him. “Did you hide? Mother is so sorry. Mother should have done better…”
Without the rage to hold them back, it’s time for sadness and regret. My work, spoiled. My island, invaded. I watch the Treehouse. It’s scarred and beaten, the surface of the cube marred by bite and claw marks. They tried to reach my child… those, those…!
For a moment, the Reaper swims close to the surface, but my child’s startled pulse sends her back into the depths.
Poor little child, left for a thousand years to listen the monsters beating against the door. How long has he huddled in the dark, heart beating? How long has he begged for a parent that wouldn’t come? All because I wasn’t strong enough. What a failure of a Mother I am.
The child chirps in protest. Mother is no failure! Mother made me! Mother returned! Mother… Mother is good!
Dear sweetling…
My first son settles on my open palm. He stands there, chest thrust out, shining with defiant affection.
Mother returned!
I… I guess that I did. But how could it be any different? How could I take my mind, even for a moment, from my children? How could I not return as soon as death released me from its clutches?
My questions do nothing to dim my son’s affection. My reticence crumbles.
“Yes, my little star, yes,” I say. Raising my daughter, I put my forehead against hers. “What are one thousand years against an eternity of family? Nothing. Dust. Less than dust. Mother is here now. And nobody will ever touch you. You won’t have to shiver in fright. Ever again.”
He nuzzles against me, affection shining, reflected by the thousand lights of my own.
What is the past’s sad shadow, if not memory and dust? What is gone doesn’t matter. Forget the night. There’s only the dawn now. Our family, reunited.
My inspiration flares. I grab hold of it, of that brilliant determination to defend this unity, this love.
It’s there, shining brilliantly in my mind, ready for me to infuse with the life of the invaders. It is fitting, and so it happens.
My child is reborn from it. He springs from my cupped hands in a fountain of sparks, with not in a gentle fluttering of golden wings, but in a fierce boom, the storm’s fierceness.
I admire him as he soars into the Sky, the light’s very son. He’s like he was at his birth, an owl carved out of primeval wood. But he’s larger, stronger, the gold in his eyes is no gentle shimmer, but a blazing light. His wings cover the sky as he opens them to stop before me, lightning dancing across the long, darkly gleaming feathers.
The moment of fierce determination, of belonging and protectiveness from which he was born burns eternally into his gaze.
Izilianchi, the Elder Brother A powerful progeny of the Goddess, created to defend her first children. The beat of his wings raises storm winds and his cry calls the golden lightning.
My child’s wings beat slowly and powerfully as he stands before me. Bigger and more powerful than ever, he’s as large as my own torso.
His voice crackles with the lightning and booms with the thunder. Mother. I protect. My siblings. My family. I protect.
I reach for him, and he nuzzles against my fingers. Indeed you will, my child.
Putting aside every other thought, I grab him, pressing him against my chest.
Izilianchi knows of defense and loyalty, but he’s hesitant when it comes to showing affection. He half-shied away from my affection, unsure of how to welcome it.
So cute.
I gather him in my arms, refusing any shyness. Izilianchi stiffens for a moment, before relaxing in my embrace.
His voice is an argentine note inside my mind. All around, I can hear my island healing. It’ll take time for all the outrages of the past to be erased. There’s work to be done, wreckage to melt and repairs to be wrought, a beast to hunt and slay. But the first and greatest step has been made. Our family, divided for a millennium, is united once more, greater than before.
The tree of my children, battered yet unbent, stands before us. On the branches, the first flowers already open.