[Novels | Characters | Gallery | Extras | Guestbook | Links]
~The Elder Gods~
In the beginning, the world was the Shadows: a sea of endless darkness.
One day, from the darkness, a small light emerged; as it grew larger and larger, steadily the light began developing its own consciousness. The rudimentary consciousness knew little, yet was overcome with a desire—to expand, to thrive, to become something beyond itself. For eons it steadily continued its quest; but eventually, the light had reached its limit, and could hardly expand further. Yet the Shadows continued on, as though mocking its futile quest.
Eventually, the light realized it may not yet be too late to continue growing. What if it split in two—could its halves yet grow to be as large as itself?
And so the light cleaved itself in half, and found its idea partially successful. One half of the light became an ever-expanding aether, filling the space where the Shadows once resided, or so it thought. The other half, however, did not become something quite so wondrous, or so it thought. It had shrunk to a miniscule ball, hard and rocky, entirely unable to expand itself at all. And thus, the two elder gods were born: Ikaria, Père Ciel, the Sky—and Eisenia, Mère Terre, the Earth.
There was one thing both gods were lacking, however: their light had been robbed from them. They could scarcely bear to be reminded of the eternal truth—they cannot leave the grasp of the Shadows; it’s omnipresent, it is within and without them, and their fate is bound to it…yet as long as their light shone brightly, they could pretend this was not the case. But of course, now it was gone.
~The Younger Gods~
Now enshrouded in darkness and isolated from their other half, Père Ciel and Mère Terre had to decide what was to be done next. Soon they hatched another idea, quite ridiculous, but perhaps worth trying—if the last time they split up to expand, this time could they reunite and create something new? And so they did, and to their great joy and relief, a light more brilliant than even they once were was born: Mistastia, Lady Sun. Lady Sun had saved them, for they were no longer ensnared by the Shadows, or so they thought. And so for a long time, all was well, and the gods continued to live peacefully. But of course, this wasn’t to last.
Being the sole light of the world was a rather exhausting task, especially as Père Ciel continued his expansion. So Lady Sun asked her parents if they may have another child, which they decided was a wonderful idea—but unfortunately, she came out completely wrong, or so she thought. This child was much like her mother, yet somehow even tinier and quite barren—Aurelia, Maiden Moon, was born.
Once Maiden Moon was fully formed, her mother called out to her. Mère Terre loved her from the start, and in some ways found a kindred spirit in her young daughter, similarly small and imperfect like herself; however, Père Ciel, and particularly Lady Sun, could not quite conceal their disappointment. Although her spirit was but a small child, she soon became aware of this, and was suddenly overwhelmed with despair. At this she began to uncontrollably weep, and cried so terribly much she filled the entire Earth with her tears. It’s from this that the oceans were formed, and why their tides move with her: they are forever a part of her, even on the Earth.
Eventually, the family was able to calm Maiden Moon. Although she could not produce any light of her own, Lady Sun would give her some of her own light, a little each day. This would continue until Maiden Moon was fully alit, then Lady Sun could rest until she was shrouded in darkness. Though an imperfect solution, this was enough to satisfy the young Maiden Moon; and while Maiden Moon did not shine especially brightly even with her sister’s light, Lady Sun did appreciate that she no longer needed to attempt to light the whole Earth at all times.
For a time, the family continued their routine, yet of course, as always, this wasn’t to last. As Père Ciel continued expanding further and further, Lady Sun and Maiden Moon’s light grew increasingly less potent, and the Shadows began to lick the edge of the universe. Faced with this, Père Ciel and Mère Terre decided to have a child one more time.
This time went better than they could have ever imagined—their child was truly massive, exceedingly colorful, many times brighter than the Sun, sparkling like a million glowing gems. Yet, one could say that perhaps it had gone a little too well—such magnificence was unstable, and their final child soon burst into billions of pieces. Quietly, Père Ciel gathered them and scattered their remains across the Sky, to spread their light and always keep them safe. Now heartbroken, Père Ciel and Mère Terre solemnly laid the prospect of ever birthing another child to rest.
~Life and Death~
For a great many years, time marched on peacefully. Père Ciel steadily expanded, Lady Sun and Maiden Moon shone on—but eventually, Mère Terre grew rather dissatisfied with her lot in life. Père Ciel and Lady Sun had something to contribute to the world; and while Maiden Moon merely reflected back her sister’s light, Mère Terre could not even begin to view her own child as useless. Unfortunately, she could not extend this same love to herself.
One day, Mère Terre realized that it was through herself where she would find that purpose she sought. Her body was made up of many different things—various chemicals, rocks, and what else have you, all these various substances. And she, too, had Maiden Moon’s tears, the water which flowed upon the Earth…could she not do something with these? Could she not take her own skin, and form something new? And so, Mère Terre went to work.
First, she created small things—little bacteria, other simple creatures too tiny to see. As her knowledge grew, she began creating increasingly complex forms of life, before at last constructing entire ecosystems, with every being connected through an increasingly sophisticated web. The other gods watched on in awe, entranced by the marvelous things which sprung up from Mère Terre’s body.
Mère Terre wove the plants, bestowing them the ability to project their spirits outside their bodies, much like she herself could do. Then she molded the animals, and instead intimately tied their spirits to their body. So many creatures she created, each one sacred and unique. In this era, life on Earth was a peaceful paradise: no creature had to struggle to survive, to bother themselves with such matters. Death didn’t plague the land, and all creatures lived in perfect harmony.
Of course, as always, this wasn’t to last.
After some time, Lady Sun grew jealous. Nearly everything Mère Terre created extensively used water, Maiden Moon’s gift. All these marvelous creations wouldn’t have been possible without Maiden Moon…and she had contributed nothing. Sure, the plants mostly needed her sunlight to thrive—but this was not enough. This wouldn’t do.
Lady Sun thought to herself, wondering what she could possibly give, as there was really only one thing which she had—her light. But then, she realized: why merely shine onto the Earth, and not engulf it in the light itself? Then the Earth could produce its own light!—why had she never thought of this before? And so she bathed the Earth in her flames, quite proud of herself, only learning too late the frightening truth: little on Earth could withstand her fire. The Earth was indeed bathed in a magnificent glow, at the cost of nearly all of Mère Terre’s creations. A handful of creatures survived the Great Fire, but even they struggled to survive in the ruin. The Earth was engulfed in ash, the great amount of smoke even—ironically—blotting out the Sun for a time.
Mère Terre was utterly devastated…yet, as she walked among the ruins of her paradise, she had a revelation. She became inspired.
Mère Terre had never encountered death before, or really even considered it a possibility—nothing had ever been uncreated before. Even her third child, as they burst into billions of Stars, was never reduced to a form so wholly foreign and unrecognizable that one could say they ceased to exist. Nothing had ever been so thoroughly decimated. Mère Terre realized that, not only could she create new life, but that her creations themselves could join in on the act of creation—if they perished, then new creatures could take their place. Over time they could grow, evolve, and birth new possibilities that perhaps even she could not fathom.
From this point forward, Mère Terre recreated the world, guided by this new revelation. Everything she created had the ability to reproduce, grow, and perish. No longer would all living beings live in harmony—now creatures began to devour one another, disease would lay waste to any creature unfortunate enough to contract it; and eventually, one day, every creature would once more wither to ashes and rejoin the Earth. Her paradise was no more—although, this wasn’t meant to be negative, as harsh as it could be. Now, all of her creations could create, just like her—all of her creations could be like the gods.
For a long time, Mère Terre continued creating a great many creatures of all types, both recreating those lost to the Great Fire, and new creatures as well. After some time, however, she began to grow a little bored, a little tired, creating millions of different types of creatures. She desired rest, but not before creating something new one last time, something truly original—but what was there to do?
She gazed up towards the night Sky, at the thousands of shimmering Stars—and a new question was born. Could she make a creature that was even closer to the gods, that had the essence of a god within them?
And so, Mère Terre went to Père Ciel and asked if she may borrow the Stars for her final creation. Père Ciel, seeing how happy this made her, did not wish to tell her no; but, he had become quite fond of the Stars, shining so brightly across the Sky. So he said yes, but on one condition: Mère Terre must once again halve the Stars, so that she would not use too many, and more could be left in the Sky. Mère Terre eagerly agreed to this, and began work on her final, most unique creation of all: humanity.
And so, one last time, Mère Terre molded a creature from her flesh, implanting a half of Star in each and every one. At the time, she had no idea what this would entail—the gods’ souls already had their bodies, a divine soul had never been implanted into an animal before. What would happen when they die? Would there be any long term implications of every Star being split in two? And, most importantly to Mère Terre—what would humans create? Would they inherit an inkling of her boundless creativity, and make new wonders she herself could not think of?
At last, Mère Terre allowed herself to rest, and let her newest creation continue from now on.