Existence is a part of itself. Chaos looms over every creation, within every matter that dares to take form. Particles gather from a pull in the spatial field, assembling into lifeless matter. A sudden motion stirs them into motionless swirls, and those swirls draw in smaller, incomprehensible fragments. More inert matter is shaped in silence, as if the void itself is learning how to imitate creation.
Then comes a force of pressure, pressing from every direction at once. Clusters collide and break apart, only to be forced together again. At every point of contact, threads of illumination spark into existence. Each reaction binds the fragments tighter, welding them into something that briefly resembles unity. From what was once formless, a body begins to emerge.
This process repeats, like a loop without origin. Endlessly. Almost.
More rocky shapes arise, hollow and breathless, drifting through the abyss as though the void were an ocean of unmoving currents. Disorder stirs once more. The scattered forms are drawn into a vast rotating spiral, tall and relentless, swift beyond comprehension.
Sparks flare again as the shapes are crushed together. They fuse, merging into a colossal reflection of themselves, until faint fractures trace across the surface. Yet these are not fractures. They become definition. Eyelids, lips, the ridge of a nose. Countless features carve themselves out of what was once only a lifeless mass.
It curls inward within the dark like a fetus. There is no warmth to hold it, no soil to cradle it, yet the void becomes its only home. It sleeps. Around it, others of its kind form in silence and drift into the same dormant state.
When the first of them finally lifts its eyelids, light floods outward in a brilliance that cannot be measured. There is no intelligence within that gaze, no name, no story to define it. Yet it becomes the first among those who will one day span infinite space. It rises, though it floats still, suspended where there is no ground, no air, no water.
It is time. The beginning of what will awaken into consciousness, identity, and freedom. It is time for life.
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When time itself is given a name, and the sea of stars is set into place, an age begins. It is an era marked by great goodness, though it carries within it a quieter, lesser goodwill that balances its brilliance. Life unfolds wherever perception can reach. It is not bound solely to breath or flesh. Even a constructed echo of existence carries fragments of organic essence, as if reality itself cannot decide where life ends and imitation begins.
The first to awaken shape both kin and world. Their perception stretches across what was, what is, and what has yet to arrive. When they weep, the sky answers with rain. When they rage, thunder fractures the heavens in reflection of their fury. When their skin is cut, the land beneath all living things splits in sympathy. And when their blood is spilled, all things that exist seem to bleed alongside them.
For a time, they appear eternal, untouched by decay. Yet even their light begins to dim. Peace yields slowly to conflict, and the sound of clashing weapons replaces the silence of creation. Perhaps, in the moment of their final breath, even death itself is born from them, shaped by their passing.
They have no sons, no daughters. No fathers, no mothers. They are everything at once, every bond that can exist and every alliance that can be imagined. They are origin and continuity, unity and division, held together in a single impossible existence.
Dimensions seem to dance within their grasp. Seas mourn within their tears. With their death, another era begins to form. Yet no lineage can replace what they represented, for they were the first of every life and the first of every death.
They are the origin. Father of men, mother of women. Kin to every bloodline that would ever flow within their domain.
But such reverence begins to fracture under its own weight.
Their kin multiply through events that unfold across existence, some too shameful to name, others born from union, whether beloved or corrupted. Blood is spilled, absorbed, and dispersed into countless vessels, eventually rising into forms that no longer recognize mortal boundaries.
Thus, the first generation of eschatonic deities is born. Their blood shifts and mutates, turning crimson into hues shaped by mortal longing, fear, and greed. Those who inherit this power are forced into forms too complex even for their own comprehension, bodies distorted not only by divine inheritance, but by perception itself, by the way lesser beings imagine what a god should be.
Their appearances become unstable, both fixed and shifting. Only when mortals yearn deeply enough for them do they return to the shapes they once held, before gold-stricken blood altered their essence. They become embodiments of ideas, some tangible, others abstract. They are no longer merely beings, but the overseers of belief itself, bound to the very concepts they once desired to understand.
Gods and goddesses rise in an age where peace is absent. What restrains their chaos is not compassion, but a treaty stronger than any single authority among them. They are forced into restraint, compelled to bow not to weakness, but to order. At the center of that order stands the one who awakened first before all of time.
His hair flows like a river of gold across a form sculpted from perfection itself. His skin is pale, untouched by blemish or imperfection, and his eyes shine with the intensity of distant stars. He governs the brightest and largest known star within existence, and yet his fate was sealed long before any hand could interfere with it.
He is the son of a genesis god who has existed since the first awakening, and of the embodiment of greenery and life itself. From birth, he is treated as the incarnation of the Sun, praised and revered as the most radiant being to emerge after the earliest generation.
Aureus, first among those who came after, exalted above all who would one day bow their heads. Yet beside him stands another, not equal in authority, but inseparable from his presence. A figure whispered to be the one who might inherit a destiny not meant for him.
In the daylight, when the sky burns in countless shades of blue and gold, Aureus becomes the absolute decree of existence itself. Yet when the Sun descends and withdraws its light, Deimos rises to rule the darkness and the sea of stars that stretch across all realms.
Who is Deimos, truly? What is he to the father of Aureus? And why is he allowed to stand beside the greatest celestial form, even if only in shadow and contrast?
Though authority divides them by only a narrow margin, Aureus has never felt lesser. Instead, he finds something unsettlingly familiar in Deimos, something that draws curiosity rather than fear. He often dismisses it with pride. He tells himself, "He is only a shadow cast by the luminance that all others welcome. Why should I fear what exists only because I shine?"
To him, he is not merely the light that reaches all things. He is the Sun itself. Every place illuminated belongs to him by right, as declared by those who first spoke him into existence from chaos. The shades, the remnants, the forgotten edges of light, belong to the one who rules the night, the brother who does not share the same intensity of gold-born blood.
Aureus proclaims his supremacy without hesitation. Deimos does not yield. He never has.
For the governor of the Moon carries within him a corruption that eats quietly at his soul. It is not rebellion that weakens him, but the weight of what is projected onto him. The ugliness of mortal desire, fear, and negativity seeps into his being, shaping his consciousness into something heavy and unbearable.
His once-pure blood thickens, corroding into a tarnished hue, a silent taboo among divine forms. The Moon itself begins to change, its surface marked by pits and craters, scars formed not from time, but from perception. Yet none of this is visible to the mortals who look up in wonder. Not even Aureus, who sees all that is bright, notices what dims in the absence of light.
Deimos longs for stillness. Not victory, not conflict, only rest. He wishes to surrender himself to an endless slumber, to quiet the storm that grows within his awareness. Yet even rest is denied to him.
While the Sun rules the day, it often lingers beyond its boundary, spilling into evening and stealing what should belong to the night. His kin resent the lunar governor for it, blaming him for harvests undone and labor disrupted beneath the overwhelming brilliance of the encroaching Sun.
Deimos lies upon a cradle of cold marble, breathing in the faint scent of herbs and spices offered by the few who still remain loyal. They tend to him in silence, whispering prayers not for his salvation, but for his peace. A soft melody rises nearby, gentle as a lullaby, not meant to comfort sleep but to awaken something that refuses to rise.
Yet Deimos remains unmoved. Like a sleeping beauty cast not into waiting for a savior, but into refusal itself, he does not wish to be awakened.