The memory of the world is a fickle thing, like waves; it comes and goes, and those who have seen before will never see that which comes after. Yet truths are not lost to all, for many who saw the first day still dwell though they are few, yet those who remember the darkness are fewer still, and from them, few details can be found. My memory is wide, wider than my thoughts and experiences, for I maintain those memories that have come to be lost in so many ways. Memories of the old world, of the new, and of one so old that fear begins to take hold when I ponder it. I shall begin this tale from the beginning, long before mortal man crawled from mud and gristle, long before even Man's gods breathed their first breath, there sat a long and still everdark that bound and surrounded all that would become known.
Yet before even this was something far worse than darkness, chaos. Long before any light graced the world, before a thing thought of as life made its first meager breath, there was only that which came before all that was, that is, or ever would be. The material was the Gehn, as they are called, and monsters were they. Some manner of beings before the great deluge and of such immense size they sprawled across every corner of what would become existence like a sea of writhing horror. Everywhere was madness and terror, hunger was the only law, and ever they gnawed and clawed and bit at one another in a mindless frenzy. What they could not eat they fought, what strength came before them they cowered and hid from, for they were in some measure, cowardly. Bile and slime came from them in torrents; decay and rot were a friend to them.
Yet amidst this madness, hidden beyond all sense, stretching nigh infinite, there was one of time and space, of thought and consciousness. The thought, the One, the beginning and the end of all things. Not of body nor being, incomprehensible to all but a few, the greatest mystery ever made and one that encompassed all and was all; in a later age it was simply called time, but to those with whom the great secrets of the word are revealed, it was called Boruhandanaia, The Great Will.
By this Will, two would come to do the bidding of life, sprung into existence, and cast into being by the very order of the universe which lay endless and eternal, beyond night and day. Bound to its purpose, neither wholly free nor wholly bound, a gardener and a destroyer, a sister and a brother, one to mold and one to cull. Nila, the Mother whose endless vision beheld all the light not yet burst, every life yet lived, and every death yet to come. So too came Kataka, the other, her shadow of benevolence, first warrior, first master, and first conqueror.
Mightier than all is he, for he is power, and his power made him lord and master of doom. Light and dark arrived in that infernal sea. Where Nila’s age would come later, first came the age of her brother, an age of righteous slaughter. Before the coming of the first days of great spring, a crown was given to him to conquer. Given from the first to the second, and so from Nila to Kataka, the very first light came, bursting forth red and wrothful, a stellar diadem emblazoned with twelve radiant stars of piercing light to behold. Placed upon his brow, Kataka drew from his side a flaming sword and named it Death, and the Gehn who beheld him saw doom.
He set forth, a herald of slaughter. Kataka's burning wrath was made known to the monsters, who could do nothing but fall beneath his searing blade. Deathless though they were, beneath Kataka's rage, they perished all the same, his fury absolute, his strength thus that he threw their number aside and spared none. His power thus that he could not be stopped; fueled and impassioned by the Will, he became a reaper of doom. Before them, he rose like a tower of iron flame, a dreadful visage of blood and gore, atop which sat a caldera of holy flame dancing and circling like madness overhead. Before him, they whirled and cried, their blood seeped and corroded each other, bile raised from monster to monster as he raised his hand to smite them.
For by him came the tolling of their end, beholden to him was the manner of slaughter and reaping, as they fled from him, his eye was not lifted from the deed. A villain he seemed, a demon of malice and rage, and he went on, and as he slew, his sword whirled and whistled a new song. None could dim his power, and by it, he arose even greater and pierced the Gehn at the source, burned them away as a field, and cleared the way for the arrival of that much greater than them. The cosmos was bathed in searing white flame, in an endless and penetrating heat, to a battle hymn of triumph, Kataka marched on, and all beneath his fury were scorched by it.
The Springing of Aelutea
After so many lifetimes of slaughter and death, the work was done, and all echoes of the times before passed beyond like ripples in a great sea. For the first time, silence came into existence, and it was good. Madness ceased, and the very foundations of the new cosmos breathed as one in whom breath had been kept. Drawn beyond to the dead, the Gehn whimpered away to a place none present know. As this time of madness drew its final breath, light began its slow ascent. Not the burning light of a conqueror, but the gentle ember of an unfolding flower long hidden beneath frigid frost.
For what had once been a mere thought now was sprung forth into reality, a seed was sown then, by her very thought it came and was tended to. And yet Kataka decried her, that she should not bide her time on such useless and small things. And yet the care of Mother Nila was so vast, she spoke simply to him that to care for small things was her nature, and she reassured him that by patience and by goodness, a vast new thought was breaking.
So came the first days of the great Muhaitza, the cosmic tree, a sapling small and vulnerable. Yet by the tending of Nila and her very tears and spit, the tree began to burst, to grow and sprout. Wide and far it spread, and its limbs came and dug into all things before it and around it, tangling and mingling with the natural and the immaterial. As it twisted and grew greater and greater, it began sprouting fruit of its own, bright and burning. When they grew plump, they were plucked, and Nila herself held Muhaitza's fruit, and she deemed them stars. And as these stars fell, she scattered them, and soon the universe knew its first light born of life. Life and fate, those things given by Mother Nila, were now tethered to her tree, and with its bending and creaking, time passed on, and there with its birth, the word of the Great Will was spoken aloud for the first time.
And yet, before Mother Nila still lay mountains upon mountains of bleeding flesh, and so she began to set herself to a new task. Molding it with her gentle touch, she shaped this flesh into that of a great sphere, round, firm, and rigid. She set it down in a corner deemed true and there knit into it, the various branches of her tree and dew water sprung forth from it and encompassed the sphere. And Mother Nila decreed that there was to be a barrier between these waters and the heavens above, and so she blanketed the space and called it sky. Mother Nila saw that the flame of her brother's crown had dimmed, and power was pulled away from him to her. Seeing this, she then lifted the great fog hiding her world from his gaze. Kataka swung down his great sword, and the world shuttered under its weight. Mighty mounds were flung up from the depths of the waters, and at their peaks, Kataka sharpened his blade once more. Mother Nila deemed these places land, and the highest of this land she called mountains.
Beneath Muhaitza’s very roots, a cry was heard that surprised Mother Nila, and in her endless curiosity, she gazed there beneath it and found a pool of dew had formed, and there cried two born in it, not of her intention. Two newborns, life sprung by the waters of Muhaitza, magnificence, and innocence to behold, and so Mother Nila beheld them with care. New life had now cried out, and yet Kataka rebuked her once more; this was life not of her own, life unfit to be in the new world she was building. By his stern hand had he implored her to grant the children a swift death. Yet the good mother took the babes into her arms and soothed them. Gazing deep into their eyes, she saw the glint of stellar light. They had seen her light, the light of Muhaitza's fruit, burning high and all around now, and so the eternal mother pitied them and named them each Anemi and Indun, Dearest and Goodness.
For beneath Muhaitza’s root, life first sprang into being. Anemi and Indun came, and Nila gifted them thought all their own. The Will was passed down there, flowing out, and grafting upon them a mind and soul, and they became awake and willful in understanding their nature and surroundings. But Kataka, the shadow, did not trust these children, and in his mistrust, he bid one of them to be taken by him and guarded, watched over, and observed, for he was ever-vigilant of the appearance of the formless Gehn. With great reluctance, Nila passed over the younger Indun to Kataka, who took him to reside among the stars, his warden, and his father. As Nila set Anemi down amid the world and bid him explore, she watched as he walked alone. Above the shadow of his head, she saw all, and a single tear fell from her cheek.
Anemi's life was wandering in the dim light of the army of stars overhead. He strode across the young earth, following them across the black sky. In his wanderings, he traced their journies and came to favor two: the dawn star, which he named Dernkohma, which means "Day-Bringer," and the evening star, which he named Nauthlepari, "Night-Runner". He murmured quiet questions at first, hoping to hear far off some answer, but each time, he saw only as the stars shimmered on, silent and glimmering.
Each time sleep began to come over him, he became distressed, for he thought sleep led to death. Yet Mother NIla heard his cries and once more pitied him, and so when Anemi came to tremble, she would sing him a fair song or tell a story far off for him. By this, he was soothed, and sleep came to him easier. Mother Nila told him stories that rang in his ears as he wandered the barren world, of future tidings, valiant heroes, great leaders and deeds, romance and tragedy, revenge and forgiveness, and oaths honored which greatly pleased him. Anemi found sleep coming easier and easier, and the giant’s heart softened and eased.
So Anemi wandered further and further, no stain graced the land then, and no lands yet had names. Anemi walked alone, and where he lay, valleys sprung into the land. For as he walked and trod, singing songs to himself as he named a great many things in a tongue all his own. As he woke and walked, his joy was greater, and Mother Nila was proud of him.
The Mozekata
But sudden sorrow came over Nila, for she was made grim for knowledge she was, and no destiny nor future escaped her. She knew what was needed, and from the great pool beneath Muhaitza, the Mother poured forth the tree's waters, and with fashioning, she lifted a little boy from it, an immortal being of her design, tethered to the very fate of the world and inheritor of the deeds of the twins. She called out his name, Aelum, which means Fate, but by the tongue of the Aleuai, he came to be called Weda, which means Lord. By Aelum's name, he gave the world its very name, Aelutea, Aelum's Place. And by these first words, he conversed with his mother, and she taught him a great deal of the nature of the universe.
Nila ventured to the pool beneath Muhaitza twice more, and two more of Weda’s kin were made there, a girl and a boy, so now their number was three. They were named Sakratua and Burrun, and they greeted and honored the elder among them, granting him rulership over them. From the swirling pool of the great tree, Aelum and his kin came thrust into the world and tied to its fate. Their destiny was of sacrifice, and Aelum particularly came to understand a great many things very early. With painful eyes, Nila sent her children into the world, and their mission was made apparent to them.
Anemi lay in a blissful dream when they came upon him. They, no larger than lashes on the giant's eye, yet bound to this fated act. Aelum first raised a rod of hard iron, and his kin followed as they struck their wounds. As he awoke, a great roar burst from the giant, one of a kind that has never again been heard in all the world's days. The sky shuddered as for moments he fought and thrashed about wildly, but the work of Mother's children was done, and Anemi's body stiffened, the breath of life fled from his lips, and at last, he lay still.
When the giant Anemi lay dead, Burrun arose and carved from Anemi his skin and laid it upon the hard ground as a blanket of warmth. From there, many fruits, grains, and means of food were made so the land would not know hunger. Then Burrun dug into the earth until he reached the sea, there he had run down Anemi's sweat into the harsh sea. There came many bountiful fish, reptiles, and seabirds with which to give the gift of life. From him, Burrun went further and tore from him his two eyes and beckoned then that they be cast into the very sky. There, the siblings forged for themselves fire and cast one of Anemi's eyes into the sky to the east and named it Arga, which means light, and to the west, they threw Anemi's other eye, though by this time they had lost their fire. The western eye was thrown by Burrun unlit, and its name was Iarga. tore from him his two eyes and beckoned then that they be cast into the very sky. There, the siblings forged for themselves fire and cast one of Anemi's eyes into the sky to the east and named it Arga, which means light, and to the west, they threw Anemi's other eye, though by this time they had lost their fire. The western eye was thrown by Burrun unlit, and its name was Iarga.
Yet as Anemi had lay dying, his tears fell heavy upon stone and earth, and life of a new kind emerged. Life not from Nila but from him, thus the first of the Eutunaz had awoken, the Children of Tears. In their tongue, they know Anemi as the Golden Father or Aurelmir. Over hard rocks and under the shade of trees, the children of Aurelmir would spring and join together. Many would spring from these first tears, many of great power and many subservient and servile. The greatest and proudest of them were three, Krónaðr, Voldugr, and Hrunir, and they were named as the first fathers of their people.
Yet, as life had come, not by the designs of Nila herself, she gazed long upon the people of Anemi, and for a moment, she was filled with sternness like that of a parent. She came to a simmering wrath at the life before her. At once, she spoke to Kataka and bid him to slay the Eutunaz, but as she gazed upon them once more, her heart was moved to pity. For in their eyes, she saw that of Anemi, and she stayed Kataka’s hand and allowed the Eutunaz to be gifted life true. So once more by the pity of Mother Nila, life was granted to the race of giants, and by her accord, thus sprang the unlooked-for first race of mortals in the young world.
High and far away, the three children of Mother Nila arranged among themselves the domains each would receive in the new physical world. Sakratua, grim and of a foreboding nature, wished for the underlings of the world, where the deep and dark lay, gems and stones untouched, and the long tombs of those who would be one day doomed to death came to be her abode. For she felt comfort in the forgetful dark, the endurance of it, and the world under became hers.
Burrun, seated upon a gilded chariot of his own fashioning, pulled by great beasts, made it known he wished to take to the skies, and so he was given this by Weda, his brother. Burrun was quick to rage and slow to forget rivals; he and his sister did not contend well with one another, only did they cooperate from a love of their brother and lord. In wisdom did Weda wish to keep them apart, for their quarreling would shake the very foundations of the world.
And so, Weda, the highest of them, took the very land of the world, that between the heavens and the hells, the domain of life and renewal, but perishable and mortal. This suited Weda well, for he was of an inquisitive mind; seeking out all the world’s wisdom was his highest joy. And so, this is how the world came to be divided; the three each set out to build an abode for themselves in their new lands.
Sakratua built a deep, cavernous hall for herself in the splendid dark. There she made her home and among that place, it is called Hildurrak, the Dead Palace, where shined lanterns hang below its rock ceiling, an imitation of the very stars. Yet it was a place of tremendous terror, for there to the throne of the Dead Queen, souls of those mortals doomed to death would come and receive their judgment by her eyes, and by her judgment would they be given their punishment until the day when the sun turned black and the moon hollow, and where then fell from the sky and the world came to be blanketed in a dark and endless fog.
High Burrun, so vain and proud even then, built his grand hall among the mountain peaks and the clouds. Balihan he named it, for the altitude of his valor in his mind knew no equal. There at Burrun’s keep, one could find fine beers and hearty meats flowing endlessly, for in the elder days, Burrun himself hunted in the vast forests. High above, he roamed the wide skies in search of the freshest game and the finest brews. Drunk and in a stupor, one could often find him, and he was often of a jovial mind before his arrogance and pride destroyed him. Balihan itself is a splendorous place, floating high above atop the clouds. Pillars of white stone rise with it like frozen lightning reaching to touch the heavens. Draperies of the finest silver silk billow down within and shine on through the light of the sun and stars. By no swift foot can one approach; only by the skies can the sky god’s hall be reached, and only by it can one leave.
Weda made no hall for himself, for he loved wandering and roaming the wide world. Yet he knew that a hall for the coming gods would be needed and so he set out to find a place for this to be done. Beyond beautiful it would be, an abode surpassing all thought and all means of emulation. And so, upon a splendid plain, first Weda exorcised this place from the realms of mortals, a place eternal and still, where the echoes of life would come to reside. A hall of all halls, the abode of the righteous dead, rewarded with gentle days and joy as Men came to dwell there and be welcomed in the realm of their gods. Each of the first three built a minor hall among the fields of Eremana. All perceived it in their own time. From the first Man to the last to die, each arrived in that place at this one time, all would gather, free of the toils they perished of.
All in this time would have made their journey to Hildurrak, but for those whose destiny lay high above, their journeys were swift and tireless, and their reward in death would outpace tenfold the suffering of their lives. Beyond great it was, beyond good, life there was blissful and peaceful, nature and the land itself glimmered on in the purest form of life imaginable. It was as a mirror of mortal life, as life is a shadow; those dwelling in Eremana stood proud in the sun of its splendor. And overlooking the wide plain, Weda perched the great hall of the gods atop the peak of Trongaren, the mountain of all mountains, the very mountain where Kataka's great sword struck first. There would stand Aeluala, Aelum's hall, where the divine ones would reside. It shone with a light like no other, for the very light of the realm shimmered out from it. When the hall’s doors were opened, it was akin to the rising sun, and once closed, a quiet night came over the land, and above, the Arestarun danced in the timid sky. The godly lights echoed into the physical world itself and in many mortal tongues, they are called the Northern Lights or the Dancing Light. And the realm was called Ederice, akin to the first silence of the world, peaceful and still.
