Invaria

Prologue

A Story of Creation

I want to describe to you the beginning, but I have no seen it with my own eyes. I could not even describe to you the middle. Even that is beyond my vision. But I can take you back.
It was a time before the earth had split, spilling its glittering belly into the sea. The northern peaks had yet to freeze, and deserts had not yet cracked with age. It was a time before the amber crystals had risen from the ground, to long after each other across endless oceans. A time before names.
Even so, the boy found his friend, calling to her across the endless lake shore. She lifted her head to acknowledge the boy’s arrival, and the two of them met amidst the gentle lapping waves. The boy wasted no time in embrace, and instead dove into the water at her feet, the water splashing up into her surprised face.
A moment later, the boy appeared with a brightly colored fish, which sprouted wings when he released it into the air. They played like this for some time, the boy always just out of reach of his friend, toes only touching the surf.
When the sky became dark, and the girl became tired, the boy went and sat with her in the sand. They did not speak, but made shapes in the sand. All the shapes that the woman made, the boy would bring to life. She begged him to make his own creatures come to life in the sand, but the boy refused.
Finally, the boy stood, and approached the still waters. Under the gaze of the moon, he stared at his own reflection, until the boy under the surface lifted himself out of the water and named him.
“Hello Sirint, I have come,” said the boy’s reflection, still dripping with water.
And because the boy was now named, he did the same to his reflection, his other half.
“Hello Edji,” said Sirint, and his equal ceased to be a part of him.
Now that he had aged twice, Sirint was twice as tired, and he shuffled through the sand towards the girl, who had watched with nothing more than curiosity. Edji, watching, stepped up onto the surface of the tides.
For the first time, Sirint reached out and held the girl’s hand. Slow, so as not to disturb the sand creatures sleeping around them, he lifted her to the tops of her toes.
“I must go now,” said Sirint, looking her in the eye, “and be god.”
“And what will I become?” The girl cried out to no one. And though she waited for a response, she knew that she had reached the end of her childhood. She would become women. She would become mother of all.

But though he left of his own volition, Sirint never forgave Edji for having pulled him from the earth. And, after a while, their differences grew further. Sirint was content to let the people of earth run wild, to be, in his terms, free. He challenged them with fire and ice, jungle and desert, and the unpredictability of whim. Edji contested, claiming that order would pave the way to a better world. He melted Sirint’s ice, flattened mountains into plains, and carved boundaries for the people out of smooth limestone. This Sirint undid with a wag of a finger, and, again, the cycle would start over.
In the end, it became too much for the people of earth to endure, and, convinced that they would never see eye to eye, Sirint and Edji split the land between them. But as wise and as powerful as they thought they were, they were still young, and had yet to learn the consequences of such actions. As the land shivered and trembled under the oppressive force of the two gods, so did their celestial plane, until, finally, both worlds cracked in two, never to see each other again.
Sirint and Edji, born from the same body, had condemned themselves to die alone.
Sirint, when his powerful body finally gave way, birthed two gods. These were Lua, Goddess of the Moon, and Siskil, God of the Stars.
Edji, when his own body had expired, cracked open his chest and expelled the young forms of Sisha and Turnus, the Goddess of the Son and the God of Death.
Though now blessed with companionship, like their parents, these were gods destined to die. Even Turnus was no use in prolonging his stay. He was the first to go, clawing desperately to life as his body split in two, revealing the new gods, Rydus and Parnesh, the gods of Hunger and Lust.
The rest gave way easily, Siskil to Kilabesh and Sikyl, Sisha to Nala and Lexis, and finally, Lua to Uri and Alara.
It is said that these gods, too, will die. Each one giving their life to two others. But for now, when we pray, it is they who receive them. When we die, it is the beautiful visage of Alara who holds us as we pass.

“But then why do you only pray to Uri, Alara, Kilabesh and Sikyl?” Said Mia, taking off her fathers crown and putting it on her head, where it clashed alongside bright orange locks.
“Because we live in Sirintia, and are governed by his descendents,” said the King, shifting Mia onto his other knee and lifting his asleep one into the air.
“But the quarrel was only between Sirint and Edji. Why aren’t their children friendly? I’m friendly with all my cousins.”
“Well, first of all, according the the keepers at the Amber Gates, their worlds are still divided.”
“But why don’t they push them back together and work things out?”
“Because, Mia, often the most powerful people are the most stubborn.”
“You’re not stubborn, Daddy.”
The King slammed his mug down on the table, splashing hot wine across the polished wood.
“I’m not, am I?”
“No,” cried the girl, her smile surprised by her father’s outburst.
“Yes I am! And if you’re not in bed in five minutes, I’ll show you just how stubborn I am!”
“That doesn’t make sense!” Mia yelled, but leapt from his lap anyway, unwilling to put her tenuous convictions to the test.
“Go on!” The King yelled from his throne, as a long orange stream of hair disappeared through an arch way.
She was young, and he relished the thought. Soon, she would grow. She would learn.

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Kalus

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