I remember the first breath of the heavens.
It was quiet at first, a stillness so complete it seemed to press against everything, even thought itself. Then the gods drew in silence, inhaling the void, and exhaled light. I was born from that exhalation, unfolding beneath them like a fragile shadow of their power.
The first winds carved valleys into my skin. Rivers traced paths along my veins. Mountains rose at the footprints of divine will. Cities of shining stone appeared and vanished at whim, their histories written only in echoes. I watched it all. I remembered everything.
For a time, I believed the world perfect. Aetherion and Lysera, sun and dawn, will and mercy, moved across my horizons with laughter that shook the oceans. They named everything, gave form to every creature, and left traces of their joy in the soil, the sky, and the stars.
But perfection is a fragile lie.
It demands that nothing change. And nothing that does not change can live.
They envied what they could not control. They touched the Verdant Flame — a world that hummed with life, that flowed without restraint, that refused to kneel. They called it weak. They called it dull. And in their longing to surpass it, they unmade it.
I felt its destruction as fever beneath my crust. Forests turned to glass. Rivers boiled. The sky screamed, then fell silent. Only one remained among the ruins — Drazon, keeper of the living breath. He cursed their victory, and from his curse, my rivers ran bitter for an age.
The gods repented. From sorrow, they shaped a child — Aion — a being meant to carry both strength and remorse. They promised through him that I would heal.
But healing is never simple.
When Drazon stole the child from heaven's cradle, the shadow of his choice passed through me like a winter wind. He hid the boy in the small, beating heart of humankind — among those who whispered to soil instead of stars. There, in quiet places, Aion grew.
I watched him with a tenderness I had not known since the creation of mountains. His bare feet pressed against the earth. He spoke to the wind as though it could answer. And sometimes, it did. His laughter lightened me. For a while, I believed he might remain untouched by all that had come before.
Yet memory seeps.
The light in his blood did not sleep forever.
When Aion dreamed, I dreamed with him. I saw the sky he had never visited, gold spiraling into white, a mother's voice singing across the void. He woke with tears he did not understand, and the dawn would dry them before anyone could see.
Humans are kind, in their small, imperfect ways. Mara and Elden, who raised him, built their lives from repetition, from sowing, from mending, from quiet love. I softened the ground beneath their fields. I sent rain when they prayed. I held their cottage when storms pressed too close. They never thanked me. They thanked each other. That was enough.
Drazon watched from the edges of the world. I felt his guilt with every shadow he cast across the hills. He feared the gods, but he feared himself more. He had loved creation once. Now he loved only penance.
Years turned like pages. Aion became a boy, then a youth. His hands learned to heal what he touched — a bird's broken wing, a splintered branch, a toy carved by Elden's weathered fingers. That toy, a small wooden horse, was imperfect. He cherished it because of the cracks. He said, "It is real." And I understood.
Then the heavens stirred.
Aetherion's gaze fell through the firmament, searching for what he had lost. Lysera's sorrow followed. Their light grazed my skies, and Aion felt it in his bones. I heard him whisper that night as he stood where wheat met wind:
"Why does the sky feel like it's calling me?"
Because it remembers you, I wanted to say. Because nothing divine ever forgets its child.
The call could not be denied forever. Light leaked through cracks in the sky — soft at first, then searing. Villagers saw omens in dreams. Drazon sharpened his silence. And Aion… Aion began to change.
Fire burned calmer near his touch. Storms broke themselves before reaching his home. Children laughed without reason when he smiled. Yet he felt lonely.
That is the cruelty of being more than human among those you love. Their warmth can reach you, but never fill you.
He carved small figures from wood — birds, horses, fragments of a world he did not understand. Each imperfect, each beautiful. One bird left on a hill had only one wing. "Maybe it flies anyway," he said. The wind took it, and it proved him right.
Peace is brief.
When the heavens opened again, it was not with thunder, but sorrow breaking. Fire fell. Drazon's heart broke before he spoke. And Aion… made his choice. Not between love and hate, but between mercy and despair.
He did not destroy for vengeance. He did not save for glory. He refused to let endings mean nothing.
Because of him, I live still. Because of him, I remember ruin and grace.
I am the world that remains — cracked, scarred, still turning. My rivers hum old songs. My mountains keep secrets. My skies, though wounded, bear light again.
And when the wind crosses the fields at dusk, it carries a name. Not as prayer, not as warning, but as gratitude:
Aion.