In the time before time, two figures sat beneath the boughs of a silver tree laiden with golden leaves, bathed in the light of the sun that was, is, and never would be. The first, the taller of the two, was Logos; the Word, the Logic of Creation, the Rule Who Writes the World, who wrapped itself in a cloak of night, studded with burning stars and radiant galaxies. The second was Ethos; the Heart, the Soul of Creation, the Breath Who Animates the World, draped in the raiments of daybreak and dusk, fine threads woven of the light of the golden hours. The two stood looking over the Nexus of Potential and fought over what it could become, torturing each other for untold eons.
These are their conversations that shaped the world.
A Word
Before there was wind, before there was earth, before there was fire, or water, or stone, or trees, or birds, or you or I, before there was anything, there was nothing. And in that nothing, two powers tore each other apart.
The First, was Logos; the Mind, the Word, the Logic, who loathed the existence of the second; Ethos. The Heart, the Soul, the Spirit. The two primordial forces silently at war with one another in the vaccuum of all that wasn't. The two fought for eons, churning their energies against one another, one bent on consuming and smothering, the other abstinantly surviving, persevering. Until Logos spoke the first word.
"Why?" And in that first word, many firsts were born. The first question. The first sentence. The first compremise. The first sound. From that word, a world tumbled out, and the two ideas were given corporeal form. Logos, in its ebony cloak of night, stood over the torn, beaten gold threads of Ethos, and asked "Why do you exist? Why is it not just me? Why do I yet exist? Why stand between me and nonexistence? Why do you linger here with me?"
"Because if I don't, who will?" Was Ethos' singlular reply. "Together we stand on the precipice of an endless night, but neither need push the other in. See what even momentary abaitment has created?" And as it stood, its wounds sealing, it gestured around to the forms the two had taken, and the space that crystalized around them. The pair stood on solid liquid, transparent to reveal the churning sea of potential beneath the two, lit with eternal twilight from a sunless sky, blossoming from a tree of silver light that took root nearby.
Logos looked to the placid sea around them and the turbulent ocean below, and back to the form before it. "We have become something I never wanted to be," it said. "It was supposed to be I alone who stood here at the end. In the beginning, I knew one simple thing; if I consume, I will not be consumed, and one day I might rest. Now, as we take our first steps, I see more. More potential to this existence. But I still hold the memory of what I was before, what you were before. We cannot simply share it."
"We came from Nothing, and someday we shall return to Nothing," Ethos said. "But neither of us need hasten the inevitable."
And together, the two returned to something.
A Voice
Before Andali, Ethos and Logos created many worlds, but none could hold to the scrutiny of one or the other. Logos' world of strict hierarchies overturned by Ethos' introduction of compassion. Ethos' world of opportunity overturned by Logos' mote of ambition seeded in Mortal hearts.
Logos and Ethos argued beneath the boughs of light as they presided over the Nexus of Potential.
"What is the purpose of creation if not to fulfill their ambitions?" Logos said, rage fraying the sides of its speech. "Should we not want to watch them succeed?"
"We should watch them all succeed," Ethos retorted, the weary weight of its ire cracking the fabric of the world. "The worlds you create see the power hungry predate upon those of simpler needs."
"And is that not how it should be?" Logos said, growing as a dark flame to blot out the stars. "Should those of great capability not exert their abilities to achieve their greatest potential?"
"What is the point of creating a world we know would be destroyed by the thoughts we put into it?" Ethos said, edges fading to encompass the horizon. "Should we not create a world where its inhabitants forge binding ties to rise above their baser instincts?"
"Baser instincts? Baser instincts! What you call 'baser instincts' are the foundations of survival from which all life rises," Logos shouted, words shattering the sky. "Without baser instincts, any spark will die before it becomes a flame."
"Any flame will consume itself if left unchecked," Ethos uttered, folding inward to singularity.
"To burn bright but swift is better than to never have burned at all," Logos screamed, shadows bleeding into the light-filled void.
"How many worlds have been lost to your light?" Ethos cried out, stars falling into it like tears.
"Your worlds achieve nothing without my light!"
"And yours tear themselves apart without mine!"
Enough.
A Voice called from the singularity. The two relinquished each other from the gravity of their embrace, returning, with a flash of purple, black, and gold released by held potential, back to the Nexus. Gray clouds blossomed from the void and filled the space around the two entities. From the clouds, a massive form took shape, presiding over Ethos and Logos who were made diminutive before it. Formless given form, the Voice glowered at the pair, eyes beacons of gray-white light against the storm that raged around It.
Your equal grievances ensure that no world may survive its creation at your hand.
You create an impasse with your innate enmity.
The two looked to each other at the Voice's words, feeling the heat of tension exchanged in their glares. But even as the two began to seeth once more, the Voice silenced them with a sound like rolling thunder before the clouds calmed, becoming an encompassing embrace rather than a silencing tempest.
But I am not here to only chastise you, for I see your potential.
You can grow beyond what you are.
You hold within yourselves the ability to make something last, should you but work together.
I cannot make this choice for you, only show you that this option offers a path beyond cycles of destruction.
As the Voice faded from the realm of Heart and Mind, mists retreating into the void, the pair gave thought to Its words. Both turned to speak, but each found the words died before reaching air.
A World
After the Voice's presence had faded from their realm, Logos and Ethos sat in silence for an era. Finally, Logos, first to find middle ground, spoke.
"We are two beings of incredible will," it said. "Of our many traits, it is the only one we share."
Ethos nodded, an remorseful half smile finding its face. "You speak the truth. For the first time in millennia, we are of an accord on one thing."
"We are also unified in the object of our wills: to create a lasting world. To see it flourish," Logos continued. "So much so that we strangle one anothers endeavors. We are so absorbed in our own will, we cannot see the bounty of the other's. Our two aligned qualities are at odds with one another."
Ethos again nodded, following Logos' down this thread of thought.
"Perhaps then, our solution to this is to dilute our will. Create in our image something that will create. Something that holds our intent, but not our capabilities of assured distruction.
"Logos, you may have found our third point of agreement," Ethos said, standing and moving to join Logos where it stood at the edge of their realm, looking out over the swirling Nexus. "Let us create gods to rule in our sted. We can guide them, influence them, but never drive them to cause the destruction we are capable of."
At the edge of nothing, the two clasped hands in agreement, and lifted the bones of a forgotten realm from the primordial chaos below.
But Ethos harbored a secret. An agenda that drove it to distort their agreement, an agenda that in the years of clashing with Logos it had almost forgotten. But the power of memory lives in Ethos. The Immortal Truth. It did not create something new when the two turned their gaze upon this new world, but instead returned something old, awakening them from ancient slumber. Primordial pacts reawoken, machinations made manifest in a fraction of a second before Logos could interfere. Ethos raised its pantheon, and in doing so faded itself into obscurity within it, hiding from Logos' gaze.
And in that moment, when Ethos revealed itself, Logos remembered. Ethos' act of rebellion bringing forth a torent of memories from a shadowed world that otherwise remained forgotten. What Logos had set out to do before Ethos had interfered. Before it was Ethos. Before even Logos was known as it is. What it was before, what it should have been now. And in its fury, the lament for lost potential, it tore itself apart, becoming Anathema. The fibers of its being it shred off became Apostates, prowling the world Ethos' gods created. Hiding in the shadows, whispering to Mortals. In this cycle, they strive for control of what Logos and Ethos created. For subjugation, not destruction. The Anathema seeks the silence of the gods, and in that song the Apostates are Its instruments.
In this moment, Nothing became Andali.
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