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Oronin Last-Born was the first to hear the scream that would part them from their world further than they had been drifting for ages. Oronin, the Seventh, whose hand had born the stain and echo of the ever dripping, ever pulsing, ever flowing, ichor which poured from his older brother’s thigh for ages uncounted.

Oronin, the Glad Hunter of the northern aftlimb, Shaper of the wild forests and made the Were, who had taken the mighty Godslayer and wounded soundly in the Shaper War, where kin cut down kin. Ornin, Keeper of Death, whose gift was at the even keel and balance of Satoris.

Where death, even a Shaper’s death, being counted, drop by sweet, acrid, drop, was in his keeping, instead of his brother’s, where lay all the was quickening. The sowing of life into stillness, meeting sheering of death from its quickening.

But drop by drop Satoris had not died. Only in the Godslayer’s embrace could their wayward brother have been killed, ever sowing his life back through his own hell-ridden existence, and it was only Oronin, of Death, who stood on the rampart of Torath, wondering if all the world knew what it had birthed this day.

The death of his brother, Satoris. The death of The Sower.

The death of all that was Quickened Into Life.

~*~

Yrinna-of-the-Fruits swayed within her fields and flowers, at the scream which pierced the world without touching an ear. Yrinna, the Sixth, whose very bearing was the strength of mountains, forged, molded and soldered over ages uncounted. Who spoke the history lost in the wind, but stamped in the Ulurat.

Yrinna, The Lady of the southern aftlimb, Shaper of the Orchards, Fields, and Maker of the Dwarfs, who had stood watching, youngest sister, youngest daughter as elder brother had made war on elder brother, over a promise granted that had not had genesis in either.

Yrinna, of Abundance, who felt the world lose life, lose spark in that second. Like the seeds of spring suddenly thrown with no knowledge or pity on the hard, cold, cracking grounds of winter. Where they would be trampled under quick time’s foot, blown by the harsh, fast winds, wither and die, without taking root.

This would be no field that was turned over in the summer. This would be no new crop, no compromised Peace plighted over the ages between their eldest brethren brothers. The Uru-Alat that had died giving birth to them and all life, sundered, again, beyond tilling, beyond healing with this.

The death of her brother, Satoris. The death of the Third-Born.

The death of all that was still winter birthed to life in spring.

~*~

Meronin of the deep seas, heard the scream as it road every waves, sliding through the currents and undertows, deep, deep, in the darkest places, refusing to be swallowed, but called carried clarion. Meronin, The Fifth, who stood still and turned his face toward the west, toward Darkhaven.

Meronin, where the southern forelimb rolled in, Shaper of the gentle harbors, deeps seas, and Maker of the Fish, who had watched beside their youngest brother, as Satoris and Haomane had gone to war for both slight and promise of Arahila, but stayed at war for the arrogance and pride of themselves.

Meronin, who was deep and kept his own council, waiting like the fathomless, ever still, ever moving, oceans. Who counted the move of continents and centuries as the turning of one Moon’s tide into another. Sinking deeper and deeper away, as the ages passed and no bridge could be built when no single forward step could come.

What once had sundered the Gods and their creations, now took one of only Seven lives in a prophesy as hypocritical as its war had been begun. The men like ants, stamping out the Ellyl, over and over. A request to un-Sow their quickening, unmaking them, denied, thrice. Yet considered won as those two became one, killing the Ellyl line just as surely in this.

The death of his brother, Satoris. The death of the juncture of the loins.

The death of all that was Truth of Doubt before the Raging Right.

~*~

Neheris-of-the-Leaping Waters heard it echo through the caverns, and in every trembling pebble that made up every bit of mountain. Neheris, the Fourth, whose fingers still clung in the rocks where her brother’s caverns had been dug by her very children, every footfall scuffing inner earth hollowed out to wait.

Neheris, of the northern aftlimb, Shaper of the Mountains’ rise, rivers, and Maker of the Fjeltroll, who embraced gentle-worded Satoris. Neheris, of the high cold mountains and their sparkling rivers, who knew of the safety of her children under her slightly elder brother, who never gentled them, but cared when their eldest never gave them a glance.

Who had watched, silent and still as the lifting, rising rocks, which jutted forth from the plains, impaling the sky with their grandeur and refusal to be brooked. Where Darkhaven settled, and its door never turned away any soul turned away by the world beyond their doors.

Home to every misbegotten and malformed, never cast out, so long as the kept oath and troth alike. Where Satoris, sundered from his siblings, ruled, a terrifying yet compassionate, God, embittered, with a leg that wept the tears he would or could not. A place the mountains would swallow again after this proclamation.

The death of her brother, Satoris. The death of The Childless, of the Dragon Knower.

The death of all that had been blind, misunderstood and welcomed in its spite.

~*~

Satoris is no more.

 

 

Satoris who said No.

 

 

Satoris, called The Sunderer.

Satoris, called The BaneWrecker.

Satoris, Keeper of the Godslayer.

 

 

The perfect, terrifying, Shaper Host is dead.

Slain by the hand of his never-touched captive.

 

Perhaps, just as surely as her own Elyll certainty.

As gone as any innocence and ignorance she once had.

~*~

Arahila the Fair heard the cry that broke the wind, choked like the death rattle of a soul chained too long, glad like a battle raged through every emotion until Death’s door was the only respite. Arahila, the Second, who hid her face and wept for her first beloved younger brother whose death her words had wrought.

Arahila, Born-of-the-Heart, Shaper of the Second Light, The Moon, the Thousand-Thousand Stars, and Maker of Men, beloved first by both her brothers: Haomane, who gave Higher Shape to Men, who let her bequeath Love to the Ellylon, and Satoris, who quickened Men to Life and Released them to Death.

Arahila, grace in all her ways, compassion in her fingertips, who had never brooked her elder brother when he bade, without her concession, the removal of Satoris’ gift. Once. Twice. Thrice. That her children, hot blooded and passionate directly from Her Heart, tempered with his wisdom, made war on his own. His perfect Elyll, untouched by time, iced in reason.

Beloved, first woman, Shaper born of No Mother, who saw with compassion and grief, this first heart. Where Men were not content to be ruled apart by Ellyl, like beautiful, but removed, Lesser Gods, nor little brothers that of their elder ones. If it was her fault, for love of her brothers, for love of her children – it was, also, the first of an excuse for a fight, that needed not its excuse, for a proof they all saw four ages later, fulfilled here.

The death of her brother, Satoris. The death of The Quickening of Flesh.

The death of the first prayer for life, the last prayer for death.

~*~

Haomane, Lord of Thought, sat in his throne in the Heaven Crown of Torath, when the cry of his first brother, sliced by the Souma given one Single, Sharded, Shape flew last. Haomane, the First-Born, who did not look to the window, and did not smile, perhaps, paused only a moment, like the sound was as momentarily distracting as a gnat, as an ant.

Haomane, Shaper of the Souma itself, The Radiant Sun, and maker of the perfect Ellylon, of whom he was Perfect God, Perfect Shaper, who gave them immortality, dominion over life and faith that swelled in ages absentia. Who had warred first for his children’s protection, and second for a greater purpose, eradication of rebellion over order.

Haomeane, who was brought forth at the place of the Souma, the bright gem, the Eye in the brow of the Uru-Alat. Who saw, all things in their lined perfection, preached of an directive sensibility and prompt unquestionableness, all encompassing, that his brother could not bring himself to understand. Warmth of the loins, lower self and lower Shaper.

Who turned his head, for he had no heart, he was no Arahila, nor Oronin of Death’s concerns, toward future, leaving them all to this world, who had made it. Children of Haomane and Arahila, remaking Misbegotten as Prophesy’s Miracle. The thinning of the Ellyl bloodlines. All of it worth the sacrifice for this.

The death of his brother, Satoris. The Sunderer. The Banewrecker.

The death of the only Shaper who dared to stand against him.