without night, nothing would remember to rest.
Even the sun needs the dark to rise again.
For a while,
they were whole.
Creation and unmaking, entwined.
But love has teeth.
His stories turned cruel?—
filled with hunger and endings.
Hers still sang of warmth?—
of hands, of fleeting lives,
of the beauty that dares to fade.
And when she turned her gaze toward a mortal man?—
when she chose a life that could end
over a throne that could not?—
the silence shattered.
He watched her tear herself apart for love,
dividing her light into four daughters
and scattering them across the lands they had made together.
In his grief,
he broke himself open.
And in the breaking,
he stole what remained of her divinity.
From that theft, he made his own children?—
the first to outlast death.
Born before gods.
Before prayer.
Before even the sun dared rise.
They were the echo of his heartbreak,
the proof that eternity could still bleed.
They do not die by time.