Separate

A Chapter by Maleficent

Chapter one. "Abzu Dirigta"

Draluin was always feelingless; a lax sloth that hung from a Baobab--floating anywhere they pleased across the vast bubble of space. They were invested in everything, yet hardly pertained to anything. Where worlds collapsed and where they were born, they'd noticed, traced a similar explosion of nebulae, the colors of both which looked inarguably beautiful.
A graveyard…or a delivery room: you never really knew.
She was not one to judge or meddle with conception or its inverse--no more than he already had, but their being as a bystanding spectator nurtured the most genuine sparkles of mirth, and thus weld abundance hidden in wry smirks.

Whenever they had eyes, they liked closing them.
That way one could see everything.
They--in all their eccentric leisure--liked perching on beds of coy, celestial wisps; the animated, and tender tendrils coiling around them like a doting hemisphere of golden smoke.
In all surreality, the primordial figure was an unearthly sight, and rarely did they enact such self-containment as the concept of mass. They needed no mass.
But for the stringy sparkles of subservience, even they owed the slightest of compassions, and understood the power of tangible connection to the extent of materializing themselves, and the wisps eagerly clung to this rare physicality;
glowing in embrace.
"Zéte! Zéte! Are you entertained?"
"Zéte! Zéte! Have you seen it?"
They swirled around jovially, flickering. Like all things, they sought to please their disenchanted master. But like most children, the celestial ferns only understood the radiant sound of a laugh most mellifluous, but not the irony which belied its ring. Who could blame them? It was hard work to entertain a being so blasé that they would sleep on a smoldering star.
Oh, poor little wisps. You cute things.

The strongest force rests on a foundation of servitude and worship by their unequals, quite the weakest; quite pathetic, quite the most insignificant ones of them. This is no injustice. Only the wisps would procure as much love for their sovereign, and the wisps were the only creations in relevant range that echoed submissive mortality into the dark, endlessly twinkling tapestry.

The sovereign seemed perfectly still, showing no rush to smooth the jagged ebb of its own aura, or to stop the wayward energies slinging far off into the cosmos. Like rainwater, some bouts were caught and some went free. The wisps would handle the catching, extending far asnapping and biting, so unlike their natural twirl. It was a fruitless endeavor, yielding no surplus nor deficit in the balance of existence; a levity of the leeching wisps and the greedy decree of bound affections.
They, molten caramel in their comfort, stretched across the inaudibly chittering wisps. A low, satisfied rumble fled them and permeated the cosmos, tremoring the fabric of being. In a distant galaxy, behind a certain star, on a distant planet, in a certain place…
a small gust of wind carries the foreboding stench of extinction.

Truly a vision of Godhood in the eyes of humankind.
A tyranny of being, however no God of mine.
But. That name is not spoken in my world.
That name is not written in any of the books in my world.
In fact, I have never even heard that name.
And I never ever will.