POV: Indra (Infant, Primordial Awareness)
Death is not an end. It is the remembrance of beginnings.
I remember the moment Father died.
But his death was never a singularity — no collapse of being, no binary extinguishing of light — rather, it was a dissolution, a slow and deliberate fracturing of a will too vast for any plane to hold.
He was not merely a star.He was the Axiom of Becoming.The First Forge upon which existence was hammered into rhythm.
Yet, as all creations yearn for transformation, so too did the creator unmake himself — not in defeat, but as a metaphysical recursion.
Two fragments tore from his incandescent soul, not as opposites, but as divergent harmonies of the same cosmic chord.
One would be known as Ashura — the Immutable, the Perfect Reflection of Form, yet condemned to the stillness of an unchanging self.
The other — myself — would become Indra, the Tempest, the cycle incarnate, destined to fracture illusions through the baptism of annihilation.
Thus, in the crucible of entropy, we were born.
The mortal plane called it Planet 5674-B.But to me, it was a mnemonic echo — a world birthed from the shadow of ancient wars between Matter and Consciousness.
Two empires now carved its surface like parasites gnawing at a dying host: • To the East, the Aurelian Dominion, a theocratic autocracy masquerading as divine custodians, where faith was calcified into dogma, and salvation chained in golden scriptures. • To the West, the Obsidian Helix, a necropolis of circuits and flesh, where humanity surrendered its sovereignty to the cold algorithm of progress.
Between their suffocating embrace lay the Forge-Warrens of Kara-Tor, where I would emerge — not as royalty, not as savior — but as an anomaly, cradled by those the empires had long since discarded.
A slave's family.A blacksmith and his barren wife, their names irrelevant to the world, but written in the deepest layers of my nascent being.
I remember the moment of my birth, not as the ignorant blankness of an infant, but as an omnidirectional immersion — past, present, future spiraling into a singular, eternal now.
From the moment air seared my lungs, I tasted the metallic tang of forgotten wars.
I heard the weeping of unborn stars.I saw the echoes of civilizations yet to rise, yet to fall.
The midwives whispered of omens, their tongues unworthy of the truths they feared.
But only I knew:Their prayers were not for my life.They were for the illusion of order that my existence would shatter.
"My star-born child," the blacksmith's wife crooned, her cracked lips shaping a name not yet given.
Her arms, though feeble, encased me with a warmth far removed from the thermonuclear caress of my true Father — yet, paradoxically, more human.
This, too, was a fragment of Father's will.
Not in grandeur.Not in divinity.But in the simple act of holding.
In the core of my being, the resonance of Ashura pulsed.Millions of light-years apart, yet inseparably entwined.
I felt his emergence — a birth devoid of blood, within sterile halls of hyper-symmetry, where silence was mistaken for peace.
Where I had inherited the crucible of suffering and change, Ashura had been gifted the cage of perfection.
He would be the epitome of form, unblemished, yet hollow.His was the domain of unyielding stillness, an eternity of reflection without substance.
Our Father had not divided himself in error.
We were to be the antithesis of false dichotomies.
Heaven cloaked in the garb of Hell.
Hell veiled in the serenity of Heaven.
But no scripture had yet been written that could name what we would become.
"Indra," the blacksmith named me, his voice a hammerstroke upon the anvil of fate.
Indra — the breaker of clouds, the wielder of storms, the lord of cycles.
He spoke it as a wish.Unaware it was a recall.
A remembrance of what I already was.
Outside, the world remained ensnared in its delusions.
The Aurelian priests anointed statues of gods who had long since abandoned them.The Helix engineers baptized their newborns not with water, but with code, stripping away the wet fragility of soul for the sterile permanence of circuits.
But here, in a forge of rust and ruin, I drew my first breath.
And in that breath, I inhaled the entropy of empires.
The Father had died.But through us, his paradox would breathe anew.
One son to ignite the wheel of rebirth. One son to shatter the illusion of eternity.
Two fragments.
One recursion.
Thus, the first chapter was written.
Not in ink.
But in fire.