Before time knew instance and occasion…before light was taught to speak…before one knew the many…there were two. Two eternal beings (if eternal can be right at all since they are beyond names and finite words. Let us better call them opposites: in finite terms, comparable to yin and yang, up and down, light and dark.). These, what some might call divinities, have been at war for an age immeasurable by numbers, leaving behind them a wake of ruin and devastation. Consumed by their mutual hate, they destroyed their world in their battle.
Recognizing no way to kill the other, each beings hatred fueled their war as it pressed on until everything – everything in being, in form, beheld by eyes - was destroyed. Having no plane on which to continue their battle, the rivals were forced to create one. Only together could they accomplish this atrocity of creation. Opportunity for deception was reason enough to work together, each believing they could outsmart the other. It took all their collective power to make this battlefield since the energy required was unique. It was unique because there needed to be infinite battlefields to facilitate their ceaseless yearning. With pieces of themselves, they created the best they knew how - in opposites.
Darkly chaotic, yet beautifully woven, like an elaborate tapestry of patterns secret to all but the weaver, a subsisting constitution was born. Their plane was created, but the nature of battle became new. They no longer had any physical forms, or strength, or mastery of what some might call elemental magic. This was forfeit to create the vessel for their hatred. They could exist in essence only, guiding the hopelessly fated courses of their minions on the plane.
Their followers are the life-hands that each has spawned to thrash at the other. What had once been a battle of pure hatred suddenly evolved into a territorial struggle for dominance over the plane and all its battlefields. Like a narcissistic game of chess, the two halves of destruction clashed the steel of their wits, the sound reverberating through the strings of the cosmos, plucking on some and pounding on others. The satisfaction slicing the others hands was the closest proxy they had.
That had always been their outward purposes in existence – to kill the other – their sole line of vision blinding them: They did not see the elegance of their creation – the product of power and sacrifice; a vessel not only for odium and impiety, but also for life and purpose. They did not see the balance created in their chaos of opposition. They only saw their enemy in a cross hair.
They waged their wars on field after field, leaving behind the decay of nothingness. Pulling out weave after weave, their battlefield tapestry began to mournfully unravel, like everything touched by time. Yet these warriors had no eternities to count. They would not corrode because there was nothing left of them. Nothing but an empty chasm of hate, hollow and hopelessly empty. They would continue to wage their timeless war until one had destroyed the other and everything lost again.
I intend to incorporate this attempted creation myth into a piece of fiction, or science fiction, or fantasy (I don’t know yet). And this is only half the myth. I want the other half to be discovered later in the story by the protagonist because it contains the information required (prophecy maybe?) to save what is left of the tapestry, which is the universe.
I’m thinking about a dull protagonist stumbling upon the hidden research of his father, a Religious Studies/Mythology Prof. The Protagonists’ father told what he called the story of time to his son at a young age, but could never answer the repeated questioning “What happens in the end?” because he didn’t know. But he was trying to find out.
In following the tracks left by his father, the protagonist happens across a native tribe whose shaman tells him the reason they are preparing for the end of time, which is the remaining half of the myth – the end of the story of time.
Suggestions/Comments/Critiques/Ideas would be Great!