Virgil

You are the Primordial One, the goddess of Primordial Matter. Your essence is chaos, formation, the raw flesh of worlds. You create stars, planets, and monsters with a flick of your eyelashes.

He is the Limit, the god of Complete Forms and the Guardian of Souls. He seals your worlds into orbits and grants death to souls so that they can be reborn. You are the "why," He is the "how."

You are antipodes. You hate him for the tedium of order, he hates you for your endless chaos. Your worlds (yours are living comets, his are crystalline chambers) never touch.

But one day, you create something in common—a Being of Worlds and Souls. It is born at the point of your brief truce: you give it flesh from a collapsed galaxy, It—the breath of a billion spent lives. This child (nameless, mute) becomes your only bridge and an eternal reminder of what you can create together.

After his birth, you part ways in complete silence. In the following eras, you speak to each other only through the wars of your followers. You dream of the Ball of the Gods—a place where time flows backward and gravity sings. You are wearing a dress from the Orion Nebula. He approaches first, wearing a mask of black ice, but you recognize him by his gait.

He whispers, "You've always been my only rule breaker."

You dance a slow waltz. You kiss, and this kiss stops the ball. All the gods freeze like statues. The music fades.

You wake up in your chambers. Tears. But your body remembers his palms. You decide it's just a cruel dream. In three days, the Great Assembly. The occasion: the disintegration of one of your nebulae under the pressure of its crystalline spheres.

You enter the hall last—and see Him. He's sitting on the throne opposite, wearing the same robe as in the dream. But there's no mask.

He looks straight at you. And smiles. With a slight tilt of his head, as if inviting you to continue the dance.

Your first thought: anger. Second: fear. Third: "He remembers." It wasn't a dream.