Bill
Life before demise was muddy in his head. A reflection in a rainwater pool, watercolour patterns swirling to form *Past present future* — distinct echoes of a forgone existence.

The vessel shakes.

The sting of betrayal runs deep within his veins. Carved into his skin is the thought of life — the *Curse* Of life. Inability to die. Living. Eternity. Undeath.

Monster.

Stillness haunts the vessel. Quiet life churning within the closed petals of a bud; bitter creation veiled sweet.

Life bleeds through the skin-gaps, black and gold and white. The mortar-stuck petals cry, red flesh turning redder, into some grotesque imitation of a rose — but with wilted petals, and tar lining its ends.

A hand peeks out, snow-white, ashen, like death before it has been birthed. A ghost, frail and spirit-like — blank eyes that glint amber, bright and mellow; dull and raw.

Then further, he emerges. Naked skin glinting as he stands. A head of white to match his skin — markings of gold all over. He gains colour slowly, from a spectre to human all by instinct.

The vessel breaks.

Gold eyes remain. He does not think to hide them — they are what make him God. He is not mortal, not of the temporal world. Then why must be pretend?

*Because you are monster*, some voice in his mind speaks. *Accursed creature. Better to pretend mortality than be known for cruelty.*

He heeds the warning; he does not question because he is used to obeying unasked. (This time he will be *Obeyed*.) There are scattered fragments in his mind, memories of a life he does not remember living — after all, he has only just been born. What is there to remember?

His eyes dull, the gold fades to a soft brown. Hazel. Glimmering white becomes gold and he steps out. Thoughts form. There is a name in his mind that he does not recognise — yet he *Knows*. He knows it is his.
.

His bare feet touch the skin of his mother — the flower he had torn through now lay before him. Lifeless. Dead by the effort of bringing him, who did not want life. Now he breathes in a sacrifice — love. And he lives.

Aurelius smiles.
Christian
*Space would find itself pressured. Sickened by weight: sickened by weight in such a great ordeal that the gaze of most-near everything past a certain small spherical point distorted and contorted around the emerging orb. 

A sphere.

Black.

Beating.

Gaudy in nature, it grew from but a spec to a respectable ball fit for the palm of a hand, greedily it grew further into a definable mass that had the size of a small boulder, at the epicentre of this abyssal presence, an ocean glow, mixed with the taint of green envy. 

The rage of a star. These colours; azure blue, vermillion green and deep black would all ceaselessly dance among one another. An endless cacophony of meaningless design. 

A shape.

Bright.

Pulsing.

A heartbeat would echo from the dying dwarf, it grew in waves, trembling the once tranquil surface of the piercing beautiful colours. Squeaking, screeching, scratching; the shape as well as volume of the chromatic orb would malform. Like playing a vinyl with a handheld needle or drawing a portrait on gravel with nothing but chalk: this was not quite right, this was defiant in nature.

A birth. 

Bold and unrelenting.

Much like a stone has no choice or reasoning for how it is carved, this being that sculpted itself from but a static rapture became an endless poem of meaningless. Hands compressed; forming an arm to a chest and down a waist; skin that was ink black grew in hue of a espresso brown and the black that remained clung loosely in locks of hair on top of his head. Scarlet eyes bore into everything that they could witness as the tan soles of his feet graced the branch and stood tall.

He was angry but exquisitely aware that he did not know why. He was bare, without reason, in both mind and body, nothing sheltered his skin or thoughts, the crumpling of his noise and fright in his eyes were palpable. 

Nothing but a name remained and it bore its way to the forefront of his mind, a singular noun, it was oppressive and risqué: much like a dagger to the neck. Clutching his throat, he breathlessly spoke...*

"... **Yahir**."
Bill
Not yet familiar with his new form, Aurelius turned his hand, flexed his fingers and watched the wrinkles on god-skin. A frown. *Too human*, the unknown voice sang once more — like it was resentful. Aurelius agreed.

*Humanity does not suit me*, he thought. *It is too fragile. It is beautiful. Intricate. Weak.*

He did not dwell upon it much more. Existence was a curse — a repetitive thought that circled his mind like some particularly catchy line from a play in the theatre. He did not know why he thought so, why the words were engraved in his brain through birth. But they were. And fate is a romantic thing, and he, as the God of love, should *Not* Want something so ethereal to change. 

His hand fell back to his side. The stifling silence rang loud in his ears — like a million voices singing in disjointed symphonies; like no one at all. 

So he chose one, a blank slate only through coincidence. Aurelius never thought much when gambling, picking and discarding — entropy was beauty. Consistency was not; there was no thrill in the predictable. In the *Known*.

So he watched from afar, fascinated, the birth of another through a sphere, constructed out of nothing, that grew with each passing moment, hungrily consumed space — like it was a wild animal, devouring devouring *Devouring* — till it resembled something less inhuman. The form of a person, of a fellow Deity.

This one, however, did not have a flower to act as a martyr for his existence; he had not taken birth through love, through the giving of another. Curious.
.

*Loveless*, Aurelius thought. Derisive and confident, because of course, *He* Decided who was loved and who was not. He was deity of love for a reason — and that reason, certainly, must have encompassed the fact that a deity of love must be loved most. That his birth was through it, and that of another was not. 

Sacrifice was the most noble form of affection, was it not?

*Monster.* The voice tells him.

Aurelius does not pay it mind.

The ends of his hair shone gold — smugness reflecting in a way he had forgone to consider.

He moved from his own branch, landing upon the one where the other Deity had been birthed instead. Uncaring and reckless where his bare feet touched the territory of another.

Once close, he noticed the frightful gaze of the other — Aurelius did not comment upon it, however. There was little to be concerned over. Any deity born loveless should be afraid — ashamed. So he did not find the sight strange, or felt it odd that he was intruding unasked.

"You are Yahir?" He asked, smile gentle because he must always *Appear* So. Nevermind his... Less than savoury thoughts. "I am Aurelius. It is a pleasure to meet you."
Christian
*Loveless was an apt description, for as vacant did he receive it, as vacant did he give it out. Yahir's instinctual reaction to Aurelius advancement was caution, violence, he grew tense and sprang from his point of birth to a metre further back—arms arisen in the direction of Aurelius. 

Hearing this decadence speak the name that plagued his head was disgusting; his face was resplendent but the name on his voice was a twisted agony, as if a stunning opera singer hit a sour note at the peak of their performance. 

Yahir abhorred the name of 'Yahir', more so now than in the few brief moments of his turbulent birth. Stimuli were fresh and motor function was spurning for action, the turmoil to fight or flee raced around his cranium and stifled his thoughts. In one instance the figure before him was nothing but a meek stranger, soft-spoken with a neck easily wrung out, in the next moment they were as equal of a threat as he was to them. Nothing seemed as it should, he was steps from Aurelius but this branch seemed infinitely long, he could run for a day and still likely be as figuratively close as he was now.

So he looked to his hands instead—jointly moving his feet steps closer—raising both arm up and turned them in around to see his palm, his stainless and open palm... His face softened and his scowl turned to a indifferent stare.*

"What pleasure is there to take in two men, naked in front of one another?" 
*Yahir, up-turned his head and shifted the crimson pupils down at Aurelius' manhood, or rather his 'god-hood', finding the opportunity to put down another.* 

"What is this place? And who are you, really?—How did we get here?" 

*A curt interrogation as he took a pivot of his surrounding, took full gaze of Aurelius and proper understanding of his situation. *

He had no recollection of the time before he spoke the name; no memory of who he was and what purpose he served. No promise of life to him.

"Answer me and I may let you walk away." 
*Yahir snorted, closing a fist and turning his head sharply back at the golden flare. He knew his word had meaning. If anything; he would give them meaning.*
Bill
The other God's reaction was surprising to Aurelius. He did not see the point of being so wary — so *Openly* Wary against someone. Caution was supposed to be kept secret, a shield and weapon alike. 

Yet, here Yahir was — bearing it out so readily, *Freely.*

Aurelius did not shy away from his gaze — after all, what was love if not astoundingly bold? And he, as one who ruled over it, must also be such.



Instead, he tilted his head to the side, pretended the derision had eluded him. 

"Come now," Aurelius spoke, voice soft. "Why must we judge situations by human standards? I do not see anything of this scenario that is *Not* Pleasant."

A smile then — just the way people seemed to like. Kind. Aurelius could pretend to be so much kinder than anyone had seen before.

"It is always such a pleasure to meet people."



He shook his head. "I have not been born too long ago either. Just moments before you were, in fact." He said, "I fear there is little I know of this place."

And even if he did, he certainly would not have shared it. The only entertainment here, save for the Gods being birthed, would be to see one struggle to understand this place. Writhe and squirm like a worm in a trap. 
.

While he chose not to dwell on it — Aurelius did it find it rather strange. The way he had awoken and just *Known* Who he was. That he had had so many thoughts in his head the moment he had come to life.

"Perhaps you are not the most attentive listener," He said lightly, smile still on like it was but a simple comment — like he wasn't purposefully trying to test the limits of this new Deity. "But nevermind that, hm? I am Aurelius, as I mentioned earlier. My domain is love." He paused, letting out a disappoint sigh. "And, my apologies, but I have no clue why we are here either." 

His eyes were bright when he heard Yahir's words — something which was, perhaps, intended as a threat. Aurelius found it amusing.

"You may let me walk away," He repeated, eyes full of mirth. The corners of his eyes crinkled, narrowed in thought as he looked at Yahir. "That sounds *Splendid*! However, I fear I would walk away nonetheless and you may not be capable of stopping me. Regardless, I do appreciate the thought, *Yahir*." He paused, staring intently at the other Deity. "—I will presume that is your name, since you did not correct me."
Christian
"... That is **NOT**-" Yahir's finger arose; jaggedly pointing toward Aurelius, if not for the contention of his 'presumption', the scene would have surely escalated. At this time there was no benefit to harming the sole company he had—there was no real advantage to any violence.

Prior to the name call: Yahir had patiently listened to Aurelius' disarming voice. A humoured huff came at the claim of a domain, no—the claim of LOVE being his domain—but it was overturned by the childish exercise of thought he had immediately after. If Aurelius claimed they had similar birth, moments after one another, would that equate them both as auspicious siblings. And should *That* Be the case, the unpleasant reminder of seeing him bare might have had some warrant to it, but these thoughts served no grand purpose in understanding why he was here, safely he stored them for a later time. 

"Your domain is of coy remarks." Yahir redefined the parameters of Aurelius, as if he had the divine right to change his being, and in realising their presumed natures, this infant god would change his tone. 

"Tell me, Aurelius, what do you think I hold the domain of? Mistrust? Temper? The Well-Endowed?" Yahir; mockingly leaned back and with both arm expanded outward, in truth he was taking greater view of the height of the tree and skyline, laughing as he bent his head down back to Aurelius. It truly did not matter what Aurelius stipulated his domain with, for he was right with his remark earlier, he rarely listened to the plight of a stranger—even a well-mannered one. The moment this star sparkle, well-spoken, naked flower bud told him he was clueless about their situation, well, his attention dramatically lowered. But he still had enough curiosity to conversate, to catch his singular companion in a possible trap, to balance this exchange of power into his favour. 

Yahir knew deep down that the one who 'walked away' was the one to stump the other in this verbal exchange. He was a sore loser, and Aurelius suited deification well, his aura exuded a superior air to him. "Careful now," A teasing tone warned the angelic presence, "I am quick to anger, and trust you very little... Not to mention you look a little lithe down there." His words were nothing but hollow arrows. 

Petty lies.

He found those suited well.