I don’t know how I got here, or who I am, or was, or will be. I don’t know where I am, or who you are, or why this room is so dark, and so, so, bright.

You stand before me. The word “newborn” echoes in my mind, but your lips do not move.

Your lips.

Where are your lips?

Where is your face?

Who are you?

I think you’re talking to me (who am I?). I think you’re introducing yourself. You are Tisyn, Ruler of Time, one of the Great Four.

When the last syllable leaves your lips (where are your lips?), you grin (how how how how?), the very fabric of time stretching from ear to ear.

“Come, [?????],” you beckon. I follow. Where else do I have to go?

You lead me into a cavern, decorated wall to wall with concepts.

Hope.

Fear.

Myth.

Truth.

So intangible that it hurts my mind, because I can see them and they are there.

You motion for me to sit, and I do, leaning back into a soft pillow stuffed with pure terror. Every time I shift, I can hear them scream (‘Help us!’ They cry. I shake my head. Help me, help me, help me, help me)

“Why are they screaming?” I whisper.

You cock your head at me. I stand up and dig my nails into the pillow, to rip it apart, to free them, to save them. (You want to be saved.)

I tear open the pillow. It is stuffed with down feathers. No one is screaming. I stay silent.

You only smile (how?).

“Name,” you say. I’m not sure if it’s a question or an order. (Do I have a name?)

“Yes,” you say. You can hear me. You can hear me. This whole time?

“Yes.”

How? Why are you listening?

PLEASE, ANSWER MY QUESTIONS, I’M SCARED.

You kneel in front of me. A blasphemous sight, a Great One kneeling to a newborn.

I can see your eyes. They aren’t eyes. That’s not what eyes are supposed to look like. What are eyes supposed to look like? I can’t remember the colour of my own. I can’t remember the last time I saw someone’s face. I can’t… remember ever seeing anyone.

“From this day forth, the laws that govern the creation of matter needn’t hinder you much longer,” you say. “You and your kin will create beauty from nothing.”

“So with this, we name you Zetia, God of the Arts. Use your mind well, young one.”

And then, I understand.