They pulse. They rise.
They are.
Breathing, vibrating, bursting from the Twilight; embraced in the aether that permeated their being; by forces that bound the whole of existence and inspirited bodies with motion; in the hearth of life-giving spheres and specks of Creation that encircled them.
They were alive.
They were One.
Till…
…they were not.
…ℌ𝔢 𝔴𝔞𝔰, 𝔞𝔱 𝔱𝔥𝔢 𝔞𝔟𝔶𝔰𝔪𝔞𝔩 𝔰𝔱𝔞𝔱𝔦𝔬𝔫, 𝔦𝔫 𝔡𝔞𝔯𝔨𝔫𝔢𝔰𝔰, 𝔬𝔴𝔦𝔫𝔤 𝔱𝔬 𝔞𝔣𝔱𝔢𝔯 𝔴𝔦𝔱 𝔞𝔫𝔡 𝔡𝔢𝔰𝔱𝔯𝔲𝔠𝔱𝔦𝔳𝔢 𝔡𝔢𝔰𝔦𝔯𝔢. ℌ𝔦𝔰 𝔡𝔢𝔰𝔱𝔯𝔲𝔠𝔱𝔦𝔳𝔢 𝔡𝔢𝔰𝔦𝔯𝔢 𝔴𝔞𝔰 𝔯𝔞𝔴; 𝔞𝔫𝔡 𝔱𝔥𝔞𝔱 𝔡𝔞𝔯𝔨𝔫𝔢𝔰𝔰 𝔴𝔞𝔰 𝔥𝔦𝔰 𝔩𝔬𝔠𝔞𝔱𝔦𝔬𝔫; 𝔱𝔥𝔢𝔯𝔢 𝔞𝔯𝔢 𝔰𝔬𝔪𝔢 𝔴𝔥𝔬 𝔠𝔞𝔩𝔩 𝔦𝔱 '𝔈𝔫𝔡𝔩𝔢𝔰𝔰 𝔇𝔞𝔯𝔨𝔫𝔢𝔰𝔰'...
…𝔱𝔥𝔢𝔫, 𝔞𝔯𝔦𝔰𝔦𝔫𝔤 𝔣𝔯𝔬𝔪 𝔱𝔥𝔞𝔱 𝔞𝔟𝔶𝔰𝔰, 𝔥𝔢 𝔠𝔞𝔪𝔢 𝔱𝔬 𝔱𝔥𝔢 𝔭𝔯𝔢𝔠𝔦𝔫𝔠𝔱 𝔬𝔣 𝔱𝔥𝔢 𝔩𝔲𝔪𝔦𝔫𝔬𝔲𝔰 𝔰𝔱𝔞𝔯𝔰…
In the beginning, there was nothing.
In that instantaneous, infinitesimally fleeting moment of his beginning, he feels nothing.
Followed by everything.
The top of his helm overheats, the effects of volumes of data and information flooding into his processor. His frame wretches — readouts of external stimuli, streaming in from sensory processors patched throughout his newly forged frame, flare and crash violently against the packets of a priori materializing in his mind. It's visceral somehow, the way his upper limbs motion up, as if the overload would subside with the action.
It does, in the end.
He feels the heat empt from red-hot circuits around his processor, the static beginning to diminish in his audio receptors. The improving condition does little to soothe his wariness, however — it's only when he thinks it, do his optics lift slowly.
His sight, emitted as azure light, splinters through something before him — that something, he realizes, is attached to his frame, controllable. Pulling them back, his crude, preliminary visual inspection describes them as a pair of appendages, quintupled and segmented cuboid protrusions linked to a rectangular base, all coated in a finish of metal gray.
The knowledge in his processor, meanwhile, informs them as servos.
His servos.
An expression etches on his faceplate, marveling at how they curl and bounce as he flexes his digits. His optics wander around his frame, every detail of his own anatomy seeping into his memory bank — how his upper limbs, and their lower counterparts, bend and stretch at his will; how streaks of magenta and light violet pattern themselves across his kibble, varying their textures from soft fur to cold plating; how his pedes, markedly different with sharp, protruding claws, twist and grasp on the surface.
The trembling underneath his pedes, in turn, shifts his attention briefly. The vibrations aren't strong enough to topple him, but the physical re-orientation likewise re-orientates his field of vision, laying bare around him but a fraction of Creation — to the sea of stars above and beyond, glinting gently against the dark celestial sphere of the Firmament. To jagged mountains that glacially cut them, growing and jutting across the horizon, their metallic surface reflecting the indigo hues of the night sky and the dim sheen of the distant sun. To the very terra firma of metal beneath him, manifest as steppes of concentric circles and geometric patterns expanding beyond his sight — he knows, however, that the ground is something far greater, that there is more than meets the eye.
It is as below, as above.
Even high up at the exterior, the faint thrum of the foundations feels resonant with reality, across the planet, throughout the Firmament, and in him — a deep and ancient music that reverberated through his very being, to his very spark.
A primeval music to whom he owed for underpinning his entire existence, both physically in that moment, and for his genesis before; his life, and his designation.
His name.
The thought spurs in his processor. He knows of its existence, but it feels distant, out of reach in his memory bank — the recall only returns the two characters:
A-III.
The recall gives him pause.
Is that who I am?
He's answered by a flutter.
He turns to the source, his optics eyeing the article, or rather, articles, a pace away from his pedes. Kicking them forward in slow, deliberate steps — an interesting sensation, he thinks of walking — a closer observation reveals the larger object a collection of flimsy material, bound to an ornate metal cover. Its smaller counterpart, meanwhile, appears as a thin, pointed rod; spanning past the length of his servo, and sporting a soft, rounded flared end.
His retrieval of the articles, he notices, evokes a peculiar reaction — not only does the glow at the rod's pointed end coincide with that of the lines of repeating symbols within the pages and covers of the tome; the following words also materialize ex nihilo in his processor — "Covenant", and "Quill". However conjectural it seemed; he knows them with certainty to be the names of the articles in his possession.
Perusing from one end of the tome, the effort threatens to reheat his circuits, the multitudinous symbols incongruent to anything in his memory bank — the one instance where the maddening a priori would prove far more useful than the a posteriori from his first moments of his existence, and it proves naught. Empting his vents, his scours through the artifact take a slower, more deliberate skim; he observes that a few pages seem to be legible for his comprehension — there's one passage that attracts his attention:
"…𝔱𝔥𝔢𝔫, 𝔞𝔯𝔦𝔰𝔦𝔫𝔤 𝔣𝔯𝔬𝔪 𝔱𝔥𝔞𝔱 𝔞𝔟𝔶𝔰𝔰, 𝔥𝔢 𝔠𝔞𝔪𝔢 𝔱𝔬 𝔱𝔥𝔢 𝔭𝔯𝔢𝔠𝔦𝔫𝔠𝔱 𝔬𝔣 𝔱𝔥𝔢 𝔩𝔲𝔪𝔦𝔫𝔬𝔲𝔰 𝔰𝔱𝔞𝔯𝔰. 𝔚𝔥𝔢𝔫 𝔥𝔢 𝔰𝔞𝔴 𝔱𝔥𝔢 𝔉𝔦𝔯𝔰𝔱, 𝔱𝔥𝔞𝔱 𝔏𝔦𝔤𝔥𝔱, 𝔞𝔫𝔡 𝔱𝔥𝔢 𝔲𝔫𝔰𝔢𝔦𝔷𝔞𝔟𝔩𝔢 𝔏𝔲𝔰𝔱𝔯𝔢, 𝔥𝔢 𝔪𝔞𝔡𝔢 𝔞𝔫 𝔞𝔱𝔱𝔞𝔠𝔨 𝔣𝔬𝔯 𝔡𝔢𝔰𝔱𝔯𝔲𝔠𝔱𝔦𝔬𝔫, 𝔬𝔫 𝔞𝔠𝔠𝔬𝔲𝔫𝔱 𝔬𝔣 𝔥𝔦𝔰 𝔡𝔢𝔰𝔱𝔯𝔲𝔠𝔱𝔦𝔳𝔢 𝔡𝔢𝔰𝔦𝔯𝔢 𝔞𝔫𝔡 𝔪𝔞𝔩𝔦𝔠𝔦𝔬𝔲𝔰 𝔫𝔞𝔱𝔲𝔯𝔢. ℌ𝔢 𝔱𝔥𝔢𝔫 𝔰𝔞𝔴 𝔳𝔞𝔩𝔬𝔯 𝔞𝔫𝔡 𝔣𝔬𝔯𝔱𝔦𝔱𝔲𝔡𝔢, 𝔴𝔥𝔦𝔠𝔥 𝔴𝔢𝔯𝔢 𝔤𝔯𝔢𝔞𝔱𝔢𝔯 𝔱𝔥𝔞𝔫 𝔥𝔦𝔰 𝔬𝔴𝔫, 𝔯𝔢𝔱𝔲𝔯𝔫𝔢𝔡 𝔱𝔬 𝔡𝔞𝔯𝔨𝔫𝔢𝔰𝔰, 𝔞𝔫𝔡 𝔪𝔦𝔰𝔠𝔯𝔢𝔞𝔱𝔢𝔡 𝔪𝔞𝔫𝔶 𝔡𝔢𝔰𝔱𝔯𝔬𝔶𝔢𝔯𝔰 𝔬𝔣 𝔠𝔯𝔢𝔞𝔱𝔲𝔯𝔢𝔰, 𝔞𝔫𝔡 𝔯𝔬𝔰𝔢 𝔣𝔬𝔯 𝔟𝔞𝔱𝔱𝔩𝔢 — 𝔞𝔫𝔡 𝔤𝔯𝔢𝔞𝔱 𝔅𝔞𝔱𝔱𝔩𝔢 𝔴𝔞𝔰 𝔪𝔞𝔡𝔢 𝔦𝔫 ℌ𝔢𝔞𝔳𝔢𝔫…"
The artifacts drop as his servo immediately springs up again, grasping at his helm — it's a visceral reaction, a feeling of discomfort, one which only festers with each passing quantum of time, but unidentical to his experience. He simply knows it as different, a pain unlike his genesis, unlike the explosive forging that sang of warmth and light — it cast an oppressive weight, scraping just at the edge of his consciousness, threatening to contract his very being, to revert it into the non-existence it so craved.
It feels surreal, how it easily tempts a surrender of his own life and will.
And then it recedes.
A small thought instantly flutters in his spark, one that flows relief through his frame. He knows he missed it, if only just — the dread radiation of a hateful stare, awash in dark, uncleft particles of discord and anti-life. His optics instead travel to the sky, then arcing down to a distant spot on the ground — the end of the radiation he's projected.
His spark nearly stills — something rises from the spot; a being, dressed in all manner of sharp, curved spines. The distance makes it out as a monstrously enormous figure as its image grows, its spindly stature only sparking a sense of uncanniness to the creature. He can notice its attempt to travel upright, revealing an asymmetry to his anterior limbs — his right sports digits longer and sharper than his own, while his left seems purposed for grabbing and latching onto objects — or beings.
Most striking, however, is the returning feeling the creature seems as bright violet pinpricks pinpointed on him, as if boring into his spark — a shadow of despair, antiphase and antithetical to Creation, a paradoxical perversion of its beauty.
A Scourge on existence.
…𝔗𝔥𝔢 𝔉𝔦𝔯𝔰𝔱 𝔨𝔫𝔢𝔴, 𝔱𝔥𝔯𝔬𝔲𝔤𝔥 𝔬𝔪𝔫𝔦𝔰𝔠𝔦𝔢𝔫𝔠𝔢: "𝔗𝔥𝔢 𝔈𝔳𝔦𝔩 𝔖𝔭𝔦𝔯𝔦𝔱 𝔢𝔵𝔦𝔰𝔱𝔰, 𝔴𝔥𝔬 𝔴𝔦𝔩𝔩 𝔡𝔢𝔣𝔢𝔞𝔱 𝔞𝔫𝔡 𝔰𝔢𝔦𝔷𝔢, 𝔞𝔫𝔡 𝔢𝔳𝔢𝔫 𝔦𝔫𝔱𝔢𝔯𝔪𝔦𝔫𝔤𝔩𝔢, 𝔴𝔦𝔱𝔥 𝔢𝔫𝔳𝔦𝔬𝔲𝔰 𝔡𝔢𝔰𝔦𝔯𝔢, 𝔱𝔥𝔢 𝔢𝔪𝔦𝔫𝔢𝔫𝔱 𝔰𝔲𝔭𝔭𝔬𝔯𝔱𝔢𝔯𝔰, 𝔴𝔦𝔱𝔥 𝔰𝔢𝔳𝔢𝔯𝔞𝔩 𝔢𝔪𝔦𝔫𝔢𝔫𝔱 𝔞𝔤𝔢𝔫𝔱𝔰, 𝔱𝔬 𝔱𝔥𝔢 𝔢𝔫𝔡;...
His frame tensed as it broke into a sprint.
Newborn instincts screamed at him to run — the stronger fear seemed to approximate a lockdown of his motor functions, rooting him to the spot.
The gigantic weight of the creature neared closer…
There was a flicker to the periphery of his vision.
Which flitted as the creature is flung to their side.
"...ℌ𝔢 𝔠𝔯𝔢𝔞𝔱𝔢𝔡, 𝔰𝔭𝔦𝔯𝔦𝔱𝔲𝔞𝔩𝔩𝔶, 𝔱𝔥𝔬𝔰𝔢 𝔠𝔯𝔢𝔞𝔱𝔲𝔯𝔢𝔰 𝔴𝔥𝔦𝔠𝔥 𝔴𝔢𝔯𝔢 𝔯𝔢𝔮𝔲𝔦𝔰𝔦𝔱𝔢 𝔞𝔰 𝔱𝔥𝔬𝔰𝔢 𝔞𝔤𝔢𝔫𝔱𝔰…"
"Are you alright?"
He turned to that gentle voice, his wonder almost outweighed by the blinding of his appearance — another being of sentio metallico like himself. He stood tall as he gleamed in a sheen of silver and gold, smiling with the same cool blue-white aura as that which surrounded, permeated, bound their existence. His companion seemed more bizarre and distinct, a cross look adorning his faceplate, as if more bothered by the creature than the bronze accents of his frame, the concavity of his spark chamber — or the fact he seemed his image, his being, blinked and phased in and out of existence periodically, irregularly.
And then the names come unbidden in his processor.
Dyaus.
V.
Aλφα-III.
"Conversation can be set another time, no?" He barely registered the gruff voice belonging to the other — let alone how it still seemed coherent — before a roar permeated the aether, accompanied by the stomping of the returning creature. Wordlessly, he mimicked the stances of those beside him, arms raised, as the creature swept in…