The island floated without a clear direction. Overhead, the sky remained starless and dark. There was no such thing as a day, but there could be. And that possibility lingered in the Keeper's chest. She stood upon the edge of the island. "He is near," she whispered. She feared him, as she was unsure if his power could erase her as well. And yet today, she called to him. "Why?" she murmured. "Why do I reach for him?"
Across the clearing, beneath the branches of a tree she did not remember creating, stood the Severant, cloaked in silence. "I did not call you," she said, not turning to face him. "Did you not?" he questioned. She turned slowly, meeting his hollow slit of flame.
"I had dreamed of a sun," she said. "Not one of heat. But one of sight. I had wished to see you." He took a step forward. "And so, you summoned me," he responded sternly. "No," she said quietly. "I summoned a question." He tilted his head. "And what is your question?" She looked to the sky. "Why are we alone?"
The Severant watched her from a distance. He was debating the answer himself. "Maybe we are just the first to arrive." He finally responded. "Where are the others I remember?" she questioned. "You remember others?" he asked. "My memories fall apart as they form."
A breeze passed between them. "I remember a kingdom; there were many others, but I cannot remember more," she responded. She looked to the Severant, "Why do you keep such a distance?" She finally asked. "Because I destroy," he said. The Keeper tilted her head. "Is that all you are, A destroyer?" He hesitated. "It's all that remains of what I was."
The Keeper stepped down from the rise, "I created a sun once," she said quietly. "It shone for less than a breath before vanishing." He said nothing. She looked at him. "Was that you?" After a long moment of silence, "It was not my goal," he said slowly. "I… did not know light could come from you." "I did not know you would take it." She responded.
They stood in silence, neither accusing nor apologizing. The Severant looked down at his own hands. "I end things. Not by will, but by nature." "That sounds like a curse," she said softly. "It was once called judgment." "Who gave it to you?" "I do not remember." His flame-slit eyes flickered. "I only remember the silence that followed."
The Keeper closed her eyes. She could feel that the void was meant to hold more. "I don't want you to destroy what I make," she said. "I don't want to destroy everything either," he replied. It was the closest thing to a confession either of them had spoken.
The Keeper looked to him. "You fear what you are," she said softly. "But you are not fear itself." The Severant did not answer at first. But then, slowly, he turned. "I fear what I might undo." She stepped closer. "Maybe you don't need power," she whispered, "but control."
He raised his head slightly, intrigued. "Control?" he asked. "The control to choose," she said. "To will. You were forged for judgment, but that is not the same as desire. Do you want to destroy this place?" "No," he said. "And yet," she continued, "your very presence unravels what I build."
She stepped closer, and he did not pull away. "What if… I gave you something?" He turned to her, still and unreadable. "What?" he questioned. "Something to help you choose," she said. "A crown, not one of power or rule, but something that lets you control what you destroy."
He was silent for a long while. "I do not understand." He finally said. "You judge," she replied. "But judgment without choice is only execution. You said yourself you don't intend. This crown would give you the ability to hold your destruction back, or wield it when you decide."
The Severant's posture shifted. "A crown that gives restraint?" he asked, his voice almost amused. "Is that creation or rebellion?" "Maybe both," she said with a quiet smile. "Maybe you deserve both." He took a step forward. "Then show me. Create it."
The Keeper raised her hands, and between them, light gathered. A shadow of form began to lift. It twisted, elegant, and thorned, forged from obsidian and shadow. Veins of gold laced through it like memory trying to survive decay. A crown.
As she sculpted it, she told the Severant, "This crown is not a seal. It does not bind you. It will not command you. It merely gives you control over your power." The Severant stepped forward. "And what if I destroy it, too?" "Then I'll make another," she said. "And another. Until you learn not to break what wants to stay." He reached for it, but he hesitated. "Will it hurt?" he asked. She blinked slowly. "Only if having a choice brings you pain."
He took it from her hands. He placed the crown upon his brow, and his flame eyes flickered. "I feel it," he said. "The balance." "Do you hate it?" she asked. He considered. "No. But it feels like hope. And hope is dangerous."
Then, she smiled at the space between them. And she said, almost to herself, "Perhaps even destruction may wear hope." The Keeper thought long before saying, "I have one last creation to offer. One I dared not before." He nodded once. "Then let it be so."
The Keeper raised her eyes to the horizon. She stepped away from the cliff's edge, raised her arms, and whispered, "Bring light back to this void." The air shimmered. Then light bloomed. And when the second sun ignited over the horizon, the Severant did not destroy it. He watched it.
His hand twitched, muscle memory from ages of unmaking. But the crown pulsed, and he paused. He looked up, face lit for the first time in ages. "What is this light?" he asked. "It is not for me," she said softly. "It is for us. So that we may see each other more clearly." The sun hung above, casting its tender gaze across the lone island
The Keeper sat at the foot of a tree. For the first time in her existence, she believed something might grow here. She turned her gaze skyward. The second sun burned gently, and he hadn't destroyed it. She whispered to herself, almost afraid to speak it aloud: "He chose not to." And that was everything.
Not far, but not near, the Severant sat upon a place where things should not grow. Yet now there was the sight of green. The crown rested on his brow. He stared into the light she'd made. He watched the warmth reach across the island's edge. "Keeper," he muttered aloud, her name tasting strange on his tongue. "You are not the enemy."
Meanwhile, the Temple stirred. Its doors remained shut, but the air around it thickened. The second sun reflected dimly in the obsidian veins of its surface. The Severant turned to look at it, his senses sharpening. The Keeper felt the change as well. She stood from the tree; her eyes fixed on the Temple.
The doors throbbed once with a deep bass pulse. The Severant appeared beside her before she realized he'd moved. "Is it alive?" he asked. "It seems so," she whispered. "What did we awaken?" he asked. "I don't know," she admitted. "But we will face it together." The second sun dimmed slightly.
Behind the doors of the Temple, something ancient stirred. Cracks formed along the edge of the Temple's great gate. The gate was opening. The Severant took a step back. The Keeper did not move. "What if it is a judgment?" he asked. She turned her face toward him, her voice steady. "Then let it judge us both."