Blackness. Darkness. They were all that could ever be known. Nothing could exist in the absence of light, and so, nothing ever did exist. A void of blackness, so deep and desolate that the absence could be thought of as a mere formality of the place. Nothing could exist without the void, and without this blank canvas, the first things to exist would never have had a place to call their own.
In the middle of absolute nonexistence, how could something call this place its own? Preposterous is the idea that anything could have existed; idiotic is the notion of beings having a shape to look upon. One would be correct in one of the two assertions presented forth. Existence had no shape to gaze upon, but live these beings did. There they lived in a perfect, unchanging synchronicity. Nothingness bound something that had the power to give its jailer a new toy to play with.
"Dearest Father," a voice sweeter than honey, more delicate than silk, and a splendor to all ears that could have yet heard it said to another, "Greatest are you that work tirelessly for the sake of us all, but to you if I may, Our brother asks when all will be set right and anew?"
Sounding labored and distressed, the Father replied, "Restless still is he always? It would do him well to see the labor we are undergoing for him."
"You undertake these trials for him and for me. To forge something that he'll see as good—something he can look upon with happiness, free from any scorn," The first reaffirmed.
"Still, if that is so, why can he not understand that time is required? We know not who we are ourselves, no concept of our names. You call me 'father' yet truly I know not of what significance the word even means, only that you and he call me it."
"For you were one Primordial, the one even before us," The first voice responded. "You told us what we are, you named us—I, the Spirit, and the other, the Son."
"Does it not matter to you what we truly are supposed to be?" The Father responded, "I only called you such because of my own preconceived knowledge, and even that, I know not where it came from."
"No, Dear Father. What matters to me is the happiness of what we have here, and what we are to have after."
The bantering would shake the void constantly. The nihilism in the place seemed to stir with every answer. The Spirit left the Father to his dealings, searching within the blackness for whom they called the Son. This being had long been far away from the others, enamored with the unending void around them.
Or so the Spirit was led to believe.
Even from their conception, knowing not a date, time, nor place of such a thing, the Spirit had long noticed the Son's curiosity and fixation on something more. Over and over, the Son claimed their existence was meant for something greater, like that of a purpose left fulfilled. He knew not what it was, but to the Spirit, he could tell there was a pungent sense of wanting—a desire—coming from the Son.
By the time he had come to find the other of the three, he grew weary in what sense he could. He called out to the Son and received an answer from the void in turn.
"What do you want from me, Spirit? I have nothing to speak of until our Father does what he has intended to do," the third and final voice spoke, tender, masculine, youth-like with an older affinity to the voice. Hints of childish annoyance seeped into his cadence.
"He is hard at work, brother; he is nearing it, but he grows weary," The Spirit relayed.
With a faint chuckle, The Son responded. "When he does, he will have us to aid him. Until then, my dissatisfaction with this place, these…shackles placed upon us by some force beyond even ourselves will not compel me to have a semblance of peace."
"Rest assured, after he learns what he must, you will have more than peace." The Spirit assured him, the void swaying as if it tried to manifest currents meant to cloak the two beings in a form of embrace, "You will finally be able to have whatever you yearn for. And I'll be there with you—we will help you in any way you wish."
The Son and Spirit shared a few words after, with the Spirit leaving him to the devices of the world he was envisioning. The Son left the Spirit with only a few last words before their world would change forever. His voice evoked a boisterous laugh that made the black void around them rattle in accordance with the first hints of arrogance before existence's shape.
"When we become what we are meant to truly be," The Son said, with a wave of contentment and a twinge of happiness within his voice, "I—no, We—will create something that we can truly enjoy to the fullest. This place we call our holding cage will become our playground."
A thin crack of light tore through the darkness as he spoke, trembling like a heartbeat waiting to be born.
And in that moment, the void learned its first truth—that the greatest gods were always born dreaming of the worlds they would one day break.