Chapter Text
It wasn’t dark.
It isn’t dark.
It can’t be dark, because there’s nothing.
It can’t be dark, because I’m nothing.
Who...am I…? The words (are they words?) keep ringing, twisting, screaming. Nothing but noise. Nothing but silence. An endless stream of consciousness without anything to think about. No eyes to see, no hands to feel, no mouth to scream.
And it screamed anyway.
And it felt anyway.
And it saw everything.
And it was blind and deaf and mute and dead.
...Maybe not dead. Not completely. Almost. Almost dead, by any other definition. Definitely not alive, no, but...dead adjacent.
It was miserable here. There. Then. Now. There was no way to measure time, if time existed at all, if time deserved to be measured. There was pain. Not physical—not anymore. But once. Now there were whispers of what was, what still had yet to be. Songs, chants, prayers.
The voices—the voices!—were garbled and moaned and ached desperately to be acknowledged and accepted and heard. It could offer nothing. It did offer nothing.
But it wanted to see.
It was not dark, it was not black, it had no eyes and ears and mouth, but it saw and it heard and it spoke.
...A worm. Some kind of—wiggling mass. It cried out, and it was seen. A rumble of thunder. What did rain feel like, again? Do I know?
“We are triumphant!” someone all but wailed. “Our Lord is amongst us! Praises be, hail to our savior!”
Thunder again, and the creature squirmed, sobs drying up. Two eyes, the color of honey. Wrong in some way, but beautiful nonetheless.
“My Lord, please,” the voice begged, “honor me with the sound of Your glory! Speak, O God!”
Lightning, from the outside. Moments later, a crack. Something struck. Unimportant. The little worm didn’t flinch, gaze fixed upon something far from its sight. Far above its caretaker’s head. On it.
On me.
< ...A VESSEL… >
< “Yes, YES!” > And the voice was ecstatic, crazed. < “My Lord, you awaken at last!” >
< ...A CHILD...HUMAN…? >
Not a worm. A baby. But close enough.
< “Yes, My Lord,” > the voice clarified, mania still evident in the tilt of the tone. < “Temporary, but crafted and suited just for You. After these long, long years…! The scriptures don’t recall the last time Your Voice reached our pitiful ears!” >
< ...YEARS...MOMENTS...IRRELEVANT. THE CHILD...A NAME…? >
< “You may give it, O God,” > the voice whispered, fading into the static. < “He is Your vessel, when You are ready, when he is strong.” >
The thunder fell quiet. The lightning scattered, running through the clouds every which way. So few people would know the freak storm was their savior’s rebirth. The first words of a dragon—no, a god—thought lost to time and the desert sands that left nothing but its half buried skeleton. A silent guardian, silent no more. Voiceless. But able to speak.
Exhaustion—ah, that was the word. The pain of just existing was coming full circle. Sleep. Rest. A new chance, tomorrow, to speak again.
< ...HE IS...ROBIN. >
A memory of a bird and a girl. A dream of something forgotten. The sensation of eyes, held open for too long, closing. A breath of relief.
A new beginning.