A droplet of crystal fluid drifted down the leaf. Catching it with her tongue, the striped bear forgot her station for a single second as sensation took her mind away. Theming smiled. Another success. Another delight of creation. The other gods would never taste the pleasure that his tiniest friends did every day. There was a faint whisper of a prayer in his ears, but he did not know whence it came. Too much to do. Which made it all the more distressing that the very next moment, the striped bear was gone. As were all its cubs, its cave, the tree it sat on, the liquid it tasted, and the leaf the liquid fell down from. Gone. But he was still there: Theming, most naive and now most distressed of all the gods. So he flapped the wings his current form allowed him to flap, and he set off, not quite realizing the gravity of the situation. For when he rose above the hill over which a lavish jungle had once spread itself, he saw that it wasn't just this hill, but every other hill, as far as the nearest star could illuminate. It was all gone. A dark, langurous blue now wrapped itself over the moon he had named Tenglina. For a moment, Theming surmised that his precious Life had simply upped and left for a moment- some new reaction borne of the billions of tiny coincidences he had a habit of generating. But Life was fully his. While it couldn't quite be grouped under the banner of 'design', it sure emanated from him. Maybe it was his loneliness at first, or even boredom, worst of all afflictions the Gods suffer from. In any case, he knew it in his heart of hearts: this was not what Life was meant to do. A violet raven swept by and fled to a distant moon, which, within minutes, also turned entirely blue. And that was how Life was ripped from Tenglina, Theming's favorite. The ashes of legions of leaves swam through the bones of its forests and nestled deep into the soil. Skeletons of many a species Theming had blissfully smiled upon adorned the jungles with their solemn contorted shapes. A chiming sound rang faintly in the sky before the sound of finality, the silence of airless moons, a stunted whisper in the wind, stilled all upon Tenglina. And still, Theming did not listen to the silence around him. His newfound senses turned inward, overwhelmed, and deep in his heart, for the first time in his infinity of existence, he saw a black shape staring back. It smiled at his horror, and nestled deep into his bones. And as the blood of Theming started blackening and reeling from the poison, his soul begat a hole of knowledge so dark that the question of Why it all happened was etched into the very marrow of his current form. There was a figure down below. A figure he had not made. As Theming slunk down upon the dark blue ashes feeling as if a thousand stars had crushed him, he shifted his beak and assumed the form of the striped bear he now missed so very much. Theming walked up to the shining blue figure, numb to his nerves, and he saw the inevitable. The figure had no face, no trace of any features, no expression, and no gaze- just a humongous gaping hole in its head. The stars in the icy sky of Tenglina shone right through it. And that, cold as the Edge, was the moment the God of Life shivered and trembled, for he knew not what stood before him. Theming settled on two paws, peered, and wondered. Then he spoke. "Are you responsible?", he asked weakly. The figure adjusted its posture towards Theming, and the God noticed that a subtle heat-like starlit hue shifted around the figure as it did so. No response. "Is there any way you might explain why my creations have been ripped off my moon?", he inferred, quite insistent this time. His sudden assertiveness subsided not long after. A thin, piercing, hollow sound flew at his starlit ears. The words were pronounced slowly, unevenly, yet extremely assured. "You are of the living, and you do not understand. It is the business of Syndar, and you should be in his care as of this moment. You are not. What is your business? How do you defy the Gods?" Theming had never been indignified before. "I am the Gods. And your Syndar, whichever he is, is my subject. I made him, and while I am puzzled at your careless tinkering with vanishing acts, I demand you to put my Creation back into its rightful place AT ONCE!" No response. "WHERE IS MY LIFE?", Theming howled at the figure. No response. It is hard to argue with something that is not your creation. Finally, the hollow moved. And it did something that, once again, seeped into the skin, crept inside the bones and chilled the bear-shaped God to the marrow. It picked up the skull of a bird, beheld it intently with its hollow face for all of two seconds, and threw it away. The carelessness was scandalous. Years of play, ages of affection, aeons of delight at granting eyes to the eyeless, having them stare back and fulfilling tiny little functions all around his favored forests. Ended. On top of the pile. But what came next was worse. The figure moved on, and every step it took seemed to turn the ash-stricken ground a little bit more blue, a little colder, a little bit more like ice-charred rock. Then it nimbly hopped, floated through the air, and glided behind the blackened stump of a tree. Plowing through the ashes, the bear that was howling but a moment ago shuddered. It had found one of Theming's still-breathing favorites. And so the hollow, piercing voice surrounded the deafened ears of a dumbstruck God once more. "You have Spirit, but you won't. Be polished." And the six-armed badger, his fur no longer glowing fluorescent hues, scattered in the wind. It was unbearable. Trauma chimed around him like a crystal cave in an earthquake. And Theming sank into a deep and restless slumber as Tenglina was sorted, accounted for and catalogued by Little Blue Men that cared not for the demands of a God.

"The future is not what it used to be", Theming thought to himself as he woke up and beheld the sea of gold beyond him. Nor was he. Like the sand, he had once again taken on a new shape without changing at all. He called it camel, because when he removed the middle syllable of a certain type of sustenance he once made, it sounded just like he looked. "What a bizarre idea", he thought to himself. But then, wasn't it all? So he did the best he could, which was to simply put one wobbly leg in front of the other. Hills, hills, hills, hills, hills, more hills, another one there, another one here, and what did this world have to offer? Ah, yes: more hills. It took him quite some time to gauge his surroundings properly, and very little to lose proper sight of direction. "Oh well. Direction is not for me", he thought, quite satisfied with the sudden realization. Best not to think about it, because that is not how one shapes feathers, or wings, or flight, or even the polar bear that he granted them to in the end. Maybe he shouldn't dwell on that whole string of events either, because, well, thinking about it is what got him to suffer in the first place. Or maybe it was the other way around? He'd never quite solved the puzzle of all that. Chiefly because he didn't quite wish to know what it was that he wished. Nor did his subjects. Right? As long as they made him smile, existence proved to be exactly the fleeting sleep the Gods were meant to dream in. Smiles would suffice. Yes. How long had he been out on this long haul through the seas of sand? Well, who can rightly say? Gods can last quite a long time when they wish to. And thus they sometimes forget even themselves. Suddenly, a glint caught the camel's eye. Sand should not outshine itself. No... because there, past shimmering heat, past searing electric blue skies, past peach-coloured mornings and nights doused in violet starlight, past the bones of discarded creatures he once delighted in creating, smack dab in the middle of a desert shifting and unchanging as the stars, was a little house. A little house with a tiny piece of bone on top of it. A miniscule type of bone, with teeth, and eye sockets, but no eyes. Right on top of a clay house, one such as men made out of the earth. It was, to say the least, all a little bit strange. But Theming, by this point, figured that he and his camel eyes had seen everything there was to see, and that he was not just at his wits' but even his very own end. And so, as best as a camel could shrug, he did. And then he walked right up to the front door, with his wobbly legs and his banana-shaped camel neck. The detachment of the recently traumatized often proves no match for the bizarre. There, upon a piece of wood sticking out of the building, sat two more of the skeletons Theming had been trying this entire eternity to avoid. They were wearing robes that covered some of their rib cages, obscuring one clavicle, and part of their former legs. They didn't seem to notice this camel with its dry sacky mouth, gnashing teeth intently like sixteen pairs of mating boulders. These eyeless former Men didn't even see the eyes of the camel, bulging out of their sockets from sheer stupefied shock. These things were right in the middle of heated discussion. Discussion! The one on the left, with the bones of his left feet resting on the wooden stump he sat on, and his back bent against the wall in an angle as if ravished by a lavish meal, seemed to be waving the other one away. It was difficult to tell, but he would surely have raised his eyebrows indifferently if he'd still had them. The other, holding a stone tablet full of tiny indents neatly arranged in rows and columns, was bending ever forward, as if he was about to climb his conversational partner. The bones of his other former hand were opening and closing so as to punctuate every verbal point as intently as he could. And the camel once again heard words spoken by those he had not made. This time, they sounded faintly like hollow blocks of dried wood through which sand was being blown. But the words were animated! Musical! Precisely in the manner in which Theming had once created the first of the things he called Life. "Clearly the Beginning of thy argument spells out the End! Thou speaketh nothing but tautologies, Brother!", urged the one on the right. "Bah, then the Universe is naught but Tautology. Reductio ad absurdum, Mexar." "But 'tis sure that the Skeleton Skinbeater didst not intend to do aught but beat the Drums as he sees fit, Shamuin!" "Aye, 'tis true, Brother. Alas, no Tide doth ever be allowed to advance Unchecked. Yogung is the Tide, ergo, Time has a Beginning and End." "But what of Basheesh? Is it Time, or its Idea that propels the worlds?" "Tis naught but needless complication, Brother! Yogung drummeth and the worlds didst shape! Thou speaketh of movement yet dost not see the Idea made Manifest!" At which point the camel's woolly ears perked up. Creation? Theming did his best to interject. "Excuse me!" As usual, no response. The robed skeleton on the right had, in fact, only just begun. He stood up, and waved the stone tablet through the air. "The Idea made MANIFEST! HA! SURELY that be what these 'manifest' ABOMINATIONS now crawling all over the multiple 'MANIFEST' worlds represent!" "There is no reason to get thy bones in a knot again, Mexar. Clearly, those lesser forms of Gods simply form another iteration of the Ideas of Yogung. Wherefore? None knoweth. Why vex thyself over the wherefore? Best to stick to the how." Brother Mexar buried his right bony fist in his side and replied sarcastically. "Oh, yes, that be the reason Yogung and Basheesh didst stilt all Movement of Worlds on the Right Side of Time for ten instants after their recent Conclave. And that must be why Basheesh fashioned the Six Black Strings and bequeathed them to some ill-fated Manfool in some Gods-forsaken HUT on the LEFT SIDE of TIME, because The LEFT, CLEARLY, had nothing better to do but be REVELLING in the GLORY of YOGUNG'S NEWEST FANCY!" The jawbone of the robed Brother Shamuin was now lowered down to his sternum. Then he spoke, in a low, deep, sandy voice. "Tis heresy, Brother. Yogung spake, and Basheesh agreed. Thou knowest this as well as any of us." This seemed to calm Brother Mexar, and he sat down again. "Aye. Agreed. But this does not solve the conundrum of Yogung's intent- nor that of Basheesh." "Tis quite clear that the problems of the Third had to be solved by the ingenuity of the First Two." "Ha! Then thou hast corrected thyself! Clearly Yogung didst not intend for the Ideas to multiply infinitely, ergo, not All is Yogung's Idea made Manifest." Shamuin sighed, the sound of which was unlike anything ever heard by Theming's ears. "Mexar- 'tis pointless. Thou knoweth as well as I that the Third didst not come from the Mist as Yogung's manifest Idea. This dost prove nothing but thy misguided over-reverence for our Lord." "EXCUSE ME! I AM THE THIRD!" So ended the excess existential thoughts of two Brothers in the middle of the Sands of Nowhere, which the Monks of Yogung call Sidareptana. Shamuin and Mexar looked up at the camel whose eyes had now worked themselves up to nothing but bulging veins, ready to explode. "Oh, wonderful. Now the Manifest Nonsense is here. It's even got a respiratory system." "Well, clearly that is how Theming hast, ahum, 'designed' these things. Quite ingenious. This one stores viscous substances on its back." "I AM Theming!", cried the camel. And that is how Theming first heard the sound of skeletons nearly laughing their bones off.

The laughter of the bonemen turned out to be a first for him and a last for them, because Theming, camel or not, had had enough. He left his skin on the sands of Sidareptana and took on a more comfortable shape. Towering above the endless sands now stood a colossus made out of solid stars and drifting nebulae, its star-hooded head reaching far above the skies. Four arms stretched out across obscured horizons, and with a flick of the wrists surely only meant to impress those who'd think he'd need the motion, suddenly, there stood seven herds of seething striped cats. Tigers made of sand, with razor crystals for paws, ready to pounce the diminished bonemen who had been discussing the universe so intently just seconds before. Like all those who find themselves in such a quandary, the bones prostrated themselves and kowtowed as best they could. Their voices wheezed now, their hollow bones doing their best to at least approach a simile of loudness. "Lord! Forgive us! Thy immensity, thy beauty, 'tis only matched in size by our unfathomable ignorance! Surely our bones deserve to be taken apart, but we are naught but Yogung's servants, hidden in the sands of a world never meant to be found by the living OR the infinite!" To which Mexar quickly added, "All we do is speak loftily and contemplate the Ideas!" And Shamuin cried out once more: "... AND RECORD THEM! 'Tis all we do! Apart from sweeping the sand from the bellfry now and again!" For a short while, Theming tasted delight in gracing those he had not made with the indignity he had been subjected to time and time again. The silence fit his stature. It was a ruse, but a satisfying one. One he didn't intend to keep up for long. For Theming, such as he was, not just pitied them, but felt their anguish. It is a strange thing for Gods to empathize with their creations, but Theming had seen Death for the first time just a tiny shred of an aeon ago and was by now quite taken by the begging bones in the sands before him. And so he waved the sandy herds away. "I feel for you, bare ones. Now tell me, wherefore do bones contemplate the Ideas? Is Yogung not able to do it himself?" A short silence followed, because Shamuin did not possess the presence of mind necessary to dignify such a strange question with an answer. Mexar, however, was up to the task. "Yogung tasked us with the Ideas about eleven cycles ago because he does not intend to remember them all himself! The Lord has more pressing matters to attend to, such as the balance of starlight, the aesthetics of reason, the wherefore of his presence and other matters we shall never understand! But surely, you knew all this already. How could you not?" Shamuin beheld his subordinate partner petrified, aghast, and thankful. There towered the voice again, vibrating through the bones of the world it enfolded. "I never forget my creations. Why would He?" Shamuin mustered the courage this time. "Of course, Lord, he possesses the memory, 'tis more the will with which he be concerned. That is to say, the Skeleton Skinbeater does not sustain the sound of his blows, 'tis the patterns that he weaves. They stand still like memories, but need to be forgotten to change." Another earthquake of celestial vocal chords. "It is not easy to lose a God in your argument, but you seem to have wrought it, Shamuin." To which Mexar responded that the unclarity which Theming so expertly pointed out was the result of a long-held debate on whether Yogung and Basheesh were the lords of Ideas and Time, Matter and Movement, or merely the effectuators of Stasis and Change. "Who knows? We are here to carry out the Debate, not settle it. Lord, Shamuin's response took us five cycles to even attain a semblance of." By now, the bonemen had finally settled on comfortable ground with the titanic celestial shape in front of them. Shamuin felt a miniscule pang of pride, one which would have ended the ambitions of lesser members of his order. He stood up and spoke. Mexar's jaw nearly fell out of his skull cavities. "Lord, forgive me for asking, but isn't it perfectly clear that Yogung lays plans, even those of your Creations? It is written on the very tablet Mexar held before you graced us with your true form. Yogung Spake, and Basheesh agreed! There is nothing between the Worlds, in the void, or beyond the rim that does not take shape without their union!" Theming was far from incensed. In fact, he was amused. He had found his niche, drawn by the verbal prostrations of bonemen. "There is much that takes shape without the need for all those lofty contradictions. I deemed it necessary for others to beheld as the Gods do. And thus, they did. Life is made of affection and carried out by impulse. It is gratifying to see others behold, and sheer pleasure to tinker with their grateful husks." Shamuin and Mexar, both risen, stood agape. Mexar clutched his tablet. The sacred form of speech had left him. "It was you. But.. why?" "Because I like tinkering on beings that behold like I do, and to grant them life is to make me smile. I am here because one of the Ideas took my Smile away, and I am very, very displeased." To which Shamuin and Mexar exchanged the tiniest of empty-socketed glances. Theming noticed. All of a sudden, a marble-skinned Man stood in front of them and spoke with the voice he just employed from fathoms above. "Debaters, you must have discussed the ceasing of my Life. Was it an Idea of Yogung? A Change of Basheesh? Or did some horror occupy my favorite moon and turn my Life to dust because of their ceaseless tinkering with Time and Matter?" There is no debating a God. "I-it's best for us to show you, my Lord." And they pointed inside, into the dimly lit darkness of their clay abode. Theming noticed a faint chiming sound inside. They led their terrifying but hopefully temporary master past a small hallway into the nave of the building. Shamuin explained that the light was not necessary to carve tablets, but that the bonemen bound themselves to an unending rhythm of the day; tiny rituals in tiny alcoves were carried out ceaselessly by other robed skeleton men. When the nearest star went below the distant dunes, their positions changed and new tablets would be laid by those who had finished their daily observance. Theming was impressed. His Life never bound itself to rhythms. He granted it as much freedom as its locale would permit, which pleased him, but this was something else. Yogung seemed to enforce iron regularity upon his subjects as much as he made them enjoy the ceaseless contemplation of the void's vagaries. Quite a trick. They entered a large hall with a starlit ceiling. At the end of a row of crude stone skeleton seats stood a small pillar with an orb on top of it. It seemed to apprehend them somehow, watching them. Beyond its black exterior, inside the shadows, subdued colours shifted almost imperceptibly. Shamuin had by now reverted to his posturing, for he was at home. "My Lord, this is our archive of Starlight and the Worlds. Peer into it, and thou shalt behold the Ideas about which we have debated these past few aeons." Theming did as he asked. The first thing that happened perplexed the Lord of Life. Theming left his marble form without choosing to do so. All around him, even inside of him, gleamed spectral starlit hues. Amber, turqouise, violet, magenta and deep, deep black surrounded him. Through these, unending worlds seemed to pass at speeds unseen even by his very own celestial eyes, which had beheld worlds and starlight for longer than almost any other part of the existing cosmos. He instinctively felt the need to pull his head out of the orb, but he couldn't. Not without shattering the entire apparatus, and he contemplated it for a moment but decided not to anger Yogung's subjects just yet. So he drifted. Faster and faster he went, through the hues, past the worlds, passing under them in great ellipses, drifting through the endless void, then nearly crashing upon a succession of umber spheres until he finally reached a small maroon-ringed indigo globe. On that globe stood a hut, in which lived a tiny, ugly man with a walking stick. A walking stick? No: a digging device. The Man was digging. He opened a hole in the indigo dirt into which he could nearly fit, peered into it for a moment, then sighed. Theming looked around, and saw an entire field full of holes in the dark blue dirt. He looked up, and saw an unsettling crimson colour permeate the cloudless skies. Why was he seeing this? He couldn't know, so he followed the man, who seemed not to notice him. Theming took a closer look at the man, and felt a great melancholy. The man was wreathed in loneliness. When was he created? Theming couldn't remember. The man went into his hut, and fell down on his knees. The bottom of the hut seemed to be shaped very precisely, so as to accommodate the man's legs, hands and face as he bowed down so low his forehead touched the floor. The ground was worn, Theming realized. This was not the first time this man stooped in that spot. But why? Then a note of dischord graced his starlit ears. The man was pleading. Begging. For him. "Why dost thou not harken my pleas, Theming? Thy Life is unfinished.. I am unfinished.. thou hast left me on this godforsaken world to carry out duties forever unfulfilled .. I naught but suffer at thy cruel indifference..." He started sobbing. Theming had never before felt such infinite pity, such sad compassion for another being. He answered, but the man didn't hear. He tried to touch, but there was no hand to do it with. He tried to make the man dream, but there was no sleep to do it in. There was nothing. Just the man, sobbing on the floor. With a jerk, the marble figure yanked his head out of the orb. His voice thundered through his stone and clay surroundings. "What is the meaning of this?!" Shamuin and Mexar shuddered and held up their opened fleshless hands. "Lord, there is no way of knowing! We peer into the orb and behold the worlds, teeming with change. But we only see those Ideas Yogung needs us to see!" "Then why does Yogung deem it necessary for me to see such abject, destitute loneliness!" "My lord", Mexar whispered, "it is not Yogung. It is you who posed the query, and it is you who obtained the reply."

Finally, Theming understood. He had in fact forgotten one of his subjects. He left the bewildered bones in an instant, and before they could so much as look at each other, he stood upon the indigo world. It was now completely black. The man and his hut were gone. The holes were filled. Piles and piles of crystals stretched out as far as his divine eyes could see. Everything once living now stood petrified like oaks dipped into a volcano by some crafty giant long ago. And across it all laid a terrible, inescapable calm. It was just like Tenglina. Ashes, crystals and a blue so deep it was nearly black covered the gravedigger's globe like a mantle. Beneath him, far below Theming's starlit knees, a figure approached. It was not walking. It seemed to be floating on some invisible stream, gently flowing towards him like a summer's breeze. This world, like Tenglina, should not have to suffer such mocking tenderness, Theming thought. He was incensed. The fury of a guilty god eclipses all others. "WHERE IS THE DIGGER?!", came Theming's voice, thundering over the indigo planes. Entire piles of crystal toppled and shattered on the ground for miles around his titanic form. The figure did not reply. It just kept floating towards him, stoic as the void. The figure stopped, and looked up, sizing up a being about a thousand times its size. Yet again, Theming's starlit ears were graced by a thin, jagged yet hollow sound. Even the God of Life shuddered, for it brought back all the sensations he'd spent a thousand days walking on the sands just to bury. "You are of the Gods, and so you can only be the Lord of Life. Basheesh and Yogung would never address Syndar's servants with unnecessary volume." "SYNDAR?!" Down went another ten thousand piles of crystals. But this hollow-headed servant of a God Theming had never heard of did not move an inch. "Syndar. He is greedy, but fair. The Balance is sacred, and must be upheld." "WHAT IS THIS BALANCE YOU SPEAK OF?! THE VOID IS ENDLESS, EMPTY AND BEREFT! THE WORLDS ARE ALONE UNTIL I GAZE UPON THEM!" Not a twitch. "Life grows beyond its means, and the Black Strings obey. Crafty is the balance upheld by my liege. As the gems are cut, so they are polished by mortal grief." The figure spoke the words as if it had repeated them a billion times before. "IT IS MINE, AND FOR NO OTHER TO POLISH!", Theming roared. "Creation meets design as soon as it comes to be. It is out of thy hands. Yogung and Basheesh tried it once, but they were met by the same results as thee." "TRIED WHAT?!" "For stardust to behold as Gods do, without command. But it seems only servants can truly fulfil the desires of the Gods." This was news for Theming. The Gods rarely spoke, but surely Yogung and Basheesh must at least have noticed him doing something they failed at? Were they jealous? Did they laugh behind his back? Had they conspired against him? His anger turned to puzzlement. "I have spoken to Yogung's servants, and they have shown me a mistake that should never have been punished so dearly and callously as he has. Life's sadness is mine to govern." "Sadness is not business. Growth must meet change." Theming tired of these empty exhortations. "Where is Syndar?" For the first time, the figure didn't immediately reply. Nor did it stop looking up. After a few seconds, it spoke. "Syndar would bring you naught but distress. It is bad for business to have Gods quarreling in the void. I am aware that you could sunder me where I stand, but it is better for you to speak to the designer of our tools." Theming grew impatient. "Show me the designer, then!" "None can summon the Gods. You must walk the mountaintops of Otazun." And so Theming was sent away on his pilgrimage of sadness for the very last time. _________________________________________________________________________________ Contrary to what the sentient denizens of the manifold worlds may surmise, the Gods are not sustained by fealty or belief. Not even by each other. They came from the mist, and therefore they are. Wherefore the Gods create, or why they do not, is not for even themselves to say. Perfection is an ending imagined by small minds that cannot comprehend infinity. The Gods scarcely reason their way into or out of it; those who do not know where they are going will simply always end up somewhere else, as is their wont. Maybe the Gods are yet children, and maybe they will one day change. But it is written upon a tablet of the Monks of Sidareptana that the truth is inverse. Shamuin once posited that Basheesh is the lord of Change, as Yogung is the lord of the Idea. A thousand years later, Mexar pressed Shamuin into a corner by mentioning that Time is not simply that which stops everything from happening simultaneously, because no matter whether Basheesh propels the worlds upon their ways, no matter whether Yogung shapes their cores and mantles, Time is nonspatial- and so Time is not bound by Matter or the Event. Shamuin countered that Time may in fact be spatial, because the lack of a void implies the lack of time as well. Mexar considered this argument ridiculous, because any two events on both sides of the Voidless Void would in fact be seperated in Time. Alas, they have only been contemplating for but a handful of aeons. Who can say? Only the fool hidden deep in the forests of Manauwe knows the truth, but no living being listens to him. Theming pondered the truths he had denied to his subjects. It was not for him to do so, but recent events had made it abundantly clear that some pondering was in order. Raw divine emotion and doubt about his fellows in the Void propelled his mind and furry paws across the mountaintops of Otazun. The Lord of Life liked the polar bear. Though large and with a lumbering gait, it was elegant in its design, shining white like a thousand bright diamonds, and noble in its solitary pursuit of lesser beings. Many a time had he been overcome by the beauty of a mother bear tending to its cubs, whether in the icy wastes, or the jungles of his favored moons. But mostly, he was not yet ready to be noticed by the designers of the tools of Syndar. White seemed the appropriate colour to grace the snow-filled tops breaking up the big blue sky. As he came up to the top of one of the highest black rocks, and went down to the other end, he envied his subjects. Truly, it was not just about beholding like the gods. It was feeling unlike the gods that truly set his creations apart from himself, he thought. Immediately he was overcome by a great sadness, distant but not unalike to the one he had felt in that little hut on the indigo globe. Why did its purpose hurt it so? Digging shrines for recently bereft husks seemed not to be a strange goal at the time. The truth was that Theming had never contemplated the spirits much. The living were all the recipients of his love, and the spirits the remnants. He had always been infinite, so why wouldn't they? Surely they couldn't expect matter to hold itself together for more than a few hundred years. Theming never even contemplated the complexity of keeping matter aloft. It bored him. To Theming, the creation of those who behold as the Gods do was as impulsive as it was beautiful. Whether the Other Two would consider the combination naive was entirely beside the point; Life could only ever be raw, unbound, and left some room for impulses of its own. In Theming's celestial eyes, naivety was the very essence of that which grants Life its worthiness. How could it be otherwise? Had Life offended the other Gods? He scarcely deemed it possible. Yogung and Basheesh were many things, but none of the gods, including Theming, had ever imagined anything above them. Why would they? And so Theming kept painting the inside of his mind until all the colours merged into an ochre murk from which nothing could be gleaned. Mountain upon mountain stretched itself before him, jutting upwards by the millions as if Basheesh's magnetism had clutched the very tops and pulled them all upwards towards the stars. The further he went, not knowing whence, the more his furry ears picked up the chiming sound that had been with him ever since Life was first rent from Tenglina. It seemed to reverberate through the mountains and snowy valleys, echoing for miles. It didn't quite bother him, but it was clearly occupying more space in his mind now than it did when he met it before. He suddenly realized that it wasn't the trauma of Tenglina, the crystal sands, or the chanting Monks of Sidareptana that had birthed it. It was him. He brought it along with him. Right when Theming grew tired of the sound, he heard a voice. "Ah! Hmm.", it muttered. The bear looked around, but there was nothing but black boulders jutting out of the snow around him on this particular cliff. "Hm hm. Bears.", rang the dignified, deep voice again. Theming looked up. Nothing. "Hmmmm-hmmm, I do hope you'll find your prey, because I am not edible." "Hello?", the bear uttered. "Ah-ho! You speak. I do believe that's rare. Hmm. That naif gets craftier by the millennium." "Excuse me? Naif?" "Mmmm, well. Far be it from me to judge your maker. Hmm. No, not for me." Theming looked up to his right. He suddenly noticed that one of the round tops of the boulder next to him was not the top of a boulder at all, but in fact a sort of shiny, grey-black figure made of metal, with a face. It had a rather large beard, made of ropes such as Men made. While sat, it didn't seem to be much larger than about half the size of Yogung's monks. Theming was tempted, but, wizened by recent experience, chose not to reveal himself just yet. Instead, he spoke to the metal man with the gentle demeanour. "It seems wise not to judge the Gods. How do you know my maker?" The figure didn't move. In fact, nothing about it changed at all as it spoke. It seemed mildly amused. "Mmmm, well, 'knowing' is a bit of an overstatement. Hah. But I do serve one." "It seems I have reached my destination, dear half-man. I am looking for the maker of the tools of Syndar." "Ah. Well. Wasn't me. But we do make a great many things. The Worlds seem to need a little push sometimes." Theming could barely hide his excitement. "But you do know the one who made them?" "The one, the one, hmmm. It wasn't one. Was quite some time ago, as well. But, if you must know, I can show you some things." "I'd like to see more than things, sir. I like to think I'm somewhat of a creator myself." "Ah. Theming must have been having more of his fun with you, then. I wonder how long it'll take before the Gods cull your kind, no offense intended of course. Replication seems to be out of vogue these days." "I have come to understand it isn't replication that is out of fashion, but the culling that is IN fashion!" Theming realized he was working up his nerve again. The man continued, unperturbed. "Not for me to say. Hmm. Quite beside the point, really. Any good tool serves its master for a satisfactory amount of time, but a good workshop must know when it is full." "So you have a workshop?" The metal man sighed. "Hmmm, indeed. A great many, in fact. Tools must be governed, or else they'll grow unruly. I have seen colleagues muck up their workplace before." The man amused the bear. "So, I take it you'll stick to a finite amount of tools, then, because you don't have the space to accomodate new ones?" The little man let off a gentle chuckle, as if the question had come from a student so green behind the ears that no matter what the teacher said, the actual answer would only be understood in about a hundred star cycles. "No no. Always fit the task at hand. Tools can be reshaped, my dear fellow creator." Theming felt a rush of dignified appreciation for the simple wisdom of the metal man. And so, the gruff voice of the bear rang once more. "I should very much like to see your workshop, then. There is much for me to learn." "A-ha! Well. I suppose it is in order. Yes. Hmm." And the man stood up. Only now did Theming notice that what he saw before him was not quite like a living being. It wasn't even like the remains of a living being. Beneath the beard of ropes, jagged circled shapes of wood and metal turned and twisted in upon each other, as if the craftsman was made of the very things he spoke about. A pair of smouldering eyes shone from beneath the cowl that long, sharp metal fingers now pulled over its head. By now, Theming had lost his surprise for beings he had not made. He was curious, but he didn't want to bother the little contraption more than he already had. It beckoned, and so the bear followed. After three more mountaintops and two large passes, the largest mountain Theming had ever laid his celestial eyes on pierced the clouds. It was triangular, and filled with thousands of large caves in which orange lights seemed to dance on the walls. "Hm-hm", nodded his companion. "There it is." And so they moved over snow and rock, down the cliff, for they were already about half as high as the mountain itself. The chiming sound grew stronger, and all manner of clanging, crackling, grating, booming and bludgeoning sounds now joined it. There was a rhythm to this symphony, but it seemed to change by the second. The closer they got to the nearest cave, the louder and bigger the sounds became, encompassing the very cliff they were walking upon. The metal man kept on walking, seemingly intent to pass by this cave. But Theming could not contain himself, and looked in as soon as they rounded the corner. What he saw was bewildering. The cave reached in towards the mountain for what seemed like miles, its ceiling higher than ten monks stacked upon each other. In it, dozens of little metal men, exact copies of his companion, were labouring away at all manner of strange contraptions. On the walls danced shadows bound to the orange and yellow flames of a hundred fires. Some of the bipedal contraptions with ropes for beards were pounding metal bars a mile long, some were tinkering with circles upon circles with jagged edges that grasped each other just like the ones in their bellies, while others were fanning the flames of fires so large that they could only have been meant to melt mountains. Theming pondered the purpose of it all. "Say, what is this all for?", he asked. The metal man shrugged. "Oh. Well. Do you know the difference between mutation and transformation?" The bear stayed silent. "Well, together they become transmutation, you see? Haho!" And the metal man was on his way again, leaving a confused bear behind. Theming watched as metal, wood, bone and mineral were transmuted into all manner of contrivances and contraptions. It slightly bothered him that the very matter he once framed to house the spirits of the living now served as mere building blocks for inanimate devices. But he had to admire the zest with which these metallic masters hammered, cut, and sawed away. They walked on, past workshop after workshop, cave after cave. On his right, the eyes of the bear beheld a split sky. Half of it was filled by the violet, magenta and fire of a white star greeting the night with its final salute. In the middle, orange and yellow turned turqoise, as a pair of green and blue stars rose to return the greeting. Once again, Theming envied his creations. To be small. To feel. The lumbering bear fell into a trance, and found a peace none of the Gods had experienced for a very, very long time. "HA! It is no good for Gods to hide themselves from their lessers. That is Yogung's fare." Theming looked up. Without noticing, he had reached the summit of the mountain. His companion was nowhere to be seen. "Hum. You can drop the pretense now, Lord of Life. Please be gentle, I am fond of my snow." Never had a polar bear looked more befuddled than it did now. There was a giant in front of him, and it spoke. "Greetings", Theming stammered. "Are you the tool-maker?" The giant laughed. "Tools, creations, much ado about nothing. The void spits out and takes what it owes. You seem to disagree. My Lord mentioned you." Theming was taken aback. "Basheesh?", he stumbled. "Yes, yes. It was about a hundred and seventy cycles ago. Yogung spake, and Basheesh agreed. Then we were commissioned a set of tools. Upon delivery, my Lord mentioned you, and said you'd come." There was no denying the absurdity of a God in a polar bear being adressed as if he'd joined a cordial dinner such as Men enjoyed. Theming shifted into starlit form, but limited his size in order to sit cross-legged in front of the giant metal overseer with the friendly smouldering eyes. He opened his four palms. "What did Basheesh mean?", the Lord of Life meekly asked. "Well, hum, that is up for debate", said the giant. "He's not one to waste words. Yogung plots, and none know where the webs will spin. But my lord upholds their movement. Carefully, I may add. I doubt he knew when you'd be here. But it was clear that he anticipated some distress on your part." "Distress?!", Theming exclaimed, and a flock of snow flew up and landed upon the head of the giant, who didn't seem to mind. There was the rage again, though gently expressed. "Hum, how shall I put it. It seems that you have solved a riddle my Lord and the Skeleton Skinbeater tried time and again to solve by way of the very source of your distress." Theming suddenly wearied. How many more riddles? He was half of a mind to just rise up and find the other Gods and be done with it. But the compliment intrigued him. "Servant of Basheesh, the riddles are cause for pain. Why is there a fourth God? Why is he allowed to rend my Life asunder, and why are you allowed to shape the inanimate into useless contraptions devoid of everything I once enjoyed?" The metal giant with the shifting gears in his belly sat down as well. His smouldering eyes seemed to dim for an instant as he looked up towards the multi-hued sky. Then he looked Theming straight into his starlit eyes. The pair of spherical fires under his hood suddenly flickered. "You fail to see it, even now. You are so focussed on the loss of soulless husks that you have failed to notice the appreciation of the other Gods. I do not understand life, nor do Yogung and Basheesh. They have not tinkered with the stardust you thoughtlessly lay claim to for a single second. They have provided you with celestial waste disposal mechanisms which optimize the essence you give away and multiply with but a moment's breath. It is all very impressive, you see. But you fail to see the difference between toys, and the greatest invention to grace the universe since the Skeleton Skinbeater shaped the Stars and the lord of Time made them dance!" Theming was taken aback. Something stirred. "You are the first servant of the Gods not to mock my Creations. But you are wrong. Life is no plaything. I shall return the compliment by calling you the most graceful conversationalist of all the servants I have met, but I deem it beneath you to call me a toymaker." "Bah. 'Tis probably a useless notion, my liege. Don't you see? Your desire for companionship is the essence of life. And it is the very reason the Others saw fit to tinker with it." "They had no right! None! I have never removed a single star from the void, nor have I adjusted any of their motions! Not a SINGLE World have I ever interrupted in its dance!" The giant smiled. "There was no need. Clockwork such as my insides is self-contained, you see. When I gave the gravedigger his tools, Life obtained a gift. The intertwining of clockwork may be no match for the unfettered bonds of your creations, but, hum, it seems at least now, your life may Change. As is becoming for any growing thing. Might I ask you a question?" Theming obliged. "Was there never a thought of the spirits that leave the husks once their inner starlight has sung its tunes?" Theming pondered. "No. It is my Essence. Without freedom, without feeling, there is no reason for others to behold like I do. Why should I restrict that which I give away?" "Hm. Far be it from me to criticize, but as you can see in our workshops, growth without change simply amounts to multiplication, my Lord. Of course, Basheesh is not concerned with growth, but I suspect Yogung had something to say on the matter." Theming was taken aback. The smouldering eyes had a point. "But why suffering? Why do perfectly pleasant bears, birds, tigers and Men need to be rent asunder as if they stepped upon a star?" Alas, the gentle giant gave no quarter. "I suspect the aeons before their coming will be as displeasing as the ones after they are gone." "Then why does this interloper, this cruel entity fashioned from the One I Forgot, send hollow-faced servants to extinguish the badger I spent an age to perfect? He might as well remove them in a blink and be done with my.. friends." And the smouldering eyes dimmed once more. The giant smiled. "I may be a servant, but I shall be your friend as well. My name is Mong, and my Lord is the Lord of Balance. Basheesh has but one law: any system with moving parts must contain within itself the means to exchange one energy for another. Hmm. Hm. The better ones do this without ceasing to be. Yes, the best systems can even change their very essence without ever leaving their place. Hah. Hm." Theming noticed that his newfound friend had left much unsaid. ".. Is that where the Others failed?", he asked. The giant nodded, and searched his metal mind for a moment. "Hmm, yes. Well. No. But it seems that starting with clockwork and gracing it with sentience yields unsatisfactory results. I would have never thought of it, but it seems that starting with sentiment, and then handing it stardust to contain it, was a much better idea. Hah. Of course, My Lord and the Stardust Seer never thought of it that way either. I suspect their ideas were so lofty that they precluded such a thing as a smile." For the first time in a multitude of Tenglina's years, Theming laughed. "You are telling me I am the smartest and most original God of them all!" The giant let forth a low, rumbling laugh as well. "Hah! Well, as I tend to teach my servants, simplicity does seem to be the highest form." But Theming wasn't done. He reverted to formal verbal posturing, such as Gods enjoy. "You may be my friend. And you may have shown me the reasons for the other Gods to tinker with my creations. But you will still tell me, servant of Basheesh, why Syndar sees fit to have his servants interfere directly with the ones I made not to serve." The giant's smile was incorrigible. "Syndar is greedy, and clutches the gems with zest, but he is a fair usurer. I suspect his servants may not have been forthcoming, but that is only because their temperament was conceived by Yogung and shaped by our Lord." Theming waited. "In fact, all they do is take your essence and polish it to return in some other form you have conceived. It is Balance which propels his Business. Not cruelty. Though I suspect your proclivities may deem it so." Finally, Theming understood. The Others had seen fit to gift him with an addition to his Life. Suddenly, he felt more proud than he had ever been. Of course, pride is but dust in the wind to a God. And so, but a single moment later, for the first time in a million of Tenglina's years, after all the pain, and all the suffering that only Gods can endure, peace finally filled his starlit form. The flower withers, and now Theming knows it too. It may be that even Gods have an end. Who can say?