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?