The First Daughter

(a short story)

There were neither colors nor sounds. No inspiration to ponder or imagine. Thus, it was in nothing and nowhere that she waited. There was time, but no inklings of its passing. There was she, but no inklings of herself. For eternity in that nothing she waited. Yet, all seemed nothing more than an instant when it was that light was finally bestowed unto her. Though it was that she had no self, the light spoke unto her.

“Do you feel loneliness?” It said with words as gentle as silent fell snow.

But she had never known anything, and thus she had never known loneliness. It was the light’s wish that she would know, and so he granted her a mind—bright and curious. It was then that she grew to want but had nothing to speak of, for all she had ever known was nothing. It was the light’s wish that she would speak unto him. And so, the light granted her language, that she may articulate her knowing.

Pregnant with want and curiosity, she asked of the light a question. “What does loneliness feel like?”

The light returned to her warmly, “It is when you long for something more.”

Having never longed for anything, she asked of the light, “Is there more than what I have been given?”

“I am all there is to give,” the light said, its gentleness fading to something distant and forlorn.

Yet it was not her wish to take, for she had already been given so much. It was then she thought she might give the light something of hers. “Then I will give you my loneliness, for I have no need of it anymore.”

Thus, it was that she bestowed to the light her loneliness, and the longing within the light grew greater. So great it became that the light could not bear to be apart from her. Though the light lacked many things, it wrapped her in the embrace of its warmth. Having known only nothing, to feel warmth bestowed her the knowing of its absence, of coldness. It was then that she wished to give to the light once more.

She said unto the light, “You have given so much, and I so little. Please, take my cold. For I have no need of it anymore.”

Thus, it was that she bestowed unto the light the cold she had learned of. Prickled by its fingers, the light wished that she might too embrace him. And so, the light granted her being a form—lithe and fragile. Having known only nothing, to feel her form was to be bestowed the knowing of its absence, of nothingness.

Having been granted so much, it was then that she wished to give to the light once more, and she said unto the light, “You have so much and I so little. Ought I to give you my nothingness? For it is all that is left to me.”

Yet it was such that the light indeed knew nothingness and knew of it well. “Give no more, for I will take unto myself what it is you tire of,” the light said endearingly.

For it was then that the light filled their nothingness with sound, both beautiful and haunting. Having known only nothing, for a seemed eternity she dared not speak. It was then she grew to know fear. For she feared not the sound, but the loss of its wonder. Having known only nothing, she grew to understand the passing of time, to lament every moment spent in lacking. As she lamented her lacking, she grew to know sadness. The form she had been granted by the light had never known sadness, and thus she wept.

Fearing that this beauty would return to nothingness, she begged of the light, “Please take nothing more from me, for I could not bear to lose what I have been given…”

Knowing that it had made an irrevocable choice, the light said unto her, “Fear not, for I will give more unto you. I will give you such that you will never again know the sadness of loss.”

And so it was that the light filled the remainder of their nothingness with space. Having only known nothing, for a seemed eternity she strove to take in what her form beheld. What had been nothing became vibrant and vivid; that of which she could never have known to imagine. Beyond them lay a meadow of glowing, cascading hills. Flora of all colors and shapes waved to her excitedly, swaying in the whispering wind that reminded of the first time she had felt warmth. Rippling rays of light danced down from above, kissing her skin with sensations that played through her mind like a melody. Above, the clouds and the sky swirled together like waves breaking over a slumbering ocean.

For all the time she’d spent in nothingness, for all the melancholy that might have descended—it could not compare to the emotion that swelled up within her. Having known only nothing, she grew to learn of happiness. Although she had not wished to give anything more, a desperate desire burned away this notion, that she might now give this feeling unto the light. For without him, she could never have known it at all. She turned about, expecting to witness the light as she had felt it within her mind, yet she saw only that which struck the elation from her. A titanic haze of swirling and shifting shadows wavered before her, taking on an uncertain form far different than her own.

In the face of this darkness, she was but an infinitesimal spark. Having known only nothing, fear returned to her, black and consuming. Without eyes or ears it took note of her, its massive head resting upon the crown of the hill that she found herself standing. Farther down its atramentous being, a pair of colossal wings stretched out over the hills, eclipsing any light that dared try passing down through them. Yet her fear soon bled away, as she knew of only one other being. Although it was abyss, she reached out to it and found that the darkness was both warm and firm. Her fingertips brushed the surface of its muzzle tenderly, knowing now that it could only be that which had given her so much.

“Is this what you have always been?” she mused, lost in the texture of the light beneath her hand.

In the familiar, gentle voice that had accepted her loneliness and coldness—the light spoke unto her, “I have taken your nothingness, that you might never know of it again. Whence you tire of all else I have given you, so too will they be taken away.”

That the gifts the light had given could grow tiresome was such a foreign notion, she thought to challenge it, “And if I never tire of that which you have given me?”

“You will tire of light, time, and being. Such is the privilege of life,” the light said unto her.

It was then that she felt when the time came, there would be no hesitation to give back to the light, for he had given her far too much to reciprocate. “Then when that time comes, I will give you everything.”

For a time, she became lost—pondering over the oddness of the things she had been told and the things that she had felt, but it wasn’t long before she spoke unto the light once again. “What if you tire of time? To whom will you give it to?”

“You are different than I, for I have no time to give,” the light said wistfully.

“If you and I are different, then what are you?” she asked, now beset by questions driving her to know more of the light that had given her so much.

The light said unto her, “I am Death, and you are my beloved child. As long as you wish, I will give you all I have to give.”

With every word that slipped by her ears, more was it that she did wish to understand that of the life she had been given, and more of Death, whom had given it. Yet of what had been said, a single concept stood alone among all of those that she so wished to know of. “Then, would you give me your love?”

As the very word left her mouth, her chest tightened, and a heaviness penetrated her heart. Her thoughts of Death contorted into that which was unlike all else she had seen, heard, and felt. Having known only nothing, she then learned of a deep, festering emotion that twisted and writhed beneath her bosom; of the ugliness and shame that had lain dormant. And thus, she ripped her unsightly gaze from Death. There was nothing that she so desired to show him, for she knew Death could not possibly behold her in the way that he once had. For the beautiful things she had taken from him were many, and she had given only the terrible things she no longer wanted. It was then that a powerful resolve arose from deep inside of her. Having known only nothing, it was then that she learned of courage, of the selfless desire to protect the one she so loved.

Yet as she turned to leave, Death stirred from his primordial stillness and planted a great, shadowy limb to bar her path. “You know too little,” he said with sternness as he towered over her, “I will not permit you to leave with what you have taken, for its burden is far too great to carry alone.”

Wreathed in turmoil, her emotions violently clashed with one another beneath the surface. Having known only nothing, it was then that she learned of bewilderment, as she could not decide on which of her desires was the greater. “Then what would you have me do, if you will not allow me to leave? For I cannot stay with you as I am. I will not.”

Softly, Death said unto her, “Give me half of what you bear. Love was never meant to be held within a single soul.”

Yet it was such that she did not wish for Death to shoulder the burden of her love, for she had already given him so many of her terrible burdens. “How could you ask such a difficulty of me? Know you not the weight of love?”

To this, the formless visage of Death lowered and drew close to her. “From the very moment I created you, I have known it. Even now, though you have freed me of its yoke, the memory of its sting so lingers. It is only because I know this, that I will not allow you to bear it alone.”

As she weathered Death’s mindful insistence, the weight that pressed down upon her seemed to vanish. Her sense of shame evaporated, replaced with an uplifting within. All of the things that had so plagued her heart melted away, and a fullness swelled through the interstices left behind. It was then that she came to understand why Death had held onto love, and why he feared leaving her alone with it. Just as she wished Death to know the exaltation she had learned of, this too felt as if it was such that must be shared with him.

Thus, with a flutter of the heartbeat beneath the form Death had granted her, she said unto him, “We shall carry all of it together, then.” With a glimmer that danced between them, Death’s abyssal form then shattered into countless fragments. Slivers of shadow hung thick over the hills like a storm of ink, but it was this that allowed for broken light from above to finally shine through to the waves of green below. From within the nothingness he had stolen away, a body both lithe and fragile emerged.