All was string, strands, floss, thread. And the strands swirled among themselves, some over others, neighbor curling up and nestling in with neighbor. And then empty Chaos awoke and as he exhaled, everything trembled. The strings knotted and tangled under the stress. And with another exhale, the knots tightened, the strings and strands, floss and threads, no longer nestled, but chafed. And Chaos, pleased with his work, rested.
The gods grew in these strings, cocooned in knotted threads until ready to stand. Born in fires, large and small. The gods danced, illuminating the strings. Thin shadows falling over their bodies, X’s in their wake. All of everything shook under their footsteps. And beneath their feet and up above, where their arms brushed the air, the strings snapped to attention. And in the places where the taught string hung, which by now was all of overhead and down below, everywhere left and everywhere right, anywhere that had been brushed by a stray finger or bare toe, the strings sang. It is to this music that the gods danced, in illuminated pockets of string and thread, they spun, waved and swayed. And as they danced, fervently now, the strings, which had been dark as nothing, grew hue and definition. All the colors, from deep crimson of day to night and the brown of fertile soil, to the white gray of an undecided cloud, and the shine of a pearl. And some of the colors are imperceptible, beauty to be seen by the gods and the gods alone.
And the goddess Fortitude, still growing, perhaps born too soon, learning still, was afraid to join in on the merriment. She told them she was afraid of twisting her ankle. But really, she was afraid of being less graceful, less beautiful than the others, afraid the threads around her would not be inspired to grow color. That her flame would burn out before she could create something permanent. Around her, the strings sang with the movement of the gods, she wondered, what if no one could see her? To be is not just to be perceived. She could be, if she were just by herself. And so, without asking permission, she stole the sight of the gods, only for a moment, she said, just to have a moment alone.
She closed her eyes. She stretched and bent. Deliberate. Careful. Then she turned. She turned, and again, and again. Her body moved not against the strings, but with them. She was as beautiful as day to night, and fertile soil, and an undecided cloud and the shine of a pearl. When she opened her eyes, everything had untightened, threads untangled from nests to strands.
She clenched a fist around the strings, strands, floss, and yarm, and held them close. They radiated from her, daffodil yellows, butter yellows, the yellow of fresh roses, and the yellow ochre of the roses when they wilted and dried. And blues, the blue of shallow water at noon, and deep water at midnight. And greens, oh the greens. A different green for each plant. The other gods did not see her creation. They could not. She still had their sight. She reached to uncap the stolen sight. It was then that Chaos awoke and with a yawn, he sent his deep vacuous breath over everything.
Fortitude struggled to hold the strings steady, and as she released the sight of the gods, Chaos huffed. Her hand slipped and some of the sight slipped out, so that only some gods can see. Some can see partially, bits and fragments. And some can see nothing at all. Fortitude sits in the middle, holding the strings tightly so that they do not unravel. And the other gods, the ones that see and the ones that do not, sit in a circle around her and begin to weave. They weave the air cool and sky unpredictable, the ground fertile, and the rain beloved. They weave themselves, their own myths and legends, their own palaces and altars. And so, existence grows towards Fortitude, who is in the middle of it all, holding tightly, watching as the world is born.
Unable to contain himself, Chaos swore at the gods And as he bellowed, his empty breath settled into some of the strings, so they were now wiley and Fortitude tightened her grip. The gods had no choice but to weave the bits of Chaos into tapestry. And the ones that saw struggle and emptiness and uncertainty woven so tightly next to desire and hope and laughter wept. And those that could barely see it, felt it, and wept. And the blind gods heard the weeping and wept too, onto the tapestry, where they pooled, settling, growing form, hue and definition. The teardrops, reflecting the forms of the gods, endowing them with an essence of the gods, not quite an image, but a pool in which the gods see themselves in you. And you may, if you look hard enough, see the divine reflected in your image, too.
At the center of everything, Fortitude. Gritting her teeth. Chaos blows on her toes and tickles her slides. The weaving slackens and the puddles, which now have not only form and hue, but identities, and loves, drip and stream one direction or another. Chaos wins. But Fortitude always steadies and straightens. She takes a deep breath. She does not close her eyes. The world is hers to see. She holds on. Around her history is being woven, everywhere she looks, there is more.