The Twelve
Legends of the Twelve abound, of the dozen that were present in the universe at its creation. Most such legends were wrong – simple things that had been twisted by the mouths of those speaking until they resembled nothing so much as reflections of flawed mortality. The Twelve intended as much, intended their message to be lost to the ages, pieces and parts scattered to the five solar winds.
What they did not expect was losing one of their own.
The Twelve did not build the universe, though they were born shortly after it arrived. They were not, therefore, a part of its original fabric, and to lose one was possible, though even they were unaware.
Over eons, the Twelve came to believe their own stories, came to be sure of their place in the larger scheme. The universe delighted in such arrogance, and began to devise a way to punish the beings for their hubris – or so it seemed.
That, of course, supposes that the universe cared about the Twelve, or that an entity forged of matter and energy could hate those created in its wake. No such emotion was possible, but after the loss of the First, the Twelve became certain they were the target of a vicious attack.
The oldest of their remaining number, the Seventh, had an interest in origins, and delved deeply into beginnings. What was uncovered lent credence to no theory, meshed with no thought, mortal or divine. The Seven was frustrated, but an agreement was reached. None of the lesser things would be made aware of the Lost.
Those under the care of the Lost suffered – the Twelve had chosen to take on the well-being of the lesser beings that littered the universe, though not out of any feeling of obligation. To them it seemed the sensible choice, a way to ensure that the tiny, confused pockets of swarming matter did not suddenly decide they were greater than their station. Such arrogance could be met with direct force, and not a few burgeoning species found themselves crushed under the hammer of the Twelve, and for nothing more than moving forward.
It was the Second that finally found an answer, of sorts, though one that did not sit well. Origins were not what concerned the Second, but the endings of all things, including the Twelve. Predication and probability told the tale; they too, would meet their end, and with increasing speed.
A meeting was called, a council convened, a panicked thing that saw the self-styled masters of the universe cowering and afraid. What had killed the First appeared to be stalking them all, and was the universe itself.
Details were shared, small stones of information that had made their way to each of the Twelve in turn, but had never been pooled in a single place, never been shared among those equal and yet desperately jealous.
Clarity came, along with the sudden realization that not one of them was safe – not one would survive. The universe was older than them all, more powerful, and they were unworthy.
Some questioned what they had done to deserve such a fate, while others railed against its coming. Stories of the Twelve changed as they became tyrants, Lords of destruction that rained death upon the lesser beings of the universe. Planets were engulfed in flames and compressed into nothingness, the victims of moments of pique and depression.
Each by each, the Twelve were removed.
The Eighth was next, a sudden energetic implosion that shook half the universe and sent the Fourth and the Fifth to reeling. The Second and Twelfth followed in rapid succession, both simply winking out with no explanation, no marker to speak of their passing. The Twelve had become the Eight, and the universe began to roil and burn. Fiery suns exploded, consuming planets and devouring other stars; black holes appeared, torn wide from tiny rips in the fabric of space. In the space of two short eons those born at the start of all met their end – all save one.
The Ninth remained.
He – the pronoun had always formed around his mindset most appropriately – was sure that his time was coming. Each exercise of his power brought him one step closer to oblivion, one moment closer to the end of all things. The time for measured consideration was over, the time for deliberation had passed. Pouring his energy into the last planet left to his control, a new monument was risen, a new story told of the Twelve. None on the surface understood the quaking of their cities, knew why the cracks in their earth appeared.
Alone and weak, the Ninth awoke, startled to find his consciousness intact. His next thought followed, something about the weak body that now housed his being, but it was the simple linearity of that thought which had him reeling. Such a limited process – what had been done to him? What this the end?
Sense penetrated slowly – so slowly. Without the power bestowed upon him, he had become no more than the beings he watched in amusement, no more than an insect upon a tiny leaf of the plant of the universe. Somewhere, that power was stored, waiting for a claimant, waiting to be re-taken.
It could not be him – the universe sought him out. But perhaps…the thoughts came so slowly he wanted to scream, and did so, once he discovered how to make his foul lungs work.
Perhaps one of the crawling things on this planet could be shaped, molded to be enough. Perhaps there was hope for the Twelve yet.
Stumbling to his feet, the Ninth moved toward glimmering lights on the horizon. Observations of the mortals told him they would be willing to offer shelter to a traveler in need, a being that could not sustain himself.
Faint energy thrummed within him, a reflective beacon of what he had cast down. He could lead, if they would follow – perhaps the universe would not destroy one that was worthy.
- D
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