Story
*David,*
If you ever happen across a time capsule—and could see the stars as I do—you’d know: the gods were up to terrible things in the beginning.
When I returned to intercept the First Humans, I miscalculated the epoch. I arrived _too early_. And since I vowed to travel through time only once, I had to wait—without meddling, without shifting.
The cleanest solution was distance. Time dilates near the edge of the system, so I drifted far from Dias, to the rim, where I found a peculiar giant: vanilla-brown, broad, and quiet.
There was nothing better to do, so I descended. Sat in its grainy, golden deserts and listened to silence.
I’d seen deserts on Dias in the future—cracked and furious. This one was… still.
I passed the hours counting individual grains. Threw a few rocks for sport. One struck a shimmer beneath the sand. When I leaned in to examine it, it burrowed away.
*Curious.*
I noticed others. Sparkling beneath the surface, shifting when I tossed stones. I counted fifteen, then more. Perhaps hundreds. Thousands.
I waited for sunset. That’s when the truth began to glitter.
As night fell, five pairs of wings glided across the sky—elegant, iridescent. They descended near the densest clusters of buried light. From the sands, the creatures emerged.
I’d liken them to cats, if cats were stitched with squirrel and raccoon, and wore jagged crystal shells like armored beetles. They moved quickly when startled, but without provocation, you'd never know they were there.
The winged ones were more regal, shell-less, resplendent. They brushed against each other, nuzzled, licked—in ways that turned my stomach.
The gods were siblings. Siblings shouldn’t touch that way.
There’s no word for what I saw. _Deicest,_ maybe. Divine. Incestuous. It clung to the back of my throat.
And then came the others.
Larger things, hazy and radiant: beasts made of stars in the shapes of Dias fauna, drifting clouds with crystalline veins, orbs of glowing matter with many eyes that blinked in sequence.
The night was busy. Sacred. Profane.
I couldn’t stand to see it.
I killed four of the five leaders. Sent the last to the red planet near home. One demi-god alone can’t breed, not properly.
Of the remaining beasts, eight showed signs of higher intelligence. I taught them structure. Language. Leadership. They formed a council. Held meetings. Postulated the arrival of humankind.
I hadn’t noticed how much time had passed.
We don’t age like others, David. Not in the way you’d understand. I had spent two centuries among them.
When the First Humans began their path, I left. They knew I would return—eventually.
I remember them fondly. The leader was kind beyond comprehension. Too kind.
One day, I fear someone with crueler intent may attempt to claim Dadan. If they do, she will resist with unimaginable force.
I only hope she remembers where that force came from.
And whether it was ever hers to begin with.
"No one returns from Dadan..."