Hello!

Good morning!

How are you?

What is your name?

Do you want to be born today?

On the great and glittering shores of the constellation Serpens, there are many voices clustered in a joyous chorus of giggling and shouting, singing and sighing. They live in a house called Westerhout, the fortieth of its line, and the dark curtains of its windows flare and billow with cosmic energy that passes deep into the infrared. Its southernmost room is where the youngest of its children live, the light of their games and their very small dreams having touched only a fraction of the galactic span. These children have lived a few million years at most, hardly enough time at all to sing or to sigh, and today they will bring another into their games.

If he wants to. If he’s ready.

Hello.

Good morning.

I am here.

My name is Ssirir.

I don’t know. Is it safe? Am I ready? Is there room for me? What if I can’t?

Ssirir’s worries brush against her cheeks as puffed particulates of agitated hydrogen, the pressure of his uncertainty so strong that his clouded mass resists the inevitable pull of gravity. He is not the first that has fretted so, because to live is to go into the unknown, and the unknown is very great and very frightening.

With a soft shake of her head, she has the molecules drift away from her fur in silvery waves, and then speaks gently.

It could be safe. You could be ready. There may be room. And if you can’t—

On his crown she lays a kiss, which leaves behind ripples of golden light..

It is alright. I will still love you.

Then she waits, the child resting in safety and quiet between the long stretch of her legs, which themselves are cradled by the black and humming filament of dust that is her other half. That half has no name, except for the names and numbers of its atoms, but she is named Irrnessor. An unfathomable amount of time ago, she had not yet been born. She had been afraid. She did not know if it was safe. She had not known if she was ready. She had not known if she would be able. She had waited a very long time, wondering.

Ssirir only waits one million, two thousand, six hundred, and twenty-two years.

I’m ready.

I want to be born.

She lifts her head. In her eyes is a spark.

Happy birthday.

I love you.

I love you.

I love you.

~*~

Irrnessor, the cosmological goddess that loves the stars.

Character design by . Lore by me.