Nyx's expression grew serious. "Perhaps he is weak now, but the future of a god unbound by fate is unpredictable. Your concerns are not unfounded. We can wait and see for now."
Gaia thought for a while. Her Primordial God wisdom told her that Nyx was right. A god who had escaped fate could take any path.
And that path was still too short-so short that there was no telling where it led. She nodded in agreement.
Nyx's gaze suddenly darkened. The divine power of night contracted slightly around her, and a layer of sorrow suddenly surfaced in her eyes.
"My sister, more calamities await you. But I cannot speak of them, nor can I intervene again. That variable has changed the course of fate's river. Even I cannot see what will surge out of those new bends, and precisely because of that, every additional word I say could stir up a backlash I cannot bear."
"Moreover, what we have said today will slowly fade from your memory. Fate itself will erase the traces of this conversation."
Gaia's expression changed. She was the goddess of the earth, the first deity born into the world. She had witnessed the first opening of heaven and earth and the birth of countless living beings. She did not want to suffer that kind of humiliation again.
She looked at Nyx, her gaze pleading. "Nyx, help me."
Nyx shook her head and said somewhat helplessly, "I cannot intervene again. Chaos's power of fate has already rippled because of our conversation. If we take another step forward, the consequences of the backlash will be more than we two primordial gods can bear."
Gaia's face grew even paler. Her fingers tightened around her divine throne. "Then what should I do?"
Nyx remained silent for a long time, as though weighing something. Then she raised her head and said softly, "If you truly reach a dead end, seek out the God of Emotions. See whether someone outside fate can help you."
Gaia drew a deep breath. The healing cracks in her chest ached faintly as that breath stretched them. She knew she had no other choice and gave a heavy nod.
Nyx had achieved her purpose. She nodded slightly to Gaia and stood, withdrawing the divine power of night around her. The divine throne beneath her silently dispersed.
She turned, her long robe trailing over the rock, and walked step by step into the darkness without looking back.
Gaia sat alone where she was, her gaze passing through the underground layers of rock toward the sky above, where day was now breaking. She looked at the vault of heaven, at the earth, at every corner of the world.
There were no more tears in her eyes, only surging hatred.
Night receded, and daylight enveloped the earth once more.
Hemera, the Goddess of Day, hurried across the ridgeline and descended into a shadowed spot near the foot of Mount Proeon. As usual, she concealed all her divine power and hid behind a clump of newly grown shrubs, peering through the gaps in the foliage at the clearing beside the pool.
The blond figure stood in the middle of the clearing, directing five nymphs in grass skirts as they ran back and forth. Hemera pouted slightly, then could not help looking over again.
With Petra leading the way, Nairmis had found a layer of fine clay near the valley. He carefully drew out his Flame Divine Nature and kept it burning in a shallow pit they had dug, at a temperature far higher than an ordinary campfire.
The nymphs placed the shaped clay pieces into the fire and took them out one after another.
Before long, the ground was covered with large pieces of pottery: round-mouthed jars, deep-bellied urns, and flat, shallow dishes.
Their surfaces still bore the marks of pressing fingers, and their color was uneven, darker in some places and lighter in others. But they stood steadily on the ground and gave a clear ring when tapped by hand.
"This is called pottery," Nairmis said.
The instant he finished speaking, another familiar fluctuation of laws stirred within him. A Subordinate Divinity silently condensed into form: the pottery godhead.
Nairmis glanced at it, then paid it no further attention. Another Subordinate Divinity. He had almost a dozen Subordinate Divinities inside him now. There were certainly plenty of them, but as for their quality...
He made a calculation. Even if he added together the divine power of every godhead within him, it might not be enough to withstand a single yawn from the God King.
Forget it. Better than nothing. I'll just count it as having more godheads than I know what to do with. It's still better than having none.
The nymphs were not nearly so composed. They stared for quite a while with their mouths slightly open. Then they gathered around, touching the pottery that still held the fire's warmth and showering Nairmis with praise.
"Master, what are these miraculous things!"
"Can this jar hold water? It really won't leak?"
"Master, how did you ever think of all this!"
"Amazing! Our master is amazing."
Nairmis felt a flutter of delight. Whatever else this world might be like, he truly enjoyed its straightforward, sincere praise.
Behind the shrubs, Hemera watched the nymphs crowd around Nairmis, chattering away with endless praise, and suddenly felt rather less comfortable.
She bit her lip but did nothing.
Now that the pottery had been fired, Nairmis immediately directed the nymphs to begin the next step. After soaking, the sheepskins still needed to have the remaining fat and hair roots scraped away, then be stretched into shape to make their surfaces flat and smooth.
He distributed stone knives among them and told them to spread the skins flat on pottery slabs and scrape them repeatedly until their surfaces were as smooth as paper.
Each nymph took her materials and squatted down somewhere in the clearing to begin working. Their movements were slow, and they were not very practiced at first. Some scraped so hard that they cut through the skins, while others used the wrong angle and left deep scratches.
But they worked earnestly, and none of them slacked off.
Whenever the nymphs began to look tired, Nairmis picked up his lyre and set his fingertips on its strings.
The music divinity and healing divinity lit up together. A lively melody flowed forth, and golden notes drifted slowly toward each nymph's shoulders.
Before long, their energy returned, and they lowered their heads to continue scraping the sheepskins.
Nairmis watched the scene with satisfaction, thinking how clever he was to have come up with a method like this. But then his thoughts took a turn, and he suddenly felt a little guilty. Isn't this just how unscrupulous capitalists exploit their employees?
He promptly stood, set up the grill again, and grilled some lamb skewers to hand to the nymphs. Their eyes curved into crescents as they accepted them. They ate with bulging cheeks and worked with even more enthusiasm.
Because the sun had not yet been born, illumination mainly came from the daylight radiated by the Goddess of Day, but that light possessed no tangible heat.
Nairmis could not dry the parchment in the sun. He could only use his Flame Divine Nature to keep the pit fire burning and spread the prepared sheets of parchment on pottery slabs near the heat.
Warm air slowly brushed over the sheets, their edges curling slightly before gradually flattening again.
While waiting for them to dry, Nairmis found himself with nothing to do. Leaning beneath an old tree, he began to think. Once the parchment was ready, what should he record?
Should he begin with Chaos, with Gaia's birth, or with the deaths and anguished cries of those divine wars? As he thought, his fingers unconsciously picked up a twig and drew a line in the dirt. He wanted to try writing a character for practice.
The twig passed over the ground, leaving a crooked, shallow mark.
He looked down at it for a while and prepared to write the second stroke, but his wrist stopped. He realized he could not write it.
He tried again, but when he lowered the twig, his fingers seemed to be blocked by something invisible. No matter what he did, he could not write the character.
He frowned, shifted his posture, and tried moving the twig again. Its tip paused against the ground, leaving only a small black dot.
Nairmis put down the twig, his face full of confusion.
Then he chose a thinner twig and a smoother patch of dirt and tried writing again. It still did not work.
Realizing something was wrong, Nairmis stared at the crooked, shallow marks on the ground for a long time. Slowly, he sat up straight and began to consider the reason.