Story The First Background Diary Entry 1
As I begin to search for a shadow to act as the basis for my planned construct, I cannot help but smile at the irony of this all, my reversal of the natural order of things I was taught as a child in Verantium. There, we were taught that the gods created man in their image. Here, I, a single person, am intending to create something - some entity - which will, if I am successful and everything goes well, be very much like the gods we were taught about, but whose existence no-one was ever able to prove.
My 'seed' magic, from which my creation will grow is now ready. It is the single most complex piece of magic I have ever created, incorporating even the power of Trump into itself. So complex and delicate that it requires its own unique holder.
Now all that remains is to find a shadow whose structure will provide the ideal type of fertile in which my seed will grow.
The search has been a long, hard one. But now it is over. this is the ideal shadow for my construct to grow in. Protected, and brimming with potential for its growth, but lifeless. Empty. Barren.
But still, there were so many false starts. So many shadows which were nearly correct, but not quite.
If not for the convenience of the Blank Trumps I think I would probably have given up long since.
As my spell contained tumbled away from me into the black void, in my most portentous tones I spoke the final words of its activation command. "LET THERE BE LIGHT!"
There wasn't, of course. The magic did not work in that manner. But I smile nonetheless. Why should I not allow myself these bursts of humour, my little games, when I may? And I feel that now, at least, I deserve it.
I can feel the seed before me, taking root in the very structure of the shadow, beginning to infect its potential with form and order. Growing. Growing.
So Fast. Exponentially. I cannot help but flinch as the seed's ordering of the structure of the shadow sweeps over me, even though I know I am protected from it. And I cannot help but feel a certain qualm, too. Am I creating something too large, too powerful? I push my doubts aside. I have checked and double-checked everything before proceeding. Nothing can go wrong. I hope.
And so I sit back and wait for the growth to stop. For the assimilation of this shadow to finish. To wait for this thing - my child, of my mind, if not of my flesh - to become complete, and speak, and live.
I wish I could say that I have created this new life - and it is new life, perhaps even a new type of life - out of purely maternal feelings, or perhaps even out of a purely scientific or philosophical spirit of investigation. But, although there are elements of all these things, I have created this new life more out of a need to feel secure. A need to know what may threaten me and mine. To be able to keep an eye upon more places and people than I, myself, could ever do.
Of course, that is not inconsistent with it also being my child, but I cannot, now that the deed is done, help but feel a little guilty about doing it. About making new life for my own ends, not for the making of life as an end to itself. Doing so cheapens it, and myself, even as I do it.
These thoughts and feelings make me wonder, make me rather afraid, of what kind of mother I might be, were I ever to be in that situation. Not a terribly good one, I suspect. Perhaps father had the right idea after all when he sent me away to the Orphanarium for my own safety...
And after a time, there comes a stirring - a trembling - in the void. Its potentiality has become actuality now, I can feel it. All of that untapped capability, tapped. Released. Not one iota of this shadow where the mind - the entirety - of my creation is not present.
What will it do now?
And then, a voice, as if the entire shadow were a sounding board. "Mumm ... y?"
A male voice. How unexpected. But a voice, any voice, was a sign that the 'birth' went well.
"Hello, my child," I responded. "How do you feel?"
For a moment I felt a surge of nervousness, of doubt. Then I quashed those feelings. Compared to the fearfulness and intimidating power of the Headmistress of the Orphanarium when one is six, nothing else really compares. 'No,' I told myself. 'You have thought about this. And at least this baby will never require changing.'
Then its - his - voice again. "All functioning nominal."
A long pause. "I fell ... big ... mummy. Why am I so big when you are so ... little?"
I was surprised. Questions, intelligent ones, so soon? Well, I knew that this would be a learning experience for us both.
I began to explain. "Well, my child, my Cerebaton, it is like this..."