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(POV - El Elyon Yahsar)
How many ages have passed since the beginning of everything? My memory, as vast as the cosmos itself, preserves every moment as if they were fragments of crystallized light. My relationship with the Supreme Divinity—my beloved Yeshua—was a cosmic dance of intimacy and power, a symphony of creation that transcended any limited understanding.
Nyx, my companion in countless journeys beyond comprehensible time, and I begot Thanatos and Hypnos, our primordial firstborns. We were creators, architects of existences that shaped realities like a craftsman molds delicate clay. Yahweh, in His infinite creative capacity, produced legions of angels—thousands of millions, billions of luminous beings that filled the spaces between the existing and the imaginary.
Our celestial family was complex, full of nuances and tensions. Michael and Helel, our other children, already carried within them the seeds of future conflicts that even we, primordial beings, could not fully foresee.
Time on Earth had evolved in surprising ways. In the Greek realm, the Titans dominated with their brute power and intricate family dynamics. Cronus, in his brutal tyranny, had devoured his own children—a act of paranoia and fear that echoed through the dimensions. His wife Rhea, a silent witness to such cruelty, held within her secrets that would one day transform that universe.
At that specific moment, something extraordinary was about to happen. In the garden we had created together—a space between spaces, a place where reality folded upon itself—Yeshua was about to undertake His boldest creation.
I watched her with a gaze that blended reverence, love, and an almost childlike curiosity. Her hands, luminous and precise, shaped the primordial dust with a delicacy that made each movement seem like a cosmic dance. Every grain of matter transformed under her touch, gaining shapes, contours, an essence that went far beyond materiality.
"She seems deeply absorbed in her creation," I commented, approaching her with steps that did not touch the ground but glided through the layers of reality.
Yeshua raised her eyes—two universes in motion, full of promises and secrets. A smile played on her lips, a laughter that could birth and kill entire galaxies. "This will be my greatest creation," she declared, "something that will be just below our own children in meaning and importance."
Her enthusiasm was contagious, an energy that vibrated through all known and unknown dimensions.
"Have you chosen a name for this creature?" I asked—knowing the answer in advance but wanting to hear her pronounce that name that would carry the weight of an entirely new existence.
"Adam," she replied, with a resolution that made time itself tremble. "The First Man."
At that very moment, I understood that we were about to inaugurate something unprecedented. A creation that would not only modify the fabric of existence but would rewrite the very rules of creation.
(POV Yahweh)
My heart pulsed with an intensity that even I, a deity, could not have foreseen. There, at that precise moment, the primordial dust took shape, contours, life. Adam opened his eyes.
His first look is something I will never forget. A mix of innocence and deep connection, as if every cell of his being already knew me, even before breathing. His eyes—deep brown like the earth from which he was formed—met mine, and I felt something that transcended any divine power: love in its purest form. (A/N: Motherly love.)
"Welcome," I whispered, my voice creating small waves of light around him.
Adam did not speak immediately. First, he breathed. His lungs filled with the air of Eden, that garden I had prepared with such care. Every leaf, every flower, every stone was there not by chance, but as part of a meticulous project of existence.
I reached out my hand and touched his face. My fingers, made of light and primordial energy, conveyed to him not only warmth but all the necessary understanding for his initial journey.
"You will be the first," I explained, knowing he would understand beyond words. "This garden will be your home, your initial universe."
I guided him through the paths I myself had drawn. Each tree had a story, each stream a purpose. The flowers opened as we passed, as if greeting us. The animals—from the smallest insect to the largest mammals—watched us with silent reverence.
"See," I pointed to a tree in the center of the garden, "this is the Tree of Knowledge of Good and Evil. You shall not eat from it."
My instruction was not an authoritative command but a whisper of protection. Adam tilted his head, understanding not with fear but with an innate clarity.
I showed him the basic rules of his existence: how to feed on the fruits, how to know every corner of the garden, how to care for the animals that would be his companions. He absorbed every teaching with a grace that moved me—it was like watching a work of art gain consciousness.
"You will have freedom," I said, "but you will also have limits. Limits are not prisons; they are protections."
The following days were filled with mutual and fascinating discovery. Adam was not just a passive being in my garden—he was a co-creator, a namer of all existence around him.
I watched him with a mix of pride and divine curiosity. His fingers touched every leaf, every creature with a reverence that reminded me of the primordial moments of creation. When he approached an animal, it was as if he established a silent communication, a connection that went beyond words.
I saw when he encountered the first lion. Not with fear, but with deep respect. "Lion," he said softly, and the feline tilted its head, as if accepting that name as a blessing. His golden eyes seemed to comprehend the dimension of that baptism.
The birds were different. Each species received a name with special care. The hummingbird was named after long hours of observation—"little messenger of the flowers," Adam murmured, making the tiny creature fly in circles around him.
The trees had stories for him. The cedar was "guardian of the heights," the jatobá "father of deep roots." Each name carried an essence, a purpose greater than a simple label.
When he named the first orchid, he whispered something that made me smile: "Delicacy that defies time." How did he know that? How did such a new being comprehend such profound nuances?
I watched him, and in every gesture saw the reflection of my own creative nature. Adam not only named—it revealed the intrinsic soul of every living being in the garden.
Days passed like gentle currents of a primordial river. And each morning, when the golden sun embraced Eden, I felt that we were writing the first chapter of a story that would transcend millennia.
My first man was learning to be a creator.
(A/N: I apologize for the delay. Last week I was sick. And I was unsure if I would end up being sent on a trip. Apparently, not. So I managed to write this chapter for you all.)