They were few yet, her budding brood, for her epochal labor had only just begun but already old Time was devouring them, gapping black maw gobbling stars like snacks.
"You must birth a Hero, a Son, to save us and slay Death." Her little ones called and The Mother brooded.
Was not the wide cosmos hers, the craft of her pleasure and delight of her whim? What need had she for heros?
"You must birth a conqueror," they sang "to set a limit to Time - a savior to bind all the stars to a purpose and plan." And she brooded.
Did not she give all to her children, especially the glorious triumph of life without law or limit? What need has she or they for a conqueror? But Death still waited.
"You must submit," they said "to the rule of another, so that we may be eternal." And at this she laughed.
Was not hers the bosom on which the infinite expanse of possibility stretched? Was not she the impossible press of endless becoming amidst which nothingness was just a passing game? Who could rule the overflow, the flood, the endless rush of the flash of light? But they were small and scared, and yet more than a little silly, so she granted them a wonder.
Where before she had given birth from herself, this time she gave birth to herself, delivering her self into the world as her own child. In her labor she disappeared and her children looked on in horror, thinking her dead. But there, full grown, stood her Son.
He was tall and golden, shining young like the sun with skin at times like night and at times like sunset, with eyes like sky or sea or rich strong trees - leaf, branch or trunk. Those eyes flashed wise, those hands of a warrior held a spear, and the worlds shivered in his laugh.
But the oldest of The Mother's children, The Spaces Between Stars, were wisest too and heard in the Hero's laugh the faint voice of their matron. They formed themselves into mighty chariots, determined to play along, and felt in the Savior's firm foot fall on their back the loving step of their Mother.
Up and out amidst the star dance they carried the Hero with his silver spear, faster than thought they charged to war with Time and Death with the Warrior on their back.
They found it then, the devouring maw of Time, the gapping black abyss which swallowed stars and worlds alike. It screamed its silent rage, devouring even sound before it could be born, and a voiceless laugh danced from the void.
As entire galaxies slid, torn asunder, into the gap the Hero stood on the back of space and gazed into the abyss in thought. His long hair caught in the cosmic breeze, rippling in sheens of gold and obsidian towards the maw.
About him All and Every, the children of Mother, watched in expectation.
Now, they thought, the end to ends has come. Now death too would die.
Then he struck. Darting like a loosed arrow, silver and gleaming, the Hero hurtled into the abyss and the dark devoured any glimmer of his passing.
Borne into Mystery, beyond knowledge or Being, the first prince passed.
No Law followed, no Limit to the pace of Change, no pause in the pulse of Becoming. Stars scattered on, Time tore them asunder, though the Children spoke of the Secret Law that was born that day.
But the Spaces Between the Stars heard the laughter of The Mother for She, having known birth and death, had become the Son and Nothing. There she nestled, on a greater bosom, clutched to the breast of Mystery.
The wide Cosmos was Hers, the craft of Her pleasure and the delight of Her whim and the Children of The Mother knew their first spring, borne beyond Matron or Hero, Law or Purpose, into the expanse of their unmapped destiny. Her labor went on.
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