The Ancients Stir
Below the divine.
Below Ginen.
Below the place even gods fear to name—
The Ancient Ones woke.
Not gods.
Not titans.
Not stars.
Older.
They were the first agreements.
The first will made manifest.
Before temples. Before praise.
They were the Reason behind the concept of Power.
And now, they opened eyes carved from time and silence.
The First Two – Maman Ginen and Papa Ginen
Their forms were not fixed.
Sometimes, they were trees taller than sky.
Other times, waves of black ocean.
Sometimes, just wind carrying old lullabies.
They sat side by side in the lowest part of Ginen, where light is born but never leaves.
The Hive approaches.
"The children play with power," Papa Ginen said. "But power must be held with two hands."
"Then let us stand," whispered Maman Ginen. "So they know they were not born from weakness."
They did not rise fast.
They rose slow, with weight.
And when they stood, the foundations of every pantheon trembled.
The gods above stopped speaking.
The Old Voices – Not of Ginen Alone
From the black deserts beyond Ra's first flame,
From the mirror forests of the forgotten Shinto underworld,
From the ice tombs beneath the Nine Worlds,
Ancient gods, sealed or sleeping, awakened.
They did not speak to each other.
They did not care for alliance.
But they all looked in the same direction—
Toward the Hive.
And then…
Into it.