Once upon a time, one giant rock loved another giant rock. Stuck in an endlessly cyclical existence, one never laid eyes upon the other except for a handful of minutes each day. As one sprang up to say hello, the other shrank away. To think even rocks know embarrassment.

Enamored by these fleeting seconds, the one proposed a compromise to the other. “You see this lifeless planet separating us?” “I do.” “Let’s raise it together.” “Why?” “Our feelings will be reflected in its growth. I’ll rise, you’ll set, we’ll exchange glances briefly, but we can remember each other as long as we can see this here hunk of dirt.” “What if it dies?” “It won’t die.” “How do you know?”

The Sun never answered. She was the confident type. Always took the lead of things — whether it be their relationship or the day. Never doubted that morning would come. The Moon agreed after many moments. He was the submissive type. Not by default. Rather good things came easier if he waited long enough.

So the Sun and the Moon wished upon all the shooting stars. It took years for the first seedling to sprout: The Tree of Life. From it all other life bloomed. Long expanses of sand resulted from the Sun’s fierce will. Rivers, lakes, and oceans formed from the Moon’s sweat. Great grass plains spread far and wide, from towering dirt piles to the edges of each body of water. The Sun and the Moon were clearly getting the hang of this.

“By all the stars and galaxies! What in Exo Planet is that?” “A being.” “A being?” “Two-legged creatures capable of existing on the life we’ve created between us.” “A being with the ability to be.” “Do you like them?” “Yes.”

In spite of the beginning exhilaration for these beings, the following years did not bode well. The Beings were disorganized. Unions between them seemed impossible. All thought they were more magnificent than the one before. The Sun and the Moon wished upon all the galaxies for guidance. 

“I’ve had a marvelous idea.” “Quickly! Before daybreak!” “Beings cannot merely be. Beings must be with purpose. Quite like what lead us to this point.” “A leader for the beings.” “Correct.” “Mind if I sit on the idea?” “Not at all.”

The Seeress of Exo, a being granted an exceptional ability for the sake of unifying all under the common purpose of being, was soon birthed from the Tree of Life in the Moon’s image. Perfection had its example. Progress had its figurehead. Perceptive of the Sun’s actions, the Moon took preemptive precautions.

“One leader is not enough.” “The Beings rally behind her.” “Conflicts take both time and nature to overcome.” “What do you suggest?” “Twelve Beings to protect her.” “Twelve is too many.” “Twelve is just right.” “There will be war.” “A concept constructed by Beings must be fought by Beings.” “No.” “Is she not your favorite?”

The Sun never answered. She was losing both control and confidence. Seldom had she taken the lead in the recent years. Morning may come, but would her beings still be there? The Moon received the Sun’s acceptance after many moments. He was oppressive with his feelings. Good things only came if they created it.

And so they did.

Six Sun Guardians and six Moon Guardians, separated by an endlessly cyclical existence from the Seeress they served, prospered on Exo Planet. Human beings were loved more than initially intended. The Sun and the Moon now rarely exchange words. 

I remember one conversation, however, as I floated between being and not.

“This sprout grows too attached to our offspring.” “Our apologies beforehand.” “May you rest in peace, our beloved being.”

I was one of the lucky ones. If you consider being murdered via drowning by a stranger lucky, anyway. Still, I was. Consider the 69th Seeress of Exo. The one no one talks about. The one no one knew about.

Guinevere Callum. Good ol’ Guin, skin as white and smooth as a dove’s, died at the peak of her midlife crisis — 35. She lived in the Capital, somewhere in Sector D. The Council, the upstanding Exotians that they are, seized her from her parents mere years after she was born. New memories and old ideals were drilled into Guin’s head until she turned 20. At this point, she joinned the rest of the Capital’s workforce as a metal worker.

Within months, she secluded herself from others. Believing herself an orphan, abandoned by both human beings and the planet, she had no one to turn to for guidance. In brief, she hated the company of others. 

Her home furnishings corner store, Inner Workings, thrived despite her disposition. When the intricate trinkets she sold as knick-knacks grew popular in Sector A, she received a boon to business. Opportunities to be arose while being seemed more of a harsh reality than a choice. The secret of her Sun-granted ability soon spread after a set of unpleasant outbursts against slack-jawed customers. Inner Workings caught fire due to an unforeseen gas leek days later. She was still inside, headphones trembling to fill the noise around her.

Guinevere Callum’s last handmade trinket: a Tree of Life pencil holder.

My story is similar to this. Death struck before 20. Robbed from my birthparents at four-years-old. Institutionalized in a Council-funded facility until I showed signs of becoming a whiteboard — ready and willing to believe any message written, changed, or erased on my surface. A face among many more alarmed at silence than frustrated with noise. Fake aunt killed for attempting to seat me in my “rightful place." Fake birthday I’ve celebrated for fifteen years. Real name. At the very least, the Council was kind enough to grant me that. 

The Tree of Life was kind enough to take pity on me. Decades without a Seeress and Exo planet hardly became an accurate display of the affection sown between two rocks. I don’t quite like being pitied. Maybe that’s why I chose not to reveal the truth. I’m not sure if it’s that or if depressing stories dampen my desire to be the best I can be. Probably both.

Someone who never faltered when Fate stared her down and told her to die: Ela Nektor, the 68th Seeress of Exo. 

For her beauty, she lost something else. A mute in a time of government turmoil was hardly the kind of Seeress the planet needed. She inherited, along with her meek countenance, a sense of reliance. Not by default. A golden-haired faerie could lose its wings if left unattended. Xi, 68th generation Moon Guardian, took it upon himself to rip them from her back.

When she revealed to those twelve closest to her Fate's plan, a secret kept for a decade too long, Xi argued against her. Insistently against the idea of sacrifice, he convinced his brethren to lock her away when the foreseen day came. Ela Nektor, the 68th Seeress of Exo, was to be brutally attacked, and eternally crippled, in the middle of a Jingxi Riot. 

Her assailant would have never been brought to justice.

The other side of the coin held a grimmer fate.

A bomber killed over half a million Exotians as Jingxi’s denizens called for a return to luxury. Selfishly. Self-righteously. No one expected more from them. No one would argue they didn’t deserve to live the remainder of their lackluster lives.

In the chaos of their faerie precariously balancing on the edge of this mortal coil, Exotians would have dispersed. The bomber would have lost her golden opportunity. She was never convicted. One in exchange for over 500,000. Xi believed he was in the right to the very end.

Even as Ela’s bones slowly calcified, imprints of vine marring her skin, his passions persisted. Betrayal birthed out of undying loyalty. The Tree of Life absorbed her into its roots in what history calls her “Return.” The Council rose to power in light of her failure.

Xi said each day before she fell from her peak, “I love you, El.”

It wasn’t his right to steal fifty years from her. Deadweight her legs may have been, she assured him a wheelchair would have had its perks. Would have, had he not changed her future. 500,000 would have been alive. Her spine would have been damaged beyond repair. Would have, had she not allowed him to do it.

Purposefully submissive, she cried as the holovision, picture blurry and discolored, flashed the result of her action. Completely aware the hourglass was running out, she prayed to the Tree of Life. To the stars. To the galaxies. To the Sun and the Moon. To exchange her failure for my success. To reverse the timelessness of death.

But the Tree of Life is a stubborn weed. Not as stuck-up as many assume, but thick-skinned nevertheless.

One year. 

After traveling with Zhoumi for weeks to sit down and negotiate the terms of my being, that’s the ultimatum I get. I have one year to make the world a better place. For the sake of Ela Nektor, who willingly gave me her youth, and Guinevere Callum, who never liked this planet in the first place, I took it.

Once upon a time, one giant rock loved another giant rock. Believing in the hunk of dirt between them, the two birthed an entire species unaware of how inherintly reliant they were in a roaring being. One year? Let's pray I'm more than passing conversation at the water cooler.

A/N: Hurray for exposition!