Ancha stirred the pool of stars. The little lights turned the blackness of the void milky as they swirled. She wondered at the little lives tossed about by her play.
Bemma stopped her hand. “You play too rough.”
Ancha scowled at the other god, but his form flickered in and out of existence, making her anger feel ineffectual. “You never let me play.”
“You disturb the little ones,” Bemma said.
But through all the eons Bemma had always been that way. Ancha wasn’t fooled. He did not care about the little ones; he merely enjoyed order and stillness. His way was stagnation. Hers was creation. And better.
“Play,” Ancha said.
“I will not,” Bemma said.
His hand became substantial as he waved at the blackness of creation. “Things may, or they may not. In this place, things are. We must respect their being.”
“If you say so.” Ancha let her own being drift into potentiality. In this insubstantial form, she drifted to a different cauldron full of beings turning lazily in orderly circles. She returned to actuality and reached for the stars spinning before her, but Bemma caught her wrist. For an instant, they were both painfully real.
“Let them be,” he said.
The struggle continued, the little ones spinning on under the hands of Ancha and Bemma.