Far below the courts of the sky, the newborn world turned slowly, and its oceans breathed in slow patient tides.
Mist drifted across the face of the waters and onto vast forests that had only just begun to stretch their branches toward the sun, over mountains, young and sharp, that rose from the earth like the backbones of stretching beings awakening from slumber.
Yes, the world had existed before Sadhi had been created.
Yet he felt he knew it well.
Unlike the other four who had remained in their commissioned realms after the last star had been sung into existence, Sadhi had returned to the upper heavens where the Voice's own court was positioned.
And when he was there, the Voice had told him of a great many wondrous things. In particular, Sadhi remembered well the first time he had heard the story of the before time and how everything had come after.
The Voice had spoken not as one recounting distant history, but as an artist describing a work still warm from His hands. He spoke of the shaping of the seas, of the raising of mountains from the deep, of rivers cut into the earth like shining threads. He spoke of the moment when light first touched the waters, and the sky answered with color.
Every word had unfolded before Sadhi's mind like a living vision, and the more the Voice spoke, the more Sadhi had desired to see it for himself, to watch the great turning world and witness the beauty the Voice had described.
So often in his wanderings, when he departed from the highest court, he would find himself drawn to the lowest section of the celestial realm. The lowest edge of the sky where that which was celestial brushed the upper firmament of the earth. And on this upper firmament, he would sit and watch the lower firmament as he did now with all of its waters, lands, and mountains.
It was a quiet place. A subdued place. And when he would close his eyes there, it reminded him a bit of the feeling of the first place he had experienced. The place before the skies had been created.
And so, he closed his eyes now and allowed the sensations of memory to wash over him.
At first, he had been alone. Alone, except for the Song. He had heard it even before he had opened his eyes.
It had been beautiful, and some part of him had recognized it as the same song from which he had been created.
Even with his eyes closed, it was as if he could see blue streams of light tracing through the darkness behind his eyelids, and he knew that the blue streams were the movements of the Song itself.
Even just that brief glimpse of it nearly overwhelmed him with a sense of wonder, and he couldn't bear to open his eyes lest he truly be overwhelmed and unable to comprehend any of what he was experiencing.
But still the Song filled the silence gently around him, and in the wake of each note, he could see after-images of the blue streams. It caressed and curled softly around him as if it were the embrace of a summer breeze.
And in it, he could hear words.
Soon, he found himself echoing them over and over.
It was his birth song, and the birth song of others like him, and within it he could hear his own name being called. Then, he had opened his eyes, and he wasn't alone.
There were others like him. Others who had been born of song. Others whose names he knew. But that wasn't what caught his attention.
He saw his maker.
He saw the one from whom the song originated.
He saw the Voice.
And the Voice had called him forward.
And He had given him a gift.
A fragment of His own being.
A living shard from which to participate in the Song.
Oh, what a glorious gift it was.
He remembered the weight of it. How it had moved through his fingers before he understood what it was. And how in the moving he had understood not just what it was, but what he was being invited into.
The Voice wanted him in the Song.
What a great honor.
What an incredible chance!
Oh, but how could he do it? Where would he even start?
He tested his gift first, shaping it this way and that, but in the end, he returned to its original form: a thin strand of essence.
It was how the Voice had given it to him; surely it would suffice. But what to play? What to play?
Then, around him, a familiar thread of the Song wound around him. It was his birth song.
Wake. Wake. Sadhi wake…
Yes, that was it. He could follow that line. He knew what came next.
Wake rising song, awake awake…
The Voice had smiled at him, and pleasure had filled the Song emanating from Him. Then the Voice had added new words to the Song. Beautiful words. And his melody tried to mimic the words back to the Voice, though he knew it was incomplete.
Wake, wake, Sadhi wake…Keeper of Song, awake awake. Awake and remember, shape what is heard, wake and carry, awake awake…
On and on, the Voice had added, and Sadhi had continued to add and incorporate the new words and phrases as best he knew how.
And he watched as the Voice's song moved outward from where He stood, a warmth pressing through the air in long invisible lines. The lines were just as he had seen behind his closed eyes, but now they had increased and, in their increasing, began to gather at certain points and flow at others.
And from those lines, the celestial courts took shape. Not built, but called into being along the paths the Song had already laid down. Even now, there were times when he could see the ley lines that ran as the foundation of the courts. In fact, there were times when, if he was very still, he could even feel them thrumming beneath the surface.
The courts had expanded, and then the rulers had descended, each pair to the court that was theirs. But above the newly formed skies, the expanse had waited, vast and unmarked and still except for the rippling vibrations of the Song.
Then the Voice had lifted His face again and sang a name into the darkness.
And light had answered.
Then Sadhi carried the harmony of what had been called, for that was the shape of his gift: not to originate, but to hold and extend what the Voice had already spoken.
And so it had continued with another name, another light, another verse to be added.
The sky began to fill one name, one verse, one thread at a time.
And then he had seen her.
He could not now say what she looked like, not precisely. For the details had softened the way details do when a single day holds more than memory can keep.
But he did remember that she had been slight, smaller than he expected a star to be, and her light seemed unusual, though he could not remember why it seemed so. Though what he remembered the clearest was how she had stepped forward.
Such a small trembling being… and yet when nothing else had yet moved, she had. She stepped forward with a boldness so disproportionate to her form that it had caught him completely off guard.
But it captivated his attention.
And when she had lifted her first note into the Song, he had widened his melody around her without thinking.
He couldn't help it.In that moment, she had been beautiful. Not in the way that demanded attention, but in a way that held it.
He had not seen anything like her before, and he had not seen anything quite like her since.
He had known her name in the moment, but no matter how hard he tried now, he could not recall it, nor even what court she was from. To his dismay, he could recall only snippets about her, and as such couldn't help but study every face he passed, whether in the highest court or the celestial ones.
And perhaps because she had been the first of the stars to join in the Song, or perhaps because of some other reason, he even now felt something toward her that he had never fully named. Whatever the case, he carried the impression of her the way he carried other beloved melodies. And like other beloved melodies, hers would surface sometimes without warning.
The way her initial note had trembled at first.
Then the way it had steadied.
The purity in it. The humble boldness. The beauty.
And then the others had joined — one voice, then another, then many.
In the chorus, he had become distracted and lost sight of her. Then, the sky had been complete, the harmony had fallen silent, and the stars had moved, each one finding the path to its court: some toward the warmth of Day, some toward the quiet of Night, some upward toward the Voice's own courts.
Each one had known exactly where it belonged. And he had continued in the Song until only he remained at the edge where the sky met the heavens.
Then he had turned and followed the ones moving upward. As he strode after them, the distant courts of Day and Night could be glimpsed far below: golden light unfurling in one direction, silver-blue radiance spreading in the other like twin wings extended from the heart of the heavens.
And yet, the incredible view of the distant courts couldn't compare to what awaited him.
Oh, what a beautiful place! How wondrously indescribable.
The crown of all creation. The land of awe, home of glory itself, where even the ground itself thrummed alive with the Song as the unfurling robe of the Most High formed the foundation from which all of heaven was raised in the most precious metals and stones and roads of gold threaded across all of the paradise and converged on the mount of the Triune and the hall of all light.
Every part of the Highest Court seemed to emanate the Song.
It was a place of breathtaking majesty.
Yet the longer Sadhi lingered in those courts, the clearer a truth became.
The grandeur of heaven did not begin with the song, nor the gold, nor the colors and light.All of it flowed from somewhere deeper. A wellspring at the heart of the highest court.
And so, Sadhi had followed the golden paths, the fingerprints of the Voice's song to their convergence, and as he did, he noticed the innumerable chambers and rooms that connected to them. Some he knew would house him and the others of his court, but there were so many… terraces that gave way to long colonnaded halls leading to wide passages that branched again into arched doorways, vaulted ceilings and balconies that overlooked gardens that had not yet known footsteps, in which pools lay still and untouched, their surfaces like living glass. From brief glances it was clear that every chamber was prepared.
Purposeful.
Personal.
Perhaps at some point he would discover their intention, but everything in Sadhi was drawn further into the palace of light. Indeed, the halls themselves seemed to lean inward, as though every passage and chamber ultimately pointed toward the yet unseen center.
Sadhi had once paused upon a high balcony overlooking one such corridor that stretched beyond sight, its archways repeating again and again into the distance like notes in an endless melody. Even if every celestial in the Highest Court claimed a chamber of their own, countless rooms would still stand waiting.
He had wondered briefly why so many had been prepared, though no answer came to him.
And just as Sadhi felt he could wait no longer to look upon the muse of his search, the throne room of the highest court opened up before him and at its center rose a wide dais, formed of living radiance that shimmered like polished crystal and burning gold woven together. Upon it was the throne of glory itself, and it was beyond anything Sadhi could have imagined.
But even in all its splendor, the throne was not the wonder of that place, but the One who sat upon it.
The one from which came all light, and color, and life.
And around Him was His court.
Just as Day had its bright host and Night its quiet gathering, so too the Voice had formed beings who dwelt with Him.
From the highest terraces to the wide open courts surrounding the throne, worship rose in unbroken harmony. Some voices were strong and ringing, others gentle and deep, but together they formed a chorus that filled the heavens with praise.
Sadhi had helped shape that chorus.
He had taught the rest, and their praise rose at his direction.
And among them were those who chose a particular calling for themselves.
They devoted themselves to unbroken worship before their Creator. And so, their music continued, bright and deep and endless, flowing through the courts of heaven like living water.
For this was what they had been made to do.
To sing.
To remember.
To rejoice in the One from whom all light and life had come.