The Forgotten Sacrifice

A cosmic tale of sacrifice, where divine beings surrendered their eternal power to divide harmony into realms, birthing humanity as forgotten guardians of balance.

The Creators watched in grief as their gifts of abundance and imagination were twisted into instruments of war. The Preservers, who had kept the delicate balance of all things for countless ages, strained as the threads of harmony snapped one after another. And the Destroyers, silent for so long, began to stir. For even they, embodiments of ending, mourned the chaos that consumed creation, knowing this was not the destruction that gave birth to renewal but the kind that only devoured. At last, upon the eve of collapse, when entire worlds were burning and species dwindled into shadows of their former glory, the Three gathered in the heart of the cosmic void. Their voices, like currents deeper than time, filled the silence between stars. The Creators spoke of sorrow, of how even unity could not withstand the weight of fear when hearts forgot their sacred bond. The Preservers spoke of necessity, of how the fabric of the galaxy had become too strained to mend. And the Destroyers, their voice heavy as thunder over still water, spoke of endings that were not punishment but mercy.

Together they reached their decision. The galaxy, as it was, could not endure. Unity, boundless and singular, had become too fragile, too vast for mortals to carry upon their shoulders. To save life, it must be divided, its weight spread across many realms. Thus, with hands of creation, threads of preservation, and fire of destruction, the Three wove anew. They took the one boundless galaxy and breathed into it a great shattering—not of death, but of rebirth. The single realm fractured into countless galaxies, each a smaller harmony, each with its own rhythm, its own chance at balance. Species once pressed together into one expanse were given space to grow apart, to find their own paths, their own lessons.

The dividing of the galaxy was not a simple stroke of will, nor the sweep of a divine hand across the fabric of eternity. It was a task so heavy, so immense, that even the Creators, Preservers, and Destroyers—the triad who had spun the cosmos from silence—stood in stillness before it, uncertain of how to proceed. The galaxy was collapsing under its own wounds, species warring, harmony broken, and the vast unity of boundless worlds had become a burden too heavy to bear. To divide and scatter life across many realms was the only path toward salvation, yet the doing of it threatened to unravel creation itself. For endless cycles, the Three contemplated in silence, weighing every possibility, their thoughts echoing like thunder through the void. The Creators searched for the spark of new beginnings, the Preservers for balance unbroken, and the Destroyers for the mercy of an ending that could heal rather than devour. Still, the answer did not come.

It was then that their gaze turned to the elders of the Vaivṛiddha-Niyamāh, the proto-divine race who embodied the ancient laws of expansion and contraction, multiplication and narrowing. The Vaivṛiddha-Niyamāh were rare among all beings, for their powers were not born of conquest or inheritance, but of the primal forces that underlay existence itself. They could multiply the seed of one into the abundance of many, and they could narrow the infinite into paths so thin they could scarcely be crossed. In their duality lay the mirror of creation and limitation, the very forces needed to divide the infinite galaxy into many realms. And so, the Three descended into the sacred gathering place of the elders, their forms woven of light, silence, and storm.

“Elders of the First,” the Preservers spoke, their voice deep as the weight of oceans, “you have seen the collapse that has overtaken the galaxy. War spreads like fire, and the song of unity has turned to ash. We have searched all paths, and none are without peril. Yet your powers alone may hold the key to the salvation of all species.”

The Creators stepped forward, eyes blazing like dawn. “With your gift of multiplication, new realms and galaxies can be born. Each species may find space to grow without devouring its kin. With your gift of narrowing, the bridges between these realms can be sealed to the thinnest threads, so that none may easily trespass and disturb the fragile balance.”

The Destroyers’ voice rumbled like a storm beyond the horizon. “This task is no simple act, but a sacrifice. If you choose to undertake it, you will not remain what you are. Your powers will be spent, your divine essence emptied. You will live, but as mortals, vulnerable and unguarded.”

The elders of the Vaivṛiddha-Niyamāh listened in silence. They were not blind to the suffering of the galaxy, nor deaf to the cries of species falling into ruin. They had long known that their powers were not meant for themselves, but for the preservation of balance across all. They conferred among themselves, their voices like wind through an ancient forest, heavy with remembrance and foresight. Finally, the eldest among them, Satisaṁpannā of the multiplying flame, rose and spoke with a voice trembling yet resolute. “If our sacrifice is the last hope of many, then we shall not refuse. Better to become dust than to let countless realms perish. Let our essence be scattered, so that life may continue.”

And so it was begun—the greatest act since creation itself. The elders stood in circle, their hands and voices weaving together the powers of multiplication and narrowing. With every breath, stars burst forth, whole galaxies spun from their essence, realms multiplying into infinity. The Creators steadied their vision, guiding the birth of new realms into beauty and order. The Preservers bound them with balance, ensuring none would collapse into chaos. The Destroyers, with measured hand, closed the bridges, narrowing the paths until communication and travel became almost impossible. Where once there had been one boundless unity, now countless realms stretched across eternity, each a song unto itself, each a fragile hope of survival.

Yet the act was vast beyond measure, and it consumed the Vaivṛiddha-Niyamāh utterly. Their radiance dimmed, their wings of power fell away, and the essence that once made them divine drained into the infinite expanse they had created. When the final realm was born and the last path narrowed, the elders fell silent, no longer gods but mortals, frail and vulnerable, stripped of memory and might. They had given all, and in their giving had become the most defenseless of all species.

The Three, beholding this, were struck with sorrow. They knew that in their weakened state, the Vaivṛiddha-Niyamāh would become prey to those who once misused them, should they be discovered. To protect them, the gods chose to hide them away. In secret they carried the fallen race to a nameless world in an unknown galaxy, a planet rich with rivers, forests, and skies wide enough to cradle them. “Here,” the Preservers whispered, “you will live in safety, your memories veiled, your powers forgotten. You will not recall the sacrifice you made, nor will any species know of you. Thus you will be spared the burden of your past, and none will seek to misuse you again.”

The Creators breathed into the soil, seeding it with abundance, so that the Vaivṛiddha-Niyamāh might never hunger. The Preservers bound the cycles of day and night, season and tide, so that balance would guard their lives. The Destroyers cast veils around the world, cloaking it from all searching eyes, ensuring no species would stumble upon it. And when their work was complete, the Three withdrew into silence, leaving the Vaivṛiddha-Niyamāh to their new life.

Countless years passed, and the memory of the Great Division faded from all creation. None remembered the unity that had once been, nor the sacrifice that had saved them. The Vaivṛiddha-Niyamāh themselves, now stripped of divinity, became the humans of Earth. They lived as mortals, unaware of their sacred past, their powers erased, their history dissolved into myth and dream. They tilled the soil, built homes, raised children, wept, and sang, believing themselves single in the immensity of creation, never knowing they were once its guardians.

No species could reach them, for none knew they existed. No memory of the Great Division remained, for it had been sealed by divine will, lest any attempt to reunite the realms and collapse them again into chaos. The galaxy, now many galaxies, thrived in their separateness, each realm a song distinct, fragile, and sacred. Yet though the memory was erased, the essence could not be wholly destroyed. In dreams, in whispers, in the strange yearning of mortals who look to the stars and feel they belong to something greater, the truth lingers. Exceptions, as always, remain.

Thus the Vaivṛiddha-Niyamāh became human, forgotten saviors of creation. They walk the Earth as mortals, but within them sleeps the faint echo of the powers that once reshaped the cosmos. The stars themselves seem to watch, waiting to see if, in some distant age, remembrance might return, and humanity awaken once more to its role in the vast, sacred harmony of realms. For the story of division is not only of endings, but of beginnings, and what was once sacrificed may yet rise again in a new form.

Over countless ages, when the Vaivṛddha-Niyamāh descended into mortal flesh and became the species now called Human, the brilliance of their powers dimmed. And yet, though the powers faded, the echoes of their essence remained within the mind and heart of humanity. For the women who inherited the essence of the Vṛddhamātṛ, life’s challenges still stirred in them the ancient impulse: to connect through words. When storms of confusion struck, they would seek not silence but communion. A conversation was never only a string of words; it was a bridge across the abyss of pain. Talking became a way to release the invisible burdens, to feel heard, to weave their inner chaos into threads of meaning. For them, expression itself was healing, and connection restored the balance of the soul. Yet, when this ancient instinct met the world of men, misunderstandings often rose like shadowed tides. The men, who bore within themselves the spirit of the Niyampitṛ, carried a different inheritance. When burdened by stress or lost in the labyrinth of their thoughts, they turned inward, retreating to their “Isolation.” The isolation could be a room, a book, a glowing screen, or simply the silence of being alone. Within this solitude, they attempted to reclaim their sense of control, piecing together solutions in the privacy of their minds. To them, withdrawal was not rejection but renewal—a sacred pause to mend what felt broken within. But to the women who longed for connection, this silence often struck like distance, as though love itself had withdrawn behind stone walls.

Thus, in the modern world, the echoes of these ancient traits often clashed. The man, believing he served by protecting others from his chaos, fell silent, not realizing that his silence sounded like absence. The woman, believing she served by offering her voice, spoke her burdens aloud, not realizing that her words sometimes weighed upon him like chains demanding solutions. Both were guided by their ancient inheritance, yet neither fully remembered the sacred balance their ancestors once held. For the Vaivṛddha-Niyamāh had known that withdrawal and connection were not opposites, but partners in the dance of harmony. One night in Nowhere, beneath the endless white fog where time did not flow, Aman—the Radiance of Sun and Star—explained this truth to the seekers of the Great Ordeal. “You see,” she spoke, her voice shining like the meeting of dawn and dusk, “the human heart still carries the memory of Vṛddhamātṛ and Niyampitṛ. Women carry the longing to heal through closeness; men carry the need to heal through solitude. Yet neither path is complete without the other. Connection without pause overwhelms; solitude without return to love corrodes. The Ordeal you walk is not only across the ten paths—it is also the Ordeal of learning to listen beyond your own nature.” The companions fell silent, for in her words they saw the mirror of their own struggles. Ayonijā remembered the times she pressed her truth upon others who were not ready to hear. Anantshakti recalled the many times his silence had wounded those who only wished to stand with him. And Rudraveena and Yakṣhirā, each in their own way, saw the ancient patterns unfolding within their souls. Thus, in the whiteness of Nowhere, the story of the Vaivṛddha-Niyamāh became not only a myth of origins but a revelation of the present. Humans no longer possessed the radiant powers of their ancestors, but they carried their shadows—habits shaped by cosmic memory. The true Ordeal, then, was to awaken not only to divine trials but also to one another: to learn that when women speak, they ask not for solutions but presence; when men retreat, they ask not for rejection but patience. To honor both the cave and the conversation was to honor the divine parents of humanity, and in doing so, to walk the forgotten path of sacred balance.