Of the Beginning

Before there Was there was Not. There was no darkness, there was no light. There only Was an absence. But such an absence was not natural, as before there was Not there Was something else - something different, as the Cycle of Time has dictated. And so, a thing was made to fill the gap, and that thing was Light.
She appeared as a speck that floated through the vastness of Nothing, as bright as the combined light of the Seven Stars, her rays piercing through the Absence in her glory. This light is called - in this World and this Age - Ivranar, and she marked the beginning of creation. All things that are fair are woven from her threads.
Soon, it came to pass that the Absence was no more, and there was only Ivranar and, where the rays of her Light would not reach, the Darkness: Ruheil. He was, and still is, her immortal lover and foe; for wherever she goes, he follows always in her wake. There cannot be Light without Dark, and there cannot be Dark without Light.
Ivranar knew of Ruheil at the very moment that he came to exist. He who would follow her to the End. In those times before Time, she loved him, and he her, and everything was in a balance. They took form - he, a man clothed in a robe of darkness; her, a woman in a dress of light - and they strode around what Was together, experimenting in creation of things strange and beautiful, unnameable, and indescribable.
Thus it was that, over time, they came to raise a Great Hall. A hall whose ceiling was vaulted, and cast in Darkness, whose pillars - as thick as a mountain - were woven of the delicate interplay between Ivranar and Ruheil, their supports built in his love for her, and hers for him. There it was that they placed the Great Fire - whose flames were the dance between her Light and his Dark - and wove the first Musics into the breath of that Hall. It was to become Harrowhall, or the hall of Shadow, for Shadow - Harrow - was the first and true offspring of Ivranar and Ruheil.
But seven more followed: Morundor, Forlonin, Aerlindor, Mira, Feylil, Maeven, and Hrindor. All strong and fair beyond reckoning, wise and bold in a way that cast Harrow under a dark light, and he grew jealous of them.
So it came that these Eight children had made their homes into the eight pillars of Harrowhall; and always Ivranar would sit across the One Fire from Ruheil. Around the two their children laughed and talked and played, learning in the art of creation, adding their own music to the breath of Harrowhall, until it had grown to a symphonic resonance, alive with the inklings of creatures fantastic and fell, words and languages still in the early ages of their lives. Harrow alone had succeeded the most in this craft, and always he was seen weaving strange and wonderful things, things that he wove in mockery of the others, and so they grew quickly to dislike him.
Like children in fight, soon Morundor had had enough, and he came to Ivranar - for she, of his parents, was his favourite - and he pleaded to her that she would punish Shadow. Now, Ruheil too, heard this and - being most in love with his first born, and so blinded to his mockery - was angered. He spoke then, his voice powerful, deep.
“Why do you ask such things, Morundor, what with all that we give you.? Is it not enough, the freedom that you have to create as you will? Are you so petty that the achievement of another shall anger you in such a way? Be gone, my child, go and pout at another, for you will hear no pity from us.”
Then in answer spoke Morundor. “Ruheil, our Father of Darkness, hear me now. I find what Harrow weaves to be in mockery of me and my kin, and I wish such actions to end. He will not hearken to us, but maybe to you. All I ask of you is to see to his trickery, to bring an end to a bothersome affront on us all.”