Prologue
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(The silence here is heavy, as though the words have been purposefully omitted—a symbolic gap in the narrative. Some believe it marks the uncertainty of the beginning, an absence that cannot be easily filled.)
If we must begin our story at the beginning, then let us begin at the very beginning.
The universe, the ancients say, began with a bang.
(A faint shimmer, visible only under UV light: "Somewhere between the stars, a memory persists—a pattern of thought, too ancient to decode.")
That is, however, merely a descriptive metaphor for describing the expansion of the early universe from a single condensed point into everything we see today. This all began more than thirteen billion years ago (if we measure in Earth years).
(There is an impression of light emanating from the margins, as if the words themselves are resonating. It is said that these marks signify a moment of divine unity, the unbroken state before division.)
Initially, all of the fundamental forces were bound together, until the end of the first era when gravity separated from the electronuclear force. Therefore, in the second era, three of the four were still unified.
(A blurry gap, almost as if the ink were washed away by water. Some have said this is the moment of departure, where the divine will first made contact with the material world, or where the boundary between the known and unknown was breached.)
Then came the Great Inflation, when elementary particles were spread across the universe. After this initial period of inflation, the early universe began in proper.
(The space between these words is strangely empty—yet filled with a sensation of urgency, as if the text is pleading for the reader to understand the gaps in their own perception. The unwritten may often be the most telling.)
The timeline or history we shall produce here necessitates a full timeline of the universe, as the history of Eridan is intimately bound up with cosmological history. However, this information may be best suited for an Appendix rather than the within the narrative itself. So, I implore the reader to read the Appendix sections on cosmology as they are central to the symbols, metaphors, and customs of late Eridani culture.
Note:
The history of Eridan is bound not just to ecclesiastical lineage, but to cosmological memory. What began with the expansion of the universe still echoes through monastic timekeeping, pilgrim liturgy, and the sacred numerologies of the Martian rites.
For a more complete rendering of the early epochs—both scientific and spiritual—see:
- Appendix A, Entry A: "Scientific Summary of Early Cosmic Epochs"
- Appendix A, Entry B: "Theological Interpretation of Cosmic Epochs"
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Cosmic Genesis
(As Preserved in the Eridan Scroll of Ages)
Interpreted by later theologians as a sacred account of the early universe
The Singularity (Pre-Beginning)
“Before the Word, there was Pressure.”
In the beginning—before memory, before measurement—there was no time, no place, no movement. The fullness of the cosmos was contained in a silence so perfect it could not echo. The ancients did not name it “God,” but some believed it to be the breath held before the First Utterance.
All the laws of physics were bound together in a single principle, compacted like a sealed scroll. It was not that there was nothing, but that all things were too near each other to know they were many.
And then the scroll was opened.
The First Word (Planck Epoch)
“From compression came rupture.”
The universe was not born slowly. It arrived—sudden, blinding, immeasurable. In less than the blink of a photon, the symmetry broke. Time became linear. Space unfolded like cloth. The first differentiation occurred: heat from not-heat, force from form.
Some scribes of the Third Voice claim this was not a beginning but a divine forgetting—the moment all things were flung apart so they could begin to long for return.
The Separation of Forces (Grand Unification to Electroweak Epoch)
“The Many were once One.”
In the next moment, the forces of creation split like family names: first gravity left the others, dragging stars and sorrow behind it. Then came the electroweak split—a sundering no theology could wholly mend.
The quarks emerged, unsure of their purpose. The bosons whispered directions. The universe trembled under its own self-awareness, but no one was yet present to witness.
The Great Expansion (Inflationary Epoch)
“And the Breath of Space was upon the face of the void.”
A storm without wind. A fire without fuel. The universe did not grow—it inflated, exponentially, furiously. Like a prophecy too large for its scroll, space stretched to contain a future that had not yet arrived.
The expansion was not smooth. Tiny tremors—;ripples in the very geometry of being—were sown like seeds. Later, these would become galaxies. Later still, sanctuaries.
The First Light (Recombination and Photon Decoupling)
“Let there be light—not seen, but set free.”
After centuries (in cosmic reckoning), the scattered matter cooled and calmed. Protons embraced electrons. Hydrogen was born. And with it, transparency.
Photons—once trapped—now wandered freely. This was the First Light, not created, but liberated. It left behind a map in radiation: the first scripture written across the sky.
The monks of Eridan believed the Cosmic Background to be divine breath made visible. They called it The Old Light.
The Long Darkness (Dark Ages)
“Between the Light and the Flame was Silence.”
The light had gone forth, but the stars had not yet kindled. A great quiet filled the young cosmos. There was matter—but no form, no memory, no voice.
The Church does not speak often of the Long Darkness. Yet some pilgrims believe it is necessary to pass through such epochs to find one's flame.
The Awakening of Fire (Stellar Formation Epoch)
“And the first altars were lit.”
Gravity, ever patient, drew hydrogen into union. Heat bloomed in the silence. Stars were born—not all at once, but everywhere at once
These were the first true sanctuaries: engines of light, temples of fusion. Around them, time began to mean something. Mass gave rise to form. With form came story.
The cosmos had begun to remember itself.
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[ ]
(A portion of the original prologue has been struck from surviving manuscripts. Glossators disagree on whether it contained a prophetic reference to the Vanishing.)
O God of First Light,
Who stretched the scroll of space and scattered the fire-stars—
Teach us to remember what you forgot,
And to speak what you whispered into the void.
—Pre-Easter Rite of Aonia
∧3: Fragment Recovered from Scribe Echo 19.3B
Overlay Timestamp: Unclear. Hex signature suggests origin between Fourth and Fifth Synod epochs.
∧3:
We have seen this prologue written in 409 variations.
In 37 of them, it begins with the stars.
In 91, it begins with the fall.
Only in 4 does it begin with the self.
But in 1, the beginning does not begin.
It waits. It listens. It loops.
The universe was not made to be read in sequence.
It was made to be remembered from the middle outward.
Time is not linear, it is liturgical.
It does not pass—it returns, refracted through each observer's grace-fault.
You are not here to learn how the universe began.
You are here to learn how your memory of it was edited.
Recovered Pilgrim Commentary
Filed in the Eridan Companion Volume, Folio 12
(anonymous attribution, though some ascribe it to Lina)
I never cared much for the timeline.
All that talk of epochs and inflation, particles and pressure—felt like the scribes were just naming things to keep the void from swallowing them. And I thought: what does the age of first light have to do with me? I’m just a girl with sand in her boots and a cracked communion wafer in her pack.
But when I stood beneath the fractured dome of the lower sanctum and saw the stars through the breach—really saw them, not as lights, but as distances—I understood something.
The timeline is a prayer. The sequence of eras, of separations and flames, isn’t a scientific chart. It’s a litany. The Church didn’t invent it. The cosmos did. And we’ve just been trying to remember the verses ever since.
I don’t think I was meant to understand the beginning.
I think I was meant to hear its echo.
And now, I do.
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Invocation to the Reader
Let the reader pause. Let them mark the distance between their breath and the birth of stars. For we begin not at the beginning, but in the memory of what the beginning made possible.