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He entered the world not as a child, but as a concept of self—His physical form nothing more than a Worm of Time, His body marked by twelve intricate knot patterns. Before Him stood His self-proclaimed father, gazing down with gentle eyes and a soft, knowing smile.
"Amon," He said. A brand—for He was something higher than He.
Even in that moment of new existence, Amon could already discern the difference between predator and predator.
"Someday," His father once said, when Amon inquired about His protectiveness over humanity as a whole. "When the time comes, perhaps you will understand."
Amon perked up at those words, curiosity flickering through His being like a subtle disturbance in time itself. Yet, the anticipated continuation never came.
His father said nothing more. And Amon, as if understanding some unspoken rule, did not press further.
The Ancient Sun God smiled, and gently tapped Amon's head, as though acknowledging both His question... and the answer that would one day come.
Humanity was fascinating. Yet impossible to truly understand. His father spoke of them sometimes. Humanity's Will—more precisely, human lives and human importance.
The Ancient Sun God fondly recounts stories that predate even the concept of Epochs, stories shaped by nostalgia and memories so distant they might as well be unreachable.
Amon always listened. And sometimes, a peculiar impulse would stir within him. The urge to steal those memories out of sheer, inexplainable curiosity. After all, existence as a Mythical Creature could be... unbearably dull.
There were moments when He found Himself wondering—"what would it be like to feel as humans did?"
And the Ancient Sun God would smile.
And then—
His father would tell Him even more intriguing stories.
Adam smiled far too much like Their father. The same faint upturn at the corners of His lips. The same subtle crinkle at the edges of His eyes. The same quiet indulgence that lingered in His gaze.
It was the smile of a Spectator—of one who merely observed, never truly intervening.
They shared that same fascination.
Amon often found Himself wondering whether Pathways could resemble bloodlines. If that were true, then wouldn't Adam be more of a son than He was?
The thought never lingered for long, yet it surfaced often enough to be... noticeable.
At times, Amon couldn't help but wonder—
"Did father ever tell you about Aamon?" Adam asked suddenly, tapping Amon's head in the same absentminded way Their father used to when He held Amon in His palm.
"A Grand Marquis of Hell," Adam continued, tone light, "one who governs forty infernal legions, and the seventh spirit of the Goetia."
Amon knew.
It had been the very first story Their father told Him upon His birth. Aamon, the demon of life and reproduction.
"Doesn't he fit your Pathway, Mr. Error?" Adam asked, almost idly. "Aren't your avatars a kind of life... a form of reproduction?"
When Adam reached out, Amon instinctively leaned into His index finger, nuzzling against it as He had done time and time again.
"That's right," Amon agreed, His tone carrying a hint of amusement. "That's how my Pathway works."
After some time, Amon grew bored of being a mythical creature.
So, He stole a body.
He stripped away its features, its face, its distinctions, until nothing remained that could be called an identity. A blank vessel. A possibility.
Then He stole more, carefully and deliberately. He selected certain human traits he found... pleasing, piecing them together as one might assemble a puzzle whose final image only He could envision.
It was only when He stood before a mirror that He realized, almost by accident, that the result bore an uncanny resemblance to His father.
In one of the Ancient Sun God's stories, there was Loki, known as the causer of knots, tangles, and loops. The name Loki itself may have originally referred to makers of cobwebs—spiders, and similar weavers of intricacy.
Amon would like him.
If he truly existed.
If Amon tried to imitate His brother, it would go like this:
The scene is quiet, almost tender. His father sits across from Him and asks—"would you learn humanity?"
Amon smiles, His hair black like Loki's but with the same curls as the Ancient Sun God, and adjusts His monocle. "Of course," He says.
For a fleeting moment, His words sound sincere. What could one hope to gain from something utterly inconceivable?
.
.
.
You are human, and before you stands a man with a monocle.
You smile and say hello.
He calls himself Amon, and you think what a strange name.
Then you hear a slither of a snake, as if it has caught its prey.
From somewhere distant, someone yells—"Amon!" and nearby, another answers the call.
"Amon!"
Two Amons greet each other.
One laughed.
Another smiled.
And another blinks.
Through your very eyes.
It started—
—when you noticed Him—
—noticing you.