After sacrifice, toil, and a long dark twilight of the soul, Silivren had done it. He had moved from the old life. It cost him everything save his own consciousness, perhahps soul was a better word.
And he had gained, through the sacrifice of the Founder, everything. A city, brothers and sisters, power, glory, everything. He wasn’t the same. There was no ambition, no greed, just.. contenment. It wasn’t about what he had gained. It was about the one he had come to know. The First Born Mage, millenia ago, had given his all to offer his kind, indeed, all kinds, restoration, redemption. He rewrote the code of the fallen universe as he did. With his dying breath, he descended to death, and arose. Seated in the love of the Father of all, he waited for the code to rewrite itself.
He had recruited them. Not the most powerful, influential, intelligent. Through a scale of worth known only to himself, he found little creators. He sent them, with his message, in a thousand stories, songs, to the world he left behind. He continued to call out to those below. He would until the sun went black, the moon burned in crimson, and the stars burst from vision.
Silivren returned to his world. He sowed thin places again, but from one client only, for no pay. He tutored those who wished to learn the craft, entered the market, had a normal life. Could they see the glory? Could they see the life? Surely it showed through.
So Silivren pulled out his tablet, with a minor modification, and approached a dry well.
With a breath, he blazed the ground of vegetation, and the chalk spun in the air, three fresh sticks. He sang to the trees, the grass, the birds, and those who had ears to hear. When he was done, he felt the Fabric stretch, and then, a slight opening. The well flowed again. The vegetation sprouted as though it had never left, and Silivren left, a smile on his face.