The Birth of the Unnatural
Amon was born in defiance of every law that governed the natural world.
 
Not from the union of mortal man and woman, nor even of gods and mortals, but of a god and a soul that had already met its end. His mother, Ama Mathison, had lived a simple life — by mortal standards, unremarkable. She had died young, her death a tragic accident that left her soul wandering until it passed into the care of Helheim. There, she dwelled in the quiet lands of the dead, where no souls stirred with joy, and no warmth could reach.
 
And yet, love found her.
 
Baldur — god of beauty, of poetry, of all things bright and beloved — had been cast down to Helheim after his death at the hands of his blind brother Höðr, manipulated by the trickster Loki. There he lingered, untouched by rot or despair, his divine light flickering dimly in the grey lands of the dead. Where others faded into shadow, he endured. And in his mourning, he saw her — Ama, whose spirit had not soured with bitterness. They were drawn to one another, two bright souls caught in twilight.
 
Through shared stories of lives lost and pain endured, their bond deepened. Ama's quiet strength stirred something in Baldur — not just pity, but love. And from that forbidden union, a child was conceived.
 
They named him Amon.
 
He was born between worlds — not of the living, nor truly of the dead. His skin shimmered faintly with divine energy, his eyes like pools of golden sunlight. In his laughter, there was music. In his steps, grace. But beneath it all, the unnatural. He was a paradox, a beautiful contradiction.
 
The Judgment of Hel
When Amon turned twelve, the illusion of peace shattered.
 
Hel, queen of the underworld, ruler of those who die of age and sickness, discovered the boy. Her gaze, cold and absolute, fell upon him as she summoned Baldur before her throne. She was not furious — fury was too warm, too mortal. She was offended. The balance had been broken. Death had been undone. Creation mocked.
 
"You have made an abomination," she said, her voice like stone grinding in the dark. "And you dared to keep him secret from me."
 
Baldur pleaded. Ama wept. They begged for mercy.
 
Hel listened, and for reasons she did not speak aloud — whether due to some sliver of kinship with the dead woman, or because the boy's life interested her — she did not demand his soul.
 
Instead, she exiled him.
 
"Let him live — but not here. Cast him into the world of mortals. If he survives, so be it. But he shall know suffering, and he shall know what it means to be alone."
 
Cast Into the Mortal World
Amon’s last memory of his mother was her fingers brushing his hair back, tears rolling down her cheeks like rivers in slow motion. Baldur, ever composed, knelt and placed a hand over his heart.
 
"We will find you," he whispered. "One day. I swear it."
 
Then the veil was torn, and the light of the mortal world, blinding and cold, swallowed him.
 
He fell — not from the sky, but from everything he'd ever known. And he landed hard.
 
For months, he lived like a ghost. Stealing scraps from carts. Sleeping under roots or in abandoned huts. Hunger gnawed at him until it became familiar. The golden light in his eyes faded to embers. He no longer prayed, only whispered names he could no longer remember with clarity. Baldur. Ama.
 
He began to forget their voices.
 
The Hand in the Dark
On a frost-bitten morning when Amon could barely stand, a hand reached out from the haze.
 
It was warm. Calloused. Human.
 
The man who saved him was named Cornelius Roche, a priest in the woods who carried no symbols of the gods Amon had heard of. He spoke gently but with conviction. His presence was both comforting and unnerving — like a calm sea that hides its depth.
 
Cornelius brought Amon to his home, a quiet stone temple nestled among towering trees. There, he met Lilliana, Cornelius’ wife, who looked upon him not with pity, but with a mother’s wary concern.
 
"Do you have any family, dear?" she asked, her voice laced with genuine care.
 
Amon lied.
 
"No. Not anymore."
 
And so he stayed.
 
The Roches spoke often of Faliruk, a god unlike the ones worshipped in cities or painted in temples. He was a forgotten god, they said — an old one. A god of masks and shadows, of perception and transformation. Their "congregation" was small. A few faithful who believed Faliruk was the truth behind beauty, the form behind form.
 
At first, Amon paid it no mind. He still held hope that Baldur would descend and bring him home. That Hel would change her mind. But the years passed.
 
And no one came.
 
The Transformation
As his heart hardened, he began to listen.
 
Faliruk did not demand obedience. He did not promise salvation. He offered something simpler.
 
"Be as you are. Not as they demand."
 
Amon’s body began to change.
 
His once sun-kissed skin turned to ash-grey, like moonlight through fog. His hair darkened to the color of a raven's wing. His golden eyes, once the mark of his divine lineage, deepened into coals — still burning, but now smoldering, not shining.
 
The world called him an abomination.
 
But in his own eyes, he was transcendent.
 
Was he not the definition of beauty? Born of love in death, forged in exile, remade in truth? What could be more honest than that?
 
He no longer waited for Baldur.
 
He no longer mourned Ama.
 
He had become Amon — not the son of a god, not the mistake of a dead soul, but a new force. A living paradox.
 
A thing of divine beauty shaped by sorrow, fire, and shadow.