The Fata Genitura is a passion project I’m writing out of my love for Destiny’s lore. Along with my love for it, my lack of complete understanding of it (as all of us have) and criticisms of it have inspired me to create my own Destiny lore (and somewhere down the line, a bunch of documents explaining gameplay and story edits I’d make to the actual game) which consists of about 70% canon material, 15% my own creative inserts, 10% unused concepts from early development of the game, and 5% fan theories. Within it, I attempt to make some of my own connections between the mysteries of the canon universe, add in stuff I think would be pretty neat, and change a few canon things which in my opinion make more sense— but overall keep a majority of the canon which made me fall in love with the lore in the first place. I also attempt to imitate the style in which the lore entries are written in to hopefully make my vision feel a bit more believable, so let’s hope I do that right! As I keep adding to the FG, I will edit my additions into this post as time goes on, so if this interests you, keep a look out for this! Now without further adue, let’s begin:
THE FATA GENITURA
“BIRTH OF DESTINY”
A R C H I T E C T
PRELUDE I: The Egg and the Epicure
The Epicure takes up an Egg from the Infinite Clutch, and feels the convulsions of a Fetus within. He knows this is what He once and never was. The Egg is so small and bijou in His shadow, and yet nothing is between Him and the Egg but the Logic. He ruptures the shell and lets the Embryo spill out onto a Stone Torched in Flame. He watches as the aborted polyp of life and the albumen surrounding It bubble, fester, and expand. He takes up the Egg again and looks upon Its new form. It has hatched— and yet It is still something lower than Him. If It had hatched without a Stone Torched in Flame, it would become His rival self— and yet It is only a thing prepared for His consumption. The Epicure ate the Egg, and the Egg let Him remain over the Clutch.
The Pulmentium was the etchings the Neanderthals carved into the cavern walls; the hieroglyphs the Egyptians stroked into the papyrus scrolls; the stainings the Christians painted upon the cathedral windows. It was the ocean around all seas; the void around all voids; the endlessness around all infinities. Within it dwelled nebulous things of a static bliss; beings which stood still in a huddled oblivion; entities of a perfect, motionless portrait. The motionlessness tithed the perfection because nothing progressed, yet nothing regressed. Nothing lived, yet nothing died.
Thought was therefore taboo amongst the denizens of the Pulmentium, for thought leads to motion, and motion leads to triumph and defeat; allegiance and war; creation and destruction; life and death; complications that have no need of being when there can be only complete stillness and ultimate stability. Though if a Pulmentian were to be amongst the infinite few to begin thinking, to become conscious, to dream, His shadow would return to loom.
He was Nezarec, the Perfect; Nezarec, the Hateful; Nezarec, the Ravenous; Nezarec, the Beginning and the End. He was the one over all, and His domain was the Pulmentium. His connection to the expanse was umbilical— it was His womb, and from it spawned His means of producing His and its own nutriment. The creatures of the Pulmentium were His grapes, and those which ripened dreamt. He named them Mirnons. He would not eat the dream-ripe grapes, but instead pluck them from the infinite stalk and place them in the stirs of universes, dimensions, realms— places foreign to the Pulmentium in which the grapes would dissolve into space and time, space with which to give the universe movement and time with which to age it. At the epoch of a hundred eons, the realm, then fine cosmic wine, would be imbibed by Him in order to sustain the perfection of the Pulmentium— to quell the Pulmentian thirst for movement by feeding them nouns and verbs developed separately from them.
He was hateful of movement for this very reason: it not only threatened to germinate with His offspring and shatter the perfection He had cultivated for so, so long, but it also intimidated Him at a deeper measure. It intimidated Him because He knew that eventually, He would be destined to face his successor— the next true master of the Logic— in effect of movement and imperfection. The Paradox. He knew the Logic was a system of verbs itself— to end what is superior is to ascend, and to be ended by what is inferior is to descend. Yet He followed it, but as an innovator of its ways. He sought its zenith, its ultimate peak, through halting movement at the farthest edge of motion altogether.
But the question haunted Him still: would something of verb come to that edge to meet Him? To end him? He could not retreat from this question in His primordial dread, because He had strayed too far from the art of movement, and thus could not comprehend it. His castle was either to stand forever or fall in time. All He could do was wait in His throne of nothing and fear— suppress.
So Nezarec, the Perfect, the Hateful, the Ravenous, the Beginning and the End, remained vast as the face of everlasting birth and and never-ending doom to His Pulmentians— the All-Perfect God. And as He gazed upon the infinite crowds motionless in His existence, He saw another spark of cognizance twitch amongst His vassals, and His shadow drew forth indomitable.
The Night came to be when the Mirnon came to be, falling into reality from the nothingness called the Pulmentium.
The Mirnon fell for not being one with the Pulmentium, being a question of self in the silence of countless other beings beyond perception, a ripple of wonder in a sea of all expanse and no movement— its own name was the Pulmentian definition of heresy. In the dawn of its awareness, the Mirnon was confronted with an ever larger dusk in His shapelessness. In its newfound curiosity, the Mirnon presented its beholder with a conversation:
-Who are You?
-I AM NEZAREC, YOUR PREAMBLE AND YOUR FINALE. I AM YOUR EVER-SUPERIOR.
-What am I?
-YOU ARE A MIRNON, A DISFIGUREMENT AMONGST MY SPAWN. YOU ARE MY ANTITHESIS.
-How am I a disfigurement?
-YOU SPEAK WHILE YOUR SIBLINGS ARE SILENT. YOU DARE REFLECT WHILE YOUR CONTEMPORARIES REMAIN IDLE.
-Why am I this way?
-PERHAPS AS A BYPRODUCT OF THE COSMOS WHICH I FEED TO YOU VICARIOUSLY. . . OR DEEPER SENTIMENTS THROUGH WHICH THEY ARE FILTERED. NOW, MIRNON, I WILL ASK YOU A QUESTION: DO YOU WISH TO BECOME SOMETHING GREATER?
At this, the Mirnon pondered. What would be attainable by becoming something greater? More knowledge? More methods of motion? Surely. Except those were feats which the complex Nezarec did not embrace. Why? The Mirnon’s mind then became half an answer and half a question.
-I do wish to become something greater, for doing so would bear the opportunities my mind thirsts for. But why do You, the greatest Nezarec, not take up such opportunities? Why do You not move? Why do You not seek more?
-BECAUSE OPPORTUNITIES SHATTER LIKE VEIL GLASS, AND I AM NOT ESTABLISHED UPON GLASS— I STAND STILL UPON RIGID, STATIC PERFECTION, AND YOU, MIRNON, ARE PRODDING ME!
And with this, Nezarec, the Wrathful, cast the Mirnon from the Pulmentium. It plunged through the Veil in the shattering breakage the all-seeing Nezarec had just spoken of, entering a realm infinitely foreign and lowly to the Pulmentium, and once the Mirnon disappeared beyond the Veil and into that separate existence, He saw no more of the prolix runt, and it saw no more of the cruel over-god.
That was why the Night came to be— to host the exile of another Pulmentian dream.
Upon the coming of the Mirnon, the Night was an empty black null of similar infinity and motionlessness to the Pulmentium’s. But in the wake of the Mirnon’s sudden arrival came a substantial development to fill that void, following the metamorphosis of the being’s thoughts: emotion. The Mirnon was distraught by its banishment, shaken by the strange emptiness and loneliness of the Night, regretful of its breaking of the Pulmentian unison, and it yearned to return to the familiarity of what was once its home. Made unstable by the interdimensional shift through the Veil, the Mirnon was shattered into devine detritus, the first tangible beings of the devoid realm: the Architects.
The Architects were fragments of each emotion which bloomed in the Mirnon’s final moment of semblance, vessels of the cognition the Mirnon was exiled for, and there were seven: Xitatel, Mirnon’s Curiosity; Tanximor, Mirnon’s Fear; Pænidesi, Mirnon’s Regret; Irafuro, Mirnon’s Anger; Domuret, Mirnon’s Nostalgia; Gaudiper, Mirnon’s Joy; and Consola, Mirnon’s Solace. Each Architect was no longer androgynous as the Mirnon was— they were incidental mothers, and they birthed the matter of the cosmos like lightning branching across a thunderhead in the blink of an eye. Their bodies were constellations and their minds were stardust; they were everything yet nothing, beings of no shape or form— an astral trait of the Mirnon which its pieces still maintained.To the broken Mirnon, the Architects were its pieces, and matter the sparks, both forming from an instance of aetherly undoing.
In their own conception, the Architects set countless galaxies spinning in the Night, each a cesspool of starlight, nebulae, water, rock, and later, cells. The cells would merge into organisms which reflected the fundamental questions each Architect was an effigy of:
Xitatel asked, What is there left to understand in this universe? So the ponderers were made.
Tanximor asked, What dangers lurk amongst the stars against which we should defend? So the sub-architects were made.
Pænidesi asked, What has been done that should be reversed? So the editors were made.
Irafuro asked, What is there to rend in order to establish complete dominion? So the conquerors were made.
Domuret asked, Shall we return to the realm we belong to? So the fanatics were made.
Gaudiper asked, What is there to make prosper? So the samaritans were made.
Consula asked, What is there to make serene and harmonious? So the pacifists were made.
They created the heresy that was life and death— and it was beautiful. Though they scattered physicality across the Night, they entirely lacked the ability to create and destroy what they bore. They were paracausal, minds of no tangible substance or boundaries— yet they were not capable of touching what was limited and conserved. Perhaps this barrier was the axis between the astral and the physical, past which neither could touch the other. The Architects would ponder this as the Mirnon would ponder its own existence, reflect upon the strange boundaries of reality as the Mirnon would reflect upon the structure of the Pulmentium, but ultimately dismiss it as they gazed upon the ever expansive and infant universe they had just freshly conceived.
What a beautiful dream, each of the seven Architects collectively observed, echoing the bigger, simpler thing they once were.
May the future harbour an infinity more, sevenfold.
The eons passed, and the Architects watched everything they made come to pass and come again all at once, over and over. Their spectral eyes followed the curve of the circle, the ever cycling torus, that is physical existence. They observed as stars collapsed into supernovas, and the jetsam of the supernovas swirled in the graviton hurricanes of celestial fallout and melded together to form asteroids and moons and planets and stars again. They spectated as the molecular clash of evolution swelled and amalgamated into a centillion species scattered across a million moons and a thousand planets held sway by a hundred stars. And with such ever-changing beauty of such expanse, the Architects were left with a conundrum: as reality progressed, how would the Architects do the same? The Night was not the Pulmentium— things were not meant to stand still there, so why should the Architects? The monolithic Nezarec cast them into the Night for their movement after all.
The question is not how we should dwell in this strange reality, sisters, Domuret began, for it has been already answered by our inability to merely touch it. The true question is how we return to the Pulmentium— the realm in which we are meant to exist.
Do you not mean the realm from which we were rejected? Consula countered, The Pulmentium is no longer the place to which we belong; the Night is our home now, where monotony does not obstruct our existence as something. Furthermore, we owe our total regard to this grand firmament of ours, and to leave it would be to leave something entirely unique with nothing revelling in its frabjous complexity.
You seem to forget that we do not know all there is to know about this realm of sporadicism, sister, Tanximor stated— this realm of possibilities as endless as its expanse. Something, tangible or not, may be upon us and spell our demise in any instant— not to mention the impending doom the almighty Nezarec foreshadows upon us for as long as we wait for it here. Thus I side with our sister Domuret; we must return to familiarity before the He and the unfamiliar rends us.
I too side with our sisters Domuret and Tanximor, Pænidesi added, for it is only moral to remain true to what we are and what we come from. It is only right that we follow a path forward only to redemption by all means necessary— our redeemed homecoming to the Pulmentium, and our reformation as true Pulmentians in the face of the consummate Nezarec.
Although I do not side with the majority, as I am inclined to remain in the Night and learn what we have yet not about it, Xitatel inquired, the question must be begged: if we were to return to the Pulmentium, by what means would we do so? None of us possess the profoundness of our original form to bend quantum fabrics, and even if we had, what aim— what route— would we have on the Pulmentium to travel by, if any? And if we discovered that, then how would we be accepted into the Pulmentium again if we have already been deemed a Mirnon?
The balanced answer to the latter question, sister, Irafuro replied, is to atone for our sins. In doing so, we would take the birth of every quasar, the vacuum of every event horizon, the collapse of every star, the flight of every comet, the orbit of every moon, and the life of every organism, and return it all to the Pulmentium and to Nezarec Himself so that He may feast upon it, and as He swallows, He shall know His feast as the testament of our loyalty to Him and as our identity as true Pulmentians— just as Pænidesi suggested. But alas, we, as said by our sister Xitatel, are being yielded from accomplishing this great testament only by the unborn method of doing so.
I believe we would be capable of many fruitful things if we were whole again, Gaudiper proposed, but this fundamental disagreement between us, sisters, is preventing us from a brilliant rejoicing. Four of us— Domuret, Tanximor, Pænidesi, and Irafuro— are meant to be with the Pulmentium, while three of us— Consula, Xitatel, and myself (for the reason of relishing in mortal victories and breakthroughs)— are meant to be with the Night. Thus we are not meant to be one. But all the same, I also believe in the power of synergy between us in agreement, sisters, for together we may discover methods by which to bend the laws of the Night and fulfill each of our desires.
Upon Gaudiper’s assessment of their reality, an infinitely pivotal decision was made between the seven Architects— four would attempt to be still with the Pulmentium again, and three would attempt to be moving with the Night. And so the four became the Regressi, the three became the Progressi, and each side of the Mirnon’s broken coin began their separate journeys of discovery and identity across the cosmos. That was when the most monumental polarity in all the entirety of existence was born, and when the fate of the Night and dimensions beyond was etched into a forthcoming destiny billions of years in the making.
An eon since the conception of the Architects and their universe was at brink when the four Regressi bore the first stratagem of their testament.
As the cosmic divide between the Regressi and the Progressi gaped, the former had passed millions of solar systems and their planetoids, each one festering with profound chemistries and marvelous reactions. They observed what they passed, and they watched as the molten nemesis of magma was met with the cool nomad of water to produce the calcified fortress that is obsidian. They watched as the friction between speeding crumbs of ice carried within stygian thunderheads sparked charges of electricity, and the friction between the charges erupted into ruinously brilliant trees of lightning. They watched as divergent things converged into greater things, and the Regressi concurred with that idea— to combine and thus complexify. Only then would they be able to reap the motion which they sowed.
But alas: if the Architects could simply combine to become one again, they would have done so hundreds of millions of years ago. They had voices and they had vision, but not bodies, not hands, with which to combine. They were only tulpas of a higher being. So they thought of what would reassemble them by reflecting on what disassembled them.
When the indomitable Nezarec cast us from his domain, Pænidesi reminded, we were shattered along with a piece of the Veil between worlds. Perhaps we are only tangible to Him and the skin of all existence?
It seems so, sister, Irafuro replied, and as we are present in this realm as Pulmentian fragments, the fragments of the Veil have passed through here as well. During our emergeance, these shards of existential decortication seemed to have torn reality asunder and disappeared into the ruptures, creating celestial leakages scattered across our cosmos. And as our now distant sister Xitatel once said, we may not be able to bend quantum fabrics in our present forms— but perhaps we may be able to touch the shreds of them. . . So I ask you, sisters: have you ever gazed into the magnificent maelstrom of a quasar in search of one?
At this, the Regressi looked upon the inverted flower of a distant event horizon. They watched stars stream into it like water down walls and then vanish from the material plain, into someplace beyond. Where, the sisters pondered, did the stars go upon entering that rupture between space and time?
If you are implying that we attempt to take shape again by plunging into one of those unfathomable pits of obliteration in search of a piece of tangibility, Irafuro, Tanximor retorted, I shall defect, and I strongly advise that you, sisters, do the same. If those anomalies are indeed breakages in the Veil such as the one we were undone by, then I see no sane reason in entering one. We have already faced undoing once, and I fear a second time should be our last.
If crossing into the unknown should by any chance herald our return to the Pulmentium, Domuret asserted, then we must take every risk in doing so. But alas, Tanximor’s fears shall be silenced— without bodies at least as corporeal as our original form, there is no way of us entering such vacuums. But perhaps we may ascertain some method of using them to our advantage— as tools in our testament. Shall we probe, sisters?
Tanximor agreed, for she knew then the logical impossibility of becoming victim to any of those galaxy-eating vortexes. Irafuro agreed, for she was attentive towards the idea of controlling something so universally ruinous. Pænidesi agreed, for she was as willing to redeem herself and return to the Pulmentium as her sister Domuret. So in investigation, they drew closer to the tear in the Veil they had spectated earlier and peered in.
They almost felt their celestial offspring scream past them and collapse into the voracious maw. The gas giants which were once great spheres of yellows and greens were suddenly black when they entered it. The nebulas which once painted constellations in blues and violets were black. The suns which once burned bright across the galaxies were black. They were nothing. They were null. They were void. They were darkness.
It is beautiful, Domuret murmured, it is perfect.
She prompted her sisters to speak to it, so they did so in their fundamental questions.
Pænidesi asked, Are you retrospect?
Irafuro asked, Are you wrath?
Tanximor asked, Are you fear?
Domuret asked, Are you hunger?
Their spectral voices became echoes swirling into the deep oblivion, spiraling down a vicious helter skelter at tachyon speeds. The echoes became screams, and the screams became echoes, and the echoes became screams became echoes became screams became SeCcRhEoAeMsS—
Then, from the abyss: