Eve...

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(Pov Yahweh)

Before Eve, there was Lilith. Ah, Lilith... her story still echoes through the corridors of time as a reminder of the cost of divine rebellion. She was my first attempt at creating a companion for Adam, born not from his rib, but from the same primordial clay.

I remember the moment of her creation as if it were now. My hands molded the clay with the same love and dedication I used to create Adam. Her hair was like liquid fire, dark red that seemed to dance even in the most complete stillness. Her eyes... ah, her eyes were different. Pure amber, like crystallized honey, with a glow that rivaled the stars El Elyon and I had hung in the firmament.

When I breathed life into her nostrils, Lilith awakened with a strength that surprised me. Her first breath was not soft like Adam's—it was deep, intense, almost defiant. She immediately rose, her eyes scanning Eden not with admiration but with a sense of ownership that was not foreseen in my creation.

"Where is my equal?" were her first words, her voice melodious yet firm, echoing through the garden.

I presented her to Adam, expecting to see the same harmony I had planned in my divine mind. At first, it seemed everything would work out. They talked, explored the garden together, named the creatures as partners. But soon, the first signs of discord began to appear.

"Why should I lie beneath him?" Lilith questioned one day, her amber eyes sparkling. "I was made from the same clay, breathed the same divine breath. I am not inferior!"

I watched as their arguments intensified. Lilith refused to accept any suggestion of submission. She wanted absolute equality in everything, from naming the creatures to the way they lay together.

"You made me free!" she cried to me one night, her voice carrying a mix of accusation and despair. "Why must I now bow down?"

It was then I realized I had created something that might have been... too premature for that nascent garden. Lilith possessed a strength and independence that, while admirable, threatened the delicate balance I had planned for Eden.

The tension reached its peak when Lilith, in an act of supreme rebellion, pronounced my sacred name—something I had expressly forbidden. The entire garden trembled, the trees bent, and the very air seemed to freeze for a moment.

"If I cannot be equal," she declared, her eyes fixed on mine, "then I will not remain."

Before I could intervene, Lilith spread her arms, and in a motion that defied the very laws I had established, her back opened into wings—not white like the angels' but black as the space between the stars. With one last look of defiance, she took flight beyond Eden's walls.

I could have stopped her. I could have destroyed her. But there was something in her rebellion that struck a deep chord in my own creative nature. Instead, I pronounced her destiny:

"You have chosen your path, Lilith. You will live in the shadows, between twilight and dawn. You will be feared and admired, but you will never again find peace in the garden you rejected."

I watched as her form dissolved into the horizon, her fiery hair the last thing to disappear into the growing darkness. The garden seemed quieter after her departure. Adam, though he did not show it, carried in his eyes a new understanding of solitude.

It was only then that I realized: to create a true companion for Adam, she would need to come from him. Not from the same clay, but from his own essence. It was then that the thought arose that would later lead me to create Eve.

Lilith remains a reminder—sometimes painful, sometimes necessary—that not all creation follows exactly the path we plan. Sometimes, even the deviations are part of a greater plan that even we, divine beings, take time to fully comprehend.

**

(Pov Yahweh)

But there was something deeper happening. In my daily observations of Adam, I realized that despite all the harmony and perfection of Eden, a subtle shadow was beginning to form in his eyes. It was not sadness, nor discontent—it was something more primordial, more essential.

Loneliness.

Even surrounded by all the glory of creation, even with my constant presence, there was a void in his being that the animals, the plants, and even our conversations could not completely fill.

"My creation needs something more," I murmured to myself, watching him sleep under the shade of a fig tree. His dreams, I could see, were populated by undefined forms, echoes of a desire he himself did not yet understand.

It was then that I felt El Elyon approach, his majestic presence weaving ripples in the very reality of the garden.

"You noticed it too?" he asked, his voice resonating through the dimensions of space and time.

"Yes," I replied, my eyes fixed on Adam. "He needs a companion. Someone like him, yet different. Someone who will complete his existence in a way that even we, divine beings, cannot."

The plan was already forming in my mind—crystalline, perfect, inevitable. It would not be a creation like Adam's. No, this would be even more special, more intimately connected to him.

"I will need his essence," I decided, looking at my firstborn asleep. "A part of him will be the foundation for this new creation."

With a gentle gesture, I made his sleep deepen even further. The entire garden seemed to hold its breath, as if understanding the magnitude of the moment that was about to unfold.

My hands, luminous and precise, touched Adam's side. With infinite care, I extracted one of his ribs—not just the physical bone, but all the vital essence it contained. It was like holding a piece of his soul, pulsating and full of possibilities.

The process of creation began. Unlike when I created Adam from the dust of the earth, now I was working with something alive, something that already carried within it the breath of existence. The rib in my hands began to glow, to expand, to take on new contours.

I saw as the first strands of hair began to form—black as the deepest night of Eden. Skin, soft as the first light of morning, covered the muscles and bones I delicately shaped. Every detail was a declaration of love to my creation, every curve a celebration of life's diversity.

Her eyes... ah, her eyes were my greatest masterpiece at that moment. Deep as crystal-clear lakes, they held mysteries even I could not fully unravel. In them, I placed the wisdom of the ages, the strength of mountains, the gentleness of spring breezes.

When I finished, she was there—perfect, complete, radiant. Even before her first breath, I knew I had created something extraordinary. Not just a companion for Adam, but a being that carried within her a unique strength, an essence that would complement and challenge the existence of her pair.

"Eve," I whispered, and her name echoed through the garden like a song never heard before. "You will be the one who brings life."

Her eyes opened, and in that first gaze, I saw universes of possibilities unfolding. Eve smiled—a smile that made the flowers of Eden bloom in response, made the birds sing new melodies, made my own divine heart vibrate with a profound and inexplicable joy.

Eden was about to know a new dimension of existence. And I, even in my omniscience, could hardly wait to see what would happen next.

(A/N: My apologies for the delay in this chapter. I hope you enjoy my reinterpretation of Lilith.)