She was never born.
She simply was.
She had no name, had never known any sort of attachment. No real emotion other than pleasure, the sick joy of seeing redredred painting the nameless carapaces, their shells guarding nothing but a meaningless existence. They meant nothing.
She did though. She was something. Her blue heart beat in tune with the cosmos, a universe of beings living only because she herself lived. The cobalt pulsing through her body was the very existence of planets, solar systems, everything. She was above them, all of them.
Even Lord English held no candle to her significance. The smallest nick on her finger could be the annihilation of an entire race, washed away like the blood on her hands. He had to reach, extend his power, conquer. She needn't do anything but breathe.
There was only one the same as her. Not born, not created, but entirely existent. His ruby veins burned with stars and life and meaning.
She needed no proof to signify her superiority. She had hurt him. Changed him. Changed worlds. Her cigarette holder claimed history and lives, the blood trickling from his eye socket and the red streaming from where his arm would be marking her influence upon the universe.
Once a queen, once an exile, and now a god of unrivaled importance.
What does a god do when there is nothing left to gain?
Nothing to be sought, for she has everything, is everything.
The only thing she's missing is an ending.
An ending written by her and her only equal.
The only one worthy of destroying a vast universe.