It was not an awakening from sleep in the truest sense. It was more an…awareness, where before there was voidness. It was not an emergence from dreams, it was pain that thrust him back into the world. He did not breathe, his heart did not beat. And yet he was aware. That was the word. He did not smell in the sense of humans, the scents being more visually represented inside his brain. His skin was indestructible because of his origins. His heart had once beat as human. His bones, those belonging to a beloved dead man. When he walked he felt them slide together. He was one of many. Skeletal remains pieced together inside bronze, a beating heart the final piece to an intricate puzzle.
“The first is aware,” the sculptor said. “His flesh is supple.”
“You’ve done good work,” the boy heard a voice say. The sound of the voice materialized inside his head. A gigantic man, bearded, hairy, muscular. The boy was aware of the man as not a stranger. Someone familiar. But the boy had no memories of names.
His eyes focused and stiffly he stepped forward as though he had not used his limbs in a very long time. The bones inside him rubbed together, almost like flint to stone to wood, something inside him sparked and a warm shower of sparks shot through him. He gasped as the heart inside his chest thundered powerfully, and seemed to expand. He went breathless, for a moment.
“It’s all right,” a soothing voice said. The sound formed inside the boy’s head. A shape of gentle, hands sensitive, smooth pale human flesh. Lightly bearded, long dark hair. The boy’s heart sped faster. Liquid seemed to gush inside him, the sparks of bone rub diminished. Something warm spread across the boy’s bronze flesh. The boy turned toward the sound of the warm voice, already knowing the measure of the man.
“Father,” he said. “Creator.”
A gleam entered the sculptor’s eyes. “He is aware of me.”
“I have known you, father, from the moment this heart connected me to life. I felt your work upon my husk. You polished me, your hands upon my shell. You oiled me, you fashioned the whole of me. Your hands are callused, I felt you. They are knowledgeable hands.” He cocked his head. “What do you call me, creator?”
“The first,” responded his father creator. “You shall be known as Tyro.”
And thus that was the word stamped onto the boy’s forearm, an indelible mark of his beginnings.
The first of his kind.