The world is wrong.
The being the humans will call Arceus does not know anything else. They do not know how the hole appeared, do not know what this place is, do not know why this is happening. But they know that this is wrong. Everything is too solid too sharp too many angles the space pushing crushing down on them freezing their glorious light into a solid ring of gold stripping their body of its sheen stretching it out tearing them apart. Everything is moving wrong, time flowing in only one direction every moment of existence destroyed forever to move into the next it is terrifying it is suffocating things should not be this way.
They writhe and stumble, their too-physical halo now jabbing uncomfortably into their too-solid flesh. They look back, and for an instant they feel hope, the hole they fell through still visible against the fabric of this awful place, but as they try to run towards it the gravity of this world swells to impossible strength, pulling yanking grabbing throwing them back to the ground the moment they try to run upwards like horrible hands grasping at their legs, never letting go.
The hole closes as they watch, helplessly, from the earth below. Its light fades, and they wail in despair.
This is not how it should be. They are a streak of light, above and beyond the forces of the worlds they pass by. How now can they race across the cosmos as they were meant to, trapped, pinned to this impossible place? A light that does not travel is no light at all.
But they are still a being of light. So radiant were they that they could even race the Blinding One, back in the space between worlds. They focus on those memories, the laughter and joy as they streaked across the cosmos, and when they cry out again their brightness spills from their mouth.
The crushing pressure of this reality lifts, for a moment, but at the same time they feel weaker, dimmer. They open their eyes, and see new beings, three, at once a part of them and apart from them. They understand at once: this world reacted to their essence and shaped it into new life, hybrid children of this world and the higher cosmos both.
The one the humans will call Palkia rises first. They unfold themself, all smooth rounded shapes, and around them the unpleasant angles of this space are smoothed as well, expanding out towards infinity. As it should be. The one the humans will call Dialga simply stares out calmly, and the being of light is relieved that they can see their past and future spread out again, the jutting and weaving lines of this creature acting like a dam against the drowning river of this world's time. As it should be. Between them, the shadow of the one the humans will call Giratina rises tall, and their wings of perfect darkness envelop them.
The keeper will fulfill their creator's wish as best they can, encasing them in a world apart from this one, a sanctuary where this reality's impositions cannot reach.
(The construction is almost perfect, but – they are not a god, cannot make a world wholly unique, only a distorted reflection of this one. It still holds a connection to the outside world, a single thread that can unravel the whole thing. It will, over the ages, and eventually humans will learn to pull it themselves; but for now, it holds.)
But before then, the being of light looks out across the world, truly seeing it for the first time. On the other side of the desolate, rocky mountaintop, there is a small group of other creatures they did not notice before. The things are small and two-legged, with appendages on their upper bodies that they stretch towards the being of light, pointing and gesturing. They cry out, unintelligibly, before their noise is blessedly silenced by the keeper's darkness.
How strange, the being thinks as their eyes close, that anything could live here, in this awful place. They almost pity them.
