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In days before the dawn of time, two gods struggled for control over all that was. One was named Order, who strove above all for stillness and perfection. The other was named Chaos, who strove above all for motion and change. When Order set the spheres upon their paths, Chaos sent out comets to knock them astray. When Order called land out from the water, Chaos tore it asunder. These gods fought ceaselessly, yet they had formed from the void as twins and each was as strong as the other.

     “This battle is futile,” said Order one day, after countless aeons of struggle. “We must settle our differences by some other means.”

    “For once we are in agreement,” Chaos conceded. “But what do you propose?”

    Ten millennia passed while Order considered its challenge.

    “We should each of us set a great work upon the mortal plane. To these works shall our fates be bound. Whichever lasts the longest, its maker, victor, sole survivor, will have won dominion over all the world.”

    Ten millennia more passed while Chaos deliberated.

    “I accept,” it said at last, “but as you were the one to set the challenge, you must be the first to act.”

    This time, Order did not hesitate, for it had long considered what its work would be.

    From the depths of the earth, Order called up a pillar of flame. The skies grew black with smoke, and the cunning of the craft was revealed only by the sparks that smote the trees. The people of the earth dropped their spears and threw themselves down before the spectacle, and in that moment they swore to serve their first and only god: for Order’s likeness had been left upon the land in stone one hundred cubits high.

    Order smiled from within the statue. To act first should have been a disadvantage—Chaos had been wise to insist upon it—but so great was Order’s glory that it had won the service of all the people of the world.

    “Now,” Order spoke to Chaos, “I bid you take your turn.”

    But Chaos did not hesitate either. It called forth neither stone nor flame, but rather pursed its lips and whistled a simple tune.

    Hearing this, Order laughed. “My work could last ten million years, but yours is already over.”

    However, at that moment a little brown bird began to repeat the tune.

    “My work will not be over while that bird sings.”

    “Perhaps,” Order agreed, “but that bird will not live ten million years.”

    And Order was right. Soon the weather cooled and the little creature flew away. But when the leaves and flowers returned to the land where the great statue stood, the songbird did not.

    “Now you must agree your work is over,” said Order, whose statue still faintly held the vast heat of its creation and had been untouched by the frost.

    “No,” said Chaos, “listen.”

    So Order listened. And on the wind it heard a dozen piping voices, all calling out a familiar tune. But although it was familiar, it was not the same. The new birds had not learned it perfectly and could not repeat it without error.

    “This means nothing,” Order said. “You must agree the song has changed. Your work has not survived.”

    “Then how do you know it is my work?” asked Chaos. “You must recognise it still.”

    “Very well. But I concede this only because I know that flesh cannot outlast stone: those birds will die and their song will end.”

    So Order waited and its statue cooled. A trifling few decades passed. Still the song changed and still the song spread, but each year when the birds returned after winter both Order and Chaos could recognise the tune.

    Yet as decades turned to centuries, Order noticed something new.

    “These are not your birds,” it said. “Yours were brown and these are grey.”

    “My work is not the birds,” said Chaos. “My work is the song.”

    But it was not only the birds that had changed. Each year as winter drew near, the rains worked their way a little further into the statue, and each year as winter fell, the frost chipped away at its features a little more.

    Order had always known that this would happen. This had informed the statue’s composition, and this was the reason for its vast size. Nothing could last forever while Chaos still held sway over half the world, but Order needed its statue to hold out only for a few mere millennia. It cared nothing for a few chips lost to the elements.

    But the people who lived in the shadow of the statue cared a great deal. None who had seen the great pillar of flame were alive to recount it, and those who lived now had come to believe that they had raised it for themselves. In the toothmarks of the frost they saw the work of chisels, and in Order’s crumbling likeness they saw their own.

    Centuries turned to millennia, and still the birds sang. Order could not recall the tune that Chaos had whistled all those years ago. It doubted the notes were the same as the ones now sung at dawn, but could not deny that it recognised them still.

    Gradually the statue lost its fingers, its face. Where once the pillar of flame had risen all those years ago, there now stood only a pillar of stone. The people living in its shadow still held it sacred, but none could recall why.

    “It is over,” said Chaos, one uneventful day. “I have won.”

    “No,” said Order, firmly. “My work is here. That stone shall stand a million years more.”

    “Your work was not the stone,” said Chaos. “Your work was the statue.”

    But Order would not concede the challenge. Perhaps it does not to this day. None now can say where the statue was raised, nor whether its stone still stands.

    But still there are songbirds, and still those birds sing.