A Fallen Soul

Slathir marched up the long and winding stairs that ascended through the Land of Clatharia, homeland of the Gods. He supposed, then, that this was his home, but save for the verdant grasslands where they had first gazed upon Andwelm in its totality, he found nothing here familiar or even comforting.

Bright majesty and beauty did not a home make, but Clatharia certainly had enough to make his eyes hurt from it all. Tall skyscrapers of marble and glass rose around him, with palaces and great gardens as commonplace as an apple was to the rest of the world. These highlands were so far above sea level that, if it were night, Murlan and Cerelain were larger than the Sun itself, and you might even be able to pick out the individual stars.

Not that he thought it would be any darker at night; with their lights and candles, and roadside lanterns, he doubted even a speck of darkness could exist here.

A land of the day. A kingdom of Light. Yes, there was a reason he came here seldom, and even then, only briefly.

He'd felt eyes on the back of his neck the moment he set foot on the smooth white steps, and even now he knew his every movement was being watched, in much the same way Frandwil would know the moment another treaded upon his ground.

They were family, they were kin. But as the centuries passed into millennia, the harsh truth was becoming clear to them all.

They were not friends.

He stopped before the glass doors. Yes, glass. Impossibly large and reflecting every colour there was a name for, and many there weren't, back into his eyes with a brightness that forced him to look away, until they were opened.

When they did, he found himself in the Palace of Godrim, the Palace of the Gods, as it was called. This he recognised, for its grandest hall was where the meetings between many occurred, and where the First, Second, and Third Clatharic Meetings had been held in years past, the Third being, by the account of the Gods, recently.

Two hundred years ago.

And it was here he came for an audience, to speak with the ruler of this land so that he might be given her blessing, or if that should fail, her permission. He would see the birth of a people. He walked across the stones, almost as old as he and looked up to the sun-bathed throne of the Goddess of the Light.

She wasn't there.

Oh, the throne was occupied, just not by the goddess he had been waiting, in trepidation, to speak with. For in place of the Guardian of the Light sat a comparatively smaller goddess, if not in size then in presence. Well, in size as well.

Her feet were dangling over the edge of the seat, not yet able to sit securely at its base. She was clothed in bright yellows and oranges, with a tiara made of the purest stone and glass he'd ever seen. When he met her gaze, he felt like he was staring at the glass doors again, blinking away the brightness threatening to blind him.

"Good day to you, Delassie."

The Goddess of Dawn's face broke out into a brilliant smile. "Slathir, it's been so long, hasn't it? I do believe we barely shared a word at the last Meeting."

"My apologies, there was… much to discuss then, and I rather fear it would have been improper for us to cross the aisle, as it were."

The Third Clatharic Meeting had been heated, with more anger and argument than he'd ever seen, especially from his father. Mayare had preached and spoken grandly about the 'duty and role of the Light in safeguarding Andwelm from untoward forces.'

It wasn't hard to imagine what, or who, those 'untoward forces' could be referring to.

Delassie just giggled, "Everyone got so heated, even father. I could feel his fire from several seats over."

He grinned awkwardly and nodded. "Chalador was certainly… passionate." He cleared his throat.

This was not what he'd spent the last three years mentally preparing himself for. Delassie was young, even by their standards. A part of the Third Generation of Gods, the daughter of Mayare and still, he thought, a bit naïve. There weren't any instances of her even leaving Clatharia unattended that he knew of.

It was just… awkward. There was a gap between them, whether in age or mentality, that made communication nigh impossible. Frankly, he found talking with Kel Rahtart, also part of the Third Generation, much easier, even if she spoke only in cryptic tongues.

He cleared his throat again, trying to add some sort of weight or force behind his voice. "I have come to speak with Mayare."

She tilted her head side to side, practically bouncing on the throne, before snapping back to him.

"Oh, she knew you were coming. That's why I'm here, she said she was too busy."

Her smile didn't so much as falter as she rammed the proverbial spear into him. Okay, he wasn't the most important of their kin, but delegating a meeting with him to her daughter was a few steps too far. If he were another god, he might have destroyed a mountain for the disrespect.

No, if I were another god, this wouldn't have happened in the first place.

"Right. Uh, well then, I will speak with you then on the matter. It-"

"Ah, one moment." She reached into her pocket and, after rummaging around, pulled out a wrinkled piece of parchment. She smoothed it out. "She also knew why you were coming here. I believe her words were 'you weren't exactly being subtle,' so she wrote a response for me to share with you."

This tale has been unlawfully lifted without the author's consent. Report any appearances on Amazon.

He didn't feel like this was going in the direction he wanted, but a part of him was still surprised when she cleared her throat and said one word.

"No."

He blinked, deflating somewhat. "Pardon?"

She waved the parchment at him, which indeed had only one word. "That's what it says. She says no."

"No, but- she hasn't even heard what I have to say. This is imperative-"

Her smile was becoming less enduring and more frustrating. "Well, clearly she didn't need to. What was it you wished to ask? She didn't tell me."

"I… seek an audience with Ætesta, and I know your mother has taken it upon herself to be her protector. I ask her permission only out of courtesy."

He tried to hide the one touch of malice behind his words, but they came like venom despite it. Delassie barely seemed to notice, though. She just began bobbing her head side to side again. "Trying to Create something new, are we? Why don't you just talk to you-know-who and figure something out from there? It would've saved you the trip."

"You-know-who?"

She leaned forward and cupped her hands. "Your brother, foster-brother, whatever he is. The god," she added as if there was any doubt.

"Melgos?"

Her head darted around, and for the first time, he saw her smile slip somewhat.

"Mother says I shouldn't speak his name or even mention him or uncle at all. You should have seen how angry she got with sister-dearest when she talked about them."

"And me?"

"She doesn't really talk about you that much."

That hurt a lot less than it should have. It was a fact of his existence that he was becoming more and more accustomed to.

"And if I insisted on speaking with Ætesta?"

She shifted in her seat. "That probably isn't a good idea. I don't know why Mother doesn't want you speaking with her, but she has a good reason. She always does."

And you're in her territory. That part didn't need to be put into words.

"Right." He held a tight leash on his emotions but failed to muster a smile. "I will see myself out then. Have a good day, Delassie."

She rose from the throne as he turned to leave. "You don't need to go so soon, you've only just arrived. It's been so long since any of us have heard from or even spoken to you; I know Elnuway has been wanting to-"

"I think," he cut her off, "It would be better for all if I made myself scarce." Despite her words, he could feel that overpowering presence still resting on the back of his mind. And trust one god, however minor, to feel the touch of another. His mouth cracked into a mirthless smile. "If your mother ever lets you walk down the steps unattended, Delassie, you should come visit Eravros. I'll show you around."

The presence was forming like a tidal wave upon him, so he turned and left the Palace of Godrim quickly without another word, and if any part of what he'd said had made it through to the young Goddess of Dawn, he couldn't tell. Her smile was unfaltering.

As for him, well… he felt his response was reasonable.

. . .

He stared at the shattered remains of what had once been a mountain range as he felt anger and rage wash over him. Rock had been shredded like paper, stone broken down into dust, and the land shook even minutes after he'd stopped.

He had made sure the area was cleared of anything living and breathing; he wasn't a monster.

It didn't make him feel any better, though.

"Damn her, damn her and damn that city." He kicked a pebble, and it shot ahead, exploding the last remaining tree and showering him with leaves and twigs.

Whatever her opinions of him and his father, whatever threats or spiteful words she threw, cutting others off from interacting with the Dolphin of Creation, the most objectively holy being in existence… that was a step too far.

What was he going to do now? Wait a couple of centuries before going at it again? Go back to the drawing board to make sure he had everything figured out? He had everything figured out, and he'd had it done for decades, so long that he'd begun to lose track. Contrary to her declaration, he must have actually spent a year in conversation with Steraf.

All for nothing? He dusted an uninjured boulder and sat. When he closed his eyes, he could see their faces at the last Meeting. Questioning him, critiquing him, their eyes piercing his very being. All the while, he felt the distance between him and them widening as each second passed.

When had he last spoken to his father? When had he and Melgos shared more than a few words with one another? Every part of him had been absorbed into his work, only to get stonewalled at the finish line, without being given the chance to even argue his case.

No more.

No more.

No more.

The air cracked and sizzled around him, weeds shrivelling at his feet and dirt bursting into the air like geysers. All his power, all his being as a God of Andwelm was focused, condensed down into the spot where he stood. The air rippled, mana gathered overhead like the oncoming storm. He placed a hand on his heart and let out a single breath.

Crack.

He felt it beating. Not his heart, not his body, but his Soul. The Soul of a God. A Soul belonging to the most powerful race the world had ever conceived. First to rise, last to fall, filled with the power to break rivers and smoke nations to ruin.

Crack.

His mind was full. Full of images, dreams, visions brought forth by imagination and wishful thinking, the desire to see it real. Something more than a domain. More than deific design.

Crack.

More than a people.

Crack.

Family.

Crack.

The Lonely God held his Soul in a vice-grip as he pulled. Pulled and stretched himself beyond their limits. Without Ætesta, even they could not create life from nothing. But he didn't need to birth them from nothing. His form split, his Soul convulsed. And he felt a part, seven parts, finally rip free.

CRACK.

THE SKY BROKE ABOVE. MANA SHATTERED. TEARS IGNITED. ANDWELM QUACKED. AND JUST LIKE BEFORE, THEY ALL FELT IT.

Change.

. . .

He staggered back and fell to the ground. Every orifice leaked, every part of him screamed with pain he had never known existed. Smoke rose, ash fell, and he felt that part of him that was there, that he'd never even acknowledged, now missing. Had it worked? Had it really-

"Waaaaaagh."

He glanced up as a shrill cry filled the air. Then it was followed by another.

"Waaaaaagh."

And another. And before long, he could hear seven distinct voices all crying out, babbling, confused.

He stumbled to his feet and ran into the smoke. His heart was racing, a dozen presences were closing in by the second, but when he parted the clouds, he had eyes only for them.

Seven children huddled together on a patch of dirt, miraculously unclaimed by the destruction and carnage around them. Seven children crying, wiping their eyes and flailing around helplessly. From the head down, they could have been mistaken for Humans, but the proof of what they truly were burned like a blaze above their heads.

Seven sets of horns, burning with ethereal fire of every hue. His heart skipped a beat as he saw them, and when they turned to see him, for a brief second, their cries ceased.

They gazed up at the kaleidoscopic horns on his own head. The Demon God leaned down and took them in his arms. Slathir felt their beating hearts, felt their Souls connect with his, and finally, after so long…

He wasn't alone.