Story #36 - Old Gods

Old Gods

The time of things past is present. Those hidden have been revealed and what was lost is slowly being found. Many have disputed the events, the signs, the portents that make these simple truths evident, but such is the way of us. Such is the way of fools.

Such is the way of all.

Was the world ever new? Some ask but few can answer for certain. I for one believe it was – in time uncounted, time unknown; the world began in the formless mists, or was birthed out of the churning mass of a god’s passion. No evidence exists to give us the answers we desire save the fact that the world ends now, and that can only mean it had a beginning.

One need only look to the water to know the end is coming. The clear running, jeweled streams and pulsing rivers speak loudly to the fact that our world is changing, and not for the best. Gone are the dark skies, the thin soil and the struggling crops of the past eons, replaced instead by virulent growth and a blazing orb I have only recently heard named. “Sun”, they call it.

I make no claim to perfection; I am merely a keeper of records, a ponderer of words. I have seen what great men of history have recorded, what great women of history have omitted. Conclusions are difficult to draw, because or perhaps in spite of such abundant data.

Our people love to speak of the world as it was, the world at its beginning. Our best information places us underground, far from the brutal light above and the need for the harsh mistress of soil. Instead, we are told that we lived quiet lives under rock, subsisting largely off of the lichen, moss and mushrooms that flourish in such glorious darkness.

Of course, Gods are not satisfied with the status quo.

Change came, and with him the destruction of our homes, our caves. Change came, and with her the forming of our bodies, our need to move about in order to survive. Our people venerated, honored our Gods until the truth was finally realized, our purpose finally crystallized. For what are Gods if they are not meant to be destroyed, overthrown by their very creations? If they did not wish such things, they were fools to make us so much in their image.

Heroes rose, weaknesses were discovered and we knew, as a people, what we must do. The strongest of us took up arms, took up a cause against our former masters and the weakest of us looked the other way. Our Chosen One delivered a blow to set the world aflame and the Gods fell, perfect forms crashing to the burned and barren ground below.

And the world changed.

We had expected as much – though a reversion was predicted. We were blind, foolish to not see that thought the Gods had ripped us from our peace to serve them, they had also created the world as they saw fit. Our destruction removed the force which stabilized our balance, kept even our middle world as we had become accustomed.

Now, the clouds peel. Now, the plants flourish. Now, we are dying.

Young ones in the towns do not suffer as much as the old. The few that escaped the Whips of the Gods are feeble and weak and this new light, this thin water is killing them, as surely as any choice the Gods had made. They smile broadly and speak of times better than we know, but they know the truth.

We die, surely. We die, slowly.

Perhaps some remnant will remain – a fraction of a fraction, a piece of a piece. Young ones have taken to ranging beyond the villages, to seeking out places of light and water to test their mettle, to bathe in the glory they call pain.

Our Gods pulled us from perfection and gifted us with pain. We cried out – “put us back, put us back!” But we could not be removed, could not be changed into what we had been. We evolved, in spite of ourselves. We were altered, in defiance of our desire.

The generations rebelled, and the old ones rose up. The young ones fuelled our fire, our desire for final change, but they have changed too much, too quickly. Foolish that we did not recognize it. They speak of this new land as a challenge to conquer, a pain to endure. They smile and skitter happily into the light, its cruel yellow glow only singeing what on us would be burned.

Our Gods were clever, even in their demise.

Our ancients die now, and I among them. The younger do not know I write; do not know I set these words down in stone. They will remain here, hidden, until such time as knowledge once again becomes paramount to change.

It is a cruel thing, to kill one’s Gods, but crueler still to be made their image. Twisted by their desire, a people can be bent, broken beyond their recognition. We are such a people. We were such a people.

The waters run clear, the sun beats down. The young rise up, and the old ones fall. Heroes have succeeded and Gods have fallen, but we can never return. Never remain.

We were once as we would be, once as we are, and are changing as we will. Gods have betrayed us, Gods have delayed us, and our race dies quietly as I write. We live on, but not as we were – a shadow of remembered truth. All days end, young ones, as shall yours.

For we know the secrets of the Gods, their terrible cloaking of purpose. Gods die, and Gods disperse. Gods fail, and Gods succeed. Gods appear – where they are needed least.

Live now, young ones, for your time runs down even as your raise your standards in victory.

Old Gods will return. Our fight will become yours, once again.


- D