Paths of the Gods
He could feel a pressure at his back, an almost imperceptible push toward one of the three Paths below. It was non-specific, of course, his Father had never been concerned about which Path he chose, simply that he chose one rather than none. The old fool probably thought he was being clever, hoping to push Ydron over the edge and down onto one of the waiting tracks below, sealing his fate.
There was little that could bind a God of the Universe, but a decision of Path was one that could not be rescinded. Creation, destruction or preservation were his only three choices; choices Ydron felt had been outdated an eon ago, but that his Father would not bend on. The old God was just that – old – perhaps too much so for his own good and that of his children. To hear him tell the tale, he had raised thousands of Godlings from their first waking moments in the Universe, and every single one had made a choice at the appropriate time.
Some had chosen poorly; there were stories of creative Gods who had no interest in the process and destructive Gods who had hoped to save some small measure of the patch of universe they were condemned to destroy. Preservation Gods were often looked at as lazy, but Ydron had it on the best authority that maintaining the status quo was far more difficult than raising up a new species or sundering an entire planet.
“Father!” He called, putting his back to the edge and taking one large stride away; he would not be caught unaware. “Father, I know you're here. Show yourself!”
Technically, his Father was everywhere, but the God was often not paying specific attention to many areas of the universe, waiting instead until there was a problem before appearing in person if at all, but this was different. Ydron had distinctly felt the old man's touch, trying to nudge him forward and over the edge into a decision.
In front of him a reddish mist congealed, punctuated by streaking arcs of silver lightning as it became fully formed. Color was one of the few things that gave his Father pleasure any longer; that, and aggravating the next crop of young Gods to be risen. Many felt it was time for Father to step down, for him to give up his position and pass it on – it had happened at least twice before in the memories of most of the Gods – but Father was a stubborn old thing, all thorn and spike, his gentle leaves having long ago been torn away.
His roots, however, ran deep, and he had no interest in pulling himself up and walking away into the darkness. Not yet.
“Yes, Ydron?” The mist blew away to reveal a smallish man-shape, today with a nose too big by half and tiny ears for contrast – likely some low-level bipedal species Father had seen and found interesting. New creation Gods tended to be extreme in the appearance of their life forms, at least for the first few eons, and Father made it a point to try and stop by each of their worlds and see how they were progressing. “What can I do for you?” Father's tone was smooth and calm; too much so, and he knew it. The old fool could not for a moment believe that Ydron didn't see exactly what he was doing.
“I know what you're doing, Father, and you have to stop. I'll make my own choice.” Father nodded, stepping closer and reaching out a thin hand, but Ydron backed away. Father was as likely to hold him in a tight embrace as to fling him over the side of the wall, leaving him no avenue but to choose a Path before he hit the ground. Some things even Gods could not bear and a Path refusal was considered to be akin to complete dissolution. Rumors abounded about those who had refused to make a choice, who had fallen and let the winds of fate take the reins. Oddly, none existed for Ydron to speak with.
It seemed that the Path required a conscious choice and the absence of a decision would simply declare that existence forfeit; the Universe could always birth another God.
Father stopped no more than an arm's length from him. “Then why not make it, Ydron? I have no care for which Path you choose, but one must be chosen. It is the way.”
The way. Ydron rolled his eyes – it was always “the way”, a fateful force that seemed to guide everything in the cosmos but displayed no manifest form. Even his Father answered to the way, but for no reason that Ydron understood. Why obey what you could not know?
“Please, Father,” he said, his voice quavering, and the old God took another step forward, arms outstretched. Ydron turned quickly, moving back to the edge. Perhaps his Father was right. Perhaps he simply had to make a decision, finally act on what he knew was right.
Ydron could feel a pushing again, a subtle touch on his back but this time it was the warm hands of Father himself, fingertips ghosting lightly at his waist, ready to add momentum to his leap.
He considered each Path in measured turn, each aspect as his Father waited. Watched.
And finally, began to drift off.
Stepping back, Ydron grabbed his Father's arms, wrapping them around his waist. With a quick drop to one knee and a heave of his back, he leveraged Father up and over his head and down toward the waiting Paths. There was no sound as the God passed through the three planes of choice and into the bottomless Below, but Ydron could feel a new power suffusing him, a new awareness layering over his mind.
He had made his choice, long ago, after seeing what Father was unwilling to. The Universe needed change, and he has been chosen as its instrument, its scalpel. Now, he could be its savior.
- D
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