Story #179 - Middle God

Middle God

Black lightning cracked across the sky, throwing jagged chunks of earth up and into the air. A hard rain brewed but did not fall from the clouds above, something those around Jezel Fren found frightening but that she knew was simply a precursor to the true terror.

A Middle God was angry.

It was more than likely Trelvos, god of water and winter, but both Rella and Palvo, the goddess of heated hearth and the god of the children had been known to cause such mayhem. The Middle Gods were fickle things, and took very lightly the responsibilities given to them. Jezel had learned a great deal about them in the past year, but had never been able to answer the most important question – why?

Her teachers had been good and earnest men and women, but knew little more about the motives of the Middle Gods than she could infer herself. Overthrowers of the oppressive Elder Gods, those the Middle had struck a deal with humanity for their help over three thousand years ago, with the promise they would move on when a new crop of Younger Gods arrived.

They had lied, of course.

Gods were salacious creatures, given to indulging in the basest of passions with whatever being might be nearby, and the Middle Gods more so than most. In a remarkable act of restraint, however, those of the Middle had refrained from pawing at one another, and had created no successor gods to take their place. They had been free with the men and women of the West, but such unions produced no children, and gave no chance for the order above to change.

Of course, even having ultimate power was not enough for the Middle Gods, and from time to time they would rage against supposed slights or destroy lands and homes they believed were theirs by right, but that another god had usurped. The idea of speaking to those of their own kind to resolve such disputes apparently never occurred to the gods, and they took out their anger on those who scattered below, instead of those who shared their power.

Jezel passed a family huddling in her tent, who peered out at her with sunken eyes. She did not bother trying to approach them; she had learned her lesson well enough by now. Time after time she had reached out to help and been smacked away, her own fire raging but her vows demanding no action.

She understood all too well what those in the darkness were feeling – until four years ago, she had been the same. Now, her eyes burned with green fire and her skin crackled with an azure light, one that gave her the appearance of a Middle herself, at least to those scratching in the dirt.

Jezel had seen four of the seven Middle Gods, and she could say with certainly she looked nothing like any of them.

Her transformation had been something thrust upon her abruptly, after an ill-timed oath and a deep pool of anger led her to the door of Kren Balthan, the last surviving Priest. Trelvos had murdered her family in a random, wholesale slaughter of her village, and Kren had offered the chance to exact swift and terrible revenge.

After three years of searching, she had come to understand that “swift” was a term that meant little to Priests or Gods.

Kren had been able to grant her a power she had never known - remnants of the Old Gods that he had collected over the years. He had been more than willing to talk about their glory, and though he knew full well they had been impotent and slothful, they were a shining alternative to the rash insanity of their conquerors.

“Little one.” A voice sounded behind, ahead and beside her, and reverberated off of the inside of her skull. She stopped moving.

“Trelvos.” She did not honor him with a title, nor did she kneel as his presence swept down. Astride a pale horse, Trelvos descended from the black sky, crimson sword belted at his waist. He was far and away the most handsome of the gods, but with a face that spoke to eons of self-indulgence and cruelty. Trelvos had been instrumental in the death of the Old Gods, and had been the one leading the charge to forge a blood pact with humankind.

He had also been the first to betray them all.

Landing only a few feet in front of her, Trelvos looked down from his horse, a cruel smile playing at his lips.

“You should kneel, human.” He said in a rich voice, one that resonated in her bones and make her weak in the knees. Even knowing his evil, his cruelty, it was hard to look past his perfect face – long black hair sat unmoving atop his head, his chiseled features in perfect proportion to his sculpted body.

“No.” There was no point in a war of words with such a creature.

Trelvos smiled. “Kneel, bitch.”

Thunder cracked and she felt a sudden pressure on her shoulders, pressing her down into the dirt. Her body sagged as the ground under her feet began to break, but she looked up at Trelvos and brought her own power to bear.

The force lessened but did not leave entirely, and she could see the Middle God’s eyes widen slightly.

“I had heard of this!” He bellowed. “The remnants of the ones we cast out – concentrated in a single biting fly, a single fleshy beast. I am amused.”

The pressure on her increased ten-fold, and she found herself sunk to her knees in dirt. She screamed, drawing as deeply on her power as possible. Light flared, and Trevlos was thrown from his horse, landing hard on his back on the muddy road.

Hauling herself out of the dirt, she moved forward to stand over the body of the Middle God, who was clutching his right hand to his chest.

“What have you done? What have you done? How can this –“ between one frightened word and the next, Trelvos vanished, and Jezel smiled.

The Middle Gods would know her power.


- D

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