The End of All Things.

A god sat alone upon the mountaintop, waiting for another of his kind. The sun set over Ysceod as it did in any other corner of the Macrocosm. Temples filled the forest that stretched far beyond the foot of the mountain. Magnificent yet faded murals caught the last slivers of sunlight, dancing through the branches of ancient oak trees.

His servants, monstrous and malformed godlings, finished their preparations on the slope.

A presence revealed itself to him; a feeling reaching out before the form took shape in the dim light. The god almost smiled as he admitted, “I had worried you might be dead.”

The other god ascended to the peak, relying on a walking stick to support its heavy steps. “And miss the end of all things? Never!” Its contorted, angular form towered over the seated god. A shimmering robe, decorated with rubies and polished opal, covered its myriad appendages. “My death can wait a little longer, I think.

“You’re being dramatic, elder. Not the end of all. A new beginning.”

A wide, wooden stage was built into the slope. Rings of ancient magic permeated the floorboards. A river of humanity, clothed in grays and browns, flowed steadily towards the waiting structure.

The elder god shook its bent and crooked form. “They will resist your change. They always resist. Mortals know little else but obstinance.”

The seated god offered, “Perhaps these generations will see reason.”

“Is that what you’re calling it now? Reasonable? Hm. You do have a sense of humor, my boy.”

“We ruled them before. Why not again? You find no fault in their actions? No cause for recourse in their hubris?”

“Of course I do. As much fault as can be found in ourselves. We try too hard to emulate them. Order. Empire. The Search has led us to this precipice.”

The seated god scoffed, keeping his sole pair of eyes on the horizon. “We are above them.”

“Only if we choose to stay here. We can still turn back.”

A gust of wind rushed past the seated god. “Would you rather kneel?”

“I don’t think I could if I wanted to,” the elder god gestured towards its walking stick. “In all honesty, I would choose to live a little longer. You are young. My Clay wears thin. My Ichor runs cold. I don’t have nearly as many of those left in me as you do.” The elder swept an appendage or three towards the setting sun.

“All the more reason to fight. Our future hangs by a thread, elder.”

“Aknun, you are our future. The empire is dead. Long buried. We do not have to lay beside it. You can take the godfolk down a different path.”

“Don’t call us godfolk. They call us that. We are Attans.”

“We are whatever we choose to be. Gods, makers, vagabonds and anything in between. I hear that Ajjondillion the Devourer has taken a liking to farming. They feed their stocks from their own fields.” The standing god chuckled before it continued, “It’s remarkable. If that one can change, well–”

“There is still time to make things right.”

More laughter bubbled within the standing god. Short, gasping guffaws echoed over the people below, now pooled atop the wooden stage. “I’ve heard that more times than you’ve had days, my boy. There can’t be much time left anymore.

“I refuse to surrender.”

Dozens of fingers wiped gray tears from bright eyes. The standing god’s laughter subsided, “It’s not up to you. We lost well before you formed in the Pyres.”

Aknun crossed his arms, almost human in their form and limited number. “Formed into a shame I cannot avenge, then?”

“Shame that you could overcome, if you choose to rise rather than meet it. A brighter future waits.”

The younger god spat, “Brighter for who? Them?”

“What if we could all bask in the sunshine together?”

“And you have always believed that?”

“Of course not. You know of my exploits better than most, maybe even myself. I fought. I took life. I took slaves. I thought they might bow but no. They fought. Bitterly. I merely delayed the inevitable with my actions. I wonder how many more sunsets you will give to your people.”

Aknun’s bright eyes narrowed, “I will succeed. We will stand triumphant. Or die. There can be no other outcome.”

The many gazes of the elder god drifted towards the darkening sky. “Then you have chosen death for your people.”

“I have chosen hope. Others see it, too. They follow me. Why can’t you?”

“You continue to mistake belief for certainty.”

Anger brushed against the seated god’s words. “We are Attans! Belief makes us strong.”

The standing god lumbered towards the edge of the mountaintop. “Belief blinds us.”

“You speak in riddles.”

Another chuckle rose from within the standing god. “You think in straight lines.”

“So I should wander in circles?”

“Wandering’s not so bad. Maybe you will understand that by your ninth or tenth century.”

The young god shook his head. “I will be alone if I wait so long to act.”

“You miss the point, my boy.”

“And you refuse to listen.”

The standing god’s sigh twisted itself into the very wind. “All must end. We live long lives yet we are no different than anything else that walks or barks or breathes..”

“We are the only ones who truly live! The mortals cling to their pathetic, little lives. They pretend their endeavors matter. Meaning is ours and ours alone.”

The sigh returned to the mountaintop. “You seek arguments, Aknun, not understanding.”

“I understand well enough.”

“You would bring war upon us all.”

“I would bring the mortals to heel. Where they belong.”

“A place they will not accept without pain, without misery. Many have tried before you. The Lost will not surrender what their forbearers took for them.”

“What if they return freely?”

Godlings took their positions among the crags and crevices between the stage and the mountaintop. Monstrous hands and knurled maws readied instruments bound with powerful magic. The sound of drums soon reached the summit. Brass winds and piped tunes filled the space between the steady yet excited beat. Their song swept over the mountaintop.

The standing god swayed with the music. “Why would they do such a thing, I wonder?”

The seated god weighed his words carefully. “I have been in contact with the one who calls himself Hegettus.”

Every single one of the other’s eyes rolled in unison. Sarcasm dripped from its words. “Ah yes, the Man-God. It must have been a most enlightening conversation.”

“He believes he can bring the Keeper of Groves back to us.”

“He is nothing but a charlatan.”

The younger god argued, “You do not know that!”

“And neither do you, my boy.”

“The Keeper knew many, many secrets. You’ve said so yourself. He could cure any injury, even the indignities of age and time. What if he knew how to linger on after death? Is it truly so hard to believe?”

A silence hung over the mountaintop. Then the standing god muttered, “I would not willingly return to my despair. The Keeper is gone. The dead cannot rise and ghosts will never save us.”

“Then what would you suggest, elder?’

“You know my suggestion, Aknun. You simply refuse to entertain it.”

The younger god sneered, “You speak of cowardice in the face of extinction.”

Cries of jubilation and exaltation rose to the summit. Parents stood with their progeny. Young lovers embraced among the dancing. Ecstasy ensnarled them. Their existential joy took shape in a chant. They sang, “We are one. One with you. We are one. One with you.” Unceasing in their devotion. Blind with faith and love for their masters. Slaves to Ysceod, last remnant of the sundered Attan Empire. Their exaltations shook the very mountain. The godfolk called it Madness. Free peoples knew the same trance as heresy or tragedy; often both.

The standing god watched the amassed slaves raise their bloodied hands towards the summit. It responded almost solemnly. “I speak of acceptance. It is never too late to lay down one’s sword in the pursuit of peace.”

The seated god reached down and lifted a walking stick of his own. He pushed himself to unsteady feet and limped across the summit. Eventually, he stood beside the other god and listened to the chorus below them. Then he said, “I have yet to even take mine up.”

Aknun the Last reached out with a wavering gray hand. Talons stretched beside claws and knife-like nails. His bright eyes burned in a moment of intense fury.

Far below, the sigils carved into the stage sparked with the same fury. The slaves’ song grew louder, more delirious. Pain and pleasure mingled in their meat. Skulls erupted from the sudden pressure. Flesh ruptured like ill fitting clothes. Blood and light poured forth into the mountain air.

Not a single man, woman or child cried out in anguish; only joy, praise for their eternal masters.

Aknun shook with newfound vigor and strength. Then he remembered his company. “My apologies, Oroodenden. Where are my manners?” The Last started to turn, “Did you wish to partake in their offering?”

“Thank you but no.” Oroodenden waved several appendages in a polite yet firm refusal. “I already ate.”

Aknun returned his attention to the feast.

The elder god waited patiently, only speaking after its host finished the offering. “So I cannot convince you to turn away from this path?”

A gust of wind swept husks of humanity from the stage below them. Bones and skin turned to dust. The monstrous music succumbed to swirling gales.

“No, elder.” Aknun let his arm fall to his side. His own walking stick no longer felt any weight upon it. “Will you try to stop me?”

“No, my boy. I am no fool.” Orodenden tapped its walking stick against the mountaintop. “Just promise me that you will not fool yourself, either. If you take up this cause, you must see it through to the end. You must not fail.”

“I will not fail, elder.”

Oroodenden’s crooked form slouched slightly. “I spoke similarly to my elders before I marched for the Underking. I was wrong then. You cannot afford the same luxury now. If you fail, nothing will end but Ysceod. They will come here. They will destroy this place like they did to Old Abyzium. I cannot watch two of my homelands put to the torch.” It straightened its slouch as much as it could. “Lead us into victory or die now, Aknun.”

Aknun the Last watched the rising stars. “I have seen the path, elder. Hegettus is the first step. We merely need to take it.”

“Then I pray for your sure footing. For otherwise, we shall all fall with you.”

I’ve added this opening to the prologue of A Middling Tale: The Feasting Forest.

Intrigued? Go check the draft of the novel out! I’m still working on it but the final version should be done soon.