Short Story: The Fate of Gods

How long has it been?

How long ago was it that the banners of vivid blue hung from the terraces of my temples?

How many ages have gone by since the people walked through the streets on my high holy day, casting handfuls of blue flower petals into the crowds to bless them?

How many generations have passed since my priests heaped goats and sheep and bulls on my altars, splitting them open and burning them to garner my most meager blessings?

I know only that Babylon fell long, long ago. Those priests, and the temples they brought my offerings to, little more than dust on the wind. A triumphant shout that has faded into a quiet, all consuming silence.

Then, I reclined on beds made of ivory and stuffed with the feathers of ostriches and ducks. I was sheltered from the sun's glare by the mud bricks of ziggurats raised by men who felt honored simply to labor for my glory.

Now, I sleep in a cave, in a pile of rotting leaves and the furs of small animals I can capture with my hands.

I glance at the back of my cave, at the meager trove of offerings that have been brought to me over the last few years. Once, tens of thousands had worshiped me, their offerings spilling from the entrance of my temples and down the steps into the streets. Now I have but one supplicant. A young girl who comes here each night when her world sleeps, bringing whatever she can and begging me to protect her family.

A storm is passing by, the smell of rain thick in the air, the loamy scent of soaked earth filling my nostrils. I inhale it deeply, one of the last few pleasures I enjoy, but something smells *wrong*. A tinge of madness on the wind.

I creep towards the back of the cave, my breath shallow as I contemplate my tiny hoard. A small bowl I'd carved from rock to hold a loose pile of multicolored glass orbs. Her first gift, a feather from a crow, all black unlike the ones I'd seen in Babylon. The leg and wing bones of chickens she'd brought to me were meticulously stacked on the plate she'd brought them on, a beautiful thing made of white porcelain, delicate red and blue flowers trailing around its edge. A dried crown of white flowers, my favorite of them all, caught my eye causing it to linger on it.

The madness is creeping closer with the storm clouds. Fat and squat they spread out on the horizon darkly, ominously warning me to stay away. If I go to her, I doubt very much that I will survive what I find. If I do not, I can continue to eek out this meager existence. I may even, one day, far from now, find more worshipers. I could be loved again. I could be worshiped again. I could bask in their adulation, in their rites and hopes and dreams, answer their prayers, smell the incense and ash of their offerings.

Is it the duty of the gods to protect their followers? Or the duty of the followers to keep their gods remembered and strong? Who owes fealty to whom? Are we born of their needs and hopes or do they crawl forth from our egos and desire for love? It has been too long for me to remember.

I scratch at the lice that chew on my flesh underneath the ragged beard that crawls down my face. Long, long ago, women had fought one another for the honor of trimming it and oiling it, braiding it with bits of gold and lapis lazuli. But they have all long since died. I search a pile of bones that has been heaped by my door, scraps of rotten and dried meat still clinging to some, and find a large one. Some kind of leg bone from what the girl called a 'moose'. It is thick, and so, so heavy in my hand. It drags behind me along the floor of the forest as I leave the cave, as I shamble down the hillside, towards the twinkling lights of the town the girl lives in.

Lightning lights the clouds and the rain finally comes, the pregnant clouds opening up to weep down upon the little village of homes and the little god who walks towards them. I wonder if perhaps they are a final elegy for me by my father. I wonder if he still lives as I live now, forgotten and weak, or if he died long ago without my knowing. I remember the feeling of my hand in his as we stood atop his ziggurat, the cries of the humans below filling us with pride and love. I remember the strength with which he squeezed my hand, how big it felt compared to mine.

With every step I take, the tinge of that scent grows thicker. It's sour and musty, like old books that have been left to rot in a warehouse, vermin smearing their feces across the ink and chewing at the corners of the paper. There's something else to it too, a kind of iron, like the smell of blood and intestines mixing with dirt. It makes me want to gag.

But it's not just the smell that seems off. The little village of the girl, a tiny town buried between the mountains, has always been a quiet, sleepy little place, but never this quiet. No animals move or chatter and none of the odd metal carts, cars the girl calls them, move along the streets. The only sound is the wind screaming through the trees as the storm passes, the patter of rain as it begins to fall more heavily. A door bangs against its frame in the distance, a lonely drumbeat in the dark.

Lights normally blaze from the windows but tonight I don't see them. Even the stars seem to have been swallowed by the storm clouds that have drifted over the valley. I search the town for signs of life, but find none.

I resume my march, following a pulsing feeling deep in my chest, the tug of the girl's fervent, whispered pleas to me to protect her family. The bone scrapes loudly on the road as I follow it towards where I feel her to be, the grating sound joining the dull banging of the door and the eerie cries of the wind.

Finally, I find the home. A small thing of white painted wood, the door lies on the ground before the portal it once covered, shattered and discarded. Blood trails across the threshold, into the yawning darkness. I do not fear what I will find inside. I only fear that I am too late to protect the child.

The sound of the wind dies as I enter the house, replaced by the crying of the child. I follow the trail of blood through the house, past overturned furniture and books spilled across the wooden floorboards. The scent is growing stronger, that heady mix of insanity and wrongness, my mouth salivating in response, making me want to spit as though it would drive out the evil that is trying to seep into me.

As I enter the room that seems to be the main living space, I see the girl cowering in the corner, weeping. Before me lays the body of her mother, her body bleeding on the floor, face down. Her father stands over the girl, a knife grasped in his right hand, blood dripping down its gleaming silver edge. He sucks in a breath as he turns to see me, slicking back his hair with his hands, both of them soaked in the hearts-blood of the girl's mother. I look into his eyes and I see something I have not seen in millennia. His gaze is curious as though he cannot place me, as though he almost but not quite recognizes me.

"Tiamat." I whisper in our old tongue.

"Ahhhh..." Comes the sibilant whisper of the Queen and Mother of Lies and Serpents, a flash of recognition in eyes that have become green with her possession. "Nabu? Right?" They ask, a smirk cracking their visage. "How long has it been, Nabu? Three... no, four thousand years?" I can hear her voice, mixing with his, sliding and grating against the terror as he speaks words he does not wish to speak.

I regard the girl behind her, my ward, my worshiper. There is hope in her face, just below the surface that is overcome with terror and sorrow. I resolve myself to the necessity of what comes next.

"You will leave the girl in peace, Tiamat." I command them, though we both know I have not the power to stop them through violence. "You will leave her father's body and you will go back into the dark, where you belong."

They laugh, a mocking thing that slithers into the cracks of my soul. "Oh, poor little Nabu. So lonely, so afraid." The smile returns, taunting me, as they gesture towards the girl with the knife. "Why would you protect these beings? These small little things?" Now the knife points at me. "And... how? With what power would you stop me, little godling?" They ask. "I am so, so much older than you. So much more powerful. You are little more than a husk of your former self, and even back then you were nothing to me. And as for those I serve... even at your mightiest you were not even a speck before the Outer Gods."

I smile back, joy filling my heart as I see them flinch in surprise. "There is power in the worship of these beings, power in their faith. Power that even you cannot overcome." I warn her. Summoning all of my strength, I smash the bone I carry against the ground, before bending down to pick up the largest and sharpest of the slivers I can.

Tiamat eyes me warily. "You can't be serious. For this one, tiny thing?" They snarl, gesturing once more at the girl. There is fear in their voice now. Not fear of death or destruction, such things are far beyond me, beyond even my father, but fear of being bound once again. Who knows how long they were trapped before, and now I threaten to trap them once again. I feel sweat trickle down the small of my back as they regard me through half-slitted eyes. Then the smile returns, languid this time, seductive. "Nabu, what if I were to gift you what you long for? What if I were to help you restore yourself to your former glory?" They step closer, ever so slightly, their voice poisoned honey, their words a sweet venom.

In honesty, for a moment, I contemplate it. I remember the glory, the love, the adoration. I feel the longing in my heart for those days when I was worshiped by so many. And now, with the world as it is, I could be so much more. But then I see the girl's eyes again. Her faith does not waver for a moment. There is only serene and total love for me in them, a belief that I will protect her and her father. I place the shard of bone against my chest.

Even as Tiamat shouts, surging forward to try and stop me, I feel the bone pierce my heart. The hearts-blood of a god can bind even the most powerful of things that live beyond mortal ken, and so I bind Tiamat with mine. I cast her out into the sea of the stars, watching as the light flickers and dies from the man's eyes and he becomes himself again. The girl shouts in surprise and shock, running past her father to my side as I fall to the ground.

I can feel her tears upon my cheek as she cradles my head. She's saying something now, words I cannot hear as I feel the darkness close in around me. Begging me to stay, I think. Denying that I can die perhaps. The world is growing colder and quieter as moments pass. But all I can see is her eyes, the light in them. Even as I pass from this world, I know.

I know that at least for now, I have done my duty. She will live. For now. And because of that, so will I...