Short Story: The Fate of Gods (Part 2)

I feel lightning surge through my bones. Broken and shattered, they knit back together, filling me with fiery pain that courses through my whole body. Skin, papery and dry, slithers back and forth, binding the rents that had appeared in it where the lightning had bit into me. Beads of water spatter against me, rain, I think, and my dusty skin drinks it greedily. I gasp, sucking down lungfuls of sweet, cool air, the moisture in it soothing my parched, aching throat even as I let out a horrible cry of pain. My hearing returns next, the words of an ancient chant that I have not heard in more than a hundred human lifetimes coaxing me back from the slumber of death. I am confused, for these are chants that should have been lost to the ages, but the words are *right* in a way that only the gods know. My muscles fill with vigor, engorged by the energy the lightning has given me, the lightning that was once my father’s domain, but I know it cannot last.

A gentle hand cradles my head, lifting it from the stone slab I am laying upon. “Drink, my lord Nabu.” A soft voice whispers to me, pressing a cold metal cup to my lips. I open my mouth and a sweet mixture of blood and honey flows down my throat. The faith of the woman, at least I believe her to be a woman, warms me as much as the ritual offering.

The sustenance returns my eyes to me, my vision slowly clearing as the shroud of death’s fog falls away from my mind and body. I see soft eyes staring at me, eyes that are filled with faith and love. “How…?” I manage to croak out from between cracked and broken lips, before my breath gives out and a cough wracks my body. The woman gently strokes my hair to soothe me as the coughing passes, her voice a soft murmur of the ancient language of Babylon. This voice is the one that coaxed me back from beyond the veil of death, that brought life back to my inert flesh. But it isn’t her voice that I recognize; it’s her eyes. “How long has it been?” I finally succeed in asking her, my breath ragged in my chest.

“Nineteen years, my lord.” She tells me, her eyes alight with triumph and happiness.

Nineteen years. Not even two decades. The blink of an eye to a god. But for her it had been more than half her life. I look at the face of the woman, taking in the changes since I last saw her as a small child, begging me with tears in her eyes not to die. I reach a hand up and brush away a strand of her hair, delicate, brown, and touch her face. “How did you learn the rituals?” I ask her quietly, my pain subsiding as I feel the faith of not just the woman, but of several people behind her slowly filling me with strength. The power of the lightning has faded and now I am nourished by their love.

“I went to school. Became an anthropologist who specialized in the study of Babylon. I learned Akkadian and went on digs in Iraq and Iran to find your temples.” There is a thread of pride in her voice, of triumph, of a life lived in pursuit of a goal and of having obtained that goal. It makes me smile which in turn makes her smile. “I found one, buried by the banks of the Tigris. I unearthed it. Searched it. Found documents that had been preserved by chance in a chest that had been sealed by the mud and water of the river so tight that the tablets were unscathed. There were rituals that described how to summon you, and others about raising the souls of the dead.” I sit up gently as she continues, her hand supporting the back of my head as I do. “I spent years, *years*, studying. Learning the ancient rites. Experimenting with combining them.”

As she waves a hand around her I finally take in what she has made. The slab sits in the center of a ritual circle, my ancient name writ around the perimeter along with a prayer beseeching my presence. Sigils, *my* sigils as well as my father’s and sister’s, lay at the cardinal points, cast in silver, gold, and mercury, forming a six pointed star. I take in the positioning of the candles that are centered within the signs that she has painstakingly crafted. The mercury must have been particularly difficult, as dangerous as that metal is to work. I nod approvingly, feel the pride swell in her heart as I acknowledge her effort. “I could not have taught you better myself.” I muse out loud. I learned long ago the importance of praising one’s children when they have done well. Finally, my eyes fall on the six figures that still lay beyond the circle, kneeling in blue cloth robes that mimic the ones my most ancient priests wore. The storm has passed but the ground is still damp, the forest floor’s grass glistening under the moon’s light. “Who are they?” I ask the woman, turning to look at her once more, taking in the high priests robes she wears so well. Before, long ago, none would have dared wear those robes without my permission. Now, there could be none more fitting for them.

“My family, my lord.” She says. “And two students of mine who I came to trust with my secret.”

“Secret?” I ask her, curiosity tinging my voice.

“Your body, my lord.” She explains.

Ah, yes. My body would have been undying, the corpse of a god not subject to the banalities that humans suffered when they passed from this world. An eternal vessel, awaiting the return of its inhabitant should they ever be returned by power of faith and worship. A not unheard of method of contravening my fate, but still rare enough in itself. But to ritually return me? I find it difficult to keep the woman from noticing how impressed I am. “Bring them to me. I wish to see my most faithful. I wish to bless each of you for your actions.” I tell her. She smiles and waves them forward. They quickly rise, but their steps are cautious as they approach me, unsure of how to speak to the god they’ve raised from the dead. I chuckle a little at their hesitation, but do my best not to let my mirth show. I would not want them to think me dismissive of their deference. I coax them forward with a crook of my fingers and they hasten their step.

When they arrive, the kneel once again, following formulated, ancient rites of posturing that humans had long ago created, a pageantry that these ones must have picked up from the writings that my high priestess had discovered. I chuckle again and motion for them to stand. “You,” I tell them, “my most faithful, do not have to stand on the decorum of long dead men. You have given me life once more. Do not grovel at my feet. Instead, tell me what you wish for a boon and if it is in my power to grant it, I will.”

The first, man who looks to be about the same age as my high priestess, carries a young girl in his arms. His skin is dark, almost as dark as my sister’s, his hair shaved and cropped close to his head, his beard and mustache neatly trimmed and oiled. The girl looks as though she is a blend of the man and my priestess, her skin a shade that seems to mix theirs, her hair soft and curly, but the same light brown as the priestess. She said this was her family and two students, perhaps, I muse to myself, this man is her husband, and the child her daughter. “You.” I point at him. “What would you ask of Nabu?”

His eyes widen slightly and he licks his lips, his gaze flicking over to the high priestess’ before returning to me and then falling to the ground as though shocked by his own audacity. “I… I don’t really want anything.” He says quietly before clearing his throat and speaking up. “Magan told me you saved her as a kid. I… I didn’t really believe her till she showed me your body and then I… I still wasn’t sure. But she asked for my help and I couldn’t not help if you saved her…” His voice trailed off as his gaze returned, momentarily, to mine. “I guess… I guess I just wanted the opportunity to thank you?” Even he sounds confused by his words and it earns a full bellied laugh from me. He blushes as I slap my knee, feeling like my side will split from mirth I guffaw in a most un-godlike fashion.

As I wipe a tear from my eye, I regard him once more. “Look at me, human.” I instruct him, and his eyes slowly rise to meet mine. I see fear in them, his faith directed more towards his wife than me. Love compelled him to do something he was unsure of, scared of even, but he’d still done it all the same. “What is your name?” I ask.

“Devon.” He tells me simply, a bit of awe creeping into his voice as he looks at me up close, sensing without seeing the differences in our kind. The subtle magnification of what they could be into what I am. “This is our daughter, Mae.”

The notion that it was he who had owed me for some service I had never rendered to him is a most amusingly human idea. But a god cannot long be held in the debt of a human, lest terrible things happen. “Devon, for your service, I grant to you a blessing of health and a blessing of bounty. You will live a long life without major illness. You will be outlived by all your children and grandchildren. You will never know the suffering of infirmity. You will keep your mind till the end of your days. The moment of my priestess’ final passing will be yours as well so that you never know the sorrow of being parted by death.” As I say the words, a sigil of light blossoms on his breast, sealing the fate I have woven for him with my magic. Beside me I see my high priestess squint and blink in surprise. Unusual for a human to be able to see the sigils of a god when he has woven a spell, but then, this Magan has proven to be most unusual.

Devon’s eyes widen at my declaration. I wonder for a moment if he finds this unacceptable for some reason. Perhaps he was hoping for gold and jewels? I feel my eyebrow quirk at him involuntarily and then I reach into his mind with mine, only to discover great joy in his heart. Ah, not disappointment then, simply surprise. I nod approvingly.

“And you, little one?” I ask the girl, whose eyes have not left my face. When I speak to her, she squeals in surprise and buries her face in her father’s side. I frown slightly, unsure if I have done something to scare her.

“Mae is shy.” Devon explains quickly, trying to assuage me.

I smile and nod, turning my attention to the next person in the line. I recognize him, despite the lines that now weather his face and the fact that he uses a cane to walk. I can feel my smile take on a sad cast as I regard him. His encounter with Tiamat has not left him well. “Hello.” I say. “I believe this is our first time meeting, formally speaking.”

—-

Magan’s father nods, tears in his eyes as he smiles at me. “Yes, my lord.” He says, bowing as best he can, his back seeming to pain him. “You saved my life and my daughter’s… before… when that…” His breathing is ragged as he remembers that night, his eyes growing distant. “That demon. She killed Magan’s mother. She would have killed Magan. She would have used me to kill and kill and kill and kill, until I was too broken to use. And then she would have moved on to another and turned them into her weapon.” His eyes return to mine. “But you saved Magan. And saved me too.” He falls to his knees in supplication, sobs wrenching their way free of him as he finally is able to say words he has wanted to say for nineteen years. “Thank you, my lord, thank you.”

Realization dawns on me at what he says, coldly gripping my heart and tearing me from the moment. I slip from the stone slab I have been sitting on and crouch next to him, placing my hand on his shoulder. “For your faith and devotion, I bestow upon you the blessing of forgetting.” I whisper to him. “You will forget the things that that monster forced you to do that night. You will forget the evil she left whispering in your mind like a poison, haunting you for these many years. You will remember only that she was a terrible evil, that she made you do terrible things, but the pain will be gone. I am sorry that I cannot do more, my child.” I enfold him in my arms, wrapping them around him as he clings to me and sobs.

When he’s finished, he is helped to his feet by an older woman. She smiles and thanks me, quietly pulling him away as I turn to the others. “Unfortunately, the rest of you will have to wait. I have just been reminded of something rather urgent that must be done.” I inform them. Confusion radiates from them, but none question as I walk back to the altar that I had been reborn upon.

“What’s the matter?” Magan asks, her voice worried.

I look at her and debate whether I should tell her, worried that if I explained my sudden haste that it would cause her undue distress, but as I look into her eyes I chide myself for my foolishness. This woman spent the majority of her life in pursuit of things far beyond the dreams of most mortals and not only found them but used them to raise a dead god, all out of her faithful belief in me. To reward such faith with deceit would be an insult of the highest magnitude. “When you resurrected me,” I explain, slowly, trying my best not to alarm her, “you released my soul from the duty it had been bound to with my hearts-blood.” Her eyes widen as she quickly realizes what I mean. “The duty I had bound it to was to contain Tiamat.” I finish, but I see her hands are shaking, her legs struggling to support her. I reach a hand out to steady her but she shakes her head, turning from me and leaning over the stone slab of the altar. “Tiamat’s return will take time.” I continue. “Time that I can use to find certain objects that will allow me to cast Tiamat back out to where it comes from, back to the Outer Gods’ realms.”

Magan takes a deep breath, steadying herself. When she turns to look at me, all fear has disappeared from her, replaced by barely sublimated rage. “What do you need?” She asks, her voice determined, steady.