“Shh, it’s alright,” the villain said. “You’re doing beautifully and I’m so proud of you. But that’s enough now. It was cruel of them to make you fight me – you could never have won. It’s not your fault.”
The ancient and powerful villain may have had a calm and gentle face as he spoke, but he was furious, not at the hero, but the gods for continually sending kids and teenagers to fight their battles.
Tears fell from the heroes eyes, staining their cheeks. “I don’t g-get it… You’re not supposed to be kind!” The words left the hero’s mouth breathless, strained, and disbelieving. The gods had said the cause was righteous, that they were destined for this; so why, then, had they failed? Why, then, was the villain looking so kindly at them? And why, then, were they so relieved to hear those words from his mouth?
The villain knelt. Gods, so far as the hero knew, did not kneel. They towered and gleamed and spoke in booming voices that seemed to shake the sky itself. They were beautiful, and powerful, and above the ken of mortals. They said their brother had fallen – but the hero’s thoughts could only blank, as they saw him not stumble, nor falter, but bring himself to their level of his own accord.
“What am I supposed to be?” he asked.
The hero swallowed. Was this a test? The gods had warned that the Trickster could be beguiling.
“You… you want to bring about the end,” they accused. Reminding themselves as much as anything.
The villain nodded.
“Yes,” he agreed. Admitted; confessed. The hero waited for him to gloat. They were so tired. The weapons that they had been given had been so heavy. The magic in their veins had burned. They had fought so hard to reach this lair, the Throne of the Fallen God… but now they cannot even see a throne. Just a place that looks like a prison, too-long lived in.
Seal him back in.
“I can’t…” they say. Can’t let you do that, is what they know they should be saying. But somehow it stops there. Everyone is counting on them. Counting on them to save the day, to stop the end of the world.
The villain reaches over, and rests a steadying hand on their shoulder.
“Shh,” he repeats. “I know. A dozen mortal years and a thousand divine gifts are not enough to thwart a hatred that has been building for centuries in the heart of a god. You were a good champion. Better than they deserve. But if I let another one of you win, it will only mean a different child is sent, in another hundred years. It is not fair. I should not have let this go on for so long. I am sorry, little one.”
The hero trembles in exhaustion. The corners of their eyes itch, as they meet the villain’s gaze. It must be a trick. It must be. But they do not have the strength to fight it. Hot tears track down their cheeks, as they slump in defeat.
The villain squeezes their shoulder.
“You did well,” he assures them. They should not take comfort in it. And yet, he sounds so convinced that they cannot help it. Weak, they think. To come so far and fall for all the tricks at the end, to falter in the last moment. They scrub at their cheeks. But they do not resist, as the villain scoops them up, and holds them with one arm. Like a parent carrying a child. Tall enough for the hero to remember being even smaller. He pats their back, and brings them with him to the dread altar in the center of the chamber.
“It is time for the end,” he says. “You do not have to watch.”
They should, they think. It would be brave to.
They close their eyes, and turn their face towards the villain’s shoulder instead. His voice rumbles as he finishes the incantation. Through closed eyelids they see something flash; but when they blink their eyes reflexively open, they find that a hand has moved to shield their gaze for them. The ground shakes. The air turns hot, and then cold. The strange objects arrayed around the villain’s layer tremble and clatter, like an earthquake.
This is it.
Sorry, Mama. Sorry, Papa.
I wasn’t strong enough.
They brace themselves as it all comes to an end.
Ha! You wish! Watch as I turn this serious and angsty thread into a bittersweet sugar fest! Muse, let’s hit it!
The ground shakes and trembles. A cry rips through the air
itself, cracks of thunder, gales of wind; the voices of hundreds of ancient
beings grasping desperately at the last straws that may keep them alive. That
may keep them here. That may keep them immortal.Trembling, the hero curls in on themselves, hoping against
hope that it won’t hurt. That it will be swift and painless, just like people
said it was for their Mama and Papa when the lightning struck them down. Never
mind their screams, never mind that they still twitched and convulsed before
the ax man finished them off.The cries reach their crescendo, each note seemingly trying
to tear the very fabric of existence apart. This is it. They curl up just a
little bit tighter and…
Published
just moving along like everyone else 