Rekindling

Inspiration: a fallen gods finds his mortal lover again.

Ruins. Fallen gods. Bloodshed.

Heavens have been unholy stained with thirsty red; the ground littered with shining eyes and glowing wings. Whispers of stories, as ancient as the trees hugging the bodies; of tapestries waiting for years to finally shine, all dim and withering away with the deities that failed their mortals. These gods promised the earth of their protection, control and order, carried out facades of goodwill and bestowed bewitching double-edged blessings. All for what, exactly? No one knows.

And perhaps, there is simply no need to. Man knew the answer before gods were bred into survival. And it was never out of the goodness of their hearts, rather, it was from the depths of their imperfection. It was their ruination.

Light has been completely abstained with the preference of funeral, but with no proper burial, these beings will simply decompose like the rest in the mortal plane. Glimpses of life are few and rare between these disgusting beings and promptly smothered out in contempt and fear.

No one likes a repeated war.

Slowly, one by one, after one another, deities slowly revert to their true forms; forms before their godly blindness. Before their foolish destruction; their excessive and privileged freedom.

Swans, bears, snakes, insects, rocks, cats, dogs, wolves, hares, songbirds… mortals.

Those who materialise into beasts, great and fleeting as soon their souls are restored, are spared from further retribution. No reason to punish further when the outcome is its own chastisement.

Those who reborn into their mortal selves will serve a life sentence of their years of unspeakable acts. However, it becomes fickle when you stumble upon one with a strangeness that compels you into your most brokenness.

…

“General, we found another one of those freaks.” A high-pitched, roughen voice rang into Aris’s near-deaf ears. He turned on his heels, met his soldier in the eye and grunted for him to lead the way.

The old man—the soldier—cleared his throat and forced his gaze onto the path towards the disgusting mortal-god-abomination.

The two men set foot, roaming through their bloodied hits that still have yet to transform back to their humble forms. Every sound seemingly echoes ten times louder in the dead silence of after war, making the crushing sounds of bones under Aris’s foot evermore spine curling.

“Perhaps, general, we could take a d-different route.” The old man suggested, chuckling to add some lightness to it. He failed to deflate the sombre tone.

Aris, with hulking shoulders, firm muscles, an imposing stature and a domineering stare that you wish could soften, slowly pivoted on his feet to stare right into his eyes.

“A different route, soldier? have you forgotten, there is no different route when it comes to war?” Aris condescends without a missing beat.

His soldier doesn’t comment any further from there on, completely and utterly silent to the rest of the walk.

Crush.

Squash.

Squirm.

Gasp.

Groan.

Aris didn’t stop nor did he falter in the wake of death around him. He cared not of these grotesque, jarring, ghastly beings. Cared not for their moans for mercy. Cared not for the dying whispers of ancient life stories. Why would Aris care if he had been abandoned by these same deities? Left with no promised sanctuary; no purpose; no comfort.

In his youth, Aris grew up to adore the gods for their ‘favours’ and ‘heroic acts’ of justice, peace and harmony. He had attended festivals upon ceremonies upon banquets, seeing each god he had spent prayers to. Aris spent hours of the day and long stretches into late nights to look up and read great fables of his gods. His saviours. Scrolls upon scrolls littered his bedchamber in a hurricane, covering every visible surface of the floor or wall.

Many of these gods were inherently noble and graceful. Like the goddess of connection, Bolivia, spoken with the grace of kindness and wisdom; god of wealth and fairness, Noran, with every story fabricated to make him appear holy; goddess of nature, Navir, who bestowed gifts of animals. However, he soon knew of such illusions were… Just illusions. Fairytales. Make-believe. They were not based in truth whatsoever, rather, these tapestries of deities were as fake as their godly appearance were. Once his little naïve heart caught up with his thought advanced mind, it was already too late. His whole world: his family, friends and his beloved were all taken away as an act of retribution for his mortal treason to even believe such ‘lies.’ Aris died that day, with the house fire and disappearance of his lover.

But, unlike the godly bastards who were only relishing life’s ultimate privilege, he was truly reborn. Aris became a man of purpose, of strive and of power. He was no longer the naïve little boy that spent hours huddled away from people to fill his mind of delusions. Nor filled with idiotic, distraction-filled sensation called love. Love for the man he thought will never leave—promised to never leave him. Myron.

...

GASP.

A man of gaunt limbs and sharp features arose from his holy casket and into the bloodred rebirth. His long awaiting eyes to open finally blinked up to the sky then to his limbs. Then… To everything around, him.

Joy to confusion to immeasurable grief.

What happened? He thought, why is there so many died…?

In his early wake, he could not remember the atrocities he has bestowed upon the mortal plane nor the way his godly-self betrayed the very focus he took an oath to: human life. This reborn man could not even fathom the years of his reign, which was handled with iron and melded with tears.

Now, he could only vaguely remember glimpses of life—his life. A mother’s face, oval shaped with the most beautiful smile, curls tangling around her jawline and eyes as searingly green as tree leaves; a man of broad shoulders, hair of short gold and the biggest smile on his face, directed at him; of children holding his hands, playing games and calling his name…

His name…

His name…

Is–

A snap of wood and crushing bones drew his mind of awakening consciousness, snatching away the blissful moments of simple recollection.

He whipped his head towards the source, a darkened space between two great trees, shrouded by hanging bodies with naturally looking appearances. A weight burdened onto his chest, heaving his lungs harder with effort, making his mind go crazy and his limbs itching to move.

Another snap; it’s time to go.

He urged his unused human muscles to move with his panic, regardless whether they scream as loud as it is as well.

Left… Straight. Right… Wait no, continue straight. Straight then to… Right.

The more he bounded over rocks, sticks, branches, fallen bodies, the more his breathing became a thunderous effort to maintain. He needs to take a break but at the risk of being slaughtered by whatever creature is lurking behind him? His mind told him no.

Turn… Go straight again… Wait, was it right this time? No, no, it’s-

Because of his overgrowing exhaustion and fatigue, his awareness strained. His feet lodged into a branch, making the man tumble downwards towards a darkened river.

His vision blurred, the world seemed to be spinning and out of orientation. Before he could grab a hold onto anything – a body or other – he smacked into the water’s surface.

Icy spikes rose into his tired body, ensnared his bones into a trap.

I need to get to the surface. He thought.

He pleaded to whatever god or person above to bestow mercy upon him. The man forced his arms to move upwards, his legs to operate beyond their limits now. However, the more he tried, the more the darkness fell onto his vision. Bubbles escaped his mouth, desperate and endless.

His vision was starting to… Get a little… Dazed. He swore he could feel…

…

“The freak got into the river, sir!” the old man shouted as he waited for his general. Aris, who looked more entertained by the sparkling light of the demented creatures at his feet, marched his way down to the river.

Hmm… And not even a good runner. Who in the realms was this pathetic load of a man? Clearly someone not worth caring about. Aris thought.

The whole way there, he was thinking how idiotic this thing is. No one escapes general Aris. Few were emboldened by their arrogance to think such thing, but this decrypted creature must have lost its mind when it had erupted out of its disgusting chrysalis.

He shortly stepped into the river’s bloody waters, welcoming its icy grip with familiarity. Aris pulled his target up; hands around the man’s neck, soft and shivering in his palm, which wasn’t the large visual that was so startling of him. His target had curls that wrapped around his face, chocolate and barky; an oval face his body seemingly remembers; and eyes as piercingly green as his favourite tree.

Aris tilted the shivering mess in his palm and scrutinised his appearance more. His skin was ghastly pale, no sight of warmth or even a kiss from the sun whatsoever. His age must be around his age. His eyes shot open and darted for help, but with the realisation that was none at all. And most of all, he had a scar across his chest... He feels he should've remembered something about it. Aris shoved that weird observation away and lifted his target higher, to the height of his face.

“You are foolish.” He says simply. Aris could see the pang of hurt in the man’s eyes but as expected, he said nothing in return.

“I know you must have felt still in power for you to think you can even scramble away. Feeling as though you can call upon the Great Mother for aid. You are gravely mistaken.”

Again, the man said nothing but wore a look of confusion; Aris scoffed and grew irritated.

“You really believe you are better than me, huh? Well… You no longer have your wings to sway your way out of this one nor do you have your legion to command.”

And again nothing. Aris huffed steam out of his nostrils and tightened his grip.

“I am the general of the Southern Armies and right-hand man of the Northern and Eastern King of Wutia. I. Am. Aris.”

Finally, albeit at first with a shaky voice, the man finally spoke.

“A-Aris?” he said with a surprisingly soft voice.

“Yes. And for your crimes–”

“Is that really you?”

“Yes––I beg your pardon?”

Overcome with surprise, Aris loosened his grip and nearly stumbled back into the water. His target sounded so much like—no, no, his lover died years ago under mysterious circumstances.

The man, now looking more and more human with a warmer tone of skin, carefully reached out to touch Aris’s chest. Gentle fingers, long and shivering, onto his big chest.

“My love… Is that you?”

“Uh… Ah… What-What are you talking about?”

“Aris, my sun, my holy hand in my heart… Is that really you?”

Aris scoffed in disbelief, “what kind of sorcery is this? You do not know me nor love me.”

“Oh, but can’t you see?”

The man kissed his own fingers and tremblingly placed them back onto the heart area of Aris’s chest.

Aris instantly dropped him and staggered back. They both stumbled in the freezing waters, drenched once amore but now overcome with a different feeling.

Aris could feel his heartbeat rapidly accelerate in his chest; his mind ripping in half and his body feeling the full emotion of yearning that has been bottling up for years.

“Ow… You still have the same reflexes…”

He instantly whipped his head towards the man he is supposed to kill. He didn’t know what to believe anymore nor did he have any faith in his feelings now; perhaps he never did.

“What… Are you?” Aris muttered.

“I’m Myron.”

It cannot be. Myron died as many others by the hands of the gods.

Aris scrambled backwards, hitting bodies and branches while his hands bled by sharp rocks.

“No… No, no, no, no! You are not Myron. You are not my love. He died. Died, I tell you! He left one day and never came back! People told me that he suffered a arrow to the heart, a shot I knew all too well. He wouldn’t—couldn’t back to me. Not like this. Not when I’m no longer the man I used to be.”

He felt all the work he put in himself to be relentless, domineering, the conquer the kingdom needed and not the softness that he used to cloud his mind with, crumble down to the water. Washing away in heaps.

“Myron wouldn’t have left me for 30 years. He wouldn’t abandon me… He wouldn’t. Myron would have came back to me, even if he was a god, back into my arms. He… He…”

The man across from Aris—Myron—stayed wordless. He sighed and tried to reach out. Aris shrank back.

“Love… If you do not believe me, then why do I know you loved the smell of roses; the touch of early morning sunshine; the sight of cats simply existing?”

Aris stayed silent.

“I know you loved my eyes, my lips, my hands… The way I smelt in the evening. How I wore my robes to bed.”

Aris sputtered in denial.

“You’re a demon. Not my lover. Get away from me.”

Myron crawled closer to Aris.

“Stay. Back.”

Yet, he continued.

It wasn’t until Aris brandished a dagger and Myron’s neck was pressed firmly against it’s sharpness, that Myron finally stopped.

His green eyes aimlessly searched into Aris’s golden ones; longing and loving. Like the day he vanished.

Aris couldn’t take it anymore. His poor heart had gone too much already—the years of pain, grief and numbness that turned him into the man he is now, and now the suffering of knowing his beloved was a god that he fought against. A heartless deity that sided with the ones that abandoned when he was young; foolish and alone. How could he agree to being one? What made him change into one and forsake him to years of suffering? Was he the reason…?

He didn’t know that he was sobbing uncontrollably and shaking like a child until Myron gently grabbed the knife, pulled it away from Aris, and kissed his tears away. Each kiss was as warm as he remembered.

Soft, welcoming and tempting.

Aris finally slumped against Myron, holding onto him for dear life. And perhaps it really was for dear life.

“I’m sorry, my love… I’ll explain everything.”