How Gods Bleed

The passage way opened up into a moderately sized chamber where the masked figure was standing pounding his fists into something that was not quite a cave wall, not quite a door but something in-between. Vague patterns that Cada Varl recognized as the language of the gods had been etched all across it, speaking of things that even Cada Varl could never understand. The masked figure continued to pound his fists upon it, causing the entire chamber to shake under his strength, but it did nothing else. Then the masked figure suddenly came to a stop filling the chamber with a cold silence.

  Slowly he turned halfheartedly and looked towards Cada Varl revealing the red of his eyes, deep within his strange mask.

  After a moment he turned fully and spoke, “Do you know how gods bleed?” he asked in a voice that was youthful yet unnatural. Cada Varl kept his silence possessing little desire to know who or what this figure was. “The same way as everything else,” the figure said seemingly not caring whether Cada Varl asked him or not. “That is what bides us to them, the one commonality that links all life that has ever been, or will ever be.” The masked figure fell to silence only to see if Cada Varl would speak to him but the Immortal remained silent. “Everyone knows that all life on the earth was born from the blood of Kerceeria when she fell from the heavens to the earth…but so few know why she fell in the first place.” The masked figure paused again but it was clear he was not looking for any response. “She committed suicide,” he added with disgust in his voice “Seeing how foolishly the other gods acted she could no longer bear to be of their kind. All life was born from a tragedy; a tragedy is the reason why life exists on this earth.” The masked figure fell silent his words too powerful not to hang in the air for a moment. “It really is disturbing how it takes tragedy to change the world.”

  “You killed Imbaka!” Cada Varl snarled as his eyes flashed red, he had quickly grown tired of hearing the figure speak but what the figure said in response brought him to silence.

  “And you killed my mother!” The red light vanished from the eyes of the Immortal as he focused upon the words he had just heard. The eyes of the masked figure then flashed red just as Cada Varl’s eyes had once flashed. The figure slowly raised its hands and removed the mask and helmet that it wore.

  As the figure dropped the masked helmet onto the ground its face could be seen clearly. He was youthful in appearance perhaps no older than 20 years but his eyes seemed to possess an eternity of emotion. His spiking hair was white save for a grouping just right of the middle of his scalp, which were apple red. Though his red eyes were his most haunting feature Cada Varl was drawn to the horrid cut on the right side of his face that began at the end of his lip and ran across his cheek. The cut was not bloody but it was far from healed, with that part of his face being held together by black rings that pierced through his skin. His nose was narrow and sharp, well suited to his dark red eyes.

  “Do you remember this face?” the figure asked with a voice consumed by too many emotions to identify. Cada Varl kept silent still reeling from what the figure had said to him. “No,” The figure said as anger became dominant in his tone. “Why would you remember me? You are responsible for so many deaths and the tragedy that formed the world into what it is.” The figure intently shook his head as the red flash reappeared in his eyes before disappearing. “I would ask you how is it that the nightmares of the genocides you have caused have not devoured you, but I know that you do not dream that is right is it not?” Again Cada Varl did not answer as his very history now felt like it was being retold to him. “I no longer dream….” the figure said, “Nor do I slumber, but why would I? I am living in a nightmare that you put me in all those thousands of years ago” He fell silent not because he wanted to but because his rage made it difficult for his mind to decide what he should say next. Moments as intense as an eternity came and went before the figure spoke again.

  “I was born in Belrondia,” he said with almost choked words. “I know you have heard of that country…my father was a farm worker, he would work from sun up to sun down ensuring that my mother and I had a warm place to sleep and food in our bellies. Because of how much he had to work I didn’t see my father much…but I knew he loved my mother and me…my mother would spend her days singing…she had a voice that would make even goddesses envious. Like any loving wife she wished that her husband, my father could spend more time at home. So when she heard that there may have been a way to turn base metals into gold she began dabbling in alchemy and potion making. It was a completely harmless thing to do, all she wanted was to find a way where her husband would not have to work so much.”

  The figure paused, as his eyes looked into the distance of memory. “But the superstitious people of Belrondia believed she was doing something far darker and more evil. My mother was accused of witchcraft and ridiculous stories began to spread of her powers by overzealous gossips and fear mongers. How quickly once loyal neighbors turned on my mother; like sheep they flocked to this stupid idea that she was evil incarnate and yet my mother never so much as killed an insect…. Then one night when my father was home a mob, steered by the madness of hysteria came to our house, demanding that my mother offer her throat to them. My father, who loved my mother more than any man had ever loved a woman, refused to let the mob take my mother. While my father single handily held off the mob my mother and I fled….I heard my father yell before he died after he had taken down seven of the wretched mob.

  We fled to the woods and that very night knew that we could never return to Belrondia, knowing that we would be killed by any Belrondian we came across. The only other country that we could reach was Gatavoi the kingdom that my country had been fighting for more than two and half decades…such a place was simply not an option for us. So we fled into the mountains of Vastis, a cold harsh place but one that would keep us safe from the outside world.

  Soon we settled into a simple yet peaceful life dealing with the cold winters and lack of food as well as we could. My mother and I never complained about our lives, it seemed pointless. Though my mother never did sing again after the night my father died…it was just too painful for her….” The figure looked away from Cada Varl unable to keep his memories in check. As he looked back to the Immortal he said, “For years we saw not an another soul, but it did not matter. To us the small hut we had built to live in was like a castle because we had each other and the outside world left us alone….”