The Rending: Prologue

Odesus threw the doors of his mother’s temple open without care, striding in like a roll of thunder. His boots clicked on the fine tile below with the force of each step, pure adrenaline propelling him forward. 

She looked up from where she knelt by her garden, her serene countenance falling into a frown as she watched him approach.

“Mother,” He said stiffly as she stood to greet him.

“What’s got you in such a state?” She sighed, wiping her hands off on a clean rag, “That door is glass, you know. It will break if you throw it open hard enough.”

He was hardly in the mood to entertain small talk and instead decided to cut to the core of the issue, “Thinovar has fallen. Rhoivar is likely to follow soon.”

She turned away from him, usually a signal to any of her children that silence would be the wisest option continuing forward. He could not abide this time, however; silence wouldn’t make her understand and silence certainly wouldn’t stop the destruction.

“You aren’t listening!” He stressed the words, slowly coming undone with the weight of a future only he could see, “The Kandish Coast doesn’t even exist anymore! They’re calling it The Wastes now, what with it being too infested with necrotic magic for any living being.”

“I have listened every time you broach the subject, my son, but it’s you who doesn’t understand. It will right itself in time,” She still did not face him, instead gazing up at the sky through the glass roof above, “You of all beings should know that.”

“I know that with every passing day, the strings of fate grow darker. More and more are cut too soon, shifting what the future might bring.” He forced his voice to remain level despite the deep seated urge to yell, “Giving the mad king more time cannot possibly fix things. This carnage will only get worse.”

“We don’t interfere in mortal quarrels,” She turned around, her lips pursed, “You know this.”

“This is no quarrel,” He shook his head slightly, “It’s a slaughter. It’s the undead versus the living. Should we just let them all die?”

“They hardly even worship us across the ocean,” She countered, “A scarce few temples do our clergy occupy. I’ll say this one last time, for your sake and mine, drop the matter.”

Odesus bit his cheek until he could feel the sharp sting of pain and taste metal on his tongue. This grand home of hers, with its gilded tiles and silver metalwork and a garden that never runs out; it’s all she cared about. The great Nyva, matron of Leydon, the mother of all healers, and the goddess who had not an ounce of humanity in her heart. His jaw tightened, his anger and sorrow reaching their boiling points in tandem.

“I have no temples on any mortal land, nor any clergy in my name, yet I have more empathy for these people than you can even pretend to.” He bit the words out, “You’d think being worshiped would have brought you closer to humanity, mother, but it’s only driven you away. You’ve forgotten your duty to this world and to those who invoke your name.”

She straightened, her eyes flashing as they narrowed, “You dare-?”

“I do.” He interrupted her, “The worth of a life does not only hold weight if it makes offerings at your altar.”

She was furious, he could tell. The only thing that garnered him mercy was that he’d always been her favorite son. If not, she’d have struck him where he stood.

“You have always been different,” She said, her words tight and clipped, “Your powers are unique, drawn from the universe in a divinity older than all of us. Despite this, you forget that you are young. You will learn, and I fear it may be the hard way, Odesus.”

“Very well, then,” He muttered, turning his back to her, each step carrying him closer to the doors and farther from her reach.

“I don’t want you interfering with this,” She called out one last time, a last ditch effort in the face of his obstinance, “As your mother, I demand it. You will only get hurt in your meddling, or worse. We are immortal but we are not invulnerable.”

His mouth twisted, “If there must be a sacrifice, then the lamb I shall be.”

He didn’t need to be facing her to know the impact of his words. They landed like blows, wounding her more than any violence ever could. He sharpened them that way, after all; they had served their purpose. He refused to look back, keeping his eyes trained on the path below him as he escaped to his own small sanctuary. It was not nearly as grand as his mother’s, but it was his.

As he approached the double doors, a whisper came from the shadows, “Making mother angry?”

Turning sharply, he saw his sister practically materialize from the darkness as she moved toward him. Her dark eyes were narrowed, her smile like that of a hunter who had scented blood.

“What’s the golden child done to cause upset?” She asks, tilting her head ever so slightly to the left, “Oh, apologies, brother. Nenthys is her favorite, not you. I sometimes forget, what with how you bend over backward to please our parents.”

“Agnia,” His jaw clenched as he sighed sharply out his nose, refusing to give her the rise she so desperately wanted, “Why are you here?”

“Why?” She feigned surprise, pressing one pale hand over her heart, “I wanted to help my dear big brother, of course.”

“You never help anyone, so what do you actually want?”

She keeps up the facade for a few moments longer before finally breaking.

“Oh, fine.” She dropped her hand, rolling her eyes, “What I really want is to see you crash and burn.”

He stared at her, quietly baffled before he simply shook his head, “Why? Your clergy will perish the same as all other mortals.”

“I hardly care,” She scoffs, “Seeing you realize that our beloved parents aren’t coming to save you after you royally fuck this up will be worth it.”

“And why is that what you wish for?” He asked hopelessly, “Why is that your desired outcome in all of this mess?”

“Because you think far too highly of yourself, brother.” She looked at him, torn between pity and disgust, “Our parents know it, as do our siblings. You sit in your temple at all hours, whispering to the stars and waters, but what can you really do about any answers you might see?”

His silence makes her smile wider, triumph in her gaze as she watches him break.

“We can survive without you,” She shrugs slightly, “Being the oldest means nothing when you have no real use. Even Nenthys, as much as her heart bleeds all over the place, serves a purpose. I want you to realize this, and realize that being mother and father’s good little lap dog changes nothing about it."

“I’m not a lap dog,” He finally snaps back, “I do my duty as their son, something you can hardly comprehend.”

“Duty this, duty that.” She doesn’t back down in the face of retaliation, only sinking her claws in deeper, “You do their bidding and they throw you scraps of affection to appease you. Nothing more, nothing less.”

“And you have a purpose, sister?” He clenched his fists, “Aside from wreaking pain and suffering everywhere you go?”

“I live under no false pretenses,” She smirked, “I know exactly why I’m here.”

“Really?” He bit out, “Why, then?”

“Suffering,” She says, the delight in her eyes nearly enough to make him recoil, “You, however, have delusions of grandeur. You overestimate your purpose.”

His fingernails dig into his skin, half moons making black blood well up into the wounds. He does not bleed gold like his family; he is not like them. He never will be.

“And you underestimate the lengths I’m willing to go to,” He says, his voice quiet but determined.

She opens her mouth again, but no words come out. He pushes past her, his eyes locked on the door, not eager for another round of her hurtful banter.

Despite being the eldest of his siblings, he had never been the most popular deity. He was mentioned in household prayers, as the eldest of his siblings, but he was not revered. 

Nenthys, the protector of women and children, goddess of the home, revered by nearly all. Caris, worshiped by scholars and generals alike for his wisdom and strategy. Ilvara and Vielia, the twins to whom mourners prayed for safe passage of spirits. Even Agnia, who was equal parts reviled and beloved depending on who exactly you asked. 

He, on the other hand, was simply there. Included, but never espoused for his domain. Who would worship time, after all, when it inevitably brought death at its heels? It’s not as if he could change what fate he saw in the stars.

Or could he? He turned the topic over and over in his mind, wondering if his mother might be right, if Agnia might incomprehensibly be right. Is it impossible to veer destiny from this course? Is he about to set off on a fool’s errand that will only bring about his destruction?

He looked at the calm pool of water in the center of his temple. It whispered no secrets to him today, nor did the stars. All was silent, and only the darkened threads of fate in his mind’s eye, usually so bright and golden, remained to remind him of what’s at stake.

Approaching the pool, he carefully ran his fingers through the still surface. Ripples scattered at his touch, and that familiar incessant humming reverberated in his skull. Flashes of the undead, the Veil being torn open, the spirits that howled through the night; it all paints a clear picture. If this continued unchecked, the consequences would be beyond disastrous. Kingdoms full of shambling corpses and vengeful ghosts lingered in his mind’s eye as he drew his hand back, fingers dripping.

He would change fate. He must. He was the God of Time; if he couldn’t circumvent this madness, no one else could. In fact, he feared no one else would even try.