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Traitor. Traitor. Traitor.
Pain was her world, guilt her tormentor. Nothing was spared in the heavens' fury. Beneath her, the Irminsul’s roots writhed and hissed, extremities withered and blackened from an eternity of struggle against the sickness from beyond.
Yet she still sat there. She still lived.
Weakly, Rukkhadevata tried to clutch at the front of her robes, but dropped her hands to her sides immediately, overcome with tremors. She couldn't move. She could barely breathe, and it was ragged, it was trembling, it was painful.
Everything was painful. Her body, her mind, her heart. It all throbbed under the plight that was Rukkhadevata's existence at that moment. It was as if a thousand burning needles were pricking under her skin, at her raw nerves, unwilling to let her rest.
But it would soon be over. Gritting her teeth, the god tried to calm the tremors that shook her body. The Irminsul was going to be fine. She was going to be fine. The corruption was no more. Deshret cleansed the corruption. Deshret–
Deshret.
Deshret...
Deshret was dead.
Right. Deshret purified the Irminsul from the corruption brought forth by the forbidden knowledge. He sacrificed his life.
Deshret was dead.
The first god-king of Ay-Khanoum, the son of the sky, the lord of the blazing sun–
Her last remaining friend was no more.
The brutal realization was so painful it was like dying and under the burning pain engulfing her body that had yet to subsist, Rukkhadevata felt her face contort in anguish.
So she sat there and sobbed like a child, too weak to even wipe away her own tears, merely able to watch as the bitter salt water steadily soaked her robes. She still lived, but at what cost?
It was only after what seemed to be an ocean of tears had been wrung out of her that Rukkhadevata was roused from her grief.
A chess piece.
It glowed with a gentle verdant hue as it floated up to where Rukkhadevata was crumpled pathetically on the floor until it rested in her lap. The small item was overflowing with familiar Dendro energy, almost pulsing against her skin with the vigorous flow of life. Its light seemed to wash away the last remnants of abyssal black clinging to the Irminsul’s roots, reviving back the silver-white glory it bore before her world had ended.
"Congratulations."
A cold, robotic clapping resonated amidst the silence. The voice was even colder, hollow like a distant echo. The Lord of the Woods couldn't see their face, too exhausted and overcome with pain that she couldn't even lift her gaze to meet molten gold and void.
Yet that unknown being filled her with fear.
They were an envoy of Celestia. Something primal in her knew of it.
"Congratulations, Buer," they repeated, "for reaching the Heavenly Principles and becoming the Archon of Sumeru."
What?
Rukkhadevata weakly wheezed, nearly doubling over at the sharp pain that pierced through her lungs. No. This couldn't be happening. No. The taste of bile in her throat had her violently clasping her hands over her mouth.
No.
"Yes." Despite what were only garbled words and unintelligible coughs from the god, the celestial envoy still seemed to understand the maelstrom of thoughts that roared in the new Archon's mind. "The Lord of Flowers and the Scarlet King have both perished. Therefore, you are now Sumeru's last deity, its Archon." Golden eyes were fixed on the shivering figure with deep emptiness. "This is your Gnosis, the link between you and the Heavens above. You may utilize it as you see fit."
This could not be happening. She wasn't supposed to be an Archon. Deshret was. None of that was supposed to happen. They were supposed to live in that paradise. Happily. Together. Forever.
And even if that paradise had been lost, engulfed by calamity and doomed to the tragedy of oblivion—
"But you were." The distant tone didn’t even feel condescending. It was cold, factual, a slap across the face. "Everything in this world is fated. It is written in the stars, in the very constellation that watched over your creation by God's hands— Sapientia Oromasdis. From the moment you were carved from the flesh of the silver-white tree, this was your destiny."
"As the Irminsul's avatar, They had always meant for you to become Archon, Buer."
This was a sick joke. A cruel one, an awful one. Rukkhadevata felt like throwing up. The bitterness on her tongue only grew more unbearable with every word the envoy spoke.
If not a joke, this had to be a nightmare.
Her friends were fated to die?
Because she existed?
Because she was deemed more deserving? More useful?
“Believe what you will. God’s motives are Theirs alone to understand.”
No, she couldn’t delude herself into believing this was a nightmare. This was true, unfiltered reality. Only the waking world could possess such horrors. This, she would not wake up from.
"I will now go. Once again, the Heavenly Principles congratulate the god of wisdom, Buer, for her ascension to archonhood."
And now, even as the lingering pain kept choking her, the Dendro Archon threw wisdom to the flames and screamed in fury and sorrow, until night had become day, and her throat was too raw to breathe.
Under her, the silver-white roots were as brilliant as ever.
In her lap, the Gnosis kept on glowing warmly.
Traitor.