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There is a story told from generation to generation, and which I will retell to you; the story of the God of Falsehoods, a god that sought power of the absolute, but this was no true god. Gods do not seek power, they simply are power; only mankind knows, truly, the thirst for power, the thirst to be something more than all that surrounds them.
The Green God was no god, and is no god, for he was a lonely man hunted; a lonely man hunted he was, and a lonely man hunted he would become, with a hunger for the power to control all under a false reign. The hunted that sought to cage chaos, the control that sought to become the hunter.
The hunted did not have a name, cast out by those around him from a young age, for he was of admin descent; many sought the power of an admin, the rich and powerful seeking to claim lands belonging not to them, so much so that many deemed it dangerous to keep even a child with the budding potential. And so, the hunted learned, the hunted ran, and the hunted survived.
“Do you have a name?” A hunter once asked, brown eyes shimmering with warmth, brown hair held back by goggles, as if he were a piece of the earth made human. “My name is George.” He said it with such little weight, as if a name were inconsequential, for he did not know the weight of a name. George did not know what he entrusted to the hunted, not as the hunted did. He found himself volunteering a name of his own, unknowing of true names, deciding to describe himself as what he had been chasing for years: “Dream.” A simple word, a simple weight, yet unbelievably heavy. A truth dripping through cracks, that simple truth of chasing dreams, of chasing a rest unattainable, of chasing safety.
“That’s a nice name. My friend’s name is Sapnap.” George told Dream. The names test upon a rare-used tongue, surprisingly light for what they were. It felt like the start of a new thing, the start of what Dream could not have, the start of living rather than surviving. It was the start of having people, of having friends , of having… family. It was the start of his power, the start of his life, the start of adminhood.
Dream had never felt more powerful, had never felt happier. He’d never felt more in control.
More names joined, settling upon his back not unlike the freeing weight of wings, never the crushing pressure of a burden; Dream held them close to his chest, for he knew these names, and they knew his. He tore into the void for these names, tore into a world long abandoned, and settled as the new admin. Many came, as the tides changed and the seasons waxed and waned, to join the server tucked away in a corner of the void; they had heard the tales of a new private server, tales of the hunted hiding away - to many, it felt like a sanctuary, for nobody could reach them, yet they did not know why.
They did not know they were trapped as if they were hunted within a home.
Conflict first came in the name of a war and music, discs once pristine now chipped, a fight between chaos and the admin; Tommy and Dream warred for discs, warred for control not yet weighted and to ensure that small semblance of order remained whole. It ended with discs hidden deep in a chest of ender, kept from the hands of the admin, their rightful owner.
It infuriated the admin that someone would hold that power above him, hold control away from him, Tommy worming his way out from the traps he’d set. With the war lost, conflict giving way to prevalence of chaos, Dream stepped away from the boy, instead growing his power. He reasoned that if a child could beat him, albeit with the help of a friend that was nothing more than a pawn, he would simply have to become more powerful.
And the more powerful the admin, Dream, became, honing skill with the sword more than ever, walking the world in search of information on his kind. In search of magic, coming across a peculiar gateway that sang with the energy running through his veins, calling to the admin with the promise of power, the promise of control over his server, over his land.
He spent more time away from the lands built by his players, only appearing when called on, spending his time gathering his skills to keep control once more. The admin returned with conflict, this time with a hum singing under his skin calling for destruction of those who oppose silently, with a colder comportment, with a want for more control, with the sharp eye of a strategist.
He would not be beaten by Chaos this time.
Conflict came once again in the form of a silver tongue, honeyed words that sought to slip over the heart, sought to bring even the least inclined to die in the name of war; Tommy brought conflict in the name of Wilbur, who smiled like the sun shone when the boy smiled. On that sunny day, the admin was reminded of a time where conflict was only Cat and Mellohi, only Tommy and Dream, meaningless fights and fleeting war, a time where the conflict was fun.
Wilbur brought conflict in the way of independence; Wilbur brought conflict in the way of division. A division that the admin despised, seeking to bring his people together, to keep them together. He did not spend time gathering the knowledge for a man barely one of his own to undermine the unity of an admin’s control.
This conflict was different, division so different from holding the power of attachment, boiling anger in his veins rather than the bubbling excitement of power no matter how minute. Tommy was fun, his conflict a thrill in Dream’s veins, where Wilbur was a simmering anger, threatening to boil over; it was Dream’s server, and yet the man thought he could take a piece of it for himself, knowing nothing of being an admin.
The war came fast, independence balanced upon a win, one they would attain should the small community keep itself steadfastly together and work seamlessly; the rules did not account for foul play.
The rules did not account for betrayal; L’Manberg did not account for a traitor in their midst.
It was a cold day that the traitor approached the admin, a thirst in their eyes for something more than what they could gain from the small nation, a thirst the admin could use. It was that day the traitor approached him not as a friend, nor an equal, but an admin; as their admin.
“Please, dear admin, grant me power and in return I will do what you ask of me.” The traitor begged.
“I will make you king, and you will help me destroy L’Manberg.” The admin promised, though his fingers were crossed, for they may become a king, but there would be no power in that name. A king does not always have power, and the admin would ensure a figurehead with nothing more than a title.
The end of the war neared with preparation, admin and traitor side by side, both with the simple goal to destroy a blossoming nation; the admin had a different idea of destruction, however, the type of destruction borne of a fracturing community - a traitor would be the inciting fault line.
It came soon enough, the traitor leading the revolutionaries to the small box they had created; the box where the admin and his closest allies lay in wait, ready to paint stygian stone in a wave of crimson. Dream couldn’t wai , his veins thrummed with a dull excitement, because once they destroyed L’Manberg his server would once again be united. They should’ve listened to him when he was a friend, he hoped they would listen to him as an admin.
“Gentlemen, this is the final room; the final control room.” The traitor proclaimed, and the admin could hear the elation in their voice that matched the harmony singing within, that matched the call for unity. He found it almost funny, in a sense, that they named it the final control room, no lie settling within the words; it was meant for control, but it was not a control the revolutionaries would be allowed to grasp, it was the control that would leave them hanging like rabbits in a hunter’s trap.
“What does this button do?” A voice questioned, ever so close to where the admin waited, another voice proclaiming in alarm, “There’s nothing in the chests.”
The traitor’s voice rang loud and clear throughout the small space, drowning out the small button click preceding, “down with revolution boys; it was never meant to be.”
The wall opened to a terrified face meeting the admin’s own, chaos quivering before control; it propelled the boy to start running, a rabbit futilely trying to free itself from a trap, but he was too late as Dream grabbed Tommy’s arm, dragging him back into the small tunnel in the wall. A hand kept him from screaming, another pushing a dagger against his throat, quelling the struggling, leaving only a defeated terror as the revolutionaries fell; chaos would be the last to fall to the hunter.
The rush of power the admin felt when the blade finally pierced skin, crimson painting the stygian stone around them, a limp body in his arms, that rivalled anything he’d felt before; it was addicting, in a way.
It was the feeling of caging chaos, of having control once more, with the blood of the divider staining his hands.
Despite the bloodshed, the silver-tongue stood upon the hill of the embassy, somewhere where peace never purveyed, always disrespected despite the declaration of it by L’Manberg.
“I’m here to make a.. negotiation with you, Dream,” the man started, continuing soon after, emboldened by the admin’s interest, “we don’t wish for bloodshed. We don’t wish for war. We don’t wish to show power in any way, we just wish for freedom, for- for independence.” Wilbur lied.
The revolutionaries were never very good at keeping their word.
“And I wish simply for my server to be together. I want white flags in your land, I want a surrender, for L’Manberg will never be independent. It will always be part of my server . And if you do… I’ll consider letting you all off, not even a slap on the wrist. No consequences for those you’ve killed for this silly game.”
The admin could lie too, if it was for his server, his players. He would play their game.
When the silver-tongue returned to the land, the admin did not mention his lie, and did not feel regret as he lit the first explosive. He did not care for the chain reaction, nor the yells and the sorrow from the crater he’d created. The traitor was the one who set the explosives, and if anyone asked the admin was not to blame.
And the revolutionaries returned, with the silver-tongued and chaos as their mouthpieces, one a swindler, trying so desperately to be heard over the voice of anger, of uncontrolled love and fury, yet he would not be heard. Chaos would secure their victory, if at the cost of his own life.
“Fight me!” Chaos begged, a fire simmering behind sky-blue eyes, almost as if they were a kindling forest fire, “Fight me- fight- a bow duel. Let’s have a bow duel.”
Ever intrigued, the admin humoured the boy, “What are the details of this duel?”
“Half a heart. Bow duel. Ten paces.” He stated, as if it were the most obvious thing. Somewhere behind him, the admin could hear the laugh of a friend, a small comment of it being like a western shoot-up.
Usually those implied the fighters were both on equal standing, that they had equal chance to win, as if chaos had the ability to fight against control, to overcome the power of an admin.
“A duel for L’Manberg. If you win, you can have independence. If you lose… you don’t get independence, and I get Mellohi.” The admin offered.
The moments before were a quiet affair, the silver-tongue taking chaos aside to speak as the admin shed his advantage for just a moment, poison tasting acrid on his tongue, milk just as thick. Half a heart, and he would win. Half a heart, and the admin could not let this be a show of weakness.
It would be a show of strength.
“We’re gonna do it on this flat path. No up and down.” The admin said, “And if you win, you get independence, but… well, it’ll still be recognised as part of my server. A part of the smp.” He laughed as if it were with a single ounce of levity, as if this were a game for all of them, not a desperate attempt from trapped animals to escape the cage of an open log.
“Alright. Backs to each other. Backs to each other. I will count ten paces. When I have said the word fire, you may turn around and fire upon each other.” Came from one of the revolutionaries, the silver-tongue.
The silver-tongue counted the paces, as he said he would, “Okay, ready! One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. Seven. Eight. Nine. Ten paces. Fire.”
The fight was short, both turning to fire, arrows missing at first. Chaos took to the water for cover, for ambush, a cunning rather than true power. The admin did not miss the mark the second time, blood floating in the water, clouding it as the boy’s ribcage was pierced. A shot to the heart.
Chaos caged again. A sort of satisfaction curled over the admin, the sight of him dead once again, at his own hands, brought that self-same exhilaration.
The mask hid his elation, for the admin was there for a reason and the sight of the newly dead boy ambling his way up the path once again reminded him of their deal. As soon as Tommy stood before him once more, he spoke, “Well, now that’s settled, I expect Mellohi-”
But Tommy vyed to be chaos still, even if it killed him for a third time, “Can we talk, alone, just for a moment, Dream? This is- this was our war .”
And they did, sat within the community house, the admin on a stray table, the boy sat upon an enderchest.
“I’ll do this for L’Manberg. I’ll give you both of the discs if you let us have our independence. Both of them.” The boy offered, determination lit behind the words. He would lose this war if it were for the people he cared for, it seemed.
The admin was taken aback, yet did not get the chance to speak as Tommy continued, “Cat and Mellohi.” It was a deal too good to be true, it was chaos caging itself, willingly. Caged for the admin to display (no matter how much he almost called himself a god for it, no matter how tempting it was), caged and able to be controlled.
He took the deal. “You will have technical independence. You’re still a part of my server, but there will be no war.”
The boy handed the admin the discs, mocking the man with a disbelieving snort, “Okay, well, that’s just you being deluded .”
With the discs in hand, the admin left.
There were things to do, land to repair of his own, friends to tend to. He had a king to crown with a gilded cage. It was almost laughable when they asked him for power, for something more than what they could obtain, as if he were a god able to simply appoint a king at his own whim.
Maybe he was a god, though, with all his power. Lesser mortals had become gods before, had become immortal, who’s to say Dream couldn’t? Who’s to say the admin couldn’t?
The thought sat in his head as time went on, a lull of peace allowing Dream to once again work on his skills away from the server, no longer focused on maintaining active peace balanced precariously on a tightrope.
This time was much the same when the admin returned, his players wrought in a petty conflict, however structured it was for a small time. He watched the debates in the few days he allowed himself to wander the inhabited lands, thinking it was nothing but a fruitless squabble between groups, that nothing would come of it.
For once, the admin was wrong.
He returned on the tail-end of the start, the moments between the calm and the storm, with little more than the ability to watch. It was interesting, to the admin, that the pursuit of power simply led to the silver-tongue’s downfall, dragging Tommy down with him into the forsaken maw of the earth, into a ravine with little more than misery sewn into the permeating cold.
The admin visited, offering help to the fallen revolutionaries, offering for Tommy to join him, to stand by the side of a god. It was a small disappointment when he declined, too stuck to the silver-tongue’s side, though he still spoke with the admin, still took the gifts with joy stuck within dull blue eyes. He would save Tommy from the darkness of the ravine, save him from the walls that stole the light from everything within them, if he had to destroy the country himself. They had his help, they would get the country back. For Tommy’s sake, he would destroy all that took the spark from him, take the spark from something so precious to the admin.
It started with watching, with learning, with lying, invading the safety of Manburg, acting as if he were on their side. The boring work would bring them, him and Tommy, closer to victory. It had to.
The pawn was the only interesting thing within the dreary borders of the land, a dutiful worker, quiet and obedient despite the small fire behind his eyes, despite the fact he, too, was a spy for Pogtopia. They both danced a careful dance, god and pawn, around the whims of a drunkard with an ego, the president not a kind nor competent man; it was just another reason to raze the land once again.
Time passed as the tensions remained, the admin with a watchful eye and the pawn with a dedication to keeping his cover, a dedication to documenting the happenings of the government, however pathetic it was.
He preferred it to the spiralling delusions of the silver-tongue, the maddening mutterings and the all-consuming darkness.
The silver-tongue, as fate had it, was the first to revere the admin as a god, as he looked upon Dream’s benevolence, asking for the tools of destruction, “Give me, O God, that which I need to raze these lands,” and the admin brought the man enough explosives to destroy the lands of Manberg, to reduce his once beloved home to a mere crater. The admin cared only for the unity it would bring, to destroy L’Manberg once again. He only hoped it had only two lives, that he would not have to take a third, that his hands would not have to be the ones to tear away the city once known as a home. This once, the silver-tongue would be his vassal, his martyr.
It was necessary, nonetheless.
The pawn would soon join the revolutionaries within the ravine, dead without the admin’s watchful eyes to keep the brittle peace, killed as a spy, betrayed by a man meant to protect him. The president had lit a fire and burned the pawn for such a small thing; the admin knew he would have to move things along.
Fate would have it, again, that a second revered the admin as a god, the president unknowingly serving the key to control on a silver platter to the admin; betrayal was a menial task for a god with life and death within his grasp. “Help me, O God, to win this war and I shall bring the power you seek, endless in your hands,” the follower begged, desperate in his inability to win, wishing nothing more than to see the other side burn.
Every god needed a martyr, a follower, and he soon would find his prophet.
The god found his prophet within the cold-sewn walls of Pogtopia, watching raptly as Tommy prayed to a false idol, words fervent and near-silent, still at the self-made altar, praying to a power non-existent for grace upon his brother’s soul. The dedication was almost admirable, had it not been for the anger simmering beneath the god’s skin, boiling ichor with something close enough to jealousy had he been any lesser of a being.
He would ensure that devotion would be to himself soon enough; the god needed to find a way to keep his prophet to himself only.
So he offered, merely hours before the reckoning upon the land would come, for the prophet to join him, but Tommy did not come as asked, no matter how favoured he was by a god such as the admin; Tommy preferred to stand by the martyr, though his prophet would stand by the god’s side dutifully soon enough.
The god was not there to watch the desolation, to watch the citizens pick up from the ashes, a phoenix unbidden, L’Manberg revitalised once more. Yet with it, an opportunity for the god arose, a way to keep the prophet to himself, to fully bring his godhood to absolution.
In the fragile peace between, the god learned to grasp his newfound power of revival, a song only he could sing, souls only he could pull back into the living world by force.
The day Tommy was handed to the god willingly was dreary, rain falling with the boy’s sorrow, unwilling to leave the country he thought of as home. It was laughable, really, how easy it was to get the boy exiled, a simple framing of a few crimes and pushing with a single threat; the pawn crumpled like paper under the weight of it.
The next months were truly perfect, the opportunity to model Tommy into his prophet, obedient and quiet and devoted . The fire was quenched, thrilling in all the ways he could imagine, sometimes even more than his mind could supply.
The god split his time between the prophet and the pawn, time spent training and time spent relaying lies to the L’Manbergians. Games of chess passed slowly, small conversations with a pawn made president all but irritating, a necessity all the same. The god could say, at least, that the pawn had become interesting in a way, to see the sorrow borne from allowing the god to train his prophet - even if he didn’t know that that was the true reason behind the exile - and to see the hard shell of protection set upon brittle shoulders. The protection was ready to break at the slightest prodding, and the pawn would hold steadfast with a shield before allowing that.
It was a shame he would let others make the decisions for him, that he would stoop so low as to be pushed to try and kill, to break the peace in the name of an execution. The pawn was not dangerous, yet his obedience would kill him and his land, a remnant from a man less fit to be president than he was.
The god would get reckoning for the execution, the attempt to kill another god, for L’Manberg daring to think a god could be killed.
An opportunity presented itself when his prophet left, ran to another god with a thirst for destruction of the land. There only needed to be another excuse, an excuse for the admin to destroy it; and if need be, he would blow the last remnant of a happier time, the first build on the server, as high as he needed to frame the prophet. The community house being destroyed left a bitter taste of ash in the god’s mouth; he blamed it on framing his prophet, for questioning his own ability to keep devotion.
Doomsday was a quiet affair, the last life of a nation taken. The god could only care about the unity of his server. The prophet met him upon an obsidian grid, high above the crater of a city. “Why,” he demanded. “You’re just too fun,” the god responded, and left.
Everything only had three lives. The follower, the martyr, and his prophet; but that wasn’t true, not really, because his prophet had as many as the god decided. He would soon see the god again, as he set a trap to catch the prophet.
But the prophet had set a trap in his own way, one to imprison the god, and set about to spring it on the day he set across the ocean towards his god. There was one thing the admin’s players would unify for this time; they would unify against their admin, their god, to chain him far from causing harm to the world they loved.
“What is this?” The prophet had asked, within the walls of a vault, a museum, of attachments.
“Ever since you joined, my prophet, you have caused war,” the god motioned towards an axe set upon the wall, meant for peace only to cut down foe after foe, “you have caused destruction,” a hand waved towards the tattered L’Manberg flag hanging limply on it’s pole, “but the one good thing that you have brought to my server was attachment,” at this the god simply spreads his arms before the prophet and his pawn.
“What do you-?” The prophet started, but the god was not done, stalking towards him, revelling in the obedient silence at his presence, “My prophet, attachment is the only thing that gives someone power over another. You all have attachments, and I… I have none, because nobody has power over me.”
The god paused, the grin beneath the facade matching its painted form, “I’m a god, and nobody has power over me.”
“How do you not hurt?” Tommy asked.
“I had to lose everything of mine to gain everything in the world, didn’t I?”
“You haven’t gained anything.” Tommy whispered, defiance shining beneath the surface of a prophet.
“You will bring attachment for me, my prophet, and I will lock you away like a siren in a cage, singing your false birdsong to any who… requires it.” And the god was certain, as he picked the axe from the wall, as he readied to tear down the pawn, to tear down his prophet’s last attachment.
But the world was kind.
The world was kind and the people came, to rescue their chaos, their freedom, to cage a god with no mercy.
Pandora’s vault, they called it, was their tartarus, chaining the god to a cell meant for a prophet. There were no wings to bind, there were no storms to quell, only a silent acceptance as they stripped the god of who he was, rendering him a mere prisoner among men. There was no weapon that could save him, no armour that could protect him, only a false face of a god’s will.
There was no-one who would visit Dream, for a long time, until the prophet came to him, bearing demand of retribution in honeyed words spat with flame.
And then the prophet left with a promise to return if Dream remained docile.
A month passes before the promise is fulfilled, a small covenant with a god pushed to the side, it makes him… angry in a sense. If only it could save the prophet from the will of a fallen deity, if only it could save Tommy as the world burst apart with sulphur and ash atop the vault. If only it could save Tommy from being a caged storm, contained in a box, only to be released by curious hands.
As time went by, Dream came to hate being caged with his prophet, unbelieving as the child was. “Let me out,” he had begged, when the Warden visited once, screaming over the roar of lava. The Warden had refused, and they had stayed stuck, a fallen god and his prophet.
Time went on, and the prophet stared at the Dream, fire bubbling beneath the skin as he spoke his contempt, “You’re evil, you know that?”
“How am I any more evil than you are, dear prophet?” Dream had asked.
“You trapped me in here, trapped me in this box, with nobody and nothing. You hurt me, but this hurts worse, Dream.” The fire within the prophet bubbled to the surface, molten hurt lashing at Dream with a tongue made of liquid metal.
“We have each other.” Was his reply.
“You don’t have me, Dream, you will never have me. You are no-one, you are simply the prisoner, you are a disgraced memory,” the prophet spoke as if his words were the absolute truth, “and you aren’t a god.”
“I have more power than you do, outside of these walls. It has been true and it will remain true.” Dream had stepped closer, a hand lifting to hold the boy in the air, a fake smile gleeful for his struggle, as the prophet spat, “I could kill you, if I wanted to, the only reason you’re alive is revival.”
To this, the god laughed, slamming the prophet into the wall, leaning close, “I will never use the book to help you, little blasphemer, not when your friends die; not while I’m still here.”
“I used to think you had all the power, before, but that’s not true, not now. I don’t think you even have the power to revive, not really, you just wanted to keep your last life.” The prophet was not scared, not yet.
“Are you calling me a liar?” The god asked, calmly, and the prophet stayed silent. He continued, “You can’t kill me, prophet, but I can kill you. That makes me a god, with your life in my hands.”
“I could kill you right now, if I wanted.”
“But you won’t, and I will kill you. I can kill you right now.” The god punctuated his words with a blow, holding the boy against the wall, his false smile boring into terrified eyes.
“Wait, stop, please-”
The prophet’s blood spilled, a crimson stain across the inky darkness underfoot. Red stained the god, blood on his facade, blood on his hands, blood on his clothes and in his hair; the prophet stains all that is divine of the god and sinks dead hands into the cracks.
It was perfect, the silence, the power the god felt as he held the bloodstained corpse, a body awaiting revitalisation. On the third night, the god sang a mournful song to draw a soul back to its body: the song of revival. The wispy tendrils of the void grasped the god, drew on the remnants of humanity left within, and set them within the prophet’s motionless form.
“Wake up, dear prophet,” the god spoke as the prophet woke with a start, eyes wild and confused, dull in a small sense - they had been duller since he was shown how to devote himself to the god, a part of his life given up for it - but still so damningly bright despite the darkness swirling within as if the void had made a home within.
He did not give time for the prophet to gain his bearings, he had to know what was left waiting for his devoted.
“What was death like?” The god questioned, waiting with budding interest, hand tightening around to the prophet’s neck absently when he did not garner a reply.
The prophet found it within himself to speak, if only to ease the pressure, “A void. Nothing. It hurt.”
“Hurt?”
“It felt like being torn apart again and again and again, like falling out of the world infinitely.” The prophet sounded strained, but the god was satisfied, letting the boy go to scramble away from him. He would need to teach him to be more obedient once again, it seemed.
“Well, now you can see, dear prophet, I’m a god . I decide who lives and dies.” He spoke with elation, watching the prophet’s terrified expression, leaning close, “It’s okay, if you pray enough, I’ll spare you the pain of death for eternity.”
It seemed those within the walls of Pandora's vault thought the god had to pay for the death of the prophet, though he knew it was more to gain the god’s power for themselves than it was to protect anyone. The god did not care, for he would not break, he would not fall like those before him.
“You aren’t a god, you never will be. I’m going to spend every minute here showing you how powerless you are.” The god was once told, a sneer on the man’s face as he brought pain to the god, merciless and unforgiving for a slight non-existent. Through the pain, he would not break, he would not fall like those before him. He would not be another broken god through something so simple.
He knew he had control no matter what.
He showed his power when the prophet came to fell the god, reviving the martyr. The martyr prayed to him, that night, the whisper of, “Thank you, O God, for this new life, I owe to thee,” floating within the god’s dreams.
Fate would have it, a third time, that the god would gain something, a freedom allowed in trade for the life of an inconsequential player - the god could care less about those close to the blood god, nor those close to the pawn.
The god cared only for the return of his prophet, meeting him within the razed lands of the prophet’s exile. They danced around one another, a meaningless fight as the prophet ran and the god chased. The god was unsure why the prophet was so avoidant, really, when he simply wanted to keep him, to be the show of the god’s divinity.
“You killed me to prove a point,” the prophet reasoned, however frail it was.
“Maybe I’ll kill you again.” The god spoke, the prophet frozen with terror at the notion, the god advancing, “And then I’ll revive you, and then I’ll kill you again, and then I’ll revive you, and then I’ll kill you again, and then I’ll revive you, and I’ll kill you again!”
The prophet ran when the god got close enough to grasp him, unwilling to share in divinity.
The next words spoken followed the prophet pinned to the ground with an axe, the glimmering weapon stuck within his shoulder as the god stared down at the trapped prophet, who simply prayed as he should, “Please, O God, let me rot in death for all I do is rot within this lifeless body.” The prophet sobbed, pleading, praying , for mercy.
Lifting the axe, the god allowed the prophet to run, letting him think he’d live, before giving chase once again. They ran through ice and snow and trees, branches cutting at the boy, barely within reach of the axe.
Just as the god was about to kill the prophet, wings shielded him from view, as if an angel protecting life from unjust control. It was a mere warning, but one the god heeded.
Time passed slowly, in his freedom, the god watching his domain with rapt attention, leaving gifts to his martyr, to his prophet, to remind them their god was still watching over them. It was almost funny to see the edge he left them on.
And then, the god was set to meet the martyr within the main lands of the server, in the remains of the prophet’s old home made shrine. He did not, however, expect the pawn to be waiting, praying at the altar silently, still as the day he decided upon his prophet, muttering the prayers for the salvation of a soul. The god would not be granting the pawn the salvation of the soul, the pawn’s husband would remain dead. He had to, if only to show that the god would not grant mercy to the unfaithful, much less to those that would keep his prophet from him.
The pawn turned, looking at the god, hands clasped together tight, eyes locked as he spoke, “Forgive me, O God, but I don’t believe in deities,” he had no armour, neither did the god, yet there was a threat glinting within those pale blue eyes, “much less a false one.”
The world remained still for but a moment before the pawn lunged, dagger held tightly within his grasp, much the same from the first day chaos was caged, and aimed to kill the god. It did not cut flesh at first, cracking the fragile mask of godhood, aiming to break. After, the god would be felled, blade slicing through flesh, much the same as the first day chaos was caged, as if the god were merely chaos made divine.
The god, the admin, Dream was left to die by the pawn. He stumbled his way down a wooden path, a familiar way home, drawn by the last desperate claws of humanity gripped around his throat. Fingers fought to stem the flow of blood, short breaths fighting their way out despite the dead, grasping hands of a long-forgotten terror rising their way from the depth of the void, tendrils of limbo grasping at him as if it were his time. Yet they were not gentle guides, pulling a soul to the land beyond, rather they were primed to tear apart the seams that made one whole until there was nothing left of the man; a false god with the power to persist torn away.
Dream reached the first place he called home, the blurry forms of the first two people he called home within bare reach, terrified eyes no longer hidden by the mask of godhood, porcelain forgotten on wooden floors. He reached for them, locking eyes with that of his friend, and with that of his brother, as his life went dark, as the godhood was broken and a life snuffed finally. Dream died with those he cared for barely within reach, pushed away by his own pursuit of godhood, his denial of humanity, only to reach for it within his final moments as if attachment were the allowance of dead men. As if death would fix the fracture he created between them for divinity.
For the god was simply a man in pursuit of power. Gods do not know the pursuit of power, for they were power, and only mankind knows the thirst for it.
It was far too late for Dream to be human again.