Chapter Text
On a lonely lonely continent, within a lonely lonely dungeon, lived a lonely lonely god.
The god did not know how he came to be, but what he knew was that he had not been not lonely in the past: could not even fathom to understand the meaning of the word “loneliness”. After all, the world was a wonderful and colourful place, his shrine the epicentre of festivities back in the heyday. He remembered the crowds and the lights, the stone walls lit gold from the lanterns brought by the most loyal of his followers, the songs they would sing in his name - songs he had taught them once - as they served up delicious offerings upon the altar. He remembered especially the piping hot loaves of bread, sliced evenly, placed on green resin platters, and huge ceramic bowls of spicy stew, the scents lingering on the walls even after all had been passed out and devoured.
The god now sat within his greyed fortress, tucked into himself, as though he could reminisce the warmth of the past back to reality. Back then, he had never known that snakes had the propensity for heat, but many bitter winters had taught him otherwise. Lazily lounging in his favourite chair, he gazed at the rays of light slowly peeking in through the gaps of the ceiling. In the past he would have patched it up with the moss that grew defensively around the shrine, but nowadays he found himself yearning for those slivers of light: anything to remind him that outside of his tomb, life persists, flourishes. Even without him.
This is why gods do not partake in the warmth of humanity. Living without the bright amber glow of short-lived mortals made for a miserable existence.
Then leave, the wind seeps through slits and echoes through the halls and whispers to him.
But he couldn’t, you see. He was sentenced to remain a lonely lonely god, within a lonely lonely dungeon, on this lonely lonely continent. All those before him were kind enough to share their lives with him and alleviate him of that loneliness once, and now he owed it to them to remember. To pay penance.
He hummed a tune, soft and familiar. One of the melodies he shared in the past, now forgotten to time by all whom he had once taught. The god had never been one for singing, preferring to put together pieces of the sounds around him, or sometimes with tunes brought to him by the breeze from afar. He would compose pieces that the mortals would then complete in harmony, songs they would then bring to life in a flurry of voices, the chorus reaching almost as high as the flames that would keep the crowd warm within these snowy plains. When the festivities ended, they would then bring home the food, the liquor, and the tunes. These tunes they would then sing while chopping wood, while hanging laundry, while rocking their babes to sleep. And these babes would grow up, and leave the village, and sing these songs to their own children, but they would not know the source of these folk songs beyond the throats of their mothers.
Abruptly, the god’s tune was interrupted by a scraping sound, a sound that became louder over time. The lonely god knew what was to come, but could not quench the hope that threatened to burst from his chest, and he headed towards, almost sprinting, to the entrance of his shrine only to find -
Death. A familiar sight.
Before him laid a fresh corpse, a middle-aged adventurer whom moments before, had still been clinging onto life. His lungs were still warm now, but no longer will air fill them once again, and in the light snowfall of the god’s cursed village, he had taken his last breath. Foolishly, the god tried to bring the man back, to tether his soul to the living, but he knew the outcome even before he reached for his power. The man remained lifeless, his eyes cold and glassy, and the god did not weep, merely accepted it, as he had done for millennia. This was part of his punishment, and he was familiar with his role in this play. Even so, he reached out for the man’s hand, telling himself that he merely wanted to provide the man with some sort of comfort, and not at all due to the fading heat of the adventurer’s calloused hands. They were still warm, and he starved for it, savoured it as they eventually dissipated into the snow.
The god then proceeded to lay the man to peace, the least he could do for those who perished because of him. He first closed the man’s eyes, whispering a prayer of peace, ignoring the accusatory look reflected within them. He then checked the pockets and bags of the man. Anything to indicate the origin and identification of the man, for an appropriate eulogy and burial. The god dug into the bag, hoping to find a name, a family, anything - and pulled out a short, elegant staff, the likes of which he had never seen in his confined, sheltered life within the temple.
He had seen many staffs before, of course. Magical conduits carved from metal, from stone, even from tree bark. But this was not the work of a blacksmith: the staff was more akin to a piece of art, crafted by an artisan. It was all pale marble and gold tinted, embedded generously with yellow topaz, with the exception of a pair of blue-green crystals that adorned the neck of the staff. The god could not quite explain why this detail was peculiar, but he found himself staring at it for a moment longer than necessary. The staff fit perfectly within his palm, as though the staff was made for him, or more accurately, as though the god was created for the sole purpose of wielding the staff.
He had never been one for grave robbing or petty theft, but the staff was glowing, and it was delicate, and he knew that meant it had to be handled with care, with love. After all, these intricate markings could have only been carved in by someone who had cherished this staff, and as he ran a finger down the grooves he thought that he wanted to cherish it too, a masterpiece that was too good to simply rot in the decaying shrine with a decaying god. With reverence, he placed it on the ground beside him, gently. He had a task to complete before examining the staff further, before deciding what to do with it.
Rationally, the staff did not belong to him, but rather the unnamed adventurer, and naturally it meant he had to part with it somehow. However, the god was not infallible, and selfishly he wished to keep it, yet he was not able to justify - not even to himself - why he wanted to keep it, let alone what he would do with it. He put it aside, continuing to dig through the bag. Yet again, a soft tune escaped from him, a familiar tune of light that he had not thought of for ages, but the yellow of the staff reminded him of his gold lit past, and he could no longer keep the tune in. The more he hummed, the more the melody swelled, and he almost felt lark, could almost hear the chorus singing along with him, the sound making his chest swell with happiness.
It took the god a while to realise that the singing was not simply his imagination, and when he realised that the voice came from right next to him, he froze, the notes dying on his lips. He stared at the unmoving staff, dumbfounded for a moment, and suddenly, an explosion of light and sound and colours, as vibrant as the singing voice he had heard-
“Ya ho!” A loud, cheerful voice spoke, and the god was stunned: the first voice he had heard in so terribly long, and it was a bright, captivating voice that begged for you to stay and listen, just a little longer. But beyond the voice he was utterly floored by the presence of an entire person before his very eyes, beautiful and tall and happy and most of all alive, alive-
A laugh shocked him from his reverie, and the being spoke, “Hi! You look busy, but it would make me so happy if you could continue humming, so I could sing along. Please?”
The god had not been even in proximity to a live person in ages, and now the most lovely person, all white and lavender and yellow, yellow, yellow, now stood in front of him, and he did not know how to react other than release an incredulous laugh, fearing to say any other thing, afraid that the mirage would disappear. The man had hair like the gentle snow that fell around them, a flashy outfit not unlike how the staff had been adorned, and most of all, behind lavender glasses, seafoam blue eyes that had a hint of amber when the light caught them.
In the grey of the god’s worldview, this man was the only colourful thing he could see.
“Perhaps we need to start with introductions, otherwise we will simply gape at each other all day,” the man continued, not unkindly, his eyes crinkling with good humour.
“Not that I mind it one bit. But I have to say, I really like birthmarks on people. And you really do have the most beautiful mole, right here.” He reached out, unabashedly stroking his thumb against the god’s chin, just by his lip. His fingers were soft, warm, his gaze unbroken as he gave the god a kind smile. Shyly, violet eyes meet blue, and the smile blossoms into a full blown grin. “Hi there. My name is Kaelix. It is very nice to meet you.”
“Zeal,” the god said, the calmness in his voice shocking even himself. “My name is Zeal.” All the while, his focus was still intensely trained upon the gloved finger below his lips. So warm. And he gives it away like it means nothing. In kind, Zeal gave his name as though talking to the stranger was the most comfortable, normal thing to do in the world. As though Kaelix would not be the only person in existence to know the name of a powerful, immortal being.
And in time, the wind whispers, the only person in existence to know you in your entirety. Your name, your laugh, your hands, your hips. You.