Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

‘A long time ago’, what a cliche way to start this tale. But how else do I describe the time when gods still walked and talked among men? When the old shrines weren’t overgrown and the offerings placed at them didn’t wilt? 

Back then, we knew of them. Now all that’s left is the whispered warning tales. Hushed as heresy and lies. Some remember, most do not. The ones who do think it’s better this way. If we forget, then we cannot follow in their footsteps. Yet, I disagree. Ignore it and history shall recite its rhymes once more.

 So, if there’s anyone still alive to hear this tale:

Share it in the quietest of voices.

A long time ago, the true council lived. In palaces high, and ruling to the valleys low. 

The First to retain the cycles of the universe, her hand fair and steady. The moon to be her paintbrush, the sun to be her stylus, and the stars to be her art. 

The Second to bring up and cause awe, his face cast in eternal amusement. With many stories to be told, he brings joy to his creations, and he is satisfied.

The Third to balance all wrongs, his steps certain and resolute. Though he rips and tears, he guides life itself to harmony.

The Fourth to predict and warn, her heart twined with secrets unshared. The dance in which she partakes bends the paths of fate across planes beyond mortal knowing.

The Fifth and Last to mend all hurt, her ear always listening for any call. All know her, no vow made in her presence shall ever break, nor will any journey undertaken in her name go astray.

In harmony they lived, in harmony they ruled. They danced and sang, loving and living. The First kept the time of the world itself. The Second and Fourth danced for joy and prosperity. The Third kept the peace of mortals and beings of other kinds. The Fifth kept watch over all, no hurt would pass in her presence.

  Each day they came down and ventured amongst the world they created. It was their home as much as it was ours, and where they walked prosperity followed.

And yet, it’s a story we all know. It didn’t last forever. Nothing does, not when they lowered themselves to the mortal plane so they could love as we did. 

It is now known that gods having human emotions is a dangerous thing. With love also comes anger, anger becomes hate, and with hate comes resentment. And resentment… shatters once untarnished bonds into razor sharp shards.

One god, some say she did it as a kindness, most say it was meant as a cruelty. “Give them the means,” she had said, “to circumvent their own end.” 

The First was powerful, but she didn’t rule alone. A meeting convened, friendships momentarily and dangerously forgotten. Stories abound of who was first to speak. In ours however, it was the Fourth. “Lady Stopwatch, this may be within the fates, but that doesn’t mean it is right or true.”

“We’re choosing titles now?” The Third asked, but shook his head. “Fine then, but calm yourself, Fate.” It is said he had always been the first to notice when things began to spiral. It is wrong to assume things of gods, though maybe he knew before any of the rest of them did. “But I have seen the beginnings of what they can do, and we will not rule forever. Lady Stopwatch, you must explain.”

The Second shook his head. “I agree. I may be the one who watches over them most, but letting them live past what they are meant to will turn them away from what they are. They live and die, but that is how they are allowed to truly feel. Since you’ve done this, an explanation is owed my friend.”

“I can do no such thing.” The First said. “My reasons are mine to know.”

As an argument descended across the court, beings of all kinds watched. Human, monster, creature, things of all forms. They all wished to quell this pain, and yet they didn’t dare speak. Who would? Who could? When the True Council spoke, the world and its many realms quieted to accommodate.

Accusations of negligence flew. Two tried to calm the fight, the Second and Third knew what this could bring. Their domains of magic and conflict brought a dark understanding of what harm they could cause. One argued with logic, the other just begged for the fighting to stop.

Even so, the argument continued, unabated, for much longer.

By the old records of this time, we know the argument ended. Ended with closed doors and stewing anger. If they’d know not only what it would do to us, but to themselves as well, would they have attempted to stay convened? 

No one knows except those alive from this past of ours, how long it was before news was heard. When the anger stewing finally boiled. When the fighting broke out, what chance did the world have? Angry and warring gods. What a horrible thing to imagine. Much worse is it though, when that’s the reality that consumed the plains. 

Great battlefields were created. Friends made bitter by a disagreement that had turned to rotten horror. The craters still linger, a reminder of a broken time. 

Gifts from the Fourth, the first to aggress, shattered one by one as the gods fell to each other, and the hate that consumed them. Statues made to honor, broken when those who they were tied to died.

The gods didn’t start out mortal, but they and their reign ended in a way that echoes endlessly in mortal empires.

The First, who’s hands could now only shake, vanished. Her name hissed in warning. A traitor to us all. For when she turned on her domain, she turned on us. Sealed our fate in a blood dipped quill.

The Second, who’s face only shed tears until his eternity at last ended, fell to his grief. A mirror of the humanity he created. His story brought to end without the happy endings he was said to be fond of.

The Third, whose steps followed the rivers of endless red to a forgotten place, felled mutually by the Fourth in an attempt bring the withering of empathy to an end. The one made for war and death, died to prevent it. Only for that sacrifice to have been in vain.

The Fourth, whose heart beat with only regret in the end, fell to her death. It is she said whispered her apologies to a sky already black and empty. A meaningless void. Her dance was brought to end with only a legacy of hate.

The Fifth, when her ears could no longer make out the words of those she longed for, died attempting to bring back a world already gone. Her healing could do nothing against the true deaths of gods, their journeys brought to a cruel end by their own design.

Her name is still whispered today. The only one to keep her promises until the end of all. When humanity needs the protection of those dear, the name of a god long dead is whispered.

“May Prime heal our forgotten souls. ”

Flowers Bloomed of The Fallen, -Pix Riff, 6th age

Chapter Text

I fancy myself a historian of old. A man willing to push past the tombs of silenced pasts. Many wonder how I would dare. But the wind tells their tales. Hisses songs of things long gone. And in some cases, not so.

We hail what comforts us, and shield from that which doesn't. But what of those that do both?

Many a time we've been recorded to hold fear. And many more we will do so again. Humanity's nature will forever bring its return. With the old gods dead, we should be alone to bore it. Yet, dare it be said, we are not.

Any old society has a record buried deep somewhere. Though they have never given names of their own, whispered prayers have proved one to them anyway. The attendants. Three beings that it’d be in their insult to call humans, but an injustice to call god.

Should war fall truly, they will be found.

One is the Guide. His eyes see our past and future, and though he’s often seen as a mischievous spirit, his intentions always point well. White cracks mar his shoulders.

One is the Aid. His voice gentle and kind. No wound too large, no person too insignificant. Should you catch his eyes, you can be promised safety. Purple bands wind down his arms.

The last is the Hunter. To instill conflict and calm where he sees fit. It is warned not to draw his ire, for his blade is not one that can be healed from and he uses it without fear of retribution. Lies will not slip past his presence. Red streaks trail across his form.

Why they help is not for our ears. That is as they claim, at least. To ask invoked a different answer from each. The Guide's answer, was simply laughter. The Hunter's answer, was a harsh word of refusal.

The Aid however, was said to have always smiled. 'To answer, would be to bare our motivations. To hear motivations of a man, are a path to know his mind. Trust when I say, you do not wish to know our minds.'

The attendants work with, never for, who they deem fit. f they appear, it seems a win is guaranteed. If they say it will be done, then it will. Through sun and storm, they have always been relentless. Pursing things we could not dare to understand.

Heartless, cruel, kind, beautiful, bad omen, savior. Many things they have been called, all of them correct. Age through age, kingdom to empire, there has been word of them. They do not age. They do not injure. They do not, they do not die. Not human, angel, or god. Immortal beings, less only than the dead gods we still worship.

And some say they're gone now. The last records of them are from centuries past. Others say they are amongst us still, hidden until we have need of them once more.

Which assumption is true, it matters not. Humanity will not wait for them, and they will not wait for us. If they appear again, it will be once more in the midst of war.

The Attendants, -Pix Riff, 6th age