Chapter Text
•••
"Get your hands off of me!" a woman's voice raged, spitting curses at anyone near.
The men dragging her ignored her, mumbling their chants in a language unknown to her. The procession moved through the streets of the dusty village, passing families, crowds, and stragglers lining the roadway. Their sunrise ceremony over with, the villagers had flocked to the streets, awaiting the presentation of the sacrifice.
Some wore decorative robes of green, colored boldly. Those watched the procession with excitement, chanting in time. Others wore muted clothing, their drab colors matching the expressions on their downturned faces.
All of them looked gaunt, many of them frail or sickly. Life had not been kind to them lately.
The woman noticed little of this, too focused on fighting her captors.
She twisted and flailed, attempting to kick those closest to her, but they had bound her arms and dragged her by the wrists, and the effort it took not to fall and be dragged across the rough stones was too taxing of her strength.
When they had passed the last of the straggling huts, and the gravel pathway faded to dust, they came upon a smaller group. Every robe sparkled, and their eyes glinted with the light of hope.
An elderly, stooped man took a step toward them, and the woman was forced to her knees. As she tried to bite the hands on her shoulders, one of the men produced another section of rope, which they quickly shoved in her mouth and tied behind her head.
The elder shuffled nearer, and spoke in a dry, cracking voice, speaking their foreign language.
"This is a gift, given to us by our land. Mother Earth has heard our cries, and has provided us the sacrifice, one full of life, and certainly worthy of reward.
Life given, life received. Go, men, and bring favor back to our land."
Finished with the blessing, the smaller group stood aside and let the men and their captive past. They dragged the woman past a field of dirt, full of dead, dry branches. Ahead, a copse of trees stood, withered and lifeless. The sun beat down on the dry land, and sweat beaded the brow of every face.
A mountain rose past the treeline, its cliffs crumbling and unstable.
The woman continued to resist, yelling unintelligibly behind the rope. Her feet and knees were bloodied from her fight, and her arms ached from the continued pull.
The men grew impatient and frustrated, but with every step the mountain grew larger, and soon they could make out a dark, shadowy doorway in the cliffside.
Years of hard work had gone into this temple, preparing for an offering more bold than they'd ever dared before. Surely their god couldn't ignore this. Surely, this was a sacrifice worthy of being accepted.
As they approached the entrance, the woman could see torches on the stone walls, already lit.
They entered a narrow hallway, three of the men leading, the woman in the middle, with the remaining four men following behind. The hallway stretched on for a few yards, where it then fell away to a larger room, with a high, arched ceiling. The temperature was much cooler in here, tucked away from the heat of the blazing sun, but the air soon grew stuffy from the presence of so many people.
The men spread to the sides of the room as they entered, as in the center stood a solid stone altar.
Religious offerings covered the floor behind the altar, from dried flowers to decaying fruits to mysterious sealed jars. Coins sparkled among the mess, and the air smelled faintly of incense.
The floor was recessed around the altar, a few inches deep. Grooves ran from the recession outwards, forming a complicated pattern twisting about the room. Those grooves continued up the altar as well, originating about where the heart of the sacrifice would be.
One of the men, the one with the most piercings across his nose, mouth, and brow, stepped forth, drawing a small stone dagger from his robes.
Kneeling before the altar, he lifted his hands in reverent prayer. Behind him, the men began their chants anew.
"O Ardhi, Dunia N'kiru, Mtoaji Maisha!
Hear us, o god of life, god of the river!
We bring you gifts, we bring you life.
See your people, O Mother! O Father!
Return to us the flood and the rain, wash us in life-giving water!
We praise you, o Mtoaji Maisha.
Please accept our sacrifice! Let not this life be wasted! Take this life, o N'tabi, take this river of lifeblood, and spare not your own river of lifeblood from us. We praise you! We praise you! We praise you!" His voice grew louder as he prayed, his arms shaking where he held them raised. The men behind him had joined the chant, raising their voices high. Their sound echoed through the room, repeating, repeating, repeating.
His prayer finished, he stood and stepped back, motioning for the others to come forward.
They hauled the woman with them, and after the pierced man nodded, they lifted her kicking and screaming onto altar.
Hooks were set in the floor, and the men quickly got to work to restrain her. In the struggle, she managed to punch one of the men in the face, and another in the stomach, but two more replaced them and restrained her arms. Ropes were tied roughly around her forearms and wrists, then looped onto the hooks.
She struggled vainly, her eyes blazing. The twin forces of rage and fear fought within her, but she found it easier to fan the flames of fury than to look the deep, shadowy shape of fear in the eye.
The pierced man stepped up beside her, raising his dagger. Her eyes burned through him, threatening, painful, deadly. His own eyes betrayed his own feelings—his own endless pit of fear and doubt, hidden behind the fire of devotion, of trust— fueled by desperation so heavy it was tangible.
They locked eyes for a moment, then his eyes moved back to his dagger.
"Accept this sacrifice," he prayed again, and he brought the dagger down.
•••
In a tomb, carved into the stone of the same mountain, a god lay in chains.
His people no longer worshipped him, and very few even still believed.
It had been decades since any believers had offered prayers or sacrifices, and his body grew weak without sustenance.
The flesh of his form had long since rotted away, and all that remained were his bones. His bones would not fade, would not crumble—so long as the river flowed.
The cavelike room he was in was his tomb. A few sconces dotted the rounded walls, their torches long since burned out. His arms were held behind his back in thick iron chains and shackles. His ankles were similarly restrained.
He knelt on his knees with his head against the floor. He had not moved in... what, weeks? months?
Time no longer seemed real to him.
He was trapped in a sort of limbo—too weak to live, but too powerful to die.
He wanted to die.
That is, he wanted this form to die. To lose his physical self would be to resume his previous existence of formless power, which was much preferable over being stuck in a tomb for who knows how many more centuries. But he needed power to break the chains, because to end this form, he would need to be able to actually move.
It was too bad he couldn't even do that, at the moment.
He waited, knowing what must be happening outside. The river would not be breaking its banks. The land, starved of nutrients, would not grow such abundant fruits. Plants, over time, would die faster than they could regrow. Forests would thin, and the soil would run dry. Men's health would fail them. People would grow desperate.
Thus he waited.
One hundred and eighty-four years later, his patience rewarded him.
He heard his name being spoken again.
It wasn't quite right, but it was him. They were talking about him.
They were praying to him.
Soon, the offerings started. Foods, meats, flowers— he could envision them, smell them, almost taste them.
Objects would appear in the corners of the room.
His strength started to return to him.
For the first time in ages, he could stand. He couldn't do anything about the chains, but he finally had the strength to stand.
He took to walking in the small circle that his chains would allow. He was different now, changed, but still himself. His eyes still glowed their spectral green, but now they floated, hanging in his empty eye sockets like lanterns. His skin and flesh were gone, but he never really needed them anyway.
His energy held him together, like vines tying together branches. He could see it pulsing, growing in intensity with each offering or prayer.
As time passed, and his tomb filled with the souls of sacrificed goods, he tested his chains, but he never could break them. This form was never meant to hold physical power. He only ever wanted to see, wanted to witness life firsthand. He grew himself a body, so that he could join those who lived off of his river. But he was different, he was an unknown, so people feared him. He didn't look like them—from his bronze, shining skin, to his spectral green eyes—and the people rejected him. They didn't know him, couldn't recognize him for what his form merely represented, and they were afraid of what they did not know.
This fear drove the people to extremes; they carved out a tomb, and laid a trap.
They acted as if they accepted the god, let him in, shared their meals with him. When he put his trust in them, they turned on him and bound him in chains.
They fastened him here in this tomb, and sealed the entrance.
They thought he would die when cut off from the world.
They did not realize that their world would die when cut off from him.
They never found out what they had truly done. They died long before the consequences for their actions fell upon the land, and the younger generations felt the strain. After decades of a slow decline, very few even knew about the green, lush, fertile ground that used to be their home. Most knew only of struggle and toil and thorn.
The elderly grew frail, and the young were frequently ill. The ground cracked, and trees died. Harvests grew smaller and smaller, until being starved was more common than being full.
In times like these, people start to get desperate.
That's when he heard the prayer.
Louder than most, closer and more powerful than most, a voice reached him, calling out for help.
The voice sounded wrong.
The prayer sounded ominous.
The god sat on the ground, his trepidation growing.
And then he felt it.
Lifeblood spilled directly into his veins, and he could smell the iron in the air.
He felt a soul suspended—a sacrifice pending. He was shocked into stillness, his eyes staring, unseeing, at the wall.
He had not been expecting this.
He had expected that he would slowly regain his strength until he could break free, and return to his home of the river.
He expected the prayers, planned on the food, was grateful for the flowers—but this— this was a life. A life stolen, a life they had no right to give. He could feel the terror, the pain, and most of all, the rage that this soul held.
This person was dying, and in a few more seconds would be gone forever.
The god only saw one choice.
•••
The woman choked on her own blood, the knife having pierced her lung. Breathing was becoming impossible, and she could feel her heart beating erratically. Her blood gushed from the wound, coursing across her body, spilling down around her.
As she fought to live, a disembodied voice filled the room.
It felt like a memory— like words already written in her mind, called forth from inside. As if she already knew them. As if the words existed before she did, ancient, unending.
"I accept the sacrifice."
Everything froze.
Her heart stopped. Her lungs ceased their seizing. Her blood stopped spilling to the floor, the scarlet waves filling the etched grooves stilled. Her pain stopped; she felt nothing at all.
The men looked at each other, nervously smiling, but before they could start rejoicing, the woman sat up.
Her restraints broke without resistance, and she snapped upright.
Her eyes burned with real fire, and smoke poured from her lips.
Flames licked from the wound in her chest, but she still could not feel a thing.
As the men turned to run in horror, the smoke billowed out, filling the entire room. The pressure in the air built to excruciating extremes, and the ageless voice spoke again.
"Did you think I would want this? That I would enjoy life being wasted? Life being stolen?"
Through the smoke, a pair of emerald eyes glowed. The men stopped their panicked movements, paralyzed by his gaze.
A skeletal hand reached out and touched the woman on the shoulder.
Again she heard the voice, but this time it was softer, closer. In her language, as if just for her.
"I am sorry that this has happened to you. I can keep your soul from leaving this world, but I am afraid you will be forever changed. There will be no going back to who you were before."
He paused a moment, letting her process his words.
"Or, if you'd like," he said, "I can allow your soul to move on peacefully. The choice is entirely yours. Know that if you choose to stay, your soul will be mine, and you will be forever bound to me."
She barely hesitated before responding.
"I want to live," she said, conviction and desperation heavy in her voice.
The emerald eyes blinked, and the vague shape of his skull through the smoke nodded.
He stepped back, giving her space.
"Then you are mine."
The fire inside her chest grew. She could feel it burning away at her, yet she did not feel any pain. The fire enveloped her, consuming her, growing hotter.
The stone room, with very little air flow, grew unbearably hot incredibly quickly.
As the flames consumed her, they grew hotter and glowed a brilliant blue, brightest in her eyes. As her flesh melted away, muscles, tissue and organs disintegrating, the inferno inside her took root, lodging itself comfortably in her soul. The fire burned down, and the smoke slowly cleared.
When she looked down at herself, seeing through new eyes, there was nothing but bones remaining.
Her skeleton was held together by thin, translucent cords, almost invisible. These cords seemed to pulse with an artificial heartbeat—a flash of her inner fire, coursing through her whole body.
When she moved her arm, it moved like normal. When she turned her head, it turned like normal. She no longer looked normal. Her body, her form, her familiar self was no more. She was something else now, but she did not want to stop and process that just yet. The mourning, the loss; she could deal with that later. Right now there were more pressing things to deal with.
With the smoke dissipating, she got her first good look at the skeletal god beside her.
His bones were darkened, as if they had not seen sun in quite a long time. His eyes hung like burning lanterns in a hollow skull, shifting, pointed, searching. The cords holding him together seemed thicker in his chest, and along his spine, and glowed softly.
The fire that pulsed through him was a brilliant, living green. He looked at her with compassion, but with trepidation too. This was new for him; he had never done this before.
The men that had brought her here were dead on the floor. Their bodies were burnt husks, barely recognizable as human.
She felt a rush of satisfaction at seeing them dead, but it was just a drop in the river of vengeance that she had already started planning. Everyone that had so easily taken her life from her, who had supported this, who had helped— she would make sure they all burned.
She spared a moment to feel guilty about the sacrifices lining the floor behind her, which had all been turned to ash. The pots were but piles of cracked clay, and there was not a trace left of the flowers. She hoped the god wasn't too attached to those.
The god beside her helped her to her feet, and they made their way outside of the altar room. When they stepped out into the sun, the god stopped, closing his eyes and tilting his head up to the sun.
He took a shaky breath, his emotions warring within him.
It had been too long.
He flexed his fists, feeling a new strength in them that he had not felt in decades. Back in that cave, he had wished for death. He had wanted to give up this form, to be released.
Now, he looked at the woman standing beside him. She was similar to him, but she was not like him. She was smaller than him, and her finger bones looked more thin and narrow than his. Her eyes and veins were a different color, and he could feel the fire burning within her. A permanent flame, now.
Her limbs seemed more nimble, and her ribcage seemed to flare differently from his.
The set of her jaw was stubborn, and even without muscle and skin, he could see her emotions on her face.
The woman saw him staring, and abruptly turned to the side. He hesitated to say anything, unsure. She seemed to be uncomfortable about something.
"Are you.... alright?" His voice was softer now, and seemed to be coming directly from him, not booming through the air like it had exploded into existence.
The woman huffed out a laugh that somewhat ended in a sob, and choked out, "No. Not really."
He nodded, and turned away from her. He wasn't too sure he was alright, either.
Although distant, he could still hear the pulse of the river in his chest, like a song calling him home.
He took a step toward it, and then one more. He hadn't been home in a very long time, but he didn't want to think about that at the moment. He had someone else to worry about now.
He started slowly walking in the direction of the river. He looked briefly over his shoulder, meeting the eyes of his woman. She looked away again, but started to follow.
They walked in silence, but it wasn't uncomfortable. She had a lot of thinking to do, and he was busy taking in the wasteland of a world they now stood in. The ground was red and brown like clay, and scattered boulders broke the flat, level surface. There were few plants to be seen, and the ones that were around seemed sharp, and harsh. It was nothing like the lush, vibrant, soft life he had been born into. As they picked their way down the riverbank, he debated starting over. Starting fresh, and transforming this land back to life again. Alternatively, he could just... leave. Follow the riverbank and get out of this place, let the ground stay cursed and cracked, let the plants starve, let the people...... hm.
This would require quite a bit of thought.
At the river's edge he paused, and sat on the gravel shore, just shy of the water. It flowed past, murky and brown, like it was trudging along, not running.
It was all so wrong.
The woman settled on the shore, a few feet from the god. When he had started walking earlier, she felt almost as if she was being pulled after him, dragged along by her own soul. He hadn't spoken much, and she didn't know what his intentions were. Personally, she intended to rain hellfire down upon every bastard left alive that had wanted her dead. How different from when she had first set sail up the river.
She, and her teammates along side her, had set out for exploration, for connection, to learn and to help and to see. They wanted to find new animals, new plants, never before seen species to draw and document. They wanted to meet the secluded tribes, to share food and stories and legends. To give them gifts, and aid.
Now all she wanted to share with them was her own pain, and to give them the same death that they had wished upon her.
It was all so wrong.
"What now?" the woman asked, into the silence.
"I don't know," the god replied. "Everything I had once known is gone.
...What do you want to do?"
"I want to kill every last one of those fuckers that wanted me dead."
He nodded, understanding, still thinking. He looked out over the river, and came to a decision. He didn't have to stay here, this didn't have to be permenant, but he wouldn't leave until he had returned the land of his birth to at least a semblance of its former glory.
"Then we'll cleanse this land. We'll get rid of those who poison this place, and give the rest a second chance."
"Can I do it?" the woman asked.
"Do what?"
"Get rid of the poison. Will you let me kill them?"
He nodded, looking away from her.
"It may be best that you do, as I have no desire to be the cause of death. It goes against who I am."
There was a short silence.
"Who are you?" he asked her. "Why did you come here?"
"My name is Soriel," she replied. "I came here with my crew... my friends. We set off on an exploration down the Nile. There was a tribe.... they didn't want to let us pass..... they attacked us. I was the only one who survived. I think I fell off the boat though, it's hard, it's all so fuzzy. I think the river carried me pretty far downstream."
"And... the Nile?" the god asked. "What is that?"
Soriel seemed confused. "It's, well, it's this," she said, gesturing at the river. "It's the name of the river."
"Oh," the god said, nodding. "Okay, that works. I didn't know... but no matter. That's fine with me."
She gave him an odd look, but continued her story. "When the people here found me on the riverbank, they got very excited. It seems they thought I was a gift, given to them by the Nile."
"How odd. There must really be no one left that remembers... they didn't even know that they were pleading to a god they had chained,” he said softly.
"They... chained you?" Soriel asked.
He nodded, and gestured to his wrists. The bone there was marred by discolored bands circling them. Turns out being left in manacles for over 200 years will leave a mark.
"They were afraid of me. They didn't understand why I was there. They thought I was dangerous, so... they locked me away. I think that they thought it would kill me, but it turns out I can't die so easily."
"And do you have a name? Something I can call you?" she asked.
"I do have a name. I have many. I used to be N'kiru N'tabi, but now I suppose I am Nile."
Soriel looked at him sharply. "Like the river?"
"Yes." He smiled. "Like the river."
"They called you something else though," she prodded.
"Mtoaji Maisha. Don't you know? It means God of the River," he said.
Her eyes opened a bit wider in shock, and she looked back and forth between him and the water. As she watched, she noticed a slight pulsing in the glow of Nile's veins. It pulsed in time with the lapping of the waves on the shoreline.
"So you're—I mean, this is..." she trailed off, unsure.
"Yes, this is all me," he said, leaning forward to trail skeletal fingers through the water. "And I would never have given you up to be killed."
Soriel leaned back on her hands, her head spinning.
"Well, that's good to know...." her voice sounded small, and she hated it. Clearing her throat, she said, "so I can really call you that? Just Nile? No sir, or anything?"
"Nile is fine with me," he said with a smile that squinted his eyes closed.
"I honestly don't care much what I'm called, it's just nice to be able to speak to someone again."
And then he was looking at her again, those two emerald orbs staring straight through her. She turned her shoulders away from him, looking down the riverbank.
"Why do you hide from my sight?" Nile asked.
It took her a moment to respond, and she hated herself for that weakness, but also this was just uncomfortable and she didn't want to talk about it.
"I don't have any clothes," she managed to say, her words all rushing out together in one breath.
"But... do we need clothes? There's nothing to hide anymore," Nile said, looking down at his own skeletal form.
"That may be so... but I'm not used to it. It feels wrong. I feel... embarrassed," she admitted.
"I see," he responded. "In that case, let's not waste any more time here. We'll find us some clothes to wear, and we'll round up the villagers that sacrificed you. After that... well, we'll figure that out after."
•••
Smoke billowed towards the heavens as an inferno raged below. The sky was dark, and the air thick with ash. Soriel had found it surprisingly easy to release the fire she had felt inside her on the alter, and she danced through the field, spinning with the wind. At her fingertips, the delicate flames twisted and curled, flashing out in a glorious burst of light when they brushed against the dry grass, and reduced it all to dust. As she ran through the field, her new cream, purple and golden sash and skirts billowed with her. They twisted and turned, feet moving in time to a song only herself and her god could hear. Behind her, a pile of bodies burned. Their brightly colored clothing was gone now, nothing but ash in the wind. In the village, those who were left hid in their homes, their muted, drab, mourning colors having saved them. A few of the children still wore green, the bright, celebratory clothing forced on them by their parents. Soriel would have burned them, too, but Nile asked that she spare the young ones. She had rolled her eyes at his soft heart, but agreed. She could spare them, as he had spared her first.
He remained in the village as she finalized her revenge. He wouldn't stop her; she needed this.
He didn't speak to those in the village, even those he had spared. Some tried to plead with him, to beg for mercy, but the dark looks he gave them sent them scurrying back into their homes.
A herd of goats trotted though the dusty streets, taking refuge in the village from the fires outside. Nile was pretty sure that Soriel had opened their gate and allowed them to escape before she began her rampage.
Ash fell from the sky and dusted the rooftops, a thin layer settling atop Nile's bones.
When he reached the cistern at the center of the village square, what he saw was the physical embodiment of their desperation. There was not a drop of clean water to be seen; only a layer of slime and refuse covered the bottom.
Dried mud and cracked clay covered the walls, and the whole thing reeked.
If his plan was to start from scratch, then this would be the best place to start.
•••
Soriel watched as big chunks of ash fell from the sky, and felt her spirit soar. She may not be the same, now, but her mind was still hers, her spirit still intact.
She kept her head tilted towards the heavens, and said goodbye to her friends.
Anything nearby that had been flammable had burned. Trees were now but stumps, and not a blade of grass survived, but the village at the center had been untouched.
As Soriel said her last goodbye, a wild crack of thunder split the air. The clouds that had been hanging out in the distance were now rolling steadily across the sky, soon darkening the land with their massive bodies. The brisk wind, which had been Soriel's dancing partner, now quickened its step and whipped past her. She made her way back toward the edge of the village, where a lone figure waited for her.
The whole time she had been gone from him, she had felt a tugging at her heart—at her soul—pulling her back to him. She let it pull, and returned to him.
He stood facing her, his back to the village. His new clothes hung loosely off his frame. He wore a bright green sash tied loosely over his shoulder, looping around his ribcage, and a pair of cream and brown trousers. The pants were embroidered with golden patterns, like vines sweeping across the seams, set with small, emerald-hued stones.
As she neared, he smiled, neither of them paying any mind to the soot and ash covering their brand new (stolen) clothes.
The ash was a good thing. The incoming thunderstorm would turn over the soil, and the ash would be mixed in and buried, adding nutrients back into the dead ground. The rain would fill the cistern to overflowing. When the villagers finally emerged from their homes after the last roll of thunder passed, their cistern would be full.
They would most likely have to strain off a layer of ash from the top of the water, but underneath they would find it clean.
They could expect an immenent flood, as the storm cell poured fresh, clean water back into the river. It would break its banks, and all low lying areas would be inundated with thick, silty water. When the flood waters retreated, the water would be faster, clearer, and refreshed. The ground would have thick layers of black silt—the detritus from the riverbank— which provides an excellent fertilizer.
The ground would grow new life from the ashes of the old.
Soriel wasn't thinking about all of that, though. She was too busy wondering what new stories this new life of hers would hold.
The man before her held out his hand; open, inviting, soot staining his bones.
She reached out to brush some stray ash off of his brand new clothing, then with a laugh, she took his hand in hers.