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Quackity was out of breath. He ran and ran and ran, and he didn't stop once. He was in the middle of the worst storm of the century, but he had to take his chance to escape when he could. This storm was a minor inconvenience compared to what he's been subjected to over the years.
His wrists were rubbed raw, he was covered in a myriad of bruises, and he was sure his ribs were broken. He kept running, tears mixing with the rain on his cheeks. His bare feet padded against harsh concrete, and his thin clothes were soaked through. He didn't know where he was or where he was going, just that he needed to leave.
The town he was in seemed to have been abandoned years ago. Shops were empty with their windows smashed in, and all the houses were boarded up. He slowed down eventually. He was far enough away now, he doubts he'll be found.
He spun around in the rain and stared up at the star-filled sky. He'd never seen something so beautiful. This is what the world was like, and he'd hardly seen it. He wants to see everything.
He stumbled into an abandoned shop, shards of glass cut against his feet, but he continued onwards. He searched the shelves, seeing if there was anything salvageable, anything at all.
There was hardly any food. All of it had perished, or he was unable to prepare it, but he did find a few large canteens of water. He opened one and practically drowned himself in it, soaking his front even more than the rain did.
He shuffled to the storefront and headed out again. The rain beat down on his head, but he continued. He looked up at the skyline, and he saw a tall, imposing building. It was a cathedral of sorts. He headed over to it.
Quackity wasn't expecting the church to be open, but he shouldered the large doors, and they swung open easily. He stumbled to catch himself as he fell through the doors.
The building was beautiful. Clearly old and unkempt, but still beautiful. The hall was long, and at the end was a stage, upon it was an altar of sorts. It was empty and covered in dust. Clearly, no one had given any offerings in a long time.
Quackity looked around the room and found a few candles, a box of matches and a very old, dried-out flower. He took them over to the altar.
He never really prayed to any gods himself, but he was a believer, he did not know who or what this temple was dedicated to, but he needed help. Any at all.
He placed a candle and the dried flower on the altar, and he crouched down, brushing wet hair from his face. He fumbled with the matchbox, pulled a match out, struck it and lit the candle.
He clasped his hands together and closed his eyes. “H-Hello?” His voice was raspy and broken from disuse. He cleared his throat, “Hello. I-I need help, any at all. Just… food or protection or… anything. I'm sorry, I do not know who the patron of this temple is, but I'm willing to do whatever you need.”
Apophis was in a deep slumber. Had been for centuries. He was a forgotten god and served no more purpose. And then, he was awoken.
There was a young man at his altar. A mortal.
Apophis sat up, and he stretched his weary bones. He doesn't remember what exactly happened. He last remembered an explosion, a god gone rogue, oh. That was him.
And now there was a mortal at his altar begging for help. Apophis stood up from where he was lying and stretched over the other side of the altar, leaning his upper body across it and resting his head in his hands. The mortal couldn't see him, but Apophis could see him.
He was a pretty thing, despite his waterlogged appearance. And Apophis was always partial to pretty things. “Hello,” Apophis croaked, and the mortal startled. “How can I help?”
“H–” Quackity breathed, holy shit. There was really a deity here. “I need shelter, please, please, just for the night.”
“Stay as long as you need, mortal.” Apophis smiled. He hadn't had any company in a long time. “What's your name, darling?”
“Oh– uh.” Quackity went red. Did a whole ass deity just call him darling? “I'm Quackity, your grace.” He said, bowing his head.
Apophis grinned, ‘Your grace,’ that was a new one. “Quackity…” He mused, “That's an odd name for a mortal. It's a pleasure to meet you. It's been a long while since someone has left me an offering.”
Truly, Apophis didn't care for the half-dead flower, but Quackity awoke him, gave him a second chance, and he can have a new lease on life. That must count for something, and it was more than deserving of hospitality.
“What shall I call you, your grace?” Quackity asked. He’d seen prayers before, a million different rituals and sacrifices done in the name of a deity, but here he was, alone, and praying to an equally lonely god, and he wasn’t sure exactly what he was supposed to be doing.
Apophis' smile turned strained. Now that he thought about it, he wasn't sure if he liked that name so much anymore. He'd gone by multiple names over the years, given to him by his followers… or his enemies.
Eurus of the east wind. The Heir of Death. La Sirena of the tides. The Sand Keeper. Orpheus. Apophis. And he’s sure many, many more, all attributed to one lone god.
He wasn't entirely sure what to go by nowadays. So he just settled.
“You… My dear mortal, can call me Apophis for now.”
“Apophis,” Quackity muttered, he feels like he's heard that name before, in old folk tales and secretive whispers that Quackity wasn’t meant to overhear, telling of a once smart and beautiful God of music reduced to a man of madness and chaos. “Thank you for allowing me to stay here, Apophis.”
Apophis reached out a hand to brush against Quackity’s wet hair. Quackity couldn’t see him, but he did flinch slightly as he felt it. “There's a bathroom to your left, and towels in the cupboards. Take and use what you need. There's a pantry and kitchen in the back and bunks upstairs.”
“Thank you again, Apophis.”
“Thank you for bringing me back, mortal.”