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Sunset had started to look more crimson with each day that passed. Plumes of blackened smoke clouded the sky—or were those the clouds themselves?
War was not a new thing for Telamon to gaze down upon. It was not new for humanity to fight. Almost all prior civilizations went through this, no matter how reasonable or otherwise. Peace was a fickle thing for humankind. So was trust and stability. There was always a never-ending hunger for power within them.
Power. The word rang familiarly within Him. That was what He had, no? Divine power. He could cease this chaos with a single breath. But He knew not to interfere; it would only make things worse. Occasionally, He performed miracles—an impossible revival, a near-death experience, a coincidence posing as divine blessing—but it always fed into confidence. Confidence that they were better than anyone else around them just because Telamon so much as spared them. Confidence that Telamon favored one side over the other.
Telamon cared not about them equally.
They could curse at Him all they like. They could shake their fists, shoot their bullets as high as they could go—nothing could reach Him. Mortal weapons, no matter how grand or destructive, could not make a God fall. It was pitiful, watching them blame Him. Hadn't they put this upon themselves?
A loud explosion rocked the sky; grim brightness spilled across the clouds. Something had been hit mid air. Despite how gruesome it was, He found fascination stirring in his core. Through the haze of smoke and faint sunlight, there was a silhouette that caught His eye. Another? A plane? A missile? There had been many technological advancements over the years, and He found wonder in those quick glances of the machinery. Whatever it was, was it aimed towards Him, or would it pass by him? Regardless, it would not harm Him nor the Heights, for no mortals could see Him.
It staggered. Staggered? Airborne weapons were trained to launch and lock onto a certain path. They didn't stagger unless interrupted by debris, turbulence, or their own faultiness. If not a weapon, then what was it? A stray piece of a machine? It was flying, yes, but clumsily. This was not a machine. It stumbled with each flap of its wings, and—Telamon realized with horror—its figure became more humanoid the closer it came.
His Creation. 1x1.
A tie between mortality and godliness. A bridge between the physical and spiritual. Made to imitate humankind, to exist alongside them and still stand tall alongside Him.
He would go as far to think of it as a child.
1x1, with its wings suddenly giving out, skidded to a halt in the middle of the Heights.
Telamon tracked its fall, wings flaring once it crashed. Was it wounded? The being was small, far smaller than He, but it bore His marks. He made it in His likeness—piercing eyes and skin like stained glass. Not fully human, but enough to be seen by them. Enough to be harmed by them.
1x1 attempted to push itself off of the ground, pausing once Telamon landed nearby. The war still waged far below; the way it played out no longer captivated His attention. Its breathing came in ragged gasps, unable to truly look at Him. A wet cough escaped it, and divine blood painted shimmering gold onto stone. It was hurt. Badly hurt. Its wings—delicate little things, half the size of Telamon’s and built for flight across realms—were broken. One more than the other, hanging limp against their back. It twitched like it wanted to move again. How did it manage to fly here?
Despite its fleeting gaze, Telamon saw many things He didn’t quite understand in those dull eyes. They flickered with emotion He had yet to comprehend, but two in particular stood out. Deep, unrelenting pain and fear.
When He approached, 1x1 staggered back. “N-No! Stop—!” Blood dragged across the floor and flowed steadily from every wound He could see. It was so scared it didn’t put its trust in Him. What had happened to it? How could it have been damaged by war? Could it have been mistaken for an enemy weapon and was fired at?
Something cold embedded into His heart when He asked Himself: Was the explosion He had seen an aftermath of what struck it? He lowered to one knee, hand hovering above its shaking form. Not touching yet, knowing it might try to flee, but close enough to let it know He meant no harm. “Do not move,” He commanded. “You are hurt. Let Telamon aid you.”
It made no difference. 1x1 whined, a sharp noise that surprised Telamon when He heard it, curling in on itself desperately. Was it trying to hide? It was not doing a very good job. Shrapnel was embedded in its limbs, twisted sheets of metal designed by humans to destroy their own kind. Not to strike down a heavenly being.
“Forgi— F-Forgive me, Creator—” It coughed, gold running down its chin. “Please— Please, forgive me—” Its breath hitched, and its frail body tried to look even smaller. Bloodstained and shaky arms wrapped around its chest, as if to hide something.
Telamon saw it anyway. The faint pulsing of its exposed core, with a piece of metal piercing through the middle. His creation whimpered, knowing he had seen. He finally closed the distance between them, lifting its arms with urgency. Each weakened beat of its heart spewed that sickening gold everywhere. And with the metal lodged in its chest, the intrusion was bound to be messy. Even a simple tug made it cry louder. “It burns… I can’t— It hurts so much—”
For the first time, His hands trembled. The same hands that had crafted stars, the same hands that once destroyed His own creations with no remorse… they shook at the sight of this one, bleeding at his feet and helpless. Asking for forgiveness where none was needed. “You have no use for Telamon’s forgiveness,” He spat, looking at the wound closer. The shrapnel was the only thing holding them together—man-made poison keeping a god alive.
A projectile, fired into the sky and aimed at what they thought was nothing holy.
Was this something mankind felt? This… ache, this hollowness within his chest? He had not known this feeling until now and He wanted to forbid Himself from knowing it.
“But I— I didn’t mean to, but— I wanted— I was trying to—” 1x1 babbled, unable to form a coherent sentence through its agony.
“Cease your cries!” Telamon commanded, not out of anger but out of agony of His own.
“I-I disobeyed! I tried to—” More gold splattered onto stone. Some of it stained the fabric of his robes. “I tr-tried to interfere! I wanted to… to help! I didn’t want to see this anymore—” 1x1 gasped for air it couldn’t have. “Please, my Creator, forgive me…!”
“Silence!”
“But—”
“SILENCE AT ONCE!” His voice raised, hands clenching into tight fists. “Telamon does not need you to repent! You are injured, 1x1!” Something dull flickered in 1x1’s eyes. Something Telamon never wanted to see in His own creation. The thieving glow of death. “Stay still.” The tone of His words was softer. “Telamon will help you.”
A faint glow surrounded both of them, bright as the sun itself with the warmth of candlelight. Tangible strings raced towards its core in an attempt to stabilize his creation. Its body arched when the energy met the foreign metal, its screams echoing across darkened skies. He would not stop. The shrapnel began to glow and warp, hissing from the heat.
“Stay still,” Telamon repeated, grabbing onto the metal. Slowly, he started to pull. Centimeter by centimeter, because anything greater risked a collapse. He could not dull 1x1’s pained cries, and they echoed in His ears louder than the gunfire below. “Hold on. Focus on Telamon,” He urged without looking at its face. He would not dare. “Focus on—”
Glass cracked. His hands let go of the intruding piece immediately.
And Telamon hesitated for the first time.
It was a stalemate. Leave it, and 1x1 would bleed out and die only a few seconds from now. Rip it out, and it would die at this very moment. He saw it all. The slowing pulse within its chest, the weakened breaths, the glaze in their eyes. No matter what, they were dead.
Dying at the will of something never made to touch it.
His creation, his child, dying because it dared to be kind in an era where that killed. Dying because it dared to disobey with compassion and purity in its fragile heart. “You fool,” He whispered, heavy and grief-stricken. Glowing strings still surrounded them as if it still had a chance. He knew He couldn’t save it.
The light intensified—wild, reckless, desperate. He poured energy into 1x1, breathing life where there would soon be none. The sky darkened around them. “Stay.” The order was useless. He placed His hands firmly on its chest. “STAY, TELAMON SAID!”
A god does not panic. A god does not beg. A god does not mimic humanity. Telamon did all three. For a moment, the air itself quivered at the sound of His cry.
1x1 did not respond.
If it was mortal, it would have died ages ago. If it was immortal, He would have bought it time. And yet it faded under His hands, with love that made it weak enough to break. “Stay.” This time, there was no power behind it. No drive. Only a plea that would only go unanswered.
It had gone still. The life in its eyes had faded—with the grace of a candle being snuffed out. Like a dying star, the light around it disappeared into darkness. A child of godhood, fallen after being shot at blindly. He knelt by its body for however long it was. Time meant nothing and He did not move. His hands stayed where they were, frozen in the failed act of preservation.
The silence was absolute. War was still waging onward far below him. Bullets would fly and blood would spill. Nothing reached him at that moment. The body before him was small, far smaller than He, made in his likeness and made fragile in the presence of death.
Telamon roared. It echoed through crimson skies and tore through black plumes and heavens alike. He roared, the mortal weight of loss pressing on his godly being. And with that weight, he wrenched the piece free. Nothing could hurt it anymore. Shrapnel was removed from its limbs and blood was wiped from its face. The light returned, but only for a moment. Only to mend what remained. Wounds closed, wings realigned and their feathers regrew, and the cavity in their chest finally sealed. Its eyes were tenderly—painfully—shut.
Now it finally looked at peace.
He looked at His creation, gathering its body and clutching it tight as He took flight once more. He returned to where He had perched, staring at the faint blurs of bloodshed with distaste rather than indifference.
Telamon cared not about the outcome. Thousands of humans could die. None of them would have hearts brighter than His creation’s.