Chapter Text
Amon sits alone in silence, a cross clasped tightly between His palms. His hands glow gold against the abysmal darkness, while beyond Chernobyl, the land remains shrouded in night and streaked with lightning. The research institute His father once told Him stories about remains untouched beneath His authority.
Time—stolen, released, and stolen again, over and over—has long since ceased to move normally, becoming still and trapped in a perpetual loop of existence. Strands of hair fall across His eyes. He makes no attempt to brush them away, as though letting go of the object in His hand might mean surrendering something He cannot afford to lose.
He stared. Waited. Stared some more, for who knew how long. He could no longer tell how much time had passed since He had begun encasing Himself in the safety of this place. His hands tightened even more around the cross as He tried to retrace the events that had led Him here. Those traitors. It had happened so suddenly.
One moment, Amon had been going about His day, carrying His duties as He always had. Then, in the next, the sun fell. Before that event, He had never once considered the possibility that His father could be usurped by the very Angels He had trusted. Beings who should have served Him with unwavering devotion, yet had allowed Themselves to be tempted by power and Godhood.
The thought angered Him. Unsurprisingly, perhaps, but the intensity of it was something Amon had never experienced before. He had been annoyed. Irritated. Bothered. But never like this. It was as though His entire world had been turned upside down without His knowing, leaving Him to grapple with the consequences of an emotion that grew hotter and more violent with every passing moment.
His humanity had always been dull, muted beneath everything else that made Him what He was. Now, it burned like an inferno. It wanted. It needed. It demanded to destroy everything in its path, as though nothing would be enough to satiate the pain of losing everything in a single moment. Amon had once believed They would live forever in an eternal spring, beneath the glory of an era that seemed destined to endure.
Instead, that glorious age had become little more than a memory. Something fleeting, slipping through His fingers no matter how tightly He tried to hold on. His hands tremble. With rage. With sorrow. With bewilderment. He does not know. He cannot tell anymore, not through the blur of memories twisting together in His mind. Those—dirty—dirty—dirty—traitors. The thought of Them makes Him seethe.
He wants Them to be more than mere pieces beneath His fingertips, more than distant figures He could simply crush and discard. He wants to feel Their fear. Their pain. Something—anything—that might make the fury inside Him feel less unbearable. But there is too much of it. Too much rage. Too much grief. Too much need to hurt, and nowhere for any of it to go.
For the first time, Amon does not know what to do with what He feels.
His father had once taken His hand and gently pressed it against His hollowly beating heart.
Amon had never truly understood why His father had molded Him in the image of mankind.
Then again, He had never bothered to shift into His mythical creature form, even when He complained that looking so human was boring.
His excuse was always a shallow one. His father would adore Him more if He remained as such, so why change?
"This is the heart you questioned, is it not?" the Ancient Sun God murmured softly.
Amon felt the steady rhythm beneath His palm. Thump. Thump. Thump.
"Do you feel how it beats?" His father's voice was patient, always so gentle.
"This is where every human emotion comes from," He explained. "Every irrational thing humanity has ever felt originates here."
Amon instinctively frowned, staring down at the hand resting against His own chest.
"All of that," He began slowly. "It comes from a single bundle of muscle and blood?"
His father laughed. "Why not?" Then, with fondness Amon could never quite replicate, the Ancient Sun God continued. "Yes," He said. "Everything."
He spoke as though explaining something simple, something that had always been obvious. Amon listened—as usual—even though He cannot understand the weight of it.
"From the sweetness of happiness to the bitterness of passing moments. From the tragedy of losing everything one holds dear to the burning heat of anger."
His fingers gently closed around Amon's hand. "From the quiet ache of longing," He continued, "to the grief that can consume an entire being."
His father smiled. "All of it," He whispered, "comes from this one, lonely thing beating inside every human's chest."
Amon's shoulders shook as He curled in on Himself, unable to withstand the sudden wave of humanity drowning Him beneath its weight.
No tears fell from His eyes, even though they stung terribly. With every blink, it felt as though moisture had gathered behind them, threatening to spill over.
Yet before it could, He absently raised His hand and roughly wiped it away, casting the remnants somewhere beyond His sight.
Was this grief?
Was this sorrow?
Was this pain?
Was this the loathing born from losing so many things He had never even realized He could lose until the very moment they were gone?
His brother had always told Him, with all the detached wisdom of a Visionary, that cherishing too much could bring with it far more complications than it was worth.
Amon had never lost anything that mattered so deeply to Him before. Not until now. Not until it had been ripped from His hands. Not until He had been forced to choose.
Amon's fingers trembled. His hands still felt stained with sin, as though the weight of His choice had seeped into His very skin and refused to wash away.
"Why collect such ordinary trinkets?" Adam asked curiously. "What makes them so captivating to you?"
Amon glanced at Him, His lips forming a childish pout for show before His expression settled into something more thoughtful.
He raised the rock toward the sky, holding it against the endless blue, where soft clouds drifted above its rough, brown surface.
"Humans covet materialistic things, right?" He mused. "There's just something about it that caught my attention."
Then He tossed the stone across the wide, shallow lake, watching it skip over the still surface—once, twice, thrice—before finally sinking beneath the water.
"I simply wished to understand," He explained, His voice hollow.
"Understand what?" Adam asked, lowering Himself beside Him. "What could be so fascinating?"
Amon shrugged. "Desire," He answered, His gaze lingering on the ripples spreading slowly across the lake.
At some point, Amon stepped outside Chernobyl to asses the situation.
It was dark, as it had been for the past few years under His father's madness.
He clutched the cross around His neck once more before slipping back into the research institute.
Amon had once written His father's and brother's names over and over again on stones.
It was funny, in a way.
Until the stones became too heavy for His pockets to carry. Still, He could not bring Himself to let go.
.
.
.
It was not difficult to realize that something had happened when the world thundered and lightning littered the sky.
The Creator's kingdom began to tremble with something akin to divine anguish, silent screams echoing through the spiritual paths, urging everyone to run.
Then the sun blackened. Darkness spread across the heavens, vast enough to swallow the sky itself, casting a dreadful shadow over the eastern continent.
It felt like the advent of the world's end. Humans screamed. Every living creature fled, driven by the instinct to survive.
Amon did not know what had possessed Him, but He stepped forward. He had barely covered any distance toward His destination when a hand seized His wrist.
He looked back and was immediately met by the calm eyes of His older brother. Amon's eyes narrowed. It took Him only a second to realize that Adam was trying to stop Him.
He immediately attempted to pull Himself free, but the grip tightened. "What are you doing?" Adam asked, using His other hand to reinforce His hold on Amon's wrist.
"Can't you tell how dangerous this is?" Adam asked as Amon stared at Him silently. "Don't go there," He continued. "We need to run before whatever this is catches up to us."
He pursed His lips. Then, without hesitation, He siphoned away His brother's strength. Adam's grip slackened for only a few precious seconds. Long enough for Amon to wrench His arm free.
"Amon!" Adam shouted after Him. "Don't—" His brother must have intended to say more, but He was already speeding through the distance, leaving His brother's voice behind.
Whatever words Adam had tried to call after Him were swallowed by the wind, lost somewhere in Amon's immediate pursuit for answers.
It was not common for Amon to feel so afraid. Not for Himself, but for the uncertainty surrounding His father's circumstances.
The Creator was Omnipotent. The power He wielded at His fingertips was something any being could only envy. He was not someone who could simply be defeated.
Not after all the countless victories He had claimed against His enemies. Amon could not imagine it. What could have happened for The Sun itself to be swallowed by darkness?
As He passed by, the scent of flowers reached His nose. There was something strangely familiar about it. Something that reminded Him of those lingering traces of Darkness.
Amon's lips curled upward before He even realized it. Then, suddenly, He understood. He had been wondering why everything had seemed to happen so abruptly.
His father's palace had been hidden. The concealment was slowly fading now, yet its remnants still remained in the surroundings. Faint, but unmistakable to someone like Amon.
He stops before two massive doors, staring at the golden liquid pouring from within. For a moment, He simply stands there, taking in its radiance.
The unmistakable scent of His father's essence noticeably permeates the air disgustingly. Then comes the cold, inevitable fear.
It was so immense that He nearly loses control of His mythical creature form. Amon lets out a soft cackle at the realization that is slowly taking shape in His mind.
He reaches out with theft and pulls the hinges free from the walls. The massive doors collapse inward with a deafening explosion.
Amon does not know what he expected to find behind them. Enemies, perhaps. Certainly something more tame than what He sees now.
Aucuses is the first to turn His head. Their eyes meet. Amon's gaze naturally drifts downward, settling upon the sight of His father's ribcage, ripped brutally open.
For a few seconds, He simply stares. Then He stumbles. The sheer force of His rage leaving Him breathless. He laughs—and He laughs—and He laughs—
One echo follows another, overlapping until it sounds as though countless people are laughing from within the same body.
Worms begin to slither from His cheeks. Amon slowly covers half His face, catching an eyeball as it slips loose before it can fall.
Then He steals back time from Himself. Once. Twice. Again and again. All within the span of a single second.
He forcibly rewrites His lost of composure, repairing His own madness before it can completely unravel Him.
His gaze settles upon the dirty traitors before Him.
Amon often wondered what might have happened if He hadn't been so rash.
Perhaps He wouldn't have lost so much in the span of a few fleeting seconds.