Waking up from slumber V2

The ground is hard, the sharp points dig into his skin painfully, but Quaboth's strength fails him. His limbs weight as if laden with entire mountains, lava flowing through his veins as the molten rock running across the endless tunnels beneath his body.

His conscience reaches out to his dominion, in the sharing heat of bodies he draws fortitude from the planet's core, or he tries to, at least.

Half way through he meets a solid wall of impenetrable ice.

Frozen faces are trapped in the ice, stuck in a state of perpetual shock. Their forms are incorporeal, wisps of gray smoke and sparkling silver contrasting against the dark expanse of the great river. It surrounds the spinning mass of Urúdum iron like a protective cocoon. It prevents him from reaching the core, and the other half of his essence.

It seems like an eternity ago, when he could easily slip through the endless river of souls, between the many floating disembodied faces and tar-like waters. It felt so natural, as if he had never left his true home, but now he feels like a trespasser—an uninvited guest—in the only place he ever truly belonged. The time when he had a purpose seems like another life completely.

It feels like eons have passed and hopelessness festered until he couldn't get himself to even move anymore. He regrets all the time he lost in self loathing, scolding himself for his own naivety.

Myrddraal tried to ward him off against the gods' influence and his unyielding loyalty for his siblings, but to no avail. She was right about the former, at least. His ingenuity was his doom in the end and he has no one else to blame but himself. However, he would never regret standing by the one who he cares the most for.

If Death ever deserved what the gods did to them is irrelevant, the gods should be the ones being chained, like the animals they are. Maybe Amorr doesn't deserve the same fate as the rest of them. Their compassionate and caring nature prevents them from wishing upon the harm of any living being, but who knows what truly lurks beneath the layers of soft roses—foolish are the ones who sink their hands in it without expecting stems covered in thorns.

Who gave the so called Furyan gods the right to play as the Creator of all, to judge and punish the one who is tasked with an unimaginable burden for just doing their duty, when they themselves stand on the charred corpse of what was left of the prime divine; the ultimate being who gave their life so their children could reach their full potential.

Quaboth cannot even imagine the look of disappointment in his Creator's face, if they are even alive somewhere, that is.

Death told him the story of the Creator's blinding light, it didn't burn their skin like Sol's is known to do. Instead it drove the darkness away without harming it, saving them from the certain end. The Creator saved not only Death that day, but the darkness, as well as everything that came after.

Their kindness knew no bound, the god of fire would give anything for their return.

"W-why did you leave us?" Quaboth's voice was barely a whisper, it took all his strength just to voice his thoughts. "A parent should never forsake their children."

All of a sudden the grim silence is broken by massive stone doors being open abruptly. Steam rises from the ground as the very air ripples with the immense heat. A woman stands in the threshold, her face is obscured by the gray mist, but her silhouette is unmistakable.

With her bare feet barely touching the ground she drifts towards the wheezing god currently trying to regain his strength on the hard ground. Like the apparition stalking its next victim she approaches the fallen divine.

Bony pale hands reach out, gently touching the clammy heated skin of Quaboth's forehead. She carefully untangles the matted orange hair, slowly working through years of neglect while making low shushing noises.

"What have you done, little ember?" Her sigh comes out cloudy, raspy and yet mellow voice grating against the gods' sensitive ears. "I begged you for more time, why didn't you listen?"

"I-I owed to them." He wheezes, naked chest rising unsteadily.

The pale woman is not nearly as old as the exhausted god in her arms, but she heard the tales of how the most ancient of the divines protected their siblings against hordes of demons.

A bastion, alone against the forces of the abyss.

Quaboth definitely feels in debt with the oldest divine. That debt might never be repaid if he sacrifices himself like this.

"You fool," she says softly, fondness tugging at her eyes. "What assures you they won't seek vengeance against you as well? The horrors they have gone through, you can't expect them to be the same person we once knew."

"I don't care. My fate is in their hands. It's always been, Myrddraal." He shakes as cold sweat damps the ground. "They held my essence in their arms more times than I can count. In battle and in life. It seemed they were destined to save my sorry behind at every chance they got." A broken chuckle leaves his cracked lips as he feels the prick of tears behind his half-open eyelids.

"Now, the strongest of us is broken. Their spirit might never recover from the years of torture. The gods are guilty, but I... I am their family, and I betrayed them."

"Nonsense, the only thing you're guilty of is being guileless. Imagine you, someone who doesn't even understand the concept of deceit, be capable of it."

"I failed to see those who were capable of it. I failed them Myr, I-I failed them." The tears are flowing freely now, no amount of reassurance will quell his guilt conscience.

"Rest, little ember." Her cold lips come to rest on the fallen god's feverish forehead. "Gather your strength for the trials to come. They will need us, now more than ever."