Weaving - My Yoke

“How dare you…” Giriam’s reprimand came quiet and breathy. Unable to process the sight before him. The body of Alz, God of Warfare hung lifeless in his grasp. Giriam craned his neck skyward. Gaze black with murderous— genocidal rage. Alleran hovered motionless above the battlefield, returning his stare. She hung relaxed, but ready for what would come next. She had killed a god. A god?!

“How dare you!?” This time it came as a roar. The towering god stood as he let Alz’ lifeless body tumble to the mud below. “You’re mortal. Mortal! Arrogant worms!” 

The distant faces of mountains crumbled. Shorn free by his rage. Alleran held despite the fearsome condemnation. She was brave, Giriam had to give her that. Brave, and stupid. He’d come when he’d sensed something had happened to Festae, and fallen directly into the mortals’ trap. Apparently, even they weren’t immune to The Mortal Coil.

“You think yourselves valiant? Look what you’ve done! Look how far you’ve strayed. How can this be better than what was written?” Giriam scowled at the armies. At this distance their numbers painted the hills like crops. Hairs on a stone fruit. More men than ever before in Zol’s history, standing ready to die.

At the front of it all stood their champions. Mortals that once embodied The Watcher’s vision. Wordbearers. Not all had betrayed them in the end, but the vast majority had come on this day. Leading them was Alleran, hero of five words, their foremost king. What a joke.

Giriam shot a disdainful look down at Alz. God of Warfare. Ha! While Alz had been a fellow deity he had not been a peer. The young god was weak. Weak! Had he pulled his yoke and not cowed in fear at The Wanderer’s hollow threats none of this would have come to pass. Now Alz’ tools were lost in his death. How many words, fragments of cosmic power gone to such a careless act.

“Fine.” Giriam spat the word after a long terrible moment, stepping over Alz’s body like any other corpse. “Fine. If this is what you want, then so be it. Who am I to deny your contest?” The towing god outstretched his arm, armies cringing at the motion. His polychromatic robes caught the light of the setting sun as Giriam focused in on his bond. His connection to the pantheon. The others were coming, but they wouldn’t be fast enough to stop him.

None of the Words within Giriam’s Yoke were meant for battle. The other’s feared him. They’d had concerns about giving one such as he a weapon. And while Giriam didn’t need a weapon to fell this army, a lesson was far overdue. 

He found it. Swimming amongst the golden power of his comrades. They probably didn’t even know a Word could be stolen like this. There’d never been a reason to before today.

“Those who stayed in your cities. The sick. The young. Those too scared to fight. Even those who still hold true to The Watcher’s light. None will be allowed to hide on this day. All will be tried.” Giriam made a fist as he ripped the word from Ayamot. There would surely be repercussions but he didn’t care. For the first time Alleran flinched. She was the only mortal savvy enough to realize something was wrong. They’d hoped to face the docile god of agriculture next. They’d be sadly disappointed.

Giriam raised his closed fist, snapping his nine fingered hand at the apex. The deep toll of a bell rung through the valley as behind him a shape appeared in the sky. Impossibly instant. A great, white wheel.

“You adopt your Words as identities. As if they themselves become your purpose. Your Yoke. You lose yourself in them like a carpenter lost in a hammer.” Giriam could feel the other gods closing in now. It was too late. Today would be the last day for these blasphemers. This day would be their undoing.

“You, my horrid children. So lost in your ways…” His voice was thick with contempt but wavered off, adopting a more melancholy lilt, “But I suppose I am the one to blame.”  He gave the mortal armies one last, wistful look. “The world of men has always been my responsibility. My burden. My yoke.”

Behind him the wheel loomed. The colossal, ringed campus of building-like structures. The physical manifestation of a Word. It gave slight, but exact rotation. Like a single actuation of a gear. It’s spokes moving firmly to take the place of their direct neighbor. The unseen bell tolling its movement once more.

“Judgement.” Giriam spoke in The First Tongue.