Weaving - OId Friend

Six years ago

A gentle, icy breeze skated across the frozen, endless landscape. Visible only as powdered veils of blown snow and the tousling of dark, shoulder-length curls. Cold stung at his skin, outlining countless scars where the sensation was duller. The lively wind and swirling squalls were a contrast to his immortal, taxed soul. He felt more tired and ancient than the surrounding stones. He probably was.

Supreme power did not change the fact that, at his core, he was a simple man who yearned for peace— for life. It had been ever kept from him. Instead, the privilege of tranquility had been sacrificed to the Cosmos’ identical, insatiable need. With each passing age the warrior, clad in tarnished gold plate, felt as if he were regressing to that bygone version of himself. Like how his ever-present companion must perpetually feel.

He looked to him, about ten paces away. A black stain of wicked, jagged armor against the otherwise white, snow-covered ruins. An inverted image of himself. The silent figure had a perpetually menacing presence. Yet there was a peaceful innocence in the way he stared up at the gently falling flakes of ice. Childlike. Somehow both pitiful and enviable all at once.

He could pity his stoic friend because he knew his suffering intimately. The undead had been forced to bear the burdens of gods long before becoming one himself. Despite that, his resolve was enviable. Legendary. The terrible sentinel was the embodiment of an oath kept against all odds.

The two of them had once been the same being, diverged now by transcendent power. Two versions of one man, made gods. He, the golden champion had broken their religious oaths, giving rise to the cursed being before him. They’d renounced their god not out of pride, but duty. To take on a burden far greater than any doctrine demanded. Sometimes one promise must be sacrificed for another. 

The decision forced him on a journey of pain, terror, and companionship. The vessel before him fought to the literal end of his world. Carrying the desires of gods, the world of men, and the shackles of madness. He couldn’t have done it all on his own of course. He, and his friends, had saved their world from annihilation, and broken a power far beyond understanding. 

Their reward? A new oath. One far, far heavier than any they’d carried before. An immortal existence, wandering The Cosmos, fighting uncountable versions of the same battle time and time again. Defending mortals from meddlesome gods. An endless war that had led them right back to where they’d started. A corpse left in their wake. Goh’zul.

A familiar presence of immense power moved at the cusp of the ruins. Its approach was soon accompanied by footsteps crunching through the snow. An expected visitor.

“Old friend.” The wizened warrior’s voice grumbled warmly as he approached. Agon turned to face him and despite the turmoil within, could not help but crack a smile. 

The arrival was a mountain of a man, sporting a magnificent beard and tree-trunk-like arms. The artist’s vision of a battle-scarred berserker. The giant bore no shirt and had on a headdress made from a bear’s pelt— skull worn like a helmet

The two gods crossed the distance and embraced as brothers. Fang released him and gave an affable nod to Ra’Queen who’d stop staring at the wintry haze to look at them. Red eyes a dull, unreadable glow. Ra’Queen returned an enthusiastic wave. Slightly silly in contrast to his otherwise dangerous aura. Fang and Agon shared a look. Melancholy. Difficult times had come upon them.

“Have you spoken to any of the others yet?” Fang asked as he meandered through the open ruins. It had once been an amphitheater but was now just a nameless, forgotten place Agon used for contemplation.

“No.” Agon sighed. Then, after a pause asked the burning question. “Was Giriam in breach of the treaty?” Giriam had once been allowed to act outside their accord. A mistake made in unprecedented circumstances. It wouldn’t be surprising to learn Giriam’s death was a result of overstepping.

“Kaszu and Persanius don’t think so, but Raven is making sure of it. They think it was the mortals.” Fang shook his head, taking a seat on a felled stone column. Agon nodded in appreciation. While he wasn’t exactly glad about the deicide, he could appreciate the difficulty of killing a god as a mortal. Fang continued before Agon could respond, “Crackle and Saldrin think we should go to war.”

Agon rubbed at his neck with contemplative relief, “Not surprising.” He said, leaning against an opposite, still-standing pillar. “What killed him?”

“Slave Relic,” Fang said the words with gravity, but there was a hint of amusement in his tone.

Agon let out a singular, genuine laugh of surprise. “Serves him right.” Fang returned a small, pleased huff of his own. Unfortunately, comedic justice was not enough to overpower the day’s grim severity.

Whispering wind became the dominant sound once more. Filling the space for a long, weighty moment before Agon spoke again. “Have any of us spoken to them yet?”

“No.” Fang responded darkly, “Yanneran won’t even respond to Cadence nor The Weaver to Hercan.” He added with a small, unsure gesture. 

It was the worst-case scenario. The Wandering Gods had intervened on Zol to stop the most volatile dynamic between mortal and god they’d ever witnessed. They were warriors by nature, but their aim was diplomacy. Giriam’s death was the furthest thing from their goal. 

Their mission was to preserve the organic, mortal way of life, while still allowing for divine influence. Accomplished most often by rules that protect culture, defend philosophy, and prevent gods from entering conflict. Followed of course by lessons that taught morals and balance. Balance was a far cry from this world. 

Agon considered as he gazed upon the harsh, bleak landscape around him. Zol’s gods were violent, stubborn, and famously powerful. They were why most of The Cosmos steered clear of The Great Old One’s corpse. The Wandering God’s first few millennia on Zol had been tense but after a fashion, a compromise was made. Forced really. Mundane ways of life were guarded, but that was all that could be agreed upon. Worse, The Watcher had been allowed to continue any war already underway and retaliate against any new attacks.

Should The Watcher breach their agreements, The Wandering Gods would call upon their allies from all across the stars, triggering a divine war for Zol. Unfortunately, Agon and the other Wandering Gods were also bound by these rules. They’d gained their allies by proving their morals across The Cosmos. Should they contradict their own terms, they’d lose that support. Not just out of principle, but divine agreement. The Wanderers would be forced to fight The Zolaen Gods all on their own.

“Fearsome gods made caged animals.” Agon ran his hand through his hair, brushing away snow.

Their original agreement with The Zolaen Gods had been unproductive. The Watcher could not be divorced from his vision. To make matters worse, a horrific event had transpired two ages ago. Mortals had found a weapon from The Wandering God’s homeworld, Artea. A blade of pure Morhin— The sword that’d eviscerated Ysra. Its implementation on Zol had resulted in apocalypse and the near binding of The Zolaen Gods. A wound that when compounded with The Wandering Gods Rules, left The Watcher and his pantheon with an exposed weakness.

“Something’s going to give.” The enormous man watched as flakes of fallen snow melted in the palm of his hand. 

Despite all their efforts to cultivate peace in Zol, they only ever drifted further and further from the idea. In other worlds they would have hoped their rivals to be more cooperative when faced with the death of one of their own. Unfortunately, they knew The Zolaen Gods all to well. Nothing was as morally immovable as Zol. They’d all but restrained The Trinity’s Gods, and an opporunist had stuck a knife in Giriam.

Agon laughed mirthlessly, “So you come to me the, The Oathbreaker.” 

Fang held his gaze for a long moment. “We will have to make a decision, and I’d appreciate your wisdom.”

“I don’t have answers for you, Fang. Maybe once I would have…” Agon trailed off wistfully, realizing that wasn’t the truth. He did have an answer, just one he didn’t want to admit. “I am tired of watching them die.”

Fang let out a slow, sympathetic sigh. Its warmth and power melted away the surrounding, late winter snow. Revealing early spring beneath. It was a pain The Wanderers knew all too well, the greatest challenge of their lot. Not the endless passing of time, the ever-present threat of rival gods, or even the daunting future of endless wandering. It was the loss. 

The fact that in their journey they’d been forced to watch mortal souls be snuffed out time and time again. Artists, scholars, leaders, and heroes that met their end because their creator willed it. People who would have lived stories of adventure, and passion. Souls shaped like friends. The very reason The Wandering Gods did what they did.

Many mortals were going to die, regardless of of what happened next. However, it might be possible to mitigate these deaths if The Wandering Gods took action soon. Took action, and got lucky that is. Doing so could protect Zol, but would shred their treaty, and burn bridges with any ally who could help against The Zolaen Gods. It was an impossible descision. One at the end of a long, long strand of impossible decisions. Torturous. These were the very emotions that provoked most gods to meddle.

A hand fell on Agon’s shoulder. His eyes met Ra’Queen’s level gaze, sensing the same emotions within the silent killer. Neither would have the answer, but there was one thing they did have. A lifetime of enduring a cursed, torturous quest.

“We wait.” Agon started, suddenly feeling the sparks of Ra’Qeen’s resolve— his resolve. “We wait, for now.”