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All these people you think you serve, all those friends you sought to protect—what do you think will happen now that you are what you are? Etzli sneers. Soon, you will forget your mortal life and then your mortal emotions, and you will be as you were. As we were.
Her words send another upheaval through me, mountains of ice shaping and forming in distant oceans. I glance at her. Your words are offensive to me. Cease.
They are the truth, Etzli spits. End us all if you wish, and you will soon become like us. A god alone does not remain a god for long. Even we, the Eternal Ones, can suffer the effects of loneliness.
As I ponder her words, I look down at Anok, imprisoned in the stones under Abeya. Separated from her sisters and yet a part of them as always. Etzli tries to follow after me, but I motion, restraining her where she is.
This enrages her. Do not ignore me, Deka! she shouts. Do not dismiss me.
Such noise…. I continue onward, stepping lightly on the stone cell, which glitters with the unending blackness that is Anok’s essence. At my lightest touch, the stone explodes, freeing the goddess, who re-forms and bows to me respectfully, yet another human gesture.
It is time, I say. I am here to fulfill my vow to you.
And not a moment too soon. The green of corruption coils around her, constricting her. How she has remained cognizant for so long, I do not know.
I am grateful, Anok says. Although, I must confess, I do not know what to call you now. Daughter, sister, son, brother, child, self. All these things you are to me. So what shall I call you? I no longer know your true name. And you should not offer it, not when I am as I am now.
I ponder this query until finally, I arrive at an answer. Deka, I say firmly. I am all you have said and more, but I find I have grown fond of this identity. Deka.
Anok laughs. Our Angoro, our slayer.
Indeed. Are you prepared? I do not know why I offer her this courtesy, only that of all the Oteran gods, she is the only one who tried to remain steadfast to her purpose. That effort in itself is enough.
Anok looks down. I wish for a moment.
We wish for a moment. I turn to find Okot waiting behind me, his essence just as scored with the corruption as Anok’s. And yet, like her, he retains something of his purpose. I see it now, how he guided Myter to us in Gar Nasim after we escaped the shadow vale. They had been waiting there for weeks, but it was only when he led them that they were able to find us.
That was not his only method of helping us, though he did not realize what he was doing at the time. He also made that pretense of capturing us in Irfut so we would be pointed in the direction of searching Gar Fatu, another malevolent-seeming action that nevertheless helped us on our journey.
It puzzles me. Why? I ask. Why did you help us? Even as you pursued us, you gave us aid.
I did not realize it then, but I felt guilt, Okot admits. A human emotion. I wanted it to end, though I did not know how. Then Anok was imprisoned, and I began to speak with her in secret.
We had forgotten we were one, Anok continues, floating closer to him. But once we were reminded, we came to an agreement. We would do what we could to aid you.
And I would pretend to hinder you the entire while, in the event that my brothers caught wind of it. Thankfully, they did not. And now, here we are. Okot turns to Anok, smiling, a thousand flowers blossoming in the wake of his expression. If our time is at an end, let it be together. We were once one. In these last few moments, let us be as we were.
Anok smiles. Indeed, she says. And that is the last word she speaks.
I watch, something akin to wonder spreading through me, as Anok extends her hand to Okot and he does the same. Their forms meld, transforming until they become one darkness, one universe of shadows, forever bound together. I do not have to say their names, do not have to sing them out of existence, because, as I watch, they sing together, one final, blissful melody that echoes throughout the universe of heavens.
And then they are gone.
And now remain the other six, all huddled together, different shades of fear and defiance in their bodies, all of which merge into a sickening array of storms that boil across the land called Otera.
Even though I already know their answer, I nevertheless ask the question: Do you wish me to sing the song of your dispersal, or will you do it yourselves?
When I allow them to speak, unsealing their mouths, a barrage of protests and pleading assaults me. And nowhere, in any of it, is remorse.
So I orient closer and begin to sing. An entire realm joins me as I sing the song of Etzli and Etal, of Hui Li and Hyobe, of Beda and Bekala. I sing their rainbows and their storms, their dewdrops searing across the surface of volcanoes, their stars spinning universes into the light. I sing all the things that they are and all the things that they were, and as I sing, they begin to brighten, light shining through their beings, chasing away the traces of green, the traces of white, the traces of everything malevolent, until soon, they are nothing but brightness, nothing but specks, dust in the universe.
Stars, soon to be reborn.
With them go their vales, the rifts closing up, repairing as if they never were. I spirit the humans inside them back to their homes, back to their loved ones, whichever of them still remain, but the creatures—the vale wraiths and the smaller shades—I gather together in a new world, a dark, cold place far from this one. They had no say in their creation. Why, therefore, should I stand as the hand of their destruction? Better I send them to a place where they will thrive and, perhaps one day, develop sentience and birth gods of their own.
The other monstrosities and wonders the old pantheon visited upon Otera, I send to the remotest portions of the realm, far enough away that the more sentient creatures will be safe from their predation and that they, as well, will be safe from them.
Then I turn my attention to the battlefields, the divine armies disoriented by the loss of their creators, the Oteran armies steeling themselves for any new conflict that may arise.
