Archive of Our Own ^beta

The most infuriating thing about the altar is that it’s beautiful.

Beneath the golden arch, two gods stand side by side. Their open arms beckon all those who gaze upon their triumphant stances. Playfulness is etched into their visages. Despite the battle scars running like cracks along the god to the left, his stone smile is wide. His companion has his wings held aloft, feathers pridefully puffed. Flecks of red paint linger on the wings, despite the wear and tear both statues have taken.

Standing in their shadow, Grian is impossibly small. It seems as if he requires wings or a crown to even contemplate speaking with the gods.

Behind him is Grian’s reason for the visit. So Grian turns around, to remind himself what this is all for.

Beyond the marble columns of the temple are the rolling hills of a warm spring landscape. Nestled in a valley and barely visible, a village sits. The center of the village is marked by beautiful houses and meeting places, carefully built over the eras. The outskirts of the village sport wooden huts.

The situation back home is dire. It’s been worsening rapidly, and desperately, they need change. The residents of the village searched for a leader and for whatever reason, their eyes set on Grian. Grian was the one who brought up the idea of praying to the gods of death. He had a feeling he’d be chosen.

In a satchel by his side, Grian carries the town’s offerings. Everything from fist fulls of gold to old drawings, blankets, and other memorabilia. The villagers have put their all into this offering. One of Grian’s maps is here. He spends all the time he has on his maps, traveling the lands to gain an understanding of the soil he walks on. He hopes the gods appreciate all his effort.

Enough dawdling. Grian can’t let his nerves control him forever. The gods are never going to answer his prayers if he doesn’t get down and pray.

Except Grian doesn’t want to fall to his knees for Scar and Solidarity.

Reluctantly, Grian lowers himself to the ground. He rests his bottom on his heels to take a load off of his knees. Then he takes his satchel and spills the contents out across the altar. Gold and silver coins collect at the gods’ feet, reflecting the statues’ images up at them.

Now, there’s nothing left to do but pray.

“Almighty gods of our land, please hear my message. The people of the Hermit village are suffering. This state we are in is no blessing. We seek your guidance to bring death back to our lands.”

For just about five years now, the people of the village stopped dying. Sickness would not take and wounds would not bleed a man dry. Instead, those who suffered ailments would simply continue on. Sometimes they get better, little by little. Other times, they continue to waste away, breathing, but in a catatonic state.

Disease still spreads. Misery still reigns. People do not have to mourn for their dead but they must raise children who should have been too weak to live. They must provide food for elders who were meant to pass a long time ago. Nurses must tend to wounds that will never get better.

As new life comes in, there is too much to handle. Gaggles of children roam the streets, their families unable to raise them right. During the midday markets, one cannot walk down the street. Any poor soul who tries is consumed by the crowds and the smell of rotting flesh. The village is bursting at the seams. It was never meant to accommodate this many people.

Death does not touch them. What once seemed like a dream has become a nightmare.

All they want to do is give a peaceful goodbye to those they cannot help. Some elders wish to pass on to the afterlife they were promised. The afterlife is a beautiful place, and Grian is beginning to believe that death is a beautiful thing.

The gods of death are another story. They are not beautiful. There’s no doubt that they’re the ones behind this.

“I apologize that we did not see your value,” Grian says, gritting his teeth. “Now it is clear… Death is necessary for life. We bring you these offerings in the hope that you shall heed our plea to make death possible.”

Under his breath he adds, “We would also take the absence of suffering. That would be great too.”

Grian waits with his eyes closed. The seconds go by, passing fruitlessly. He cracks one eye open just to gaze up at the statues as if anything would have changed. He scours the gods’ faces for a sign. Anything.

Scar’s smile is still as wide as ever. Solidarity still looks down on him like he is but an ant.

It’s as if the gods are laughing at him.

“I’ve had enough,” Grian announces, picking himself up off the ground. Again, he expects a reaction from the statues. One never comes.

Grian sighs. “You’re not listening. You’re never going to listen. There’s a reason we stopped praying to you long ago. You never cared when we wanted you to stop, and you certainly don’t care now. Know what? I think you’re doing this out of spite. So many people have prayed for their loved ones that you’ve decided to give us what we wanted. This was never how we wanted it!”

The statues still do not react.

“Maybe that’s not it, though I wouldn’t put spite past you. Maybe you’re playing around with us. Are we nothing but toys to you?”

When Grian closes his eyes, the statues come to life. The gods themselves come down to answer him. Scar and Solidarity in all their glory – glowing skin, golden eyes, long robes that seem to flow on forever in the wind. The gods laugh at him, because laughing is all they would ever do. Life and death must be a joke to immortal beings.

Grian snatches the gold back up. He takes his map and secures it safely in the satchel. “You are no gods of mine.”

His fellow villagers will be mad at him for taking the offerings and leaving. Funny how they all look to him for guidance, yet they all love to argue with him. They’ll be up at arms that he kept the sacrifices even though it means they’ll get their riches back.

All is not lost, because they’ll listen to him once he explains the arrogance of the gods. The gods were never going to listen in the first place. It’s up to the village to handle things themselves.

The thing is, they’ve been trying to “Handle things themselves” for the past five years, and look where its gotten them…

No matter. The point is, Grian is going home.

He can still hear the gods laughing as he departs for the rolling hills.

As expected, the villagers are not happy with Grian. Grian explained himself and attempted to distribute belongings. Then they started up a conversation about who would go next. After a half-hearted warning that it wasn’t going to work, Grian left the meeting chamber. Now he roams the streets in the late evening glow of a setting sun. The western sky is cast in spectacular shades of orange and pink, staining the clouds above.

As odd as it feels to say, it’d be more productive to pray to the god of the skies to fix their troubles. Or the god of the roads, the god of the seas, the god of the crops, or any other god for that matter. They’ve tried that before. In the absence of the death gods, they’ve been attending other temples.

Those gods at least answer their prayers sometimes . They usually send some sort of message, even if it’s one of anger. However, it would be pointless to pray to any gods but those of death for this to stop. The gods do not encroach upon each other’s domains.

The death gods should take a cue from their contemporaries and help when the circumstances are this dire. Do they think that they’re above all that? Kindness? Or are they the outcasts of the godly world? Do they simply think they’re too cool for the other gods?

Grian waves to shopkeepers and doges running children. When an acquaintance tries to strike up a conversation on the street, he kindly excuses himself. Weariness is starting to take a toll on him. Not for the first time, he regrets moving to his little shack on the outskirts of town. He makes the most of what he has, but it’s still nothing compared to what he used to have.

One of these spacious homes that Grian is putting behind him used to be his own. How did he lose it? He didn’t. He gave it up because it was such a spacious home and he was the only one living in it. There were families who could use it better.

The trek to his own residence is long. Nothing compared to his journey to the temple, of course. But it’s always the last stretch that gets you. Grian focuses on the sunset and time seems to pass a little bit quicker.

Grian is about halfway across town when he begins to hear footsteps behind him. They’re heavier than a child’s steps and faster than the steps of an elder. So when Grian turns around and sees an unfamiliar face running up to him, he’s surprised.

Grian knows all the men this age in town and this figure is not one of them. He is relatively unassuming, maybe Grian does know him… that would be awfully embarrassing. Then the man catches up to him and speaks.

“Excuse me, sir, excuse me, can I have a word?”

His voice is like an echo of a portrait. Familiar in the same way that a work of art is familiar. You’ve never met them, but you’ve built them up in your head to be something. You have a vision of who that person must be.

“Can you?” Grian asks. His instincts tell him to end the conversation just as he did with the shopkeeper and the children. It’s that odd tone of voice, like a whisper from a dream, that has him tuned in.

Grian keeps walking, unsure if he should carry on the conversation. The man keeps up with him easily.

“You went to the Temple of Death.”

“Yes. I’m sorry, but what is your name?”

“My name is Joel,” the man says. Grian bows his head, expecting Joel to do the same – he doesn’t.

Ah. So this Joel fellow is lacking in manners.

“Grian.” For emphasis, he bows from the hip rather than just his neck. Joel still does not get the hint.

“You prayed at the altar for your town’s salvation. And let me guess – Solidarity and Scar did not answer?”

Grian takes a moment to process. It doesn’t make anything clearer. “Slow down. I’m right that I am not supposed to know you. Where are you from? It’s not here.”

Joel freezes, stumbling in his step. Not necessarily the most assuring sight. Then, quickly, “I’m a traveler. I go from town to town and I’ve heard all sorts of stories. This one… interesting to me.”

“Interesting.”

Joel nods. “Very interesting.”

They progress down the path home, and the streets are a little bit less dense. There are still dozens of people around. It’s just less claustrophobic. Grian lowers his voice. “You were just talking to the rest of the council, I’m assuming. Don’t know how else you would know that I went to the temple.”

“Of course–”

“What do you want from me, specifically?” Grian asks. “If you’re just curious, I already told the council everything I have to tell. No, the prayers didn’t work.”

Joel grins. “Why, I want to help you.”

“Help me?”

The man nods eagerly, raising even more questions. The chief one on Grian’s mind is why me? Why not speak directly with the rest of the informal council? Grian’s often the one people call on within the town. He has a sort of reputation for getting things done. But for an outsider to seek him out specifically?

“Come, I’m going home, let’s sit down,” Grian says.

“Thank you.”

“You better not judge my home.”

“I would never, I would never.”

Grian’s ignoring the biggest question there is. How does the traveler expect to help? Is he a doctor? Certainly doesn’t work like one… Grian doesn’t mean to insult, but he’s a little bit slobby. Is he a fool? More likely. Is he a con man? Hopefully not. Does he have something unexpected hidden up his sleeve?

Grian might have an inkling. It’s a silly idea though, just him thinking big. The only reason he even thought of it was because the subject was already on his mind. He hates when he gets fixated on the bigger picture like this. It can be so hard to tune into finer details when he feels so preoccupied.

He can’t lose sight of how suspicious this is.

“Right this way,” Grian says as they approach the arched entrance to his home. Joel makes a show of ducking under the door, although he definitely did not need to. He takes one look around Grian’s abode and collapses into the nearest couch. A cool breeze drifts in through the open verandas.

Grian sits opposite the traveler, meeting him eye to eye. “I need to know what you meant by help.”

“Assist, advise–”

“ How are you helping?”

Joel pauses. “Which god do you owe patronage to, Grian?”

“That’s a rather personal question.”

Joel’s eyebrow raises. “I’m not going to judge.”

Grian contemplates whether he’s going to answer, and if he does, if he should do so honestly. If he is to lie, he’s not sure what will satisfy the traveler. There’s no point in a lie if he’s getting nothing out of it. There’s no point in having this conversation because he’s not going to be getting anything out of this.

After much consideration, Grian’s curiosity gets the best of him and he opts for the truth.

“None of them.”

“What?” Joel’s jaw hangs slightly open. Grian grimaces. This isn’t the fun reaction he was hoping for. This is the usual one.

“I appreciate the gods,” Grian reassures. “But I have not sworn patronage to any single one of them. I’m not particularly inclined towards any sort of art. Except for map-making, I suppose. If there were a god of map-making, maybe they would receive my offerings. For now, I am a free man.”

“Do you think that’s why the gods of death didn’t answer you?” Joel asks.

“Possibly.” Grian hadn’t considered that. The gods might have changed their tune if Grian committed himself to them. But they say the gods can see your true intentions. They would have sensed his disdain.

“You really hate the gods of death,” Joel mutters.

Grian narrows his eyes. That’s quite an assumption to make just based on what Grian’s said. It’s only half true. He’s not sure if he hates the gods of death. Moreso, he’s confused. He doesn’t have enough information to hate the gods of death.

The wind starts blowing colder. Grian holds his green woven shawl tightly around himself.

“What are you here to say, Joel? How are you going to help me? You still haven’t answered me.”

“Well, I’m afraid that’s because I can’t do anything if you don’t owe patronage to any of the gods.”

That’s what this was about?

“Are you a preacher?” Grian asks. Annoyance sets into his skin as he sits up straight, ready to show Joel out. “I’m not looking to be lectured.”

“No, no, I’m not.”

“If you’re not going to help me, you can leave.”

Joel sits there on Grian’s plush cushions for much longer than Grian would prefer. The moment stretches on, the tension palpable. Grian’s just about to repeat the command when Joel stands.

“I wish you well. Hopefully, you’ll find something soon.”

Now the wind is whipping harshly at Grian’s shawl, so badly that if Grian wasn’t holding on it could fly right off. He says nothing to Joel as the traveler leaves, but he does get up to watch from the veranda. However, he looks both ways, and he cannot see where Joel went off to.

Grian’s not sure which conversation was more infuriating. The imaginary bout at the temple or the very real chat with the traveler. Thinking about it, definitely the gods. Though odd and slightly annoying, the traveler was ultimately harmless. The gods are the ones deliberately ignoring pleas for help.

Grian decides to retire to his bed. Before he does so, he gazes up into the night sky. It should still be light out, as the sun did not set too long ago. However, dark clouds are beginning to blanket the skies, blocking out starlight.

It’s going to rain tonight, likely as they sleep. That will be good for the crops. It rarely rains in these parts, and when it does, it’s usually a simple drizzle. It’s sufficient to live off of, so no complaints from Grian. If it’s still raining come morning, it might be nice to take a walk. The rainwater can wash the sweat off his brow. That will be a relief.

Grian descends to his chambers, expecting a relaxing night’s sleep. That is not what fate has in store.

The screams wake him a second before the crack of thunder does.

He’s out of bed and in the streets in seconds flat. Grian has never run so fast in his life. He makes the journey from his house to the center of town look like a quick jaunt. Although most are cowering in their houses, he can hear the screams through open verandas.

Their towns are built for mild weather. Rarely does lightning strike. Even rarer are full-out storms. Grian is soaked from head to toe. He cannot bother about that right now. He sees the injured child. They’re in a house down off a side street.

People will not be safe in their homes. That much is clear. Those in the stone center houses may make it for longer, but if this rain keeps up there will be flooding. Forget about those in the wooden houses. There’s going to be much to rebuild.

The people of the village need somewhere safe. The center pavilion has an indoor area, that’s easily the most fortified building to stand up to this storm. However, barely thirty people will be able to cram in there. The village is at least ten times that size. They’re going to need a larger place, one that’s still sheltered from the elements.

The old caves that lie underneath these hills could work.

“Gather here!” Grian screams at the top of his lungs. He repeats the words as he runs to the center pavilion. Although reluctant to leave their homes, some families begin a mad dash to join him. Mainly men, a couple of whom have brought their wives. Some have brought their children as well.

In the pavilion, Grian finds the satchel of offerings. He pulls out the map. He turns to some of his closest friends, ones he can trust.

“Everybody needs to meet in this cave,” Grian says, pointing it out. “That is where we’ll be safe.”

“Are you sure?” one of them asks.

“What about this one, it’s larger.”

“That one won’t work, its entrance is not reinforced by stone, so it could collapse in on itself,” Grian says.

The two leaders look at each other, and nod. That’s that. A procession begins to gather those who are not safe in their houses. Grian had worried that he wouldn’t be trusted and that he would have to waste precious time convincing the men. It barely took ten seconds to win them over.

That takes care of the villagers themselves. But on his run over here, Grian saw something much more distressing.

Their freshly planted crops are going to be washed away.

Running through the streets, Grian tags the bravest young men and women he knows. They have to save the crops, lest they spend their summer months starving, not just their winters. The problem is, Grian doesn’t know exactly how. Now the village is in a frenzy and he has a posse of his friends and comrades following him. He doesn’t know where he’s leading them. The crops are up on high hills. Not only are the crops themselves in danger, but the houses are too if they aren’t able to prevent a mudslide.

Then they run past the quarry. It gives him an idea.

“Grab rocks!” he calls. He gathers up as many as he can. Some of his smarter contemporaries realize his plan. They rush ahead with boulders in arm to place them around the crops. Grian’s bare feet sink into soil as he climbs the hill. They’re just in time. If they stack the rocks tall enough, the crops will stay in place.

So they begin to work. First is the protective border, with the first side being the one at the edge of the hill, right before the slope. After that’s done, half of them work to bolster the border while the rest go to rest rocks between rows of crops as further deterrents. Grian himself kicks the wall, trying to test its force. It stands well.

Each time thunder strikes it sends a jolt of fear through Grian. He makes an effort not to show it. He learned long ago that if he maintains his brave composure, so will those who look for guidance in him.

When the fields are deemed sufficient they go back to town. Rocks are used to reinforce the foundations of smaller homes and huts. Together they slave through the night, but when the thunder comes too close, they decide to seek shelter.

Exhaustion hits as Grian slumps down the wall of a cave. He wipes rainwater from his brow and heaves in a heavy breath. Never has he felt this fatigued. His body is screaming at him; he’s not exactly the strongest person. But he did it. He protected the crops, and he brought everybody to safety.

Now there is nothing left to do but listen for the sound of the rain to fade away.

Somewhere in the process, Grian slips into a fitful sleep that will give him just enough will to carry on.

The village emerges from the shelter at the crack of dawn. Grian is not the first one out, opting to position himself in the middle of the pack, too tired to lead. He steps out onto muddy land and the light of day shocks him. He has to blink away his dreariness to appreciate the sun shining through light gray clouds that shift harmlessly overhead.

Then, following his fellow villagers, he starts on the trek home. The cave entrance wasn’t too far away, but it’s still a pain to walk through the muck. Grian takes off his soaked shawl and holds his arms out wide. He is mercifully embraced by the warmth of the sun.

He lags behind the group, soaking in the sunlight. For some stretches of the walk, he doesn’t even look where he’s going, letting his eyes flutter shut. Pride eases the pain of weary bones. When the village comes into view, it’s clear that the damage is minor thanks to the work of Grian and his group.

While everybody else returns to their homes, Grian stops at the peak of a hill to stare.

He’s never felt more connected with the land. His maps came in handy for once. Still, he can’t help but feel this place is too large yet too small at the same time. He can’t help but shift from foot to foot uncomfortably. Even at his best, Grian doesn’t feel completely right in his hometown. He’s always been too much of a character for it.

Due to the muddy ground, Grian does not hear the figure approach from behind him. He still senses it from the hairs that stand up on the back of his neck. He turns to see none other than Joel. Grian takes one look at the traveler’s dry clothes and knows something’s not right.

“Don’t tell me you had something to do with that,” Grian says. Is this a preacher who called upon the wrath of the gods?

“... Do you want me to lie to you?”

“What did you do?” Grian asks.

“You handled it well. I’m pleased.”

Not just a preacher, is he?

The puzzle pieces slot together: the man’s odd mannerisms, his voice, and the smug grin he has on right now. Grian never imagined that he would be approached by a god.

Let alone tested by one.

“Stratos.”

The god grins. “That’s me.”

Grian blinks, and the god has changed. Bright, brilliant wings have sprouted from his back. Feathers range from blue to gold to stark white. His fuzzy chin has turned into a full jaw of facial hair. His eyes, which are set further back in his face, glow gold. His shabby robes have been switched out for a white toga.

The god of the skies. Wind and rain are puppets to him, thunder his great weapon. The host to all other gods, having humbly welcomed them into his own home so they could all look down at humanity together.

Famously, Stratos does not descend to the mortal world. When he does choose to aid his followers, he does it from above, speaking through visions in the clouds.

Grian suspected that this was a god. He never would have guessed Stratos until the storm. How is Grian supposed to feel? Angry that Stratos tried to wash his home away? Or grateful that Stratos is bearing his face to him in the first place?

He doesn’t feel either of those things. He’s stunned.

“This is how you could help,” he mutters. “But are you going to?”

“I was thinking about it,” the god says.

“Is that why you asked me who my patron is? Were you only going to act if I answered you?”

“You know we’re not exactly in the business of helping just about anybody.”

“Why not?”

The god’s eyes narrow. It’s as if he’s never been asked the question. “You’re clever. I already knew that, from the storm. You passed my trial.”

So it was a trial tailored for Grian specifically. What the god wanted, he still doesn’t know. The people are all safe with barely any injuries. While part of the village needs fixing up, for the most part, they’re going to be fine. Is that what the god was looking for? Or was it leadership?

Grian’s biggest question still has not been answered. Why test me?

“Are you going to help us now?” Grian asks.

“You’re a charismatic man.”

“Thank you?”

“I can’t help you. I’m sure you already knew that.”

So the storm was for nothing. Grian is soaked, sinking into the muddy hillside for nothing. He should leave right now. He doesn’t owe the god anything, much less precious time.

“But I can give you what you need to help yourself.”

Now that sounds more promising.

“Counsel with the gods?”

The god thinks about it for a second. “More than just counsel. Close your eyes.”

This could still be a trick. If he falls for it, it could be disastrous. He won’t die – that possibility is kind of off the table right now. But gods sure can do a lot worse than death. This is a bad idea.

He closes his eyes anyway. When the god paces around and touches his wrists from behind, Grian obediently raises his arms. Then, when Stratos touches his back, Grian does not flinch.

The spot where Stratos touched – the center of his upper back – begins to tingle with a sort of pulsating heat. The god steps back and Grian has to brace himself as his back suddenly gains a lot more weight.

Within the blink of an eye, the weight has grown. Grian’s eyes flutter open to see his own outstretched hands, and at the very edges of his vision, pale beige feathers.

He goes to move the wings, and they respond to his command, furling and unfurling with ease.

It’s like walking down the street. That’s how natural it feels to move the massive wings now attached to his back.

“You want to counsel with the gods? Now you can come right to us.”

Grian turns around, and the god is already carrying himself away. Now Grian is more than capable of lifting up and joining him.

Gold. Gold, as far as the eye can see, like the buildings themselves are made of sunlight. Everything is grand. It’s dizzying. Where the village below is dense, this realm is sweeping. It seems to go on forever.

He waves his hands wildly as the floor comes into view. It’s not much of a floor. It looks like he’ll fall right through the fluffy clouds. Well, if he falls through then he’ll have wings with which to catch himself. He gathers up his courage and sets himself safely down on the clouds.

Immediately the white clouds are stained brown. Belatedly, Grian realizes that he shouldn’t have walked into the realm of the gods with muddy shoes on.

The air is thinner up here. Or maybe Grian is just out of breath. What little air the skies do carry is cool and clear, cleansing his lungs.

He takes a deep breath in only to choke on it when he hears a loud voice from behind.

“Who are you?”

Grian whips around to see the god of love, life, and perseverance glaring at him with suspicion.

The god waits for an answer. His eyes are just as warm and green as Grian imagined. The blue hair, the same as the color of the sky, is a small shock. The true surprise is how his chest moves up and down as if he were taking in air. Even as he stands still, he is no statue. He is well and truly alive.

Both Stratos and the god of life, Scott, have been shocking. Stratos appeared as any other mortal. While Scott’s making no effort to hide his stunning multicolor wings, there’s something so familiar about him. Almost like he’s human.

Grian doesn’t even realize that he hasn’t answered Scott’s question until it’s asked again. This time, Grian gets his wits about him and bows, bending at the hip.

“I am Grian, of the Hermit village.”

“So you are mortal.”

Something about Scott’s tone, while ostensibly polite, makes his stomach churn. “I am. Stratos brought me here to request counsel.”

“Stratos?”

Grian raises himself, caught off guard. “I know that might be odd to hear but yes–”

“Stratos never assists mortals.” Scott’s eyes narrow.

Grian thinks about it for a moment. “I impressed him.”

Scott paces forward and right on past him, only to run a hand along his wing. A shiver runs through the wing and down Grian’s spine. Grian pulls away, and it seems Scott’s gotten what he wanted. His eyes are wide – he’s starting to believe.

“That’s what that racket was last night.”

Grian grimaces. “It was a little more than a racket to me.”

Scott carries on, forcing Grian to turn to see where he’s headed towards. The god walks away without a word. Did Grian say something to anger him? Is he coming off as rude?

Then Scott turns around and says, “Come on. You’re seeking counsel?”

“Yes.” Grian comes closer.

“Come. I’ll gather who I can. Your issue must be important… is it about the deaths?”

Grian nods. Scott sighs, and it’s a little bit harder for Grian himself to breathe.

“Lack of deaths, yes.”

“... Good luck.”

Grian decides he’d rather not press Scott right now. So he follows the god across the mystical landscape, staring at the soft indents Scott leaves behind in the clouds with each step.

The gargantuan structure they approach is circular, not all that different in shape from the village’s central pavilion. Grian spots one of the ornate thrones. Desire and curiosity grow: what would it be like to lower himself onto that throne?

Scott leads him underneath the billowing arches. Beyond thick marble pillars, two figures come into view. A man and a woman, both strong in stance, with the woman possessing a much taller stature than the man. They’re both beautiful in their own sort of right. The woman with the godly elegance one would expect, and the man with wisdom etched into his brow. A dog sits obediently at the woman’s feet, confirming her identity.

Pearl, goddess of the crops, architecture, and animal companions. Impulse, god of industry and economy.

If Grian were to swear patronage to a god, he has long known that it would be Impulse or Pearl. Without Impulse, there would be no civilization as they know it. The village would not exist. Without Pearl, they would be spending their days hunting, with no companionships and no time for rest. Life would not be worth living.

Impulse and Pearl must be lovely. If they aren’t, then Grian will be very disappointed. Surprised? Maybe not. He does not trust the gods – it’s why he stays independent to this day.

“You’re the mortal,” Pearl breathes. The words are carried across the pavilion by the wind, quiet by the time they reach Grian’s ears.

“We’ve heard rumors about you,” says Impulse.

Grian clears his throat. “All good I hope? I’m sorry to invade your realm.”

“We’re not upset, we’re just curious.” Pearl comes forward, the dog at her heels. The closer she comes the further Grian’s chin turns up. The gods are tall, but the goddess is on another level.

“Curious?”

As if she might care, Pearl asks, “What’s happening down there?”

“I was kind of hoping you would tell me.”

All three gods exchange a worried glance. Pearl just shakes her head. Impulse leans in to say to Pearl and Scott, “Go get the others. I think we’re about to hear a story we might want to know about.”

Soon, Grian is standing in the center of the pavilion, staring out at the gods. He is receiving not just the counsel he requested, but more than he ever expected. Only three of the twelve seats remain empty. Stratos is there, possessing quite the fancy throne. This is his home of course. He’s only second to Ren, patron of kings. To Ren’s right is Martyn, god of the sea, loyalty, and listening. To his right is Tango, god of predators, beasts, and fire. More gods are in attendance, including those he met earlier.

Grian takes a moment to process the situation he is in. He tries to, only to find that there’s nothing to process. He’s surrounded by the gods to give his plea. There’s nothing more to it than that.

Is he going to freeze up? Is he going to lose his wits? At some point, the grandeur of his situation must get to him.

To Grian’s own surprise, he opens his mouth and calmly explains, “I came to request information, as that is all I believe you can give me. After all, I do not see Scar and Solidarity.”

“They are not welcome here,” Stratos says.

Then Ren rebuts, “They are. They choose not to come.”

“This is my realm, I choose who enters.”

So there is dissent amongst the gods. It would explain some of the horrors Grian has seen down in the mortal realm.

Then Tango buts in, “You said you wanted information? I’m afraid we don’t have that, pal.”

“If anything, we want to know what you know,” says Martyn.

Grian figured as much, but that does make him curious. “Can you not see below what is happening? I don’t think I need to explain what you’ve seen.”

“How long has this been going on?” Impulse asks.

“Five years, coming up on it.”

“Five years is the blink of an eye to us,” Impulse says. “We’ve seen what’s been going on down below, but we haven’t really come to terms with it. Honestly, we’re baffled.”

So Grian has something valuable to the gods – perspective.

“I want help. Whatever you can give me.”

The gods look at each other. A nod is passed around the circle. Ren says, “You’re here already. We’ll help you all we can.

“Then I’ll tell you, after five years, our views of death have completely changed. As a society, we no longer fear it. We crave it.”

The god of life, Scott, asks, “Why?”

“Suffering has not ended.”

“You still get sick? You still injure yourselves? You still birth too many?”

To each of Scott’s questions, Grian solemnly nods his head.

“I’m sorry, this is a lot for me to hear,” says the god. “I’ve never really been told that what I offer isn’t good enough.”

“That isn’t what I mean, I’m sorry–”

“Don’t apologize. I’m not insulted.” Scott leans down, running his fingers across his chin, face full of pure confusion. “I’ll tell you, I… I have a complicated relationship with the gods of death.”

“I can imagine.”

“It’s not that I hate them. In some ways they’re actually quite lovely, but well… I don’t know how to put this.”

Grian can extrapolate.

“They’re tricksters, aren’t they?”

Scott goes still. The other gods begin to mutter, taken aback.

Grian continues. “And they’re prideful too? Gods of death. They’ve demonstrated many ways to cut a life short – they’re endlessly creative. And from these last five years, I see that Solidarity’s been incredibly active. The lead up to death. Scar’s gotten time off as the ruler of the afterlife. I can imagine them down there, bored of their usual shenanigans, looking up at my village and wondering, how can I make this more interesting?”

“You do not like them,” Scott says.

“Who does?”

“You were just saying how your village wished for death.”

“That doesn’t mean I respect death.”

A round of mutters carries itself through the circle. One of note that Grian overhears is “He’s right.”

“What point are you making?” Scott asks.

“I was just trying to help you describe them.”

“I wasn’t lying when I said they were nice people,” Scott says. “You’re educated on us, obviously. You know that Solidarity doesn’t just represent the moments before death – he also stands for hope and memory. Then Scar, he’s not just the afterlife, he’s also rest, dreams, and magic.”

“Where does trickery play into the mix?” Grian asks. “And bloodlust?”

Scott looks so confused. “Neither of them stand for those.”

Grian could have sworn that those concepts were under the domain of death. He’s been educated, he knows the gods. He can’t be mistaken, can he?

“Forget about it,” Grian eventually says.

“Scott, there has to be something you can do to help his situation. You’re basically Solidarity and Scar’s opposite,” says Stratos.

“There is. I can try to work on the sickness, and give those children a better chance at life. It’s not all up to me though.”

Stratos’ brows furrow. “Come on, don’t sell yourself short. I bet you can do much more than that.”

“You’re overestimating me.”

“What if we just brought Solidarity and Scar up to counsel with us?”

All eyes turn to Martyn, casually draped across his ivory throne.

“What? Why are you looking at me that way?”

“They’re not coming here,” Stratos says.

“You’re talking about them like they’re some of Tango’s beasts,” Martyn retorts.

Tango gasps. “Don’t compare them to my beasts, that’s insulting! My beasts are much better.”

“I think it’s a good idea,” Scott says. “I don’t know if they would accept the invitation.”

“They didn’t answer my prayers,” Grian says. Not to mention, they might not be too happy to see him. Grian didn’t exactly end things on the best of terms. However, that just feeds into his curiosity. What would it be like to confront a pair of gods, face to face?

“They might respond better to us. It’s worth a shot,” says Pearl.

“A little bit risky, but I agree, we can try it,” Impulse adds.

“So Martyn, Scott, Pearl, and Impulse wish to invite the gods of death up to our realm,” Ren says. “Stratos and I are hesitant. What about everyone else?”

When all the votes are counted, it comes out to a tie. Despite the odd number, one god just couldn’t choose.

“I reckon it comes down to me,” Grian says.

“That’s awfully prideful,” says Martyn.

“What, for me to think I have a choice?” Grian asks.

The gods around him nod.

It might be smarter to take what Scott’s promised him and leave. Scott’s guidance will make a large difference. If they can improve the quality of life for the citizens of the village the situation will not be as dire. However, that safety cannot last. They need more than just a bandage fix. The village needs an elixir.

“Call them up,” Grian says.

Despite the humming and hawing, it is ultimately decided in Grian’s favor. The message is sent in the form of a lightning strike. Grian watches as it traverses from the heavens down to the plains below. It makes contact with the spire of the death gods’ temple. The message is sent. Now all they can do is wait.

It gives Grian time to fly back home and take a much-needed bath in the river.

Solidarity and Scar are rather animated, considering they’re gods of the dead.

Solidarity, or “Jimmy” as he insists on being called by his fellow gods, does not stop shifting from foot to foot. He says a million words per minute and his energy is boundless. While Scar is different, he is still very much a surprise. He’s put together, looking noble as a ruler should. But he talks like a con man, schmoozing with all the other gods and flashing their dazzling smiles.

Grian observes all of this from afar. Jimmy and Scar have just arrived. They’re standing on the outskirts of the realm. It looks like they’re walking on air.

Then Scar’s eyes land on him, and there’s a shift. It can’t have been noticeable to anybody but Grian. Scar is definitely curious. He begins breaking through the crowd, coming to meet him.

What is different about him? For the love of the village, Grian cannot figure out what changed. He knows that something in the god’s facade has shifted but he does not know what face this is now, and whether he should be worried.

“Wow I really, really have not been here in a long time. I didn’t know there was a new god around these parts!”

“That’s not a new god, Scar,” Stratos interrupts.

“Oh, but he’s got the wings! He’s got the toga! Look at him.”

Grian was gifted a toga by Pearl after he complimented hers. This one is a deep red with gold embroidery. He quite likes it, especially against the pale color of his wings.

Grian isn’t quite sure if this is the right move, but he says, “You don’t recognize me?”

Scar’s brows furrow. “Recognize you? Why would I recognize you?”

Grian folds his wings back behind him. He shifts into the posture that he keeps back on earth, without the wings and without the uneasy ground that is the clouds. Then he shifts his face into the expression that he’s pretty sure he made when he visited Scar’s temple. The scrunched-up brow and nose bridge.

Scar’s jaw drops. “Oh my me, it’s you! Wow, I didn’t recognize you.”

“I could tell.”

“Scar, what are you on about?” Jimmy comes storming over like he’s on a mission – then his eyes land on Grian. “Oh.”

“I don’t know if I need to introduce myself, but we did get off on the wrong foot the last time we… spoke.” Grian is shot a look from Scott. He didn’t tell Scott exactly what he said to the gods. Grian bows, although it’s only his head this time. “I’m Grian, and I represent my village. I trust you already know what’s wrong.”

“Yes, we are aware,” says Jimmy.

“Everybody here has already agreed to help me,” Grian says. “But I haven’t heard from you two.”

The gods of death share a glance.

“We would love to help you,” Jimmy says.

“But we’ve had a long journey all the way up from the afterlife. I’m exhausted, what about you, Jim?”

“Oh, I need my rest, yes sir.”

“Joel, will you kindly show us where we can stay? Grian, we’ll give you all the help you need later on.”

The gods look just as baffled as Grian is. Stratos in particular is taken aback, but after a look shot from Ren, he does take the pair off a side road towards a small home. What was supposed to be a quick meeting is becoming a multi-day endeavor.

“Do you think you’d like a place to stay as well?” Pearl asks.

Grian can’t remember the last time he got proper rest. “Yes, please.”

Like all places in the home of the gods, the quarters that Grian is led to are anything but small. The inside of the building is empty, but that is changed with a flick of Pearl’s hand. The bed she conjures reflects her artistry and creativity. Grian is honored to rest on it.

He lays down on his front, giving his wings room to spread out. They rest over his arms like a blanket, ensuring he will get a good night’s rest.

Grian’s not quite sure when he slipped into his slumber but he does now get the sense that he’s dreaming.

The world around him is hazy. He could be awake but this is a different sort of ethereal. He is not just light, he is weightless. For what seems like hours on end, Grian explores his dreamscape, traversing hills and mountains and oceans and rivers.

He barely notices the figure in front of him. Grian nearly runs on through him.

But the figure stops him with a calm hand. A gust of wind blows the figure’s shawl away from his face, revealing a familiar visage.

It’s Grian himself. Exactly as he appears in pools of water and the backs of silver plates. Except this time, a crown of twisted thorns rests atop his head.

Oh, and are Grian’s eyes really that gold?

Grian does not have time to wonder, because the wool is literally pulled in front of his eyes.

He bats away the offending fabric and the scene has changed. Falling leaves whisk around him in a flurry of wind. When they settle down a new wonder takes place. The sky starts shifting between shades of green and purple and practically every color but blue. It’s dazzling but slightly too dazzling because suddenly Grian is on the edge of a cliff. He didn’t even notice the ground beneath him fall away.

A voice from behind whispers, “Surprise.”

And Grian falls.

And Grian wakes, heart pounding, sweat dripping from his brow.

How long does he sit there, hand over his heart, trying to take back control of his breath? A nightmare has never gotten to Grian like this before. Why he would have such a terrible one in this wondrous place is a mystery. It all went downhill so quickly. It still feels like he’s falling.

Worse yet is the awful sense that he’s been trapped and outplayed. Such pretty colors were dancing across his mind that he forgot to watch his back. One of Grian’s best qualities is his sensibility. That was ripped away from him with a clever trick.

It gets him thinking about something Scott said the other day. That the gods of death are not involved in trickery.

It just doesn’t make sense. Trickery has to be within their skill set. They take so many lives in such clever ways.

Maybe this dream was one of frustration. If he was a god of death, that was how he would kill. He would make it beautiful then he would turn it into a mockery. This dream was a vent of what he expected and never received.

Instead what he saw when the two gods of death arrived was… more confusing if anything.

That confusion only grows when the day comes. Well, it’s not exactly day – it’s always sunny here in the heavens. But Grian knows that he isn’t going to get any more rest, so he goes to find the gods. The first one he sees just so happens to be Scar.

The god freezes up when Grian approaches. How gods rest, Grian isn’t exactly sure. The god of rest himself should know a thing or two about it. However, even from far away, Grian can tell that the god’s appearance is dull. He does not seem obviously worried in the way that a human would. But Grian gets the sense that something is wrong from the god’s coloration and his posture.

That suspicion only grows when Scar darts away, black wings fluttering. This is just the start of the day to come.

Soon all the gods are gathered in the central pavilion. Once again, Grian finds himself in the middle. Scar and Jimmy have taken their seats side by side, completing the circle. Jimmy happily chats with his neighbor, Tango.

This is part of what Grian doesn’t get. The demeanor of the gods of death does not make sense. They’re both so social, and neither of them seems to acknowledge that the reason they’re here is because they’ve done something wrong. Instead, they happily chat and schmooze with the rest of the gods. Is this what Scott meant, when he said that the gods of death weren’t all that bad?

Brooding moodiness would have made more sense. There is nothing Grian hates more than confusion. It leads to the frustrating itch of curiosity.

Grian clears his throat. They’re all waiting for him. It’s a familiar feeling, he’s used to taking the lead. He didn’t think he would have this much freedom with the gods. He has to say, he’s enjoying it.

“My people aren’t dying, and that’s a problem. One that you should be able to solve.”

Scar and Jimmy exchange a glance. So many words are communicated through one look, and Grian cannot describe how frustrating it is to not understand.

“I um– I think we owe you an apology,” Jimmy ends up saying.

“An apology?”

“Yes. We shouldn’t have completely ignored you when you prayed for us. But, I will tell you why we ignored you…”

A long silence ensues.

“It wasn’t any fault of your own,” Scar buts in.

“I thought you would have demanded an apology from me, ” Grian says.

Scar waves it off. “Ah don’t worry about it, don’t worry about it! We all say things when we’re frustrated.”

“Very frustrated,” Jimmy adds.

“And I’ll be honest Grian, we’re frustrated too.” With that, Scar stands, taking one step forward – and then he stops. For a second he stands there, mouth open as if he’s speaking, but no words come out. Then he resumes talking, but Grian doesn’t hear what he says because he’s trying to piece something together.

“– I hate to admit this, but the truth is, we don’t know.”

With that Scar backs up right into the chair. That’s it, Grian’s right. Scar is exhausted. That was the emotion Grian detected earlier. He mistook it for worry, although there definitely could have been some anxiety mixed in there. It’s now clear from the way Scar slumps in his chair and the far-off look in his eyes that he is barely in his own body.

What can fatigue a god to this extent?

Some of the other gods begin to whisper – that’s their favorite thing to do. They’ll lean over to their buddy next to them as if their words will stay between them.

This seems to worry Jimmy. “Well– yeah, we can tell you, we can promise you that this isn’t our fault.”

“I… find that a little hard to believe,” Grian says.

“I know, I know, it’s just– we kind of aren’t sure exactly why this is happening.”

“You’re kidding,” Grian mutters under his breath.

“Since we don’t know, we can’t fix anything, I hope you can understand.”

It’s hard to believe until Grian takes a good long look at the two death gods. It’s like Jimmy has drained Scar of all of his energy. Now Jimmy is restless and anxious while Scar seems to be barely holding it together.

Grian will figure out why Scar is exhausted. He will learn what Jimmy isn’t telling him. The two of them are hiding something.

However, that doesn’t happen throughout the ensuing conversation. Jimmy decides to pull Scott into this, so suddenly there’s a lot of pointing fingers and quite frankly, behavior that Grian wouldn’t be surprised to see from the children of the village when they try to come to a consensus on what game they should play.

The meeting does not prove useful. The gods of death make noises about leaving soon, saying there’s nothing they can do to help, but the rest of the gods have Grian’s back. They’re making sure that Jimmy and Scar won’t go anywhere. Not until Grian has his answers.

With it being clear that Grian will get no direct answers from the gods of death, he has to turn to other measures to seek clues. He spends a while pondering what exactly could be fruitful. Eventually, he decides to fall back on his instincts as a cartographer. He explores the land he’s been given.

The realm of the gods is exhausting on foot, but Grian is excited to test out these wings of his. He soars through the streets, weaving through buildings. He learns how to accelerate and how to slow down with minimal accidents. All the while, he takes his time to explore.

This being Stratos’ home, his aesthetic choices are everywhere. Pearl’s influences are definitely visible. Cleo, the goddess of statue work, has clearly put in an effort. The combination results in an abundance of art halls. There are portraits, murals, wood carvings, and sculptures. Grian spends quite a while near a fountain, trying to decipher the images etched into the marble at the bottom.

A frequent image is that of all the gods lined in a row. Ren will almost always be in the center, and it will unfurl in the same order as everyone sat when they were in the pavilion. As Grian spots more variations of this image, he keeps track of how many gods appear in the carving or mural.

There should be eleven. Ren, Martyn, Stratos, Impulse, Pearl, Tango, Scott, Cleo, and Gem. Then, of course, Scar and Jimmy.

But in just over half of the images, Grian swears he sees twelve.

After seeing nearly all that there is to see, Grian goes back to recount. One of the prints that only had eleven figures now has twelve. The paint is faded, so it’s hard to make out the defining features of each god. Yet there is one figure that still seems to stand out for its unique coloring.

Going back to one of the grander halls, he finds some of the beautiful stonework he admired earlier. The statues caught his eye because there were six statues on one side of the hall and five on the other side.

Now, it’s evenly six and six.

He paces to the back of one row. Fourth in line is Solidarity, with his magnificent wings. Last is Scar, with his sweeping robes. But between them?

Grian blinks, and the statue is gone.

Forward, next to Jimmy, he reaches out, expecting to feel stone beneath his fingertips. Where his fingers should curl around the god’s wing, they close on nothing. It’s an illusion.

Grian has caught the god of magic’s trickery.

Grian doesn’t mean to sneak up on Scar and Jimmy. It just so happens that his footsteps are muffled against the clouds and he doesn’t loudly announce his presence as he approaches their residence. However, when he does hear voices carried over the wind from the open windows of Scar and Jimmy’s residence, Grian does take the opportunity he was given. He hides behind a column of a nearby building and listens.

“Keep me awake Jim, that’s all you have to do, keep me awake.”

“It’s never this difficult when I do it.”

“You try it with all of them around, questioning your every move. It takes concentration! Fortitude! It’s right at the top of their minds.”

“Just keep it up a little longer,” Solidarity says.

“I’m trying, I’m really trying.”

“How much longer do you think you can last for?”

“If I put my all into it?”

“Yes.”

“Long enough to get this all sorted out, if we do it quickly.”

“Then let’s get this all wrapped up. Let’s head out there, and give them what they want so we can leave.”

“But Jim, we don’t have what they want.”

“Let’s just pretend we do, alright?

Grian tenses when their voices disappear. They’ll appear around the corner any moment now. So Grian takes the initiative, stepping out into the street.

He steps right in front of Scar, who jumps back like he’s been burned.

“Grian!” the god exclaims, clutching his chest. “Scared me there, wow-ee. You can’t just sneak up on a god like that, it isn’t fair–”

“I know who you’re hiding.”

Color drains out of Scar’s face. Jimmy catches up to Scar, only to mutter an expletive under his breath.

Scar frantically tries to wave Grian off. “Wait wait wait, you’re jumping to conclusions here–”

“There was a third god of death, wasn’t there?”

The silence is answer enough.

“You’re certainly hiding a secret, from what I overheard. Scar, you haven’t been doing a great job maintaining your magic. The other gods have completely forgotten. I’ve seen the statues and the tapestries. There are meant to be twelve gods here, not just eleven.”

“My magic? What, I think you’re confused–”

“You overheard us?” Jimmy asks. Scar whips around, about to talk to his fellow god very sternly, but Grian cuts in.

“The cycle is meant to work in three, isn’t it? Life, death, and the afterlife? Jimmy, you take the reins from Scott, bringing a person closer to death. Scar, you take care of them after they’re gone. But what about death itself?

“There’s a third god of death. It completes the set of twelve. It explains what you’re doing with your magic – you’re erasing the memory of this third god. The only question is, what happened to him?”

“What happened to him?” Scar asks.

“Yes. That is what I want to know.”

“Buddy, look down at yourself.”

Grian spends just a moment confused, running the words over in his head to try and decipher them.

Then it all comes back to him in an explosive flash of memory.

It started like this:

Their realm was beautiful. That was undeniable; they lived under roofs of volcanic glass, which refracted light into a thousand little stars. It not only mimicked living up on the surface, but it also beat it. This was all due to Scar’s diligence in building them a home that could last forever.

Which was of course overseen by Grian.

In this particular memory, Grian was sitting on his throne, with the two other gods standing before him. Grian’s crown of twisted thorns sat snugly on his head. He did not know why Scar and Jimmy were approaching him, and he did not particularly care. It was most likely another one of their hackneyed schemes to mess with the gods above.

Grian used to rule the underground. His power was immense and unrivaled. As the god of mischief, bloodlust, and the act of death itself, nobody could stop him. Nobody else had the power to kill.

Grian made it known, even to his fellow gods. He loved Jimmy and Scar. It is now impossible to describe that love because it was all-consuming. Grian was made of love. Whatever the two wanted, they would get. Whether that be attention, care, or even admiration. The only thing Grian wouldn’t do was lie to them.

So the two of them understood that Grian was in charge. There were no questions of who decided which wars would be waged and which diseases would ravish the earth. Grian ruled fairly and well. There was no reason to oust him.

No reason other than pride. Pride was the one thing Grian did not search for in his two companions. So he had no idea that their pride was beginning to overtake them.

Not until they reached out, wrapped their hands around Grian’s wrists, and yanked him to his knees on the obsidian floor.

“What are you doing?” Grian asked, baffled. He was not panicked yet, sure that this was part of a prank. So funny of them, to believe they could trick the god of mischief.

Then they bound his hands with iron shackles, glowing with the power of magic. Iron alone was weak. Grian could break free easily. However, the magic was much trickier.

“This is a revolt,” Jimmy said.

“A revolt? What are you doing, overthrowing me?”

“Your reign is over.” Scar was wearing a manic grin. “It’s time for us to take charge.”

“Very funny, very funny–”

“I wouldn’t be laughing if I were you.”

Jimmy’s words got Grian to freeze. He was starting to doubt this was a prank. It felt so unbelievable. His closest friends were rallying against him. This was unlike any prank the two had pulled on him before. They never got this far.

Never had they possessed that look in their eyes. Bloodlust like that was something Grian controlled. Suddenly, it was in their hands.

That was the moment fear struck.

“You can’t– you can’t kill me,” Grian said. “You cannot kill the gods. That is your one rule, Jimmy.”

“My one rule? There was more than one rule! You looked over my every move, looming, always watching. Not anymore. No more rules!”

They continued to bind him. He tried to fight but exhaustion quickly grew. Grian was no fool, he knew that he could not break his way out. Scar’s magic was too strong, and it was even longer with stolen power.

So Grian attempted to fight with reason. “You cannot kill me. It is quite literally impossible for anybody to kill but me.”

“We’re not going to kill you,” Scar said.

“Then what do you plan? To lock me up? I can’t do my job without a view of the mortal world.” Regularly, Grian would emerge from the underground castle to walk up through the caves of the depths. Through these caves he was able to reach every habitat on earth, to reap who he needed to.

“You’re going to get a great view,” said Jimmy.

The realization dawned on him. He knew what they were going to do.

Men have ascended to godhood before. Jimmy and Scar themselves once roamed the earth as mortals. It was due to their quick wit, humor, and penchant for destruction that Grian brought them down here to assist.

Those who were given were the only ones capable of taking. A god such as Stratos was unable to demote Grian, although he surely would love to. But Jimmy and Scar could rip away from him what he’d given to them.

They were going to make him human.

And here he is now, with a beating heart, and a millennia’s worth of memories.

“Scar.” He turns slowly, shifting his gaze from one fool to another. “Jimmy.”

Jimmy trembles while Scar goes, “Yes, Grian?”

“What the hell have you done?”

Jimmy’s the one who breaks. He rushes forward and pleads, “Please Grian, you can take it all back. We’re sorry. We did not understand all that you handle.”

“You didn’t even take my power when you took my godhood. That’s why people aren’t dying, isn’t it? Neither of you are capable of killing?”

“The world is a mess, and it’s all our fault,” Jimmy says.

“We’ll give it back to you. You’ll become a god again,” says Scar.

“You two don’t have the power to do that.”

“The other gods will give it back. We’ll relinquish the kingdom of the underground to you, we’re so sorry.”

Impulse, Pearl, and even Scott would all gladly give his godhood back to him. Hell, Joel has gotten him halfway there. That’s not what Grian is concerned with. He can’t even think of that right now.

All he can do is stare at his two old friends, wondering how they could have done this to them.

“No,” Grian mutters.

“No?”

“No, we’re not stopping there, that’s not the end of this. You don’t get to walk away like you did nothing.”

Scar begins to show his panic. “Wait, G–”

“Neither of you are getting out of this. I’m taking you to trial.”

There are, indeed, twelve thrones in the center pavilion, just as Grian observed at first. His is made of dark wood, back bracketed by twisting spires of wood. It matches his crown perfectly, at least from what he remembers. Grian eases himself down. He runs his fingers along the armrests and shifts around.

It doesn’t suit him as perfectly as it does in his memory. A little too large and a little too firm. The back of the chair digs into his wings.

He doesn’t let his discomfort show. He stares ahead as Scar and Jimmy are prodded into the center of the circle by a very irate Stratos. Or Joel, as he prefers to be called. There’s a sense of coming full circle, calling him Joel. To call him by his godly name felt awfully formal.

Scar sends him a look reminiscent of a pleading cat. Grian purposefully glances away.

Ren calls him forward. “Grian, would you like to tell us what you’ve learned?”

Grian stands, and recounts the story, just as he remembers it. Since Scar has dropped his illusions, the rest of the gods now remember who Grian was before. It must feel unnerving to them, to see him like this, without his godly glow.

“Do you know their motive?” Ren asks at the end of the story.

“Hubris,” Grian answers. The two other gods of death do not seem to like that answer. “What? It’s the truth, isn’t it?”

“You were mistreating us.” From Scar’s tone, it’s hard to tell whether he’s genuine or pulling yet another trick. Does Scar truly believe he’s been mistreated?

“Depraving us of our status!” cries Jimmy.

Ah. There’s the truth. Grian spreads out his hands in a sweeping motion toward his example. “You see? Pride and hubris.”

“Do we convict?” Ren asks, lazily flicking a hand toward his fellow gods.

Grian raises his hand high. One by one, the rest of the gods follow suit. Martyn and Impulse have no hesitation. Neither does Gem. Tango seems to deliberate, but he does agree. Contrary to what Grian would have expected, Scott is the last to acquiesce.

Grian exchanges a look with Scott. Through the gaze, they gain an understanding of each other. It’s all coming back to Grian now.

Despite their opposite positions, as the gods of life and death, Grian and Scott have always gotten along. It’s why Scott so easily greeted Grian despite not remembering his existence as a god. Somehow, they’ve always found common ground in their positions. The only true difference in their stances is that Scott views humanity as inherently good, and Grian can’t help but see the bad.

Actually, Grian has some things to say about his old positions, but those musings can wait until another day. Better to focus on the situation in front of him.

“Now, for the punishment…” Ren trails off, lost in thought, until he suddenly sits straight up. “Should it fit the crime?”

Immediately, Scar and Jimmy start pleading their cases. “You don’t know what it was like down there. He’s a control freak,” Jimmy says.

“ You wouldn’t want to have been in our positions, your majesty,” Scar goes.

“We can make him a god again but I don’t think we should be giving him that much power–”

“Look at him!” Scar’s hand shoots out towards Grian. “He’s so smug, do you really want to give him what he wants?”

Smug? Is that how Grian is meant to feel? That’s one word for it.

He wants justice. He doesn’t want this to happen again. Grian wants his power back, and he wants these two to understand the gravity of what they did.

Is it possible they already do?

“All in favor, raise your hands once more,” says Ren.

A couple of hands rise quicker. There’s more hesitance this time – but the vote does not have to be unanimous. Its majority wins. This time, Grian is not the tying vote. Ultimately his vote does not matter. But he does find himself raising his hand.

He cannot decipher the look Scott is giving him. Is it guilt? Because Scott’s hands are folded in his lap.

“It is settled. Scar and Solidarity will be stripped of their powers and titles, destined to walk the earth as humans. Grian, it is your choice whether to strip them of immortality.”

That’s an easy decision. “No. They can live on.”

Ren nods. “Alright. We shall return them to earth, and Grian, you shall take on all duties of death and departure.”

Grian expects betrayal. Scar and Jimmy should be furious with him. That’s how Grian felt as they drained him of his godhood and his memories.

Instead, Scar looks disappointed, and Jimmy is just afraid.

To ease Jimmy’s fear Grian tells both him and Scar, “There’s a beautiful village waiting for you down on earth.

It has the opposite intended effect, and the two ex-gods descend to the Hermit village believing that Grian is happy to see them go.

Grian himself leaves the land of the gods, for it is not his home. Neither is the village, not anymore. He stretches his wings and soars, gaining height before he dives through the night sky. The fatigue that he felt as a mortal has faded away. Now the ease with which he flies makes sense. He’s had practice flying for millennia.

Why do the past five years feel equivalent to the vast swath of time Grian spent as a god? The recency of his mortal years cancels out the sheer amount of time that he’s existed as a god. His perception probably plays into it. As a god, days pass so quickly, that it’s like a mortal counting their age in minutes. Years are like days and centuries are when things start to feel slower to him as a god.

As a mortal, it was nice to watch the sunrise each and every day. He’s not going to see the sunrise for a long time unless his fleeting visits to the mortal realm happen to be near the beginning of the day.

As Grian approaches the ground he does not slow. He eyes a cave entrance with sharpened vision. He enters at lightning speed and deftly navigates downwards through the tunnels of the twisting caves. He puts each bend and turn behind him, rapidly descending. The earth around him begins to grow hot. What is this feeling welling up in his chest? Is it nostalgia? Is it remorse?

Grian flits around one last turn, and there it is. The caves have opened up into vast caverns with no end in sight. He keeps himself afloat with his flapping wings. Below him is a sight for sore eyes: home.

Upon first glance, the palace of Death is just as Grian left it. Closer, the decorations are visible. Minor changes have been made. For one, there’s plant life down here. Remnants of his mortal mind are stunned, convinced that nothing organic should grow down here. As a god, he recognizes Scar’s magic.

Grian sets down in the courtyard of his palace. The big brassy doors are right ahead of him. From now, the walk to the throne room is a straight shot.

It’s on the walk to his throne that Grian realizes his perception of time is a choice. In his descent through the caves time whipped by like a comet falling to earth. Now, each step is felt. Grian’s stance now feels a lot more natural. The wings feel like less of a costume and more him. Still, he feels the feathers rustle against each other from the shock of each step. The brass doors come closer and closer.

Undead servants gasp as he walks through the doors. Tired of talking after such exhausting negotiations, Grian uses a power usually reserved for Scar: a mental connection with the dead. He closes his eyes and reaches out to the beings he can sense.

Silently, he communicates all they need to know. That Scar is gone. It’s just Grian for the foreseeable future. Grian forever.

What Grian does not expect is the grief that is carried back over the connection.

There’s confusion, fear, and anger as well. Grief is the overwhelming emotion. It shocks Grian into stopping in his tracks and opening his eyes. He looks around at the servants, cloaked in white veils to hide their ghastly faces.

They scurry away like a gaggle of spooked cats. They’re afraid of him. They miss Scar more than anything. Grief, it’s the most potent emotion. Just from the brief connection, it’s clear that their grief is stronger than anything Grian has felt in the past five years as he watched his village suffer.

Grian thought there was nothing worse than watching those you loved suffer. He neglected to consider the pain of having love ripped away.

Worse still, Grian isn’t sure that all this grief is coming from an outside source. The vast majority is. But he can feel something within himself. An itch he cannot scratch.

Afraid of what this might mean, Grian carries on.

The thrones come into view. Where there used to be three, only one stands. The palace has adjusted itself. It’s larger than Grian’s throne ever was. Just looking at it, it’s too grand for him. He’s barely going to be able to crawl up onto it.

Grian turns back around. He’ll save his homecoming for another day. He must attend to the people above. Some have been suffering for ages, wishing for a dignified death. Death comes in many flavors. In the past, Grian considered the unfair ones to be the most riveting. They were the only deaths that could pull something from his heart.

Now, he feels the distress of that looming fear, and all he wants is to give needy mortals the send-off they deserve.

So that is what Grian does, en masse.

He scours the earth for the weak and suffering. Many elderly, some stricken by sickness, but the vast majority are newly born children. It is not clear: this was a problem across the lands. Not just for his village.

Some, Grian spares, reasoning that they’re well enough to be saved by Scott. He looks into the minds of these people – something he has never done before. He sees, do they want to see the afterlife? Have they accomplished their life goals? Is this what they want?

Death is not a beautiful thing. It does not have to be an end either. Grian knows from the urge that has always existed in his gut to kill that there is no life without death. A balance must be struck.

In the past, he has done so indiscriminately. This go around, he tries to make things just a little bit fairer.

As he does so, something becomes clear: this is exhausting. Sorting through every mortal there is and deciding on their fate. Considering their past, present, and possibilities for a future.

This is not sustainable.

So Grian does what he can and tries not to think about the fact that his kindness will fade over time.

It is too hard to meaningfully count the days down in this realm. As a mortal, it would have been like counting seconds while trying to live those seconds to the fullest. Weeks are strenuous as well. So Grian opts for months. He can cross out the months.

In those months, he spends his free time roaming the gardens. The gardens closest to the palace are where children grow old. The afterlife is the land of children, it’s chock full of them. These children live and grow up not knowing the mortal realm and not thinking anything less of it. They are not disappointed. They don’t know that they’re missing out on anything at all. They must feel immortal.

What’s more distressing is what their surrogate parents say to them. These children are told that there was once a time when a kind man would run through the gardens with them. This man would make them laugh and smile and oh, the parents missed him dearly.

Grian tries running around with the kids. While they whoop and holler in delight, he strikes fear in the hearts of their parents. For their sake, Grian leaves the children be after that.

Scar was the one who was down here the most often. Grian would make semi-frequent trips up to the surface, and Jimmy was the most familiar with the mortal realm. Jimmy walked the earth invisibly, observing the lives he was to put to an end. Jimmy was also the one that most frequently visited the other gods, although that still wasn’t common. Grian makes his rounds through the afterlife and decides his time may be better spent up above.

However, he soon realizes that there is a new problem up above.

Grian doesn’t even have time to investigate. He gets one good glance around his old village. He delves into the hearts and minds of the living and he sees an emptiness. Something is gone. He starts to wonder what it is, and then he feels a tug. It pulls right on his chest, an invisible force dragging him away. Grian turns in circles, wondering where exactly it’s coming from. With every moment, the pull grows stronger, until he cannot fight it anymore.

Grian takes flight and soars towards the pull. It doesn’t take him long to realize that he’s flying to the temple of the gods of death. His temple.

He soars right through the entrance and sets down, still at the outskirts of the temple. He is currently invisible to mortals. Not every god is capable of appearing mortal; Grian finds it incredibly difficult. He was once better at it. That was how he met his two ex-companions. Now, Grian cannot muster up the energy to render himself visible or audible.

At the end of the temple, the dual statues of Scar and Solidarity have been replaced. Grian stands alone, hands open to the ground below.

Two mortal figures have their backs turned to Grian. In familiar voices, they begin to speak.

“They can’t remember anything Grian,” Jimmy whines, stamping a foot into the marble floor. “You got so annoyed at us because we couldn’t do your job. But you can’t do mine!”

“Don’t be so angry towards him, we want him to hear our pleas,” Scar says.

“How am I supposed to not be angry at him?”

“Bow your head, just bow your head.”

“I’m not bowing my head!”

Scar takes matters into his own hands, turning towards the statue. “We brought gifts, Grian! Gifts from the village, all of them for you. We have gold, silver, and maps. We know you like maps.”

Grian does. It’s not even like he’s been expressing to Scar how enamored he is with cartography. Scar must have been paying attention to realize.

“Grian, you didn’t want the people of the village to suffer, did you?” asks Jimmy.

No. That’s the last thing Grian wanted.

“Please. We can barely call what they’re going through living. They don’t have their memories. They also don’t have hope or despair. Well– despair isn’t that great, but it means that they don’t even know what they’re missing out on. They’re walking around like emotionless husks. It’s brutal.”

“They have no ambition either,” says Scar. “No passion, no dreams. They don’t do anything but sleep at night. It’s not even restful. There’s no magic in their lives.”

“All they do is eat and die,” Jimmy says.

“There has to be more to life than that. There can be more to life than that.”

Grian has seen what the residents of the afterlife are like without Scar. He can only imagine how the living are living without Jimmy. Grian has solved one problem and replaced it with another one. His old friends in the village – they don’t have anything, do they?

He can’t see Scar and Jimmy’s faces but he hears their desperation. Grian recalls that desperation in his own voice about twenty-four months ago when he came to this temple himself.

There was a time when Grian did this all on his own.

All three elements of death were once his. He managed trickery and bloodlust. Alongside that, he managed hope and despair. He maintained memory. He made a home for the dead when they came along. He used to do it all. He used to know the names of the dead, and he used to greet them like old friends.

Doing it all was exhausting.

It’s why he took Scar and Jimmy on in the first place. If he didn’t need the help, then it wouldn’t have mattered how witty and kind they were. Whenever possible, Grian will sustain himself. He does not like to need help.

He does not like going back on his decisions either. It feels wrong to let the revolt go unpunished. Has this been punishment enough?

Is he going to be alright, working side by side with Scar and Jimmy again?

It takes courage, but Grian steps forward. Then he takes another step. And another. He carries himself across the temple until he stands directly behind them.

They’re still pleading with the calm facade of Grian’s statue. Grian stares up at that statue, and he sneers.

Then he places one hand on Jimmy’s shoulder and the other on Scar. They both fall silent. Then they both whip around.

They both glow, godhood setting in beneath their skin.

And despite their anger, despite their pride, and despite any water under the bridge between the three of them, both gods launch themselves into Grian’s arms.

“You can give them back their memories,” Grian tells Jimmy. “And Scar, you can greet your friends again. Go run with the children, make them flower crowns.”

“Are they okay? Have they been alright without me?”

Grian nods. “More or less.”

That seems to worry Scar, but Grian cannot just let him run off. He places an arm in front of Scar, preventing him from taking off with his newly regained wings. “We need to talk about what happened.”

“Here?” Jimmy asks.

“We can make it quick.”

“We’re sorry,” Scar says.

“We are so sorry, from the bottom of our hearts,” Jimmy adds.

Grian hesitates. Those five years he spent on Earth were long and brutal. It was not a happy existence, praying to gods who didn’t answer and waiting for things to get better when they never would. That’s nothing compared to the fact that his two closest friends betrayed him. They viewed him as so disposable that they could throw him to the wolves and live without him.

Did he not do the same to them? An eye for an eye? They spent their time on earth experiencing the same. They had to do it while knowing full well what happened to them. Did they spend their days dwelling? Did they have to live knowing that they had caused their own misery?

No. It was Grian who caused them their misery, for not having the foresight necessary to make the best choice. Not only for him, Scar, and Jimmy. The best choice for the world they rule.

“I forgive you. I only hope you can forgive me.”

Scar’s face softens. “Of course we forgive you, G.”

“You do so much more than I ever could have imagined,” Grian says. He still doesn’t know how he forgot just how hellish it was to work alone.

“So do you,” Jimmy says.

It’s all coming back to Grian now. All the memories of the three of them. Frolicking through the gardens like those children. Soaring up in the skies, making fun of Joel and the other gods from a distance. Roaming the earth and scouring it for drama and juicy stories. Coming home at the end of a long century and talking for hours.

They’re going to go home and they’re going to restore order to the cycle of life and death. Grian is going to apologize to Scott because this process has surely been stressful for him. There’s still one more thing that he has to set straight with the two of them, especially Jimmy.

“We must be a little bit more fair than we were before,” Grian says. “If there’s one thing I’ve learned as a mortal, it’s that they deserve better than what we’ve given them.”

He waits, eventually earning a nod from Jimmy. Scar joins in as well.

“I can make sure I know just who I’m sending off to you,” Jimmy says.

Grian smiles. “Thank you.”

They’re going to return to the lives they once lived. This time, they’re going to work with a little more empathy and a little less pride.