The End of the World…
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Marcus Spiske
I will kill you all, rip out your spines and feed them to goats. He bit back a laugh at that thought. The irony of feeding the corpses of gods to goats was not lost on him. But they deserved it – for everything: for tears of blood; for rivers of ash; for the nameless friends and strangers buried.
He looked across the barren wasteland of ash and dust that surrounded him. This place had once been green and teeming with life; he could almost hear the buzz of insects and the tweeting of birds, smell the thick scents of pollen and jungle. His fingers traced the edge of a crater where the tallest tree he had ever seen had once stood. Faint traces of memories whispered to him: a first kiss, a wedding, and a child. Meaningless, now. Ahead was a shallow valley, once a river. He heard the soft echoes of rushing water, saw the silver flashes of fish. A child giggled, playing in the stream.
Then the present returned to him, and there was only silence. The odour of rotting meat filled his nose, and he peered into the dry riverbed to see it full of slender, silver bodies. The child was gone.
A heavy breath rasped from his lips, struggling beneath the dark stains on his soul. He had failed. He was Earth’s Champion, the mortal barrier against the forces of the gods, and he had failed to save them. As he dropped to one knee, his hands grasped the rocky side of the riverbed tightly, crumpling the stone to dust.
Angels had done this, at the behest of the Gods of Destruction. The Angels of Creation were dying, and even with their endless fountain of knowledge, they knew not how to cheat death. Only gods did. In exchange for life, the Angels painted their halos black and waged war on their own children. Amongst the celestial and the mortal, the threat of death remained the truest motivator.
Stars watched from above, peeking from behind the dark clouds that roiled and broiled. One by one, each star winked out of existence. He could almost hear the screams.
They are set to destroy the Universe, he thought. We should never have unleashed the Gods of Destruction. We should have known better. But we were only mortal…
His eyes blazed with crimson fire, burning with the heat of a thousand supernovas. His jaw clenched so hard he was close to tearing a muscle. Long, dark hair cascaded down his back, writhing in the wind like a tangle of rope.
He remembered the words his father had told him, long ago. They echoed through his mind with an aged softness, words never to be forgot but which – inevitably – always were. Until the right moment.
“The Mountain Weathers All Storms.” He took those words and cradled them in his chest. His father was a wise man, and those words marked his final wisdom shared. But can a mortal mountain weather a god’s storm? How can I defeat them? I am a grain of soil waiting to be washed away in Noah’s flood. I may be as strong as a god, but how can a mortal – with a mortal’s knowledge – stand against the grand omniscience of the immortal?
Getting to his feet, he peered at those dark clouds looming above, blotting the sky. He knew they weren’t really clouds, and they weren’t really in the sky: rather, they were the interminable Fog that had come to smother all of space and time, spreading like a sickness from planet to planet, star system to star system, galaxy to galaxy. “The Great Choker,” to the fearful. “The Coming of the Last Dawn,” to the religious. “God’s Blessing,” to those of wry tongue. It was the first marker of the gods’ attack, come after the Angel Legions had rendered a world dead.
But Earth isn’t dead! he thought defiantly, clenching his fist. Earth will not die! But as he looked across the desolation, the dry rocks and dusty soils, his heart sank.
The Fog was here, on Holy Terra. He could see it in the sky, and he could smell its putrescence. That the Fog was here, meant the gods were, too. Angels could forsake the Code of Creation to maim and kill; but they could not destroy.
The earth shook beneath his feet. Thunder drummed in the heavens. Red lightning slashed the sky like a bloody wound. Rain cascaded like an avalanche, hammering at his back.
In the distance, the air span, coiling into a furious rope of hurricane. He could feel the hurricane tugging at his strings, trying to drag him towards it. Its invisible hooks bit at his flesh. He planted his feet, holding firm.
His heart raged with strength enough it almost shattered his bones. He realised the inevitable: I will die. The thought was so simple, yet weighed more than a lifetime. It burdened his shoulders, crushing him, pushing him towards the rocky ground. His feet remained planted, but now they threatened to slip.
He rose high, puffing out his chest. For once, his confidence was not a mask. Anger twisted at his insides. If he was to die today, he would decide the terms. Not some puny god.
Ribbons of yellow light appeared across his body, weaving through dark plains of bare-chested muscle like golden starlight across a night sky. A sizzle of raw energy danced down his spine. He gritted his teeth. If they want me, then they shall have me!
Roaring like a beast awoken, he leapt into the air, letting the hurricane’s strings drag him towards it…
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