It was the beginning of the Fall. The sun still graced the earth with its warmth, and the trees still clung to their clothes of leaves, though now in colors more varied. All this beauty served as a moment of stillness, as lovers promenaded through a park in the heart of the Atheian Empire. What else would lovers do? Was this not life's essence—hand in hand, smiles bright, eyes shining—in a moment so still that even time dared not stir? Where even yesterday brings forth only memories to instill the love of this moment, this present.
Eyes meet, lips soon intertwine. It was the Fall, after all. What else is one to do before the end?
Words, as if prophecy screamed within the mind, foretelling, or recounting that which is to happen, or that which has happened long ago...
"When the Lord came down from the heavens, the men saw that he had wings of gold and a crown of fire."
There was no announcement, no proclamation of war—only a silvered figure descending from the heavens. A creature that held on to a mighty sword, one drenched with the light of justice, and a monstrous visage, some long before equated to beauty and power.
"When the Lord came down from the heavens, with him came the end."
This light of dawn would be one none could forget, for his shadow veiled the earth; his wings spread far, gilded by the blossoming sun behind him. Great, he was, yet his face was veiled by the same shadow, an expression of darkness, reminding all that his judgment, however personal it seemed, was never meant to be. The Lord From Above did what he did only because it had to be done. Know that this was his grace; know that this was his mercy.
And when the great Atheians gathered to welcome him, thinking that he might be there as a herald, as a bringer of good news, or just as someone with whom they could barter and converse, perhaps they might still find an agreement regarding slavery and its place in the Atheian society. But his sword, clad with heavenly fire, cleaved them down. Their blood had once more spoiled this earth below them.
"There was none to face his might."
A great presence fell upon their lands; his might was there for all to see. He traversed from one city to the next, felling great spires and skyscrapers one after another as if they were merely trees in a forest. And now, at last, God bestowed upon the believers his words of judgment: "Flee northward, leave your cities behind, all who remain shall meet their death by the end of the night."
Fools, they were; for some ran, and some remained and fought.
"All that was wicked fell that day, and all that was good persevered."
He met armies of thousands, brave warriors and wizards, noble and plebian, slave and freemen; all of them on the fields of great battles. The Atheian forces clashed against the Lord From Above, only to be repelled, only to be deflected, only to never reach him, only to see their spells and arrows disappear, to vanquish or simply stop and fall to the grass beneath. Nothing reached him. His face was a grotesque mask of an angel fallen from the heavens, where once beauty lay, claiming a portion for itself; only a memory of it remained. What the Atheians now saw was his true form: a monster, a daemon... a dragon. They braced for what was to come as the Lord clasped his sword and unleashed his wrath onto the wicked.
"When he struck, a thousand enemies fell before him."
These fields were no longer for so-called battle, but for slaughter. He did not stop after the first swing, nor the second, nor the hundredth... He only stopped when they were all dead. He only did as he had promised.
"When he struck, a thousand fell again."
The dawn by nature had its red and purple colors to paint the horizon, but by midday, those same colors ruled the skies. If only they had done as the Magi had wished them to do... If only.
"His enemies, those who lacked grace, those who only knew of the ways of magic but not of the ways of the Lord."
Their magics were useless. Their prayers manifested only death. It was too late. If only we had done as the Magi wished... but we had not.
"We could not face his holy might."
So bright are the moments just before death; just how warm were the fires that scorched them? So pure had they become, the finest dust, as if sand sieved thoroughly, a thousand times and a thousand more. These deaths were surely granted by an executioner well-practiced in their craft. Behold, for the Lord From Above was a master at his craft!
"Our unjust rule had come to an end."
Surely, the slaves were emancipated. Surely, the Atheians were free at last; free to make their way northward or find themselves as feed for the forests that would claim this earth as their own.
"So when we fought, we were pushed back and slaughtered; his strength was too great for us to comprehend."
Not just one city, but hundreds. Not just one village, but thousands of them. Not only the slavers, but also the hundreds of millions complicit in the system's injustice. For how long can the few be blamed for crimes that affect all? Should they not have risen against these criminals who trampled upon the freedom of all men? Was their empire, by definition, a belligerent to these same crimes and thus all of its peoples? Surely, all deserving of great punishment.
"We were pushed further and further away from the lands of the angels."
It takes too long to run from the very south all the way to the north. Most who made their way died, be it via reaching one of those fields, be it by mistaking another city as a haven of safety, be it those who were just unlucky, be it just those who chose to remain and fight, when they thought that they had found large enough band of fellow Atheians, to perhaps fights against the Lord From Above. Fools they were, all of them.
"The world had not seen such fury since the dawn of time."
Only rubble remained. Stumps where there once were towers that reached for the heavens. Ash where there once was life. Where perhaps a hundred thousand had survived, up to a billion had died.
"In the end, we surrendered."
Those who remained had gathered far in the north. The setting sun greeted them with yet another hue of red. There was no Atheian who did not tremble with fear as they awaited for it all to come to an end. Perhaps, there was mercy yet. Perhaps, they might build anew. From the ashes of an empire, another might arise, and there would yet be a new dawn for those who had gone against the Heavenly. A brave new world, one without slavery or oppression. One might only hope.
"Placing ourselves under the judgment of the Heavenly. But our sins were too many."
There were those who had not yet reached the north. Trying to make their way, falling to their knees at the sight of Him, as He descended to stand in their way. They prayed, hoping that their submission would be enough; that in this moment they could be judged fairly, for they had tried to make their way up north, where the rest had already gathered. Most never had the chance. Only those who had lived north enough could have ever survived.
"Our empire that was to last an eternity disgraced and burned to ashes; we who dared to look at the heavens and ponder what lies past the clouds and even stars; what there might be in that darkness that so beckons us all."
Tears, they shed. Fear was the only thing real enough as they hoped for mercy, yet. The Lord From Above cared not; his sword clad with the light of justice rose from his hip. His eyes glistened in the last light just before dark. They had been so close to safety. Just a few more miles, and they would have been allowed to live.
At the root of the mountain, thousands witnessed a great light that burst a mile or two south of them. It flashed like that of a second sun, only fading away just a moment later, leaving behind many with a burned spot of black, shaped like a streak of light. They all knew what this had meant. And they worried that this might yet be their end. The Lord From Above... was he not the devil in disguise? Had he not lured them here only to finish what he had started? Why not... extinguish the last fire of the Atheian kind?
"Even our ways, our culture, and our magics were seen as wrong by them. Our sin of slavery; our sin of dominating those less fortunate with our magics, they too were viewed as taboo."
All saw a dot of light that rose from the darkness; like a shooting star, it flew across the sky, swooped down toward the mountains, and landed in front of the crowds that had gathered. Fear took hold... most could see who he was, this figure clad in silver, his visage formed from horror, his face veiled with a darkened expression.
"So their judgment had come. And the Lord, with his glory and wisdom, gave words of condemnation."
- - -
Ignar looked down on them. Pitiful. Afraid. He could scarcely remember what fear even felt like. He towered over them all, like a priest before his flock. Ready to deliver a sermon, one that entailed either salvation... or damnation. He could do either—whatever he wished. Here, only his word mattered. For a moment, he could forget the rest. They were not here, even though they surely looked from above, with curious intent in their eyes; ready to judge and pick apart every word he would bestow, every action would be scrutinized. Their gazes lorded over him as if he were truly nothing more than a chosen sword. Not one of their brethren. Only a tool.
Is this... is this what Kalma had felt at the end? A god passing judgment on the presumed unbelievers. Ignar scanned the puny Atheians beneath him. Some of them shook visibly. Many averted their gazes, not daring to look at him, and some were so afraid that they held their eyes tightly shut, for even his shadow was far too great for them to behold.
He could strike them all down. He could do it here and now. A part of him wanted to.
But there was something... wrong here. He knew it. The memory stirred. Was it fear? Regret? He wasn't so sure. But he had done something like this before... When?
An image of a fallen building flashed before his eyes. Men dressed in dark armor roamed the streets with machines in their hands; bullets flew. Thousands died. He descended upon them, and he scorched them. He murdered them. He killed them all, and not just them, but everyone. Buildings around him fell... like trees. A grimace forced itself onto his face, making his expression more grotesque than before. He sensed how some Atheians turned to look away. He could see their fear.
Ignar looked at his own hands. They were like two claws, five fingers on each, with long, thick nails. Somehow, he knew that if he were to strike even the rocks behind him, they would shatter into dust; if he were to strike at the thousands before him, they would be pulverized, and they would become just blood and guts. His brow twitched involuntarily.
Again, he let his gaze go from one face to another. He knew what he had become. He knew what he was now, what he had become to those who knelt before him. Their fear... he had felt it too. Only that it had slipped his mind and not theirs...
Kalma, indeed. That is who he was to them. None of them knew of his father or his deeds. They knew only what Ignar had done to them. He had been their executioner. Reduced their cities to rubble. Forced them to submit.
Ignar exhaled. A long, wavering breath of air escaped his lips. Regret, it was. Long ago, he had become what he feared most: his father. So why not just finish what he started?
Ignar gritted his teeth, sharp they had become long ago as well. More and more, he had begun to look like him. But his mind... surely his mind was different. Surely he could tell right from wrong; good from evil; death from life; war from peace... Surely he remembered what it felt like to love. Surely he could still remember Kalla, his first father; the years that he had spent under his tutelage, in the safety of that forest that no longer existed, within that small cottage, where he had grown from a scared boy into a man with much curiosity within. How Kalla would make him soup by the stove, and how they would argue long into the night about the abstract things in life, like love and evil. And, for a moment even, he could feel his arms sore from the work he did, the many trees that he had felled just because Kalla had thought that it would grow character.
He made up his mind. Even if he had done so many times before, each time in vain, only to do something that he would come to regret. Even then, he would be different. He would not be like Kalma at this moment. He would become not a god who would only bring death and destruction, not just damnation, but also salvation and forgiveness.
"Come forth, the Empress of Atheians, I know you are among them. I have seen your face." Ignar said, placing his gaze a hundred meters into the crowds, where one figure still stood, refusing to kneel before him.
She emerged. The crowds parted, making way for their high queen. As she walked, all eyes were on her; all lights pointed to her. At that moment, she was no longer just an Atheian, but a radiant force, like the sun, drawing all eyes, leading by gravity alone. All else just planets attracted and bound to her, drifting in space, living through her whims.
But if she were their sun, then Ignar was the darkness at the heart of all galaxies; one that would swallow all, and let all else darkness embrace.
She stopped a few steps from Ignar and unveiled herself. She was an Atheian through and through: blue, piercing eyes, smooth, dark-gray skin, and not even a hair to cover her bald head. It made one wonder, what was the evolutionary requirement that decided that their kin no longer needed hair to cover them? She seemed not afraid, as she spoke: "You have called for me, o' Lord From Above." Contempt was clear in her tone, yet she hid it away from her face.
Ignar measured her but a moment longer. "I have bestowed the judgment of the Nine upon you and your kin. Your cities are no more; you people scarcely exist. Kill them all, they had commanded me."
He let a shocked silence remain before continuing, "Yet I see no reason to exterminate you wholly. So I have allowed you to live, you and your kind, for all eternity, if you so manage. But... I cannot allow your existence above ground, for I cannot promise that my brethren find more reasons to punish you."
"For all this... destruction that you have met, is not of my will. I voted against it. I saw it as a waste of time. Yet I was to be the one to enact it. All war goes through me, but... so does peace."
"It is my mandate to demand there to be peace, all else has been allowed to exist; all else that leads from war to peace has happened, thus it is the only option left."
"Peace, o' Empress of Atheians... Peace is mercy, and know that what I am to do is the only form of it that you shall receive unless total annihilation is the one that you most want." All the while, Ignar held his gaze firmly on the Empress, not breaking eye contact, not truly caring if she believed a word he had just uttered. It only mattered that he himself believed his own half-lies.
He went to turn around, but she spoke: "If you were against it, then why did you allow it to happen?" Her voice did not crack or waver, yet there was emotion: sadness that lingered.
Ignar did not back. He did not reply. He had no reply. There was only action left, for no moralization or excuse could redeem or explain what he had done and why. Nothing could excuse the things that he had done. Ignar himself had lowered himself to be what he was now. All he needed to do was to break this strange chain of command that still persisted. Today, it became clear that if he were to lead the Nine, none of this would have ever happened. Not the things in N'Sharan, and never the things that they chose to do to the Atheians...
Magic stirred within. A presence of absolute authority spread and placed itself over the whole continent. The very earth shook at his presence; the last few lights of the sun dared not grace the earth below it. For a moment and only one moment, all of the earth darkened. For if she were the sun, then he was the void. Ignar was oblivion.
The Atheians behind him found themselves on their knees, hugging each other in fear, even the Empress was left to look up at him aghast.
He pointed his power against the rocks that had stood behind them; what they formed together had been the root of the mountain. It split apart, digging itself to make way. Peeling like the skin of a burn victim. Oh, how it blistered as it moved, as the earth shook. Layer after layer of earth, dirt, and soon solid rock. Perhaps hundreds of meters of earth dug from beneath the ground until... darkness. No more earth to dig.
Ignar turned back toward the crowds and declared, his mighty voice echoing and reaching all: "Descent!" The leftover earth began to form itself into a rough staircase that led into the darkness.
"You will not rise again. You will not bask beneath the light." One could not see just how deep it would go, and if there would be ground underneath at all, or if there would be just the darkness and nothing else.
"Descent!" He commanded a final time, "And know that this is all the mercy I can muster to give," he whispered his last words.
Silence claimed the earth. The heavens uttered not a word of protest. The Atheian Empress found not even that; she just stared at him with wide eyes, perhaps finally understanding the true difference between their kind. His power was unimaginable. Impossible, even. But even then, she was the first to find her wits. She was the first to get back from her knees and then declare: "Then descent we shall. Follow me! This is our path to freedom!" she formed a light from her own magic and made her way toward the newly formed staircase. She looked within, guiding her light to enter before herself. Vast darkness met her, yet even then, she was the first to take a step onto that staircase and make her way down, yelling command after command, urging her kind to follow her or be met with doom none of them could ever escape.
For a while, Ignar witnessed as the crowds shuffled toward the staircase. It would take hours. He knew that he should have made the way larger, but such practicality hadn't come to him at the moment. And out of sheer goodwill, he dove headfirst into that darkness, lighting the stairs all the way down, so none would fall to their deaths because of a misstep. And if there was even one Atheian who took that misstep, he would be there to catch them. He would make sure that no other Atheian died on this day. The Magi knew just how many of them had lost their lives.
Useless deaths...
A voice spoke through the vision: "The things around me have just become shades of color."
"Red, the blood that soiled their clothes and the earth below them. Blue, the tears of those now left behind. Gray, the beds of ash in which I had laid them. And green, the canvas which now holds all this horror."
"I buried them, Kanrel. I buried their cities, their temples, their names. I even buried their sins," the voice sighed as the vision broke. Kanrel was no longer suspended in the air as Ignar, who guided Atheians down a massive staircase that went on for hundreds of meters.
"... and yet they still scream."
The Globe formed itself around him, the chains rattled as a tortured god spoke:
"I can hear them, Kanrel…"
"All around me... I can still hear them." Ignar shivered, and Kanrel could only shiver with him.
"Kanrel, can't you hear them?"
Kanrel managed a nod. He did hear them, and not only did he hear them, he could feel them. All around him, they were everywhere. Not just here, within or around this globe; not just within the Veil and around it... but in the Atheian cities; he now knew the cause of the sickening feeling he had sensed growing stronger with each step he had taken closer and closer to the globe, the same feeling of sinking that had forced him to his knees outside the Forum and empty his stomach through visceral reaction as vomit soon burned by A'Trou'n with a simple wave of the hand. Even now, the feeling lingered—always ready to overwhelm him, a constant reminder of the gods' inherent wrongs.
Ignar seemed so different from that moment of judgment. He seemed so weak. A withered thing that could barely breathe. The chains felt so tight around him, and blood trickled down them. He did not seem like the dragon from his own visions, but instead a long tortured prisoner, or perhaps a slave beaten till blood.
"Do you understand now, Kanrel?" the Chained God asked at last as if he had finally made his point, though some of it was clearly missing. There were still things left unexplained.
Kanrel gritted his teeth. He did understand, but he could not claim that he did, lest he knew the rest of it: "Not wholly," he told the truth.
A deep cackling escaped from Ignar, it swelled into a burst of painful laughter that forced more tears to run down his scarred face: "Then know even the rest of it! Behold not only crimes but my shame as well!" he declared through tears and bursts of laughter.
Around them, the globe elongated, then flattened, bursting into black steam that pushed through the very seams of existence. A scream started at the back of his mind; an overwhelming feeling of disgust encroached in deep regret. From the steam, a bubble formed, only to burst into a rain of a thousand billion colors that rained upon the earth, forming the last vision Ignar would show him.
Before him, the staircase remained. From above shone the last light that the Atheians would attest to, yet they weren't allowed to bask in it, for they were only allowed to travel further into the darkness. The last thing they saw of the world above was that light that descended upon a winged creature, clad in silver armor, wielding a sword that had bathed in blood and ash. Even then, a monster could seem so beautiful when witnessed from afar.
This sight of Ignar, the god who showed the Atheians mercy, was soon obscured by the walls of the caverns as they made their way deeper.
"And we were locked deep beneath the earth, far below. Forbidden ever to live our lives under the light. All we had now was the dark."
Ignar's gaze followed the last light—and those who descended with it.