"Before he was mine, he was a boy with a name too soft for thunder."
— The Storm
The weight of breath. The ache of flesh. I used to enjoy having a mortal form. There was something indulgent in it—skin that could blister under the sun, lungs that stuttered after a long run, a mouth that could taste salt and hunger and honey. To walk among them as one of their own was like swimming with prey who never knew you had teeth.
Desire was simpler. Hunger wore a face. And she… she was my siren.
The sea goddess. Daughter of deep trenches and drowned cities. She rose with the tides and sang to sailors in their sleep. I tore the sails she guided home—jealous, possessive. Never regretful.
We were lovers. Not in the way mortals understand it—no exclusive vow, no singular bed. Love on Earth and rivals in the house of worship. Sometimes we tangled like storms colliding. Sometimes we watched the sunrise in silence, wondering if any of them would survive us.
Our love was never tidy. It was made of salt and stormlight, of rivalry and recognition. Platonic, carnal, divine—it shifted as often as the sea itself. She called me cruel. I called her cunning. We both called each other mine when the moment demanded it.
Until the quiet before the world remembered it was supposed to spin.
That's when it began.
The mortals grew greedy. Not all at once, no. At first, their prayers were simple: rain for the fields, wind for their sails, safe passage across waters haunted by what they would not name.
But hunger never stays small. Not in humans. Not in gods.
They asked for more. Louder. Desperate. They carved our names into temples, drowned our likenesses in offerings, and slaughtered beasts beneath moons they thought we hung just for them. They wanted storms on their enemies, sunshine for their harvests, waves that would swallow cities—but never their cities. They wanted control. And worse—intimacy.
The sea goddess gave. Again and again.
She gave them tides that answered blood. Salt that healed. Songs that stitched the veil between life and the drowned. And they kept asking. Never enough.
She began to fade long before she felt it. I watched it happen—her shoulders bowing under worship, her voice thinned to mist. Still beautiful. Still divine. Still her. But dimmer. Like something devoured her in pieces each time she said yes.
I asked her to stop.
She only smiled and said, "They need me."
As if need were sacred. As if their survival meant more than her own. I hated them for it. Not because they broke her—but because she let them. Perhaps, deep down, I hated her for choosing them again and again.
I stayed away after that. Mad at her recklessness. Mad at the way she smiled while unraveling. I let her drown herself in devotion. Let her be loved to death by those who could never comprehend the weight of what she gave. Until one day, I felt the air shift. Not the mortals. Not her.
The world itself.
The sea had slipped from me—untethered. No longer manageable under my storm. Tides crashing without rhythm. Currents spinning without songs. She was gone—swallowed by the very depths she once commanded. No farewell. No final offering. Just a silence too heavy to bear. She gave them everything, and they left her with nothing.
I lashed, howled, burned. Madness in every crest of the storm. Fury in every flash of light. I became the storm itself—without anchor—unrelenting, unforgiving. Rage without direction and intentional in all its turns.
Sky unruled. Divine judgment.
They called it a punishment. Said that the gods had turned against them. But it wasn't. It was grief.
Mine.
It was my scream when I realized I had let her vanish beneath the waves. They begged again to be heard. They built altars and cried in mercy. But I had nothing left to gift. She was all I had. Neither did I want to comply with their deeds, needs, or greed.
I retreated once and for all. To where I am unreachable. Untouchable. Where I could see them afar, whisper beneath, crawl in silence, and still be unmoved. I became wind and fury. I had no body—only storm.
Grief left me hollow. And hollow things become dangerous. I watched the world turn without her. Watched the mortals thrive beneath borrowed blessings, unknowing, ungrateful. They lit their candles. Sang their hymns. Named their children after gods they no longer feared.
They did not mourn her. Did not even notice. That was when the fury found form. Not lightning, nor rain. Disdain.
Let them know what it means to beg and be 'heard.' Let them learn what it costs to worship without reverence. I would not destroy them outright—no, that would be mercy. I would remake their faith, thread by thread, until every whispered prayer turned sour in their mouths. I would prey on their greed. Feed it like lightning feeds the storm—fast, hot, impossible to stop once it begins. And I would offer them what they could not refuse.
Immortality.
Not peace. Not power.
I would promise their wishes and take them with me in return. Raise them into the skies to never fall again. Immortal to all but bound to live far from their kind, families, and loved ones. Just as I do.
They would not see it for what it is. But as a gift, a blessing. They would kneel for it, clawing at the heavens. And I will listen. They will call it salvation. They will not see it for what it is—damnation by desire.
I will whisper into every corner of the Earth. Into every mortal ear. And when their greed reaches me, I will answer. Not as a god. As a reckoning.
For those willing to lose their lives for their greed, I will set an altar. A godspire reaching so far into the eye of the storm that they would have to crawl their way up. Carve out their heart and lay it on the altar of thunder.
Perhaps I will wait. Not for devotion—but for someone to remind me of her. Someone beautiful enough to break. And the one brave enough not to fear me, I will crown. As my disciple. My companion.
The Stormlord.
But bravery is not the same as love. And love is not what I grant.
I will make his wishes true—then bind him to the skies for eternity.