Seven
There wasno telling how quickly or how far Destruction ran, but Creation felt the distance like a physical tear, his chest splintering beneath the strain. After finally being near her, touching her, however brief, his very being went into withdrawal at the loss.
This torture kept him rooted in his spot, feeling the whisper of Destruction’s fading magic taunt him for being unable to follow.
At least, that’s what he told himself. Or rather, desperately tried to make himself believe.
If he was being honest, it was less the agony of her distance and more the truth in her words.
Despite his immense knowledge, Creation had nothing to counter her accusation.
They were meant to be together; he was literallymadeto be with her. But what stake did such a belief have if it had been merely implanted into his mind, body, and soul? What value were his feelings if they’d been fabricated by the gods with a vested interest in their relationship’s success?
The invisible link between Creation and Destruction vibrated with a distant pull, too taut to bear any more force. On reflex, Creation reached for it, with one hand towards the forest as the other dug tense fingers into the meat of his chest—right over his heart, as though to keep every last bit of her in, no matter how small.
Their separation grew too vast. The link snapped. Creation stumbled, his legs suddenly heavy, pulled down by the weight of exhaustion and grief.
Deep,deepinto the very essence of his soul, Creation knew their mateship to be true. He knew. Her magic swirling and molding about his own should have been proof of their destiny.
But questions and doubts still spiraled.
He found his feet dragging him not in the direction of her desperate flee, but elsewhere. To where, exactly, he was unsure. He just knew that if he didn’t start moving, he would become rooted forever to this spot.
Creation headed in the opposite direction, for if she relented to be with him only because he gave chase, then their relationship would be as solid as air.
Minutes, hours, perhaps even days, he wasted wandering the forest. Mortal time meant nothing to him and he rarely bothered to count it.
Every now and then, he would reach for a sapling or a dying patch of greenery, trying to relish in the feel of their rebirth beneath his hand. But after learning his magic’s response to Destruction’s, after knowing what true power had felt like, it barely passed for contentment, let alone distraction.
Eventually, his ears picked up distant sounds of life, the forest parting way for a man-made clearing, a small village opening amidst forged earth. He heard something akin to celebration, chanting voices mixing with cacophonous music and natural clatter. He followed the noise, at the very least curious to find source of such jubilee.
Though mirth was particularly distasteful now, Creation took in the sights and sounds with an appreciative acceptance. Whoever was being celebrated right now must have been important, their presence gathering the entire village’s attention.
Creation shouldn’t have been surprised to find Light there.
Amidst a large crowd of villagers, their clothes timeworn and faces marred with grime, Light stood tall and welcoming, his embodiment amongst the mortals as pristine as his one amongst the gods. However, here, he had donned the illusion of flesh (still glowing).
It made sense that, in his state of turmoil, Creation had inadvertently followed a path directly to one of his creators and the greatest divine of them all. His soul yearned for solace in the hands that made him. Though, whether he was looking for assistance, understanding, or reassurance, he was still unsure.
As Creation approached the mortals, he heard awed chanting, voices young and old proclaiming their fidelity to the one they called “Zeus.” Though he was moderately aware of the various monikers attached to Light, this name was unfamiliar; perhaps Creation had been given less of an unending knowledge and instead more of anapplicableone?
Light finally noticed his presence, his seemingly omnipotent gaze dragging lazily over his form as if he’d been expecting him. Perhaps he’d been aware of Creation’s wandering from the moment he’d left the glade. From the moment he’d—somehow,impossibly—failed at his singular purpose.
Through some inherent understanding, Creation followed the unspoken order to filter through the crowd to Light’s side. The villagers took him in with a similar sense of wonder, hands grasping for but not quite touching his golden tunic.
“Chosen of Zeus,” some whispered.
“Hair white like snow,” others observed. “Are you the God of Winter?” It seemed the mortals possessed a similar innate ability to identify divinities as the divine themselves possessed to recognize each other.
“He is no god,” Light announced. “But he is a well-loved son of mine and the Demigod of Creation.” Light held out a golden hand, motioning for Creation to approach.
“Son of Zeus,” one said. It seemed to catch like wildfire across the crowd until someone else uttered, “A prince of gods.” There seemed to be agreement toward that. “Prince of Creation.”
“While I have heard your prayers, it shall be the powers of my son that will give you what you desire.” Light turned to Creation. “Come, you shall assist me.”
Creation gave a small nod, and they began walking through the parted crowd of onlookers, all bowed with their foreheads against the dirt. In lieu of bringing up his concerns surrounding Destruction, Creation opted for the more immediate inquiry. “Do you not have followers who call you Ra?”
“Those who wish to worship at my feet are free to call me whatever they wish,” he replied, tone free of emotion, which Creation couldn’t decide if he was relieved or unnerved by. “Light, Jupiter, Zeus, Ra, the praises still reach my ears—all I need to do is listen. As easily as the words and actions of the gods and demigods beneath me.”
