Scene 1
Before them lies an empty world – the sky above, dark and unfathomable; the land below, featureless and flat. All around them is a shadowy dimness. Only the Pearl in their hands is bright and warm.
The Priestess is weeping. Her tears are diamonds, hard and sharp. “Now my voice is my own, and my own, alone. Now the voice of the Winged Goddess is forever gone, for together we have slain Her. And now with my own voice, I name her Nvaiye the Winged, the Weeping Moon.”
With her voice that sails through the world, to the four corners and back again, the Priestess names the relics of a bygone age.
The Youth: Iiskana the Victor, the One who Soars.
The Priestess: Tethnde the Traitor, the Mournful Voice.
The Quick Brown Fox: Siio the Questioner, the Haunting Doubt.
And as Tethnde the Traitor names, they gain wings. Hers are those of a great swan, moonlit white. The Youth’s are made of the brightest sunlight, radiating warmth. The Quick Brown Fox’s are brown, like those of a sparrow.
Together they look upon the new world in wonder. They have robbed the world of moon and day, the Sun rests in their very hands. They now atone for the sacrilege they committed. They now atone for the sins of the gods they have slain.
Unfolding her mighty wings, Iiskana the Victor takes the Pearl and soars through heaven. As she places it at one end of the earth and hurls it upwards, she shouts:
“Mphellii, I name you, the Light Reborn!” As the Sun shoots across the high heavens, Iiskana follows like an arrow. The dim shadow parts at their crossing, the world brightens in their lights.
As she flies, Iiskana names - the Sky above, the Land below, the Sea that mirrors… Names she once forgot. Names she regained. Memories of her bygone world.
As she names, the sky becomes blue, the land fertile, the sea a reflection of the unfathomable sky.
All manners of things begin to appear. Mountains rise, sculpted, proud. Lakes form, polished, refined. Rivers flow, free, through all the lands. Gigantic misty forms - half-born leviathans and shadowy behemoths - raise their heads at the four corners of the world. Nimble furry creatures dart around the woodlands, exploring with large bright eyes. And with day comes night - the shadows close behind the trail of light, always cloaking half of the world in darkness, where sinister shades dance and laugh -
But no, this cannot be, decrees Iiskana the Victor. “The prophecy has been fulfilled. The Eternal Day shall return.” As her voice booms through the world, her fellow gods glide to her sides.
“How can sunlight shine upon the world evenly?” Asks Siio, looking up at the ball of light that was flung across the heavens. “Does it need to be?”
Iiskana nods. “The Great Clam is dead. We have slain it. The Eternal Day shall return.”
Tethnde contemplates, tracing her memories - memories of those more than her, older than her, older than this world - all the way back to when the Pearl was born.
“Yon, the Pearl of Light, came after Hul, the Great Clam, Devourer of Light. But the Light came before them both. The Pearl is a vessel, the Light is still trapped within.” Her voice rings bright and clear.
With strength and grace, the young gods chase after the Pearl, carried by their great wings. Together, they captured it and held it within their hands for one last time -
“Name. And your will shall be done.” Tethnde looks Iiskana in the eyes and smiles. This is the power they have usurped, the power they have claimed. To name, to will, reality itself.
And Iiskana names.
“Mphelli, reborn.”
The Pearl shatters in their hands as the light that once filled the heavens explodes to flood the world. Every corner of the dark sky is gilded and lit up. Stars, the ancient arrows, fade away in the bright Light and the Abyss becomes hidden.
So the Eternal Day begins.
Scene 2
Under the Eternal Day, Tethnde sings. She is singing of an old world, a world this world shall mirror, but also surpass. As the winds carry her winged words to the corners of the earth, Iiskana sails with them.
She marvels at the world beneath them. All their creations - conscious or unconscious - fill her with love and wonder.
She sees a beach of white sand, upon which a lonely white nautilus shell weeps in the sea wind. She gives it company, even though she does not understand its song. This changes its harmony to a gentler tune.
She sees great winged beasts make lairs in the highest mountains, carving their homes in hard obsidian. As she flies past them, they race her with leathery wings whiter than snow, she laughs.
She sees tiny animals gather in the forests, fluffy tails wagging like a dance, and she knows that is their language.
She follows the river that flows from the mountain, through the forest, into bountiful plains yet uninhabited, and sees how empty it is. A single willow tree stands by its side, its long branches trying to catch the water that will not slow.
“Here,” her voice continues where Tethnde’s song ends, “people will once again call home.”
“And by the forest,” follows the smiling Siio, who appeared behind Iiskana, “where plentiful quarries live, we shall again dwell.”
The sharp-eyed Iiskana reveals to her fellow gods the best sites for settlements and there they ordained those sites, Tethnde for the human, Siio the fox.
As the world become ready, the gods welcome their people.
The gods journey to the sea and there an island gleam like a sun in the waves. There they call the names of the people they once left behind. There they call the names of the people they promised to deliver.
And their calls are answered.
Through the reflected light humans and foxes walk out, side by side. There he is, father of a goddess, Doites the Chief. There she is, mother of a goddess, Hyeska the Warrior. There he is, once-challenger of a goddess, Kthuntes the Rival. But even as all the people walked through and Iiskana and Siio have ceased their summonings, Tethnde the Mournful continued on.
“Vonden, father of a traitor; Floria, mother of a traitor; Mnes, mentor of a traitor; Beivya and Beivyan, twin scouts that raced the summer wind - ”
Her voice resounds through the world, weaving this world together with the one that was left behind, and the world fell silent for her.
As her tears, drops of diamonds, fell upon the mirrored earth, there, figures start to appear, with limbs of reflections and bodies of sea mist. And slowly, slowly, gilded by the everlasting omnipresent Light, their forms are fixed, their bodies become human, and their eyes open.
Vonden, father of Tethnde. Floria, mother of Tethnde. Mnes, Healer-Mentor to the village. Beivya and Beivyan, twin scouts who ran faster than summer wind. And all the others. All those who were lost. All those who were left behind.
Siio jumps down amongst the people, nuzzling them curiously. It speaks to them of the new world, of villages and rivers and forests. Of home. Iiskana holds out her hand to Tethnde, who takes it. And as they join their minds together, the island shakes, and rises to become a ship that shall carry the people across the sea.
The three gods lead their people on one final journey. Iiskana teaches them the ways of this land, the habits of beasts and plants. Siio queries them with no answers but giggles. Tethnde and them trade tales of the past. Doites and Hyeska listen to them attentively, quietly learning, evaluating. Kthuntes absorbs the knowledge, never wanting to be behind. Vonden and Floria tend to the need of the people, keeping track of time when there is no longer night. Beivya and Beivyan scout the land in front, always wanting to see things with their own eyes first, before hearing about them. Phai the Hatted Red Fox leads the march of the foxes, chimes hanging from its large conch hat jingling all the way. Zhethnti the Restless Grey Fox darts from shadow to shadow, always alert.
On their journey, Tethnde recreates Ronvi the Loyal Hound that once accompanied her through her journeys, while Iiskana gifted Siio a Lazy Dog, Thunta. Siio flew around it three time before it landed and jumped over it with a laugh. Wearily Zhethnti regards them both, as Phai walks boldly beside them.
As the people arrived at the site by the river, the gods proclaim to the humans: “Here, Liinus shall rise and be joyful.” And joyful the people are, as their cheers rise up to meet the clouds.
Siio leads its foxes away, to their own promised land. There it gives all the foxes wings, for such would be the right thing to do. Each gains wings in accordance to their colours. As Siio’s are of sparrows, brown and patterned, Phai’s are those of parrot’s, vibrant red, and Zhethnti’s are those of a hooded crow.
The villages grow under the tender gaze of their gods, beneath the Eternal Day.
Scene 3-0
As the gods looked down from above the clouds and saw all they have created, for a moment, they feel content. Time loses meaning in the unchanging Light and their immortality.
“Is this it?” Asks Siio, its rich brown tail curled around its body, as it rests upon a gilded cloud.
Strangely, the question is difficult to answer. Have they not done all there is to be done? Have they not atoned for the sins of their gods and themselves? Have they not created a world beautiful and bountiful for their people?
The goddesses are silent, for they could not answer their friend’s question.
At last, Iiskana speaks, her voice uncertain for the first time, since she left the Abyss: “Let us descend once more, to the land we shaped and rule, and see with our own eyes whether we have completed our task.”
And so, the gods descend once more, to the land they shaped and rule, to see with their own eyes whether they have completed their task.
Scene 3-1
Much time has passed since the people were given this land. Houses they have built, with stones and wood. The land they have tamed, cut into distinct shapes: here a field, there a pasture, there a herb garden. But as Iiskana came down to earth, she sees that the village is empty and quiet. A time of labour has passed. The people have retreated to the shades of their houses, away from the eternal light.
With ease, the sharp-eyed goddess finds the home of Doites and Hyeska, her mortal parents, leaders of their tribe. The house is no larger than any other in the village, no flowing banner bright, no symbols painted with fragrant plant. But by the door leans several long wooden shafts, their heads cut smooth - her mother’s work.
The goddess glides over, golden wings spread. As she lands by the threshold, the stone touched by her feet burns red.
“Have you forgotten something?” Siio’s lilting voice reaches her upon a faint warm breeze.
Iiskana of the bright eyes does not look back. She pushes the door open, leaving behind trails of gold where her fingertips touched. The door closes behind her.
Within the simple cabin, Doites the Chief and Hyeska his Warrior-Spouse sit by the hearth. A basket of herb stands beside Doites, the warm fragrance filling the room. He sorts through them with patience. Hyeska is humming a simple tune, while she trims feathers for fletchings. They are not surprised by Iiskana’s arrival, sudden though it may be. Together, they smile and nod at their immortal daughter with composed pride.
“Welcome home.”
Home.
Is this what she has forgotten?
“Mother, mother, where is father?”
Upon the high seat, clad in silver fur, her mother would pat her on the head.
“He has gone to explore the world, to find the tribes none knew existed, to learn their languages and their ways. And now, daughter mine, who sits beside me in the absence of our Chief, what would you tell our people tomorrow, should they hunt or should they preserve what they already possess?”
“Father, father, what have you seen?”
Returning with tales, clad in golden dawn, her father would ruffle her golden hair.
“I have seen a land where the trees rise up to the clouds and its people live within their leafy crowns, under the familiar Moon but foreign stars. And now, show me what you have learned from your mother, her ways with spear and bow and war.”
“Mother, father, what will I become? A warrior, an explorer, or a chief like both of you?”
“You may become whatever you wish, dear daughter. We have passed on to you our knowledge and skills. You see further than your father and are nimbler than your mother. You can name the constellations faster than both of us, and your arrows are always true to their marks.”
“But always beware, dear daughter. From fallen feathers we craft our arrows, but we must never aim an arrow at a bird, lest we incur the Goddess’ grief. Never forget where your power comes from - knowledge, tradition, favour of the Goddess, trust of your fellow men.”
Father taught her how to live off the gifts of the land.
She shaped this land. She made the things that live and dictated the ways they live.
Mother taught her how to defend herself against the dangers of the land.
She rules this land. She is immortal; her touch burns so hot she can forge bronze and steel with her bare hands.
“Will you join us?” Asks Hyeska, holding towards her a piece of flint and some feathers.
Iiskana hesitates, almost wanting to sit down, if not for her great wings, folded back to not knock into the walls. She shakes her head. “Thank you, but I will not. ‘Tis not the place of a goddess to steal the toils of men.”
As she steps out of the lowly cabin, leaving behind a golden footprint, Iiskana extends her great and glorious wings. Her mortal parents watch her, as she disappears into the high clouds.
“We love you, despite all -”
Scene 3-2
Gently, Tethnde lands by the riverside willow. Softly, she walks through the quiet village. She feels a touch to her ankle and finds Siio’s fluffy tail brushing past her. The little winged fox - a god, a friend - cocks its head at her. The last time they were here - in a different world, a different village - it told her to turn back.
“Have you forgotten something?” Asks the little fox.
The goddess comes before the home of Vonden and Floria, the mortal parents that gave birth to her. The white wood door opens to the lightest touch of her hand.
“Welcome,” says her father, who is tending the hearth, “goddess of our own, light of my life.”
“Welcome…” Weeps her mother, who rushes over to embrace her, startled by how tall she now stands, and how strong her wings.
Tethnde returns the smile, the hug and the tears of sorrow and joy. The woman in her arms, she once saw her die.
She sits down next to them, answering 0ne by one their questions about where she has been and how she has been. She could not help but smile, like when she was still a child.
She is still young. Yet she is old.
It used to delight the Priestess to watch the Youth practice archery. Little girls they both were, with round cheeks and large bright eyes. Yet to the Priestess the Youth seemed tall and mature when she held her stance, back straight as a sapling reaching for the sun. She loved how she could make the arrows fly, so true and swift, like birds of prey. She loved more the sunlight reflected in her eyes.
“Can I be like you? Can I make arrows fly, like birds of prey, true and swift?”
“Of course you can. From father and mother I have acquired this skill; to you I now pass it on. You, too, can be an archer. Together we shall craft arrows with feathers. Together we shall release them like birds of prey.”
The Priestess was always the first to welcome the Youth as she returned from her wanderings. As the moon rises behind her, she would run across the flowery fields to welcome her friend, whose golden hair burns in the last glimmer of sunset.
“You are injured again!”
“I see you have already brought your herbs. The blue-petaled ones for the pain, the purple-leaved ones for cleansing?”
“Well done. Blue for the pain, purple for cleansing, mix juice of roots to speed up healing…”
Is this what is lacking?
None of those things would have happened, if they had the power of gods, if they lived above the reproach of time and transience. There is no need to craft arrows, when with a breath they can summon all the birds in the sky with beaks sharper than obsidian. There is no need to blend herbs, when they are immortals, and with a word they can raise the dead and slay the living. All they have is the weight of the world upon them. All they have is the boundless sky and fathomless sea to sustain with their powers. Toils, perhaps, but never again mortal labours.
Mundane labours shared by friend and families. Shared by people.
The goddess examines the cosy little house around her. There is a pile of firewood, chopped up by her father’s axe. There is stew bubbling on the hearth, its smell one she remembers from youth. There is a half-finished winter coat her mother left on the stool, still plain, uncoloured.
She could make the fire burn forever, no need to feed, immortal like her. She could take away their hunger, just like she no longer feels hunger. She could clad them in silk and silver for summer, fur and gold for winter.
Will that be right?
“What troubles you, dear daughter?”
“Tell me, father, mother, my first mentors, my people - is this world enough? What more should we do?”
“We are content, are we not, Vonden?” Her mother smiles, “But why is it, that you, dear daughter, seem so lost? Has your journey not yet reached its end? Where are you still reaching towards?”
The goddess contemplated the words of her mortal mother, until a revelation dawned upon her.
Their journey has reached its end. They are only lost, for they have forgotten how to land.
Before Tethnde departs to announce her understanding to her fellow gods, her father stops her.
“Take this, goddess of our blood. From eons forgotten it was passed down, yet to us it has no use.”
It is a sheathed sword, leather worn black, carvings levelled. Nameless. Featureless. Tethnde draws it, but there is no blade attached to the hilt. Instead, a song bleeds out of the heavy scabbard.
Wordless. Nameless. A song that they are all forced to sing along with, that makes their bones ache and their hearts bleed - with not blood but the song.
At that moment, a diamond tear fall from her eye and the cycle of worlds become clear to Tethnde, the Mournful Voice. As the ancient song fills her lungs, she tastes the stream of remorse that reaches back into the Abyss above, the world left behind, and all the worlds before them.
Nvaiye, who took the Voice of the Song, after It was forgotten by the world It sang into existence.
Sacrilege.
Sacrifice.
Power and eternity and responsibility gained from death.
Power and eternity and responsibility that must forever be carried. Sins unforgiven. Fears unquenched.
The Song, last breath of ▅▆▇▃, sworn to right the wrongs of Its ▂▃█.
How could you let go of something handed down to you by gods who loved you so? How could you forsake your duties, when you can never know if the world will again need you?
How could you forsake your gods? (The life you took, the blood on your tongue -)
But it is not so, Tethnde knows. This is where they failed before. This is where she shall right the final wrong. This is where she shall accept - for herself, her friends, and all the gods - that, as even the strongest birds must land, all things must end.
The world is complete, its people happy. The only lack is now them - the gods that has yet to return home.
Only then, can the gods be happy, and free.
“Thank you, father, but take the sword and treasure it well. Within its scabbard dwells the dying breath of a god long dead, a last reminder of how even gods must die.”
Tethnde opens her wings under the ever bright sky and ascends once more.
The song now resides in her heart as well, and its pain forever woven in her Voice.
Scene 3-3
Once again, the gods assemble on the clouds.
“You have descended once more, to the land we shaped and rule. What have you seen with your own eyes?” Speaks Siio, the Questioner.
Tethnde answers without hesitation. “I have seen a world complete, within a cycle ever incomplete.”
“What cycle do you speak of, Tethnde?” Asks Iiskana.
“This cycle. This is what Nvaiye, the Winged Goddess, once suffered through. The creation, the distant care, the removal from her own world, the usurpation.” If only She would speak to her people more, speak to her more. Perhaps, there would have been other ways for the previous world to end. “And the cycle continues with us, here, now.”
“Is that what you want?” Asks the fox, its honeyed eyes sharp.
The goddesses shake their heads. “It doesn’t have to continue with us, here, now. It can end, with us, here, now.” Proclaims Iiskana.
“How?”
If only She would - or if only She could. Tethnde laughs, lowly, sorrowfully. How simple it is, and yet how terrifying.
“Through sacrifice.” Tethnde speaks, each word a struggle, each syllable a war with the infinitely regressing lore of yore. “By giving up what we have usurped, what we have claimed, what we have made our own and used to make this world - the power, the eternity, the responsibility. By surrendering ourselves to the rules of time, to what we have already created, and call it well done.”
She looks over to her friend, for support, for courage, for a smile to fend against the fear and sorrow that rises like a flood.
Her friend is silent, her face unreadable.
“…Iiskana?”
At last the Victor nods, her voice firm: “Together, we can give up this power. The prophecy has been fulfilled and the tale of heroes is over. We can go home now.” She looks over to the fox god: “What says you, Siio?”
It smiles again, in its curious manner, then stretches its lithe body.
“Sounds like the right thing to do. But I want to keep those.” Its tail wags towards its wings.
Tethnde laughs and pats the fox on its head, and say it can certainly keep its wings. Iiskana smiles too, though her eyes are dark as storm clouds.
Scene 4
The gods descend from the bright heavens to earth. Their people - humans, foxes - gather around them in awe. The gods have decided upon the time of their final sacrifice. But before that, they wish to hear their people’s wants and desires for one last time. They have closed their wings and again walk upon the ground like their people. They speak to them, face to face, with no Light framing their figures and no winds to carry their decrees to the edges of earth. They tell their people of their decision and explain their reasonings. They have decided that they shall be frank and not aloft, unlike the gods before. They speak to their people, as friends, daughters, students, teachers. As equals - almost.
They comfort the people who are worried about a future without gods. They promise a bright future to all. Tethnde promises the wisdom of ages, the knowledge of the past that shall be passed on. Siio promises forgetfulness and doubt, there shall always be more than what is already known, new mysteries to be discovered, new trials to overcomes. Iiskana promises the knowledge of this world of life and hunting, protection from all danger, peace for all.
They promise and intend to keep them, but no longer as gods but as mortals. They believe they can.
As the west wind rises, Tethnde was the first to rise up. In the salty sea air, she opens her arms to the tearful wind. Her power dwindles.
As the east wind rushes through, Siio rides it. In the green scent of woodland shadows and pines, it flies past everyone, quick and nimble, asking its favourite question: “Is what once was always right?” Its divinity dims.
As a gale charges across the land, Iiskana shoots up into the sky, soaring, tasting the fresh crisp air of the heights… piercing the heavens like an arrow.
With a thunderous roar the sky cracks. With a silver flash, golden rain pours down, hissing like snakes as it cuts through the cold air. The earth shakes in echo. With a great crash the mirror island shatters - the volcano erupts, pumping out molden gold. The flood of gold parts the sea and like a hungry beast climbs onto earth.
Iiskana dives into the eruption. The molten gold consumes her whole and from within she lets of a heart-wrenching scream that sunders the clouds.
But as the stream parts, the goddess does not fall. Instead, bathed in gold, she shines like the Sun. As she regains her posture, looking upon herself as if this is the first time she has seen herself truly, her wings are bight and blazing.
As she receives the rain as if it was an offering, her wings grow, expanding so much they start to lose their original shape, each blade of feather extending into a sword.
Tethnde’s cry resounds through the storm: “Iiskana… What have you done? Will you violate your promise to your fellow gods and your people? Will you renounce the end we have promised to deliver?”
Slowly, Iiskana turns towards her. “Why then, do you cling to godhood still, Tethnde? Will you not renounce the sky and land amongst your people? Will you not join them as a mortal?”
Without waiting for a response, she glides down before the stunned people. Through thunder, through storms, through volcanoes and earthquakes, she speaks:
“Bow down in praise, mortals of my world. Bow down in awe, weakling born to die. Behold, the birth of your Queen. Behold, the crowning of ME! I am Iiskana, Her Inexorable Radiance, She who Shattered the Sun; Reclaimer and Forever Rightful Owner of Light, the Voice who Named the Future, Lady of Flames and Glory, Huntress of the World, Queen of the Sea and Land and Sky.
“I am - The Eternal Day.”
Slowly, the people bow. Led by Doites the Chief and Hyeska his Warrior-Wife, led by the mortal parents of the immortal goddess, the people bend their knees.
Looking up at the Lady of Flame and Glory, Hyeska speaks, her voice shaking: “Daughter, Goddess, here we are. Here I am. And here - my sacrifice.”
With a beat of Her wings, Her Inexorable Radiance reaches her. Suspended in mid air, She holds out Her hands to the mortal woman knelt upon the ground. As She cups her face in Her hands, tracing her wrinkles with her glowing fingertips, as if to smooth them, tears roll down Hyeska’s cheeks.
“Weep no more, Hyeska the Marked. From this day on you shall be known as the mother of The Eternal Day, the one who birthed all blessings. From this day on you shall walk forever with the Light upon your brows, and until death finds you, the light in your eyes shall never dim.”
The Goddess speaks and Her words are true. Lines of golden light blossoms under Her fingers, growing from Hyeska’s temples into a brilliant sigil above her brows.
Hyeska grasps in pain, yet endures her daughter’s touch with grace.
“We love you.” Says the mother.
“I know,” smiles the Queen, “and your love shall be reward-”
“We ask no forgiveness.”
The words of the Goddess is cut short by Her mother’s knife that plunged into Her chest, sable flint upon which golden blood now flows.
The wind dies. The rain halts. The sea and land and sky stand still in silence as their Queen lowers Her head to look upon Her wound. As the Goddess is still in shock, Hyeska the Warrior pulls Her down, until her feet touches the ground. Then the mortal woman rises and drives the knife all the way through, until even the hilt is buried in the Goddess’ body.
Iiskana the Victor takes a step back. And then another.
As the hot, bloody knife - still firmly held in Hyeska’s hand - is pulled out, blood explodes from the wound.
The blood is boiling hot and as it washes over Hyeska, her skin burns and melts, marking her forever, as the mother who betrayed her child, the one who warred against her own blood.
Iiskana screams in pain and rage. The wind rises, the rain crashes down. Face twisted in anger, hands clutching the gaping wound in Her chest, the Goddess retreats into the sky once more.
“You insolent wretch! How dare you - How could you?!” Seeing how tall Hyeska stands, with Doites now by her side, and how the people have raised their heads, watching Her, measuring, judging, the Queen hisses: “Bow! Avert your gaze! Have you not been taught? Look not at the Sun! Bow!”
“Never has a man bowed to another,” shouts Doites, the Chief, “never should a man bow to another. Will you truly abandon all that you were, daughter mine?”
Narrowing Her golden eyes, Iiskana smiles, her smile as sharp as broken obsedian.
“Traitors. Traitors, all of you.”
The rain is suddenly so much hotter, the molten gold burns with the wrath of the Lady of Flame and Glory, burning all those it touches. The pained screams of the people rise like waves. They cower, curling up like infants.
Tethnde the Mournful weeps at the atrocity committed by the one who she once knew as a friend and raises her voice to the heavens. As her cry is carried through the sky, to the edges of the earth and sea and back again, the sky weeps with her, cold tears mingling with the golden rain, cooling it as it falls. The hiss of the rains - fire and water, heat and cold - fills the world.
Her Inexorable Radiance smirks. “Let’s see who lasts longer, shall we, Tethnde? Is it your grief, or my fury?” Tethnde could not answer her, for her mind in on the sky, the rain, the people, and she could not afford to lose focus. Iiskana knows this well, and leaves her to her futile endeavour.
From within the golden rain, the Goddess pulls out a spear with shaft of light and head of molten gold, and hurls it towards Hyeska. So has the Goddess judged. So has the sentenced been carried out, by spears like thunder. Hyeska the Warrior dashes out of the trajectory of the first. The spear lands in the ground and explodes, scattering the people. Three more follows. Blinded by blood and light, the aged mortal can flee no more. The darkness of death has caught up with her. The wolf pack that cannot be outran has caught up with her.
All there is, is light.
In the distance, someone screams. A weight falls upon her, knocking her to the ground. The weight is soft, wet with something warm and thick. The smell of metal and burnt flesh fill her nostrils. A sickening feeling rises in her stomach.
Sight returns last.
On the ground Hyeska lies, blood soaked. The spears of light dissolve before her eyes, melting into the warm and heavy rain of gold, leaving behind the body of the one slain, of the one who took her place.
Doites, the Chief.
“No, no, this can’t be - no, love, please! The fault was mine, the sin mine -” In grief and rage, Hyeska wails, her composure shattered.
“Such is the end of all who opposes me,” Decrees the Lady of Flame and Glory, “such was the first death. Shall there be more? Dare any of you, in foolish hubris, again challenge your God?”
“Challenge, you say?” A youthful voice rises against the gales, drawing the Goddess’ eyes away from Her weeping mother. Kthuntes the Rival notches an arrow to his long bow. “Shall we spar again? Let me test your strength, and you mine. One cannot advance without being tested. One cannot prove one's strength, without a worthy rival.”
The Huntress of the World lets out a cold, harsh laught. “A worthy rival? You? Your foolishness astounds me, mortal. There is no rival worthy of me. There is nothing in this world that rivals me!”
“You won’t accept my challenge, so will you surrender instead?” Kthuntes laughs, his eyes ablaze, “Then come down to earth once more and I shall accept your surrender. ”
With one beat of Her gigantic wings, Her Inexorable Radiance shoots out seven feathers of light, as long and slender as swords. The Rival dodges them, zigzagging between the brilliant damnations, a like a swallow dodging raindrops.
“How long do you think you can run for, mortal? Running for your life, a rat, a fawn… Is this what you call a challenge?” Another beat, another seven swords buried into the wounded earth. “Coward! Is this all that you have? What a mockery you make out of the title of ‘Rival’!”
Another seven feathers miss their mark, and the Rival turns with a notched arrow. “I am strong of heart. I am resolute. I do not fear death or the unknown. Here I am, and here, my vow of rivalry.” As he releases the string, the white-wood arrow cuts through the storm and finds its mark.
The Queen scoffs as she knocks the arrow aside with her wings, swords and shield in one. “Pathetic. I am the prophesied one. I have taken the journey and completed the divine quest. I have conquered the quest-giver Herself, slain her and taken her place. I am strong of heart. I am resolute. Death or the unknown poses no threat to me. I am beyond death, the world is shaped by my very own thoughts. You ignorant pest. You cannot even comprehend what it is you dared to challenge in your folly!”
And yet, despite all, Kthuntes runs on, fights on, aiming and shooting his feeble arrows towards She Who Shattered the Sun. The Goddess chases him in rage, a lioness vexed by a fly she cannot catch.
Just as the Huntress dives down, ready to catch the insolent mortal for a final blow, a spear strikes Her in the back.
The tip melts away in the light of Her wings, yet it gives Kthuntes the time to regain his footings and get out of Her range.
“Did you think our fight was over?”
And there Hyeska stands, tall and proud, body burned, covered in the blood of her family, both golden and red.
“He is not the only one who will oppose you. I have not fallen yet. You have yet to destroy me, yet my life and love you have slain.”
So they fight on. Mortals against god, with no hope of winning and yet they strive on. But such a fight cannot last forever. Soon, their stamina runs dry and their steps slow. The spears of fire sears their back, as they fail to outrun their trajectories completely. The sprays of molten gold weighs on them, dragging them down into the mud. All the while, the Victor shines and blazes, growing ever more powerful. Gold and light gather all around her, a whirlwind, a flowing suit of armour, upon which the cycles of the worlds are shown. Worlds give birth to heroes. Heroes become gods. Gods shape and give rise to new worlds. Radiant. Glorious. Everlasting.
Despite the overwhelming odds, those capable of fighting have returned. The humans led by Vonden, the foxes Phai. Joining Kthuntes and Hyeska, they brace their doom, against a goddess.
“Youth, Iiskana, Goddess!” Vonden calls, as he raises the ancient sheathed sword his family has carried for generations, “friend of my daughter, daughter of the tribe, return to us!”
“Speak no more of such folly.” Is the response. “‘Tis you all that should return to me. Have you lost your mind, turning against your own god? Have you been blinded so much, that you cannot see that away from me there is only the darkness of death? I am The Eternal Day. I am the Last Goddess, the Eternity to End the Everlasting. You will not understand me. You cannot see what I, your god, can see. And though your short-sightedness may be forgiven, your hubris cannot be. Bow and beg. Beg for damnation. And then, perhaps, you will gain salvation.”
“No, Goddess Bright. We cannot see what you see. But one thing I know. My daughter has cleansed my eyes and opened my ears.
“Even gods have their endings. Even gods must/ die.”
He draws the bladeless sword, and the Song bleeds out of the dark scabbard. A Song older than this world, older than the last world, so old its presence brings a pang the the chest of those that hears it. As it resonates through the bones of the people, of the earth, in its everdying breath the truth is told:
Even gods have their endings. Even gods must die.
Such is the cycle that cannot be halted.
“NO!!!” The Golden Goddess writhes in pain, as her golden armour is warped around her. Upon it the cycles of the worlds are shown. Gods becoming beasts. Heroes slaying their gods. In lonely apotheosis they reiterate the sins of the past. Sanguine. Tear-stained. Everlasting.
“This is the cycle I have sworn to - I will not - I will not be defeated by -”
As the Goddess struggles, her wings broken in the strangling armour, arrows and swords of gold rains down.
Dashing across the broken land, bow drawn, arrow notched, Kthuntes races through the rain of weapons, disregarding the splash of gold as they hit the ground behind him. As he bends backward to let another spear of light fly past, he releases the arrow.
Through the storm, it flies true and straight. As the flint arrow head meets the golden armour, the armour shatter and the arrow finds its mark - the Goddess’ open wound.
The Huntress falls.
Her wings are broken, shattered and melting like her armour. Her human form is broken, twisted and bleeding in a way that would be fatal for a mortal. No one dares approach. The world waits in silence.
She draws breath again.
Breath in. The world darkens.
Breath out. Light returns.
With every breath the Lady’s broken form burns hotter and brighter, Her veins are lit up, Her heart a pump of pure gold, until at last Her body catches fire and burns; the fire so brilliant it makes the world a dim shadow in comparison.
The people stand at a distance, dumbfounded. They do not understand what they see.
Breath in.
Breath out.
The human form is no longer, burnt away completely. But the light remains. The fire remains. Not just remain but grows and glows and expands and devours.
Breath in. The world darkens. The Light of the world floods towards the blinding mass of light that was once Iiskana the Victor. Darkness creeps in where the Light has left empty.
Breath out. The Light is released. Immediately it rushes towards every corner of the world, hunting down the shadows that tried to take its place, reconquering its territory.
The mass of Light rises. Higher, higher, but not further. It pulses, grows, glows. A globe. A hole. A sun. A goddess.
“Admirable. Yes.” The Voice Who Named the Future speaks, from everywhere and nowhere at once, both male and female, both human and beastial, one and many. “But did you really think you could defeat me? Did you, even for a moment, believe you have won? Admirable. Yes. Foolish. More so. For the last time, you have looked upon the face of your god. Nevermore.”
Lightning abounds and the sea roars. The erupting gold has finally crept upon earth: an invasion, from which an army emerges. Wolves of pure gold, packs, thousands, millions. Together they raise their heads and howl.
The people hold up their weapons, but their hearts are uncertain. For what do they now fight for, if there is no possibility of victory? How can they defeat a lifeless and deathless army, when they themselves are mortal? How can they defeat the Victor, when She has abandoned ever her form, a pulsating mass of Light she now is?
They pray to Tethnde and see that she is weeping. They pray to Siio and see that it has returned - wings flapping hard in the chaotic wind, a bow of silver in its mouth. Towards Tethnde it flies, with a desperation unbefitting its languid nature.
Beivyan and Beivya the Twin Scout returns as well; to the people they pass on Siio’s words: “Brace for the final affront.”
So they do. Between the river and the rising mountain cliff, choosing this as their choke point, humans and foxes line up into formations, led by the heroic Hyeska and Kthuntes, Vonden and Phai. Armed with bows and spears, claws and teeth, they brace for the flood. Hundred against millions.
“Shields!”
And a shield wall is created. The shields of the people are wooden and round, not enough to form a wall. The wolves tear at their legs, racing at them in attempts to knock them over. But the humans stand adamant, enduring the pain with valour and resolution.
“Spear!”
Those behind them attack the wolves with spears, obsidian spearheads burying deep into the body of the golden beasts.
The beasts roar, as though they are lifeless, they know pain. But they attacks renew in vigour.
Arrows rain down upon them as the archers behind the formation releases their bow strings. Winged foxes gather together and drop down large stones that will crush the golden wolves into the molten juice from which they rose.
The wolf packs come in like tides of the sea, wearing the people down. Never once has a cliff won against the sea. The people know this, yet they stand firm.
Above them, the sky brightens and darkens to the Reclaimer of Light’s breathing. Is this what day and night means in this new world? How much time has passed? The people cannot tell. Minutes. Hours. Years. Only the pulsating mass of Light remains constant, eternal.
At long last, the cliff crumbles against the tide. Too many humans have fallen, their shield burnt, their bodies lost beneath the gold. The battle dissolves into complete chaos.
The remaining survivors gather together, as close as they could, holding ground when the ground is flooding with gold. Hyeska and Kthuntes, Vonden and Phai, Beivyan and Beivya, the deft Zhethnti.
“Memory-less beasts, return to the oblivion that you come from! Sully not the land of the living!”
With a final battle cry, they war with the beasts. Hyeska with her spear she crafted with her own hands. Kthuntes with a sword that glints brilliantly against the gold. Vonden with his spear and shield. Phai holding in its mouth an obsidian sword formed out of the very volcano that gave birth to the wolf packs. Beivyan and Beivya, bows and arrows. Zhethnti leads a group of foxes, raining down slabs upon the wingless beasts.
Above the raging battle, Tethnde and Siio contemplate, side by side. Tethnde grips the bow tightly, yet in her hand there is no arrow.
“What have I forgotten?” Asks Tethnde.
“Much, I would assume.” Answers Siio.
“What should I remember?” Asks Tethnde.
“How the last goddess was slain.” Answers Siio.
“By this bow, that the Youth once held, and stars that are arrows, trap of the Hunter.”
“Yes. By this bow, that the Youth once held, and stars that are arrows, trap of the Hunter.”
Together, they look up at the sky. Cracked. Sundered. Shifting between light and dark with the Queen’s every breath.
“What more should I remember?” Asks Tethnde.
“That which would fill you with remorse.” Answers Siio.
“Then make me remember. I am doomed to remorse already.”
“I am a hunter, and it is my nature to make people forget. I am the Questioner, and it is my nature to question, not to answer. Once, and once only can I give what is mine. Once, and once only, before my godhood rejects me and make me mortal once more.” The little fox looks Tethnde deeply in the eyes, and then smiles its curious little smile. “But I will do it for you and our people, for you are a good friends of mine, and it is the right thing to do.”
Tethnde holds out her hand, upon which Siio places its paw.
The divinity within it dwindles, and Tethnde sees.
Side by side, two girls sat under the riverside willow. One was teaching the other how to fashion arrows, what length to cut, how much to trim. The other was teaching the one how to blend herbs, which goes together, which would make poison.
As the other was focusing on her first arrow, carefully trimming the delicate edge of the snow-white feather, something soft dropped on her head. She turned to see the one grinning at her, and found a flower crown in her hair. Blue flowers, purple leaves, starry blossoms in between.
She laughed, pinning a long feather behind her friend’s ear.
Then, as her heart aches with remorse, Tethnde understands.
Silently, she raises her hand towards the broken sky. The cycle of day and night is made more real, the night darker, the day brighter, both longer. In the night sky - the darkness brought by the Light Herself - the Abyss shows its face, and the stars blink.
The Mournful Voice sings. A final song. A eulogy to godhood, to divinity, to the unstoppable cycle that she is about to break.
As she draws open the silver bow, and notches a single arrow, as her friend once did, as her friend taught her -
Breath in.
In darkness, taste the remorse of ten thousand eons.
Breath out.
In blinding light, remember the promises made and broken.
Breath in.
Sing, and feel the godhood burn up inside.
Then, release.
The stars of the Abyss light up. Even as the Light floods out once more to reclaim its kingdom, the stars shine through.
They are arrows.
As the arrow flies for its mark, like a bird of prey, swift and true, followed by starlights, as sharp as blades and as hard as diamonds, Tethnde falls.
As the last drop of divinity dries up, her wings dissolves like a dream, the last moonlight, never to be seen again. And from the heights she fall, free, mortal.
For the briefest moment, in the blinding Light, Iiskana’s face - the face of a human, of a maiden yet to learn of old age - can be seen. And there was fear. Was it for her, or was if for the net of stars that proclaims Her doom?
The arrows disappear into colossal globe of Light.
The pulsation halts.
The rain stops.
Silence.
The Light dwindles into the shape of a body.
It falls.
Scene 5
Before them lies a broken world – the sky above, cracked and dark; the land below, shattered and gold. All around them is a shadowy dimness.
Tethnde struggles to her feet. Siio was there to save her from certain death, its sparrow wings small but strong.
Iiskana was not as fortunate.
Around the broken body of the Last Goddess the people gathered. Her body is glowing, hot, bright. Slowly, slowly, she draws her ragged breaths. With each breath, Light bleeds out of her thousand wounds. Chained in starlight, drenched in blood, she does not rise again.
As Tethnde comes to kneel beside her, all stars fade away to reveal one single arrow. Shaft smooth, fletching white.
“Ha… Did you really think… Did you, for a moment… believe you have won?” Looking up at the one who fell her, the Last Goddess smirks, coughing up Light as she struggles to speak. “I am… eternal. I am… the Cycle… I have become… ”
“Enough, Iiskana… please. It’s enough….”
“Crowns, thrones, blades… in darkness, whispers… in the night… I… always win, in - in the end -”
Bitter tears Tethnde weeps and as they drop upon Iiskana’s body, they evaporation away. They are diamonds no longer. Warm and salty, they are tears of a mortal.
“Iiskana… why…”
Iiskana laughs. Hollow, bitter, full of Light. “I… too, have seen the cycle. I have journeyed, across worlds, across time. Oft have I crossed the land, with… or without you. Sometimes I fail… Sometimes… My reward is another journey. Solitary… unknown. I am fearful… I slew a goddess without remorse, but not without fear. To advance. Always to advance. To what end? The endlessness of this quest… frightens me… endlessness of… cycle frightens me.” She tilts her heavy head to look at Kthuntes, the Rival, and laughs again, a puff of Light escapes her mouth. “Oh… how I fear both death and eternity.”
“I have bested you, after all.” Says the Kthuntes, Rival of a Goddess. Yet no joy comes to his voice.
“Not… not so fast,” The dying goddess grimaces, “I was still… the chosen. I saw the cycle, but could not believe… My faith was weak, or was it too strong? I did not believe… it could be broken. So I wished, to stop it. To end it, by being its end… by being the last god, the Eternal Day… If my reign… lasts… the cycle… would have stopped, right…?”
Even as she speaks, the Light within her dims, and your surrounding brightens.
“How could you… why were you so stupid!” Cries Tethnde, eyes red, face stained with tears, “Iiskana - you stupid - !”
“Huh… sorry.” Once more, the goddess looks up towards the sky. “Do you remember, Tethnde? I used to ask you… what would the Winged Goddess see, so high up in the sky… And you would say… she would see us, all of us, living happily, joyfully, and she, too… would be glad…”
“It’s fine now, Iiskana. Just, stop talking. I’ll… I’ll fix this, alright? We’ll fix this together.” Tethnde fumbles in her pocket, looking for herbs, bandages, something to stop the blood, the Light.
Yet the dying goddess merely shakes her head. “You know… the wings really suited you. But flower crowns more so…”
“Mother,” Iiskana calls, but she can no longer see. Her eyes, golden like the sun, always burning, are dim and unfocused. “I ask no forgiveness.”
Hyeska, tall and proud, replies stiffly, even as tears run down her cheeks. “And I will give none.”
Iiskana smiles, as if it was a blessing. And when she spoke again, her words are barely a whisper. “Siio…” Wisps of Light flies about her, deserting her form. “Take me… to the sky… one last time…”
The fox cocks its head, honeyed eyes deep and sorrowful. “Is this what you deserve?”
And Iiskana the Youth smiles. “The Sun I had become… a devourer of Light… and now I must return it…”
Solemnly, Siio the Ferryer nods.
So Iiskana passes into the Abyss of death, her form dissipating as the last Light leaves her, returning to the sky where it was promised to be.
So the heroes reached their endings, and the gods will not rise again.