Return Of The Godslayer

chapter eight

Sector 7—Eden
Caleb

Hero.

The first time I ever heard that word was on my mother's lips as she recited stories of the Old World.

She spoke of kings and queens, warriors, priests and prophets. Sometimes these heroes were born to be such. Called and chosen as they were by some great force— usually God or fate. Some had to work harder than others, battle enemies far greater than themselves and forge their own legends as they went along. Sometimes they succeeded and became powerful figures in history, forever to be remembered as great, forever heroes. Sometimes they died, though, without achieving anything of significance. Nothing worth commiting to books and scrolls, nobodies worth remembering except for the lessons we gather from their mistakes.

Every story had a monster, too— a force to rival the hero. Some once merely mortals, cursed and changed into abominable things and forced to wonder the earth as punishment for whatever sins their accuser had deemed them guilty of.

Not every monster was once a mortal, though. And not every one of them had a heart that could be pierced by steel or thawed by tears.

I was ten years old when I first heard the story of the fall, but after a while the horrid events had merge into one big boring history lesson. Two centuries ago, was when it happened, during the reign of the first alliance—that brief period of peace and prosperity set like a star of heaven midst the dark ages past and the ones soon to come. They called it the Unity.

The Forsaken, my mother said, came in the midst of that peace and toppled the gods from their thrones. Both new and old were scattered to the four winds.

The Unity fell, as did many great cities of the world, and the pantheons to their own chaos. This was the first of four great catastrophies—the burning.

One by one great nations fell, Ma'at and all who dared to uphold it were crushed. The ancient gods, weak, afraid and without worship or power, slowly faded.

Earth would not fall so easily, though. Five great beings rose up to appose the alien hoards, the last of the Unity gods. They'd neither thrones nor worship then, no armies save themselves but in time, what was left of the mortal races flocked to them for safety and bound by oaths were made to fight with. And so the Resistance was born— twelve great city shielded by the gods, the strongest of their occupants chosen and trained and bound by oaths to defend it. This also was also the birth of the Blood War.

I've always dreamt of being a hero, since as long as I can remember. Only now, as I lie in the comforts of bed, staring at the beautifully crafted hilt of the sword sheathed beside me, the medicines that addle my mind and numbs my aching body, doing nothing to appease my conscience, that I wonder if perhaps I had instead become the monster.

Beside me, Cara attempted to ease the rising tension. She nodded toward the divine relic my mother had brought in just a few hours ago. "That's a nice sword," she said.

Neither of them had seemed angry at me or confessed any loathing. My mother, instead, had apologized as if it were her fault her son was evil, her teary eyes had shone with more sympathy than I could meet.

I was foolish to think my mother would hate me, she hadn't it in her to hate anything. She'd handed me the holy sword with pride and praised my victory, but never once mentioned the battle. Even then I couldn't meet her eyes, partly for the fear that I too might begin crying. We parted with possibly our last goodbye and she kissed my forehead like she used to when I was younger.

I reached for the sword now,  wrapping a weak palm around its golden dragon-shaped pommel. Warmth erupted from it, seeping into my chilled joints. My fingers twitched with the anticipation to draw the sword from its scabbard and watch sacred flames dance across its blade.