Theurgy: The Journey's Dawn (Book One)

Chapter 52 Gray's Resolve

          Hephaestus, emerging from the smoldering crater he had just created, looked upon the world he was alien to. A world  so different yet so familiar. Like a replica of some ornament, a fake relic with just enough blemishes and imperfections that it was innoticeable. But he could see the intent. This world, at a glance, seemed unblessed by the presence of the gods, untroubled and unburdened by the calamity that had plagued it once before. The trees had grown in vibrance, the land unscarred and teeming with life. But he knows better. He could see it, the remnants of his old empire. He could see it in the turbulence in the winds. The land had been scarred and torn apart again and again. It doesn't even resemble what it once was underneath the façade. It was a fake of the most disgusting kind, a plight upon what had come before it. It was like they completely tried to erase what had come before it.

        He climbed out of the rubble that had been the mountain of his birth. Now, it was a smoldering crater still filled with lava that cooled under a cold sun. The skies were still cloudy and filled with dark ash, and he could feel the disturbance within the earth that growled in irritation. The memories of the human he inhabited bounced around inside his mind. Puny thoughts of power and emotions of anger that somehow melded into his own. It was a strange state he was in. He retained some of his own memories but felt cold and empty, like he had been robbed of something valuable. He stood, shaking off the ash and looking around at the darkened environment. On the fringes of his destruction, he sensed humans. They worked to halt the further devastation of this land. He did not understand that. Why would they wish to stop something so beautiful? The destruction of this land shall leave the way for new life to propagate. That is what happened to this world. The devastation left room for something else, something more to fill it. But why did this bother him? He felt anger, such anger that it struck his core and reverberated through his being. He wanted to destroy what new things have come, decimate the world the new gods have built through their rebellion. It was their arrogance, their improper appropriation of their predecessors that destroyed a world the gods have built and ruled for a hundred millennia. All to be destroyed in not even a fraction of that time. It was only right, only fair to return that favor. But the question still remained as to how he was here. What happened in his absence, and where is his kin.

    "They are dead, maker."

    The voice was a sudden, fleeting thought. But he heard and acknowledged it. IT was different from the anger and the rage and the pain that had been there before. This carried a portion of the concern and of purpose.

       "Why have I returned?" he whispered to himself.

       "Destroy," said the voice earnestly. It was small and dry, like a little fiend whispering in its ear. It spoke with earnest. "Destroy."

      "I remember. They . . . killed my brethren, haven't they," he remembers little, but he does remember the war, the conflict between old and new gods. Of thunder and lightning and fire. The laughter of thirsting gods. It came to him, slowly. "My brethren. Lost and scattered against the thralls of order and chaos. Is this your cause, Fate? Have you sought to destroy us all this time?"

      "Power," the voice nearly whined. "Power of gods. Power, and the spirit. You are spirit. Power is given. Those who destroy the spirit. Godslayers"

      "Godslayers," he sneered at the mere notion. "They stripped us of our powers to give to mortals. How dare they. How is it that we have been turned to mere remnants, and they sit on our thrones?"

      The voice in his head was silent, sensing the danger that surrounded him. He growled this curse to the heavens. He knew what force he speaks of, but he knows he may never find revenge against Fate itself. His vengeance, his anger must be placated some other way into whose hands worked his demise and the demise of the former Olympians. This world, he shall work its destruction, work its end himself. But how must he do this? If what this sad creature tells him is true, these so-called godslayers will prove his demise sooner or later. The new gods will not allow him to propagate in this world, and no doubt they will try to destroy them. He is naked here. He feels drained of his might, left naked. He is without weapons and powers. But, he had always been without these things. Unlike his might brethren, who controls the skies and seas, the very sun, he has been the lamest and has taken the domain within the liquid fire and the craftsmen. He will find his strength there. And he could feel it. Within these scarred lands are the remnants of his crafts, and he can find his forges and use them. He is the god of the forge. He creates his weapons and is the maker of the most powerful weapons ever brought to this world. He can create more, enough to strike down those false gods from the heavens, and remake his kin in newer forms and newer bodies. He can create his own body if needed. He could sense the nearest forge, far north. A faint memory, more of an instinct now. There, he will find his tools, what is left of his domain, and he shall craft a nail to strike into the heart of this world. He will rise yet. And perhaps, he may be able to revive his own brethren. Somehow.