Junkyard

25/6/2021

The people, your beloved children, say the gods are sheepskin wearers.

Soulless beings that raised us only as a form of entertainment, so they could play with us, cull us when we grew too insightful.

The words of our Grand Elders' spread like poison in a stream. Unstoppable.

They, whom should be your most trusted messengers, plotted to steal your divinity and share among themselves as the sole power of this world.

As a ranked official, I found myself involved before I could change their minds.

It was as if a plague had befallen my colleagues, persistent and wild. They blamed the gods for the unending drought that ached the bellies of our livestock, the incurable illnesses that killed our mothers and fathers, the economic stagnation of our Empire. They vented about feeling confined, restricted by laws of divinity. Why should men not build an empire as large as the world? The resources, the land and the force are all within reach. It is only the gods' forbiddance hindering progress, denying men from harvesting the land and achieving more.

And so, under the darkening sky and the canvas of twinkling crystals, I stood with my colleagues at the top of the Holy Temple. From its wide base to its flat top, the Holy Temple was a twelve-tiered pyramid made of polished sandstone. A structure constructed entirely for the worship of the gods, now devoted to their ruin. The top was also square, with two sides extending into triangular panels that point towards the sky.

Before the war, at nu, I would sit with my legs dangling out the edge, head tilted down to observe the village lights all around and clasped my hands for prayer. It was impossible now, the nus filled with heat and noise, hatred, and misery.

Praying to the gods itself was a crime.

The torches' light that once felt comforting now hissed across a myriad of mud-caked faces at the center of the floor. Grim and solemn – or so they acted – these people were the bait for the Grand Elders' plan.

My colleagues circled the 'bait' and one of the elders stepped forward with a cane full of splinters. While I could not read the hearts of these men, their intent was palpable. I clenched my hands into my robes, sickened by this atmosphere. How can they do this on the Holy Temple?

But I stood unmoving beside them all.

The Grand Elders aimed to lure only one of the gods. If both arrived, then it was a greater boon, but one was enough. Afterall, the one that will surely come, and they were prepared for, is the god of foresight, Y'ncha i'da.

Wise but infinitely merciful was this god. His care for the common people was always obvious and the Grand Elders used this to their advantage.

When he arrived, it was in a flurry of ash and embers. Weapon sheathed at his hip, white feathered wings gliding on the floor, glowing form robed in sea blue. His lips a tight line; he did not question our motives nor strike us down where we stood.

Still, I trembled. I hoped for him to raze us to the ground, as he had done our brothers and sisters. The god remained, still as stone, defying that very wish. Even though I and everyone present knew he knew every step of this plan and every vile deed that would be inflicted on him.

My colleagues secured him with a rope of thick metal, just as a Grand Elder ascended the steps and joined the scene. He wore a trailing formal robe, as though he were merely here to conduct a divine ceremony. A wide bowl and broad knife was in his hands.

Tear his wings. Collect his lifeblood. Section his body.

His pride would not allow him to move.