In the endlessly growing, burning, spreading and regrowing forest created, destroyed and recreated by The Goddess of the Unwanted, it was once again time to execute a part of the plan devised by the assortment of deities residing in the realm. Though recent events had thrown a wrench into the gears, almost all of them still believed in their shared goal – which may well have been the only thing they actually agreed on, but it was enough to hold them together. on the small clearing the deities convened in while not working on their own duties, three thrones had been created for the court to gather. The first throne, a simple seat of roughly cut stone arranged in a way that wasn’t even that comfortable to sit in, but fulfilled its purpose. A rather simplistic depiction of the sun had been carved into the surface of the slab functioning as the backrest, hinting at the occupant of the seat. Though it appeared empty, the presence of the sun itself in the sky confirmed that the most powerful member of court was indeed there – giving it much of its credibility.
The second throne, even less comfortable-looking than the first, was made out of spikes of iron, molten and bent to shape. In the presence of The Goddess of Joy, the metal glowed with a bright red and orange hue and radiated enough heat to burn the flowers around it. Because of her recent actions, the goddess herself was permanently tied to her seat with ropes meticulously made from strands of long silvery hair. Though appearing thin, the ropes had proved more than sufficient to hold still the mourning deity and withstood her fire just fine.
The third throne, or rather, a chunk of an ancient aureun structure was brightly lit up with patterns of blue energy. Beside it laid an inanimate husk of a simulacrum by the name of Spirit, whose curse had proven rather tricky to dispel. On the chunk of stone sat an amalgamation of stone, metal and flesh. The Prince of Life, a fairly new divine entity compared to the other two. Formed from a broken-down simulacrum and a seed of life that had been abandoned in the mortal lands, he now acted as the temporary speaker for the court until Sylvia would feel more cooperative once more.
These three divine beings now acted as The Court of Sunlight. Together they pressed for information from deities whose purpose had become unclear, attempted to convince lost gods to once more embrace the mortals they were supposed to represent. Though two of its members were not that revered among the all too vast collective of deities, the third one more than made up for it and allowed the court to summon those much more powerful than either Sylvia or Prince of Life.
One of such deities stood before them right then, a proud and slender figure. Clad in fabrics woven from precious metals by the ancient muses and their chosen mortals, donning a crown of silver atop his long gray hair. His long, pointed ears were hardly weighed down by the heft amount of jewelry attached to them. The obnoxiously noble posture allowed him to look down on the court despite being hardly taller than most mortal people. Not hiding his annoyance over having been forced into this unkempt forest from the halls of silver he lived in, he seemed already prepared to turn the situation into a brawl.
“Ohol-Sumska. The Sire of Elves.” The Prince of Life finally addressed their guest. “A truly ancient one.”
“Yes, yes. Why have you nobodies summoned me here? I’ll be merciful and allow you a chance to explain yourself before I leave – through you, if need be.” The elven god sighed and gestured for the prince to speak quickly.
“You stand there, accused of abandoning your charge. You brought forth the elven kind, which now suffers unguided and without your boon. The old elven empires have crumbled, save a few, and each generation falters faster than the one before. When I walked as a mortal, it was not unheard of an elf to reach a thousand years of age, now a third of that is an achievement. What possible reason do you have for your inaction? For allowing their decay?” The prince did as he was asked and spoke briefly.
Ohol laughed coldly. “I created a proud species, unrivaled in all aspects by other mortals. With my blessings they spread and built up their silver towers and cities in great forests. I don’t see that species in what you call ‘elves’ now. They’re nothing but misbred mutts. Even the royal houses have allowed the lesser people into their midst. I abandoned them because they do not deserve my boons, because they abandoned me.”
The prince nodded. “So, the elves abandoning the misguided sense of superiority you instilled in them is the reason? The empires crumbled because other mortals surpassed them, and the ones that remain are those that accepted their equal standing among the others. Elves are still praised as steadfast protectors of nature, as wise and generous leaders, even without you – despite of you.” He argued. “You have had every opportunity to see the virtues they possess and reconnect with you lost children, but have not done so.”
“Have not, will not.” Ohol grinned and spread his arm in a challenge, asking what the fledgling god was going to do about it.
Suddenly, Sylvia let out a mocking chuckle.
“And what amuses you so, little one?” The elven god spoke down to the goddess.
“A worthless, rotten deadbeat like you has been allowed free rule for eons, your creations held aloft by others despite your failure as their sire. Even when your head is torn from that crown, what you made will still thrive in your absence.” She snickered defeatedly. “But try as I might to right the wrongs I once did, what little good I’ve achieved is doomed to vanish. Do you not think that is worth a laugh? If for nothing else, then just to mock the fates that seem to push us around without reason or care. Perhaps they too, should abandon their post as you have? Yet, your persisting existence regardless of your failings does make me wonder if becoming whole, my old self once more, would be rewarded in a similar fashion?”
Ohol rolled his blood red eyes. “Spare me of your drivel. Are we done here? I care more for the nap I was having than for this little judgement of yours. Father of Light or not.”
“And it is so that you have chosen to not take charge of what you’ve let go of?” The Prince of Life confirmed. “Then what purpose do you serve? I think none.”
“None.” Sylvia agreed with a chuckle.
The elven god snapped his finger and produced a musecrafted bow of peerless quality and might from thin air. The string a single strand of his own hair, the limbs supposedly from the mother grove itself and silver fittings from the bottom of the earth to bind it all together. Many of the mighty beasts from before time hand been hunted with said bow, and the skills of its wielder had not grown rusty since. “Enough of this!”
Before he had the chance to conjure up an arrow for his weapon, the forest darkened and the three thrones before him vanished. The sunny sky stepped aside and revealed a field of stars presided over by the moon, as Ciel made his presence known.
“Our judgement has passed.” The Prince’s voice echoed from some unseen pocket of the plane. “You had your chance to convince us with words and deeds. May your luck be better with The Midnight Tribunal.”
On the clearing with Ohol-Sumska now stood two beings, both more terrifying than the other, even to a god. Nirmaata, once last of the muses, currently the deity reigning over crafting and inspiration, her dark fur blending into the night perfectly, creating an illusion of a white porcelain mask floating above a set of robes – and a cat. The glowing green eyes of Acacia were by far the brightest thing around, but looking into them was far worse than peering into the darkness, even for a god.
Preparing to take a shot at one of the two if they so much as looked at him with anything but immense respect, Ohol was suddenly in a much more talkative mood. “Is this the tribunal of yours? A moth, a fading twig and an old seamstress?”
“Lefofa…” Nirmaata spoke, ignoring the insult. “Yes… Lefofa was her name. A peerless maker of bows and arrows, the muse who created that weapon for you. It was she who armed Alba in his eternal fight against Ciel, the maker of arrows that created the stars, and the ones that later felled Mer. Recovering one of her creations is a great honor, even for one such as myself.”
“Then you must pry it from my dead hands, beast.” Ohol said, losing much of the wind in his sails once the idea of actually having to test his mettle against a muse began dawning on him.
“I will not, it will be handed to me once you are gone and forgotten.” Nirmaata stated calmly.
“So is it you that I have to face, shrubbery?!” The elven god barked at the spriggan, clearly becoming more and more agitated by the moment.
Acacia flopped onto the patch of flowers beside them. “I am not a part of this tribunal, not quite yet anyway. My part today is observing a potential pupil of mine.”
Ohol let out a nervous chuckle. “Wha… what can a spriggan like you possibly teach to anyone here?”
“To hunt, to kill… To feast upon gods!” Acacia laughed menacingly as a mist began rolling in from the forest, reducing visibility to only a few meters and leaving Ohol alone in the darkness as the hunt began.
Occasional friendly sparring competitions amongst gods weren’t that rare, especially so among those who no longer concerned themselves with the mortals they were supposed to keep watch over and simply enjoyed the perks off godhood instead – but from the moment it began, he could tell this was not the case here. The menacing aura of whoever, or whatever he was contesting with made it clear that someone was not wandering out of those woods again. He immediately recognized the disadvantage he was in, outside of his own realm and in the other deity’s home, but he was no pushover. These disadvantages, the mist and the unknown terrain, were hardly a hurdle for someone like him. He could shoot a thread through the eye of a needle from across planes of existence, unleash a volley of arrows capable of leveling cities or a singular strike powerful enough to turn a mountain into a crater – what chance would some unknown petty god of some trivial aspect have against someone like him?
Then, before he had the chance to even get that far into the trees, he saw someone small in stature stand in the mist, mostly hidden by it but still visible as a silhouette in the moonlight. Something about the sight caused a moment’s hesitation in him, paused him for just a second with a thought. Was this other god intentionally squandering their advantages by just standing there because they didn’t need them? Could it really be possible that The Sire of Elves was so outmatched by whatever this was that he wasn’t even considered a threat? A chill ran down his spine, something which he had not felt since his own ascension, and it woke him up to the obvious solution of losing an arrow towards the figure. In a mere blink of an eye, an arrow of silver and crystal glass formed in his hand as he pulled on the bowstring and released it. The immense power of the bow was clear from the crack the arrow made as it reached its top speed, and then again as it hit its mark with a thump more akin to a building collapsing than a mere arrow hitting anything.
But it was for naught, all it achieved was a small stumble in the other god’s stance as it hit them directly into the forehead and stuck there. The arrow that would have erased most beings out of existence was stopped with little effort and Ohol was forced to watch in horror as the god pressed the rest of the arrow into its own head rather than tore it out. With the arrow dealt with, the god turned back to Ohol, locked eyes with him and grinned. Their expression was not visible thanks to the moonlight making it through the mist, but because it was darker than the night itself. Staring into the vacuous eyes that silently mocked him awakened a long-buried feeling in the elven god – dread. In those eyes he saw the end of his existence, the final time a traditionalist elf spoke out his name, the moment his altars were buried by collapsing roofs and eroded by weather, the embers of the fire that turned into ashes the final tome with his name inscribed in its pages. None of this had happened yet, of course, but he now knew they would all come to pass. His abandoned creations would live on as orphans, and be none the wiser for it – perhaps even better off, should someone else take on his mantle. The fact that this small, diminutive figure in the fog invoked such fear in him angered Ohol greatly, but just as he was about to shake off his momentary stupor and press the attack he had started, the mocking grin faded out of his view, leaving him alone in the forest once more.
Did you know this story is from Royal Road? Read the official version for free and support the author.
Attempting to retrace his steps back to the clearing, but failing to do so either because there no longer was a clearing to return to, or because he had gotten lost in the strange forest. He vigilantly stayed on alert for the smallest hint of movement in the darkness as he snuck through the mist. Each branch gently grazing his shoulder and the snap of a twig in the distance was responded to with an arrow in that general direction, never hitting anything – which was a definite cause for worry, as each one should have cleared an acre of forest by cleaving through trees, but all of them simply disappeared into the mist. After each step he was ready to give up and lay down his arms, and would have done so if it wasn’t for the anger formed from the realization that he was acting like a terrified prey despite being one of the greatest hunters to ever exist – or was he? Stopping to think about it, he couldn’t point out a single great hunt he had performed, all he knew was that he knew how to hold the bow in his hand, how to shoot with it, how to hit his mark without a failure. He knew the ins and outs of tracking, the behaviors and habits of magnificent beasts none had hunted before. Yet, he was unsure if those skills had ever been tested anywhere.
The supposed hunter of great beasts continued desperately trying to find the way back to the clearing, as if that would somehow provide safety. A few steps farther he stopped to think – Safety from what? What was he running from and why? He glanced at the bow in his hand and remembered giving one to a being much like him, but lesser. In fact, there had been many of them. They had all looked up to him and he had in turn taught them what he knew of the world and skills to deal with the horrors it contained. He remembered being proud as spires of glimmering stone were built deep inside forests, as those people he had taught became the height of civilization with the skills learned from him.
His cautious steps turned into hurried ones and then into leaps as he ran as fast as he could, barely avoiding the trees and getting scratched by branches. As he ran either deeper into the forest or out of it, he couldn’t quite recall, he thought of people he had seen at some point. Tall, beautiful and full of grace, their ears strangely pointed. He recalled them praising and worshiping someone grand, but couldn’t quite put his finger on the name but he could have sworn he had heard it a few times somewhere.
The man made a sudden stop in the never-ending forest and looked around, unsure where he was and why. He stared at the bow in his hand with a frown on his face. Its weight felt unwieldy and the grip unfamiliar. Not to mention that he didn’t even know how to shoot one, nor had he brought any arrows along. Not knowing what to do, he sat down and waited for a long time, until there was no one there anymore.
Vilja wiped her mouth on the sleeve of her robe as she stepped out of the forest, earning a rather annoyed stare from the muse who had painstakingly made the clothes. The mist quickly disappeared and allowed the moon and stars to light up the clearing unobstructed.
“Didn’t take long, huh?” Acacia chuckled, sounding a bit disappointed, no doubt having expected a proper scrap.
“Yeah… he made it maybe ten meters into the forest, shot me once and I ended it then and there.” The Goddess of the Unwanted and Forgotten pointed at the crack in the ashen skin of her forehead, from which a few drops of black tar-like liquid had drained and left a dark trail across her face. “He was almost forgotten already, it’s easy with someone like that. Others have fought back much more.”
She placed the bow and crown she had taken from her prey into the muse’s eagerly awaiting hands and watched the ancient beast keenly inspect them, admiring the peerless handiwork of members of her kin that were long gone now. Each gem on the crown cut to perfection, and the ornate details on the bow so intricate that mortal eyes could barely appreciate their flawlessness. The silver of the crown dug from so far down that no lesser metals even existed there, so deep that it made the machine fortresses seem like adorable little dents in the surface, so deep that it was forged with the heat it still carried from the primordial forces raging within the earth. The bow did indeed contain the wood of the mother grove itself, and even Acacia appeared to have some reverence towards it. The muse Lefofa had once upon a time besieged the grove for the couple of splinters from the great tree that the spriggans had eventually agreed to give up. Something which the cat remembered clearly but would never admit to.
“Lefofa never had much sense for who to give her masterworks to.” Nirmaata sighed and carefully removed the strand of hair of a now forgotten god that worked as the bow’s string. She then reached over to Vilja’s head and plucked out one of the impossibly long strands from her silvery hair. With great effort, she managed to cut it to the correct length for the bow and restrung the weapon. “One day, perhaps, a worthy champion arises to wield this once more. I will hold on to it until such a being is found and a suitable name is given by you.” Nirmaata then slid the two artifacts into the seemingly limitless space inside the loose sleeves of her robes, and took out a small wooden chest, unusually simple for a legendary beast, and more befitting to be a toolbox of a cobbler.
“And?” The muse demanded once more from the goddess, holding out her razor-sharp talons.
After a moment, a look of realization appeared on Vilja’s face. “Oh! Shit, I forgot again! Give me a second.” She said, held up a finger and began coughing. After a few more violent gags and coughs, she spat out a dark, marble-like ball onto the grass. Picking it up and wiping it with her sleeve, earning another exhausted glare, she offered the orb to the muse.
“Graceful as ever.” Nirmaata commented and pinched the surface of the glossy ball with the very tip of her talons, pulling out a silvery thread. Pulling out more and more while spooling it around her talon, the muse worked until the orb simply vanished and she was left with a slightly larger ball off silvery yarn. Carefully opening the chest, Nirmaata placed it inside, among two dozen or so other threads of varying colors and shades, before closing the lid and hiding the chest into her sleeve.
Acacia yawned. “You folks sure get up to a lot, huh? I’m still puzzled by the reason behind all of this though. Why would a bunch of gods decide to cull their own? And furthermore, why do the others allow this? Surely this can’t be a secret to everyone anymore, you don’t just drag a bunch of gods off the map and not get some raised eyebrows at the next meeting – or whatever it is that you do.”
“It is the duty of a god to look after all that falls within their domain, they exist for naught but that one task, embodying it and nothing else. To achieve this, each one of us harvests from the great cycle and redirects the acquired might to the benefit of the mortal world, enriching it to recover its losses. Yet there are those who have grown lazy and fat in their positions, no longer tending to their flock but reaping the rewards of it to sustain their own existence. This, we can no longer allow – it is an act that results in naught but perpetual loss, decay.” Nirmaata explained the group’s mission more elegantly than Vilja would have. “Our sentiment is not an unpopular one, but it is spoken of in hushed tones. Some may object, but our mightier allies see to those that do, while it is up to us to carry out what needs to be done.”
The nature spirit fell silent for a moment as they thought about the mission. Passing by Vilja’s feet, the thorns scraped against the hard alabaster skin, both the spike and skin chipping off pieces from one another.
“The time for my ascension is still not quite here, my diet of deities has not quite yet caught up to me. So, while I will not yet join this cabal of yours, you have my attention with the suggestion that there are too many gods – quite frankly I couldn’t agree more!” Acacia teasingly chortled while sniffing the flowers littering the clearing. “Agree to my terms, and I will see to it that this whelp moves on from forgotten old gods to the prime cuts. I will hunt along when needed, step in should the situation become muddled… Mentor a mighty forest out of this sad thicket!”
“And your terms?” Vilja asked, expecting something outlandish.
The menacing chuckle of the spriggan turned into a full-blown laughter as the green energy within them flared. “For each nine preys I help you with, the tenth is for me to do as I please with. Trinkets and such I can leave in the forest, but their essence is mine.”
Vilja and Nirmaata glanced at each other and then up at the stars, as if waiting for an approval or objection, but received neither – which they took as a permission.
“We accept these terms.” The muse nodded.
“Splendid!” Acacia cackled. “Now return me to the grove at once! I tire of this false forest.”
Nirmaata took on the mission of dragging the spriggan back to the mortal realm and left Vilja behind to pick at her teeth and rest. Soon the night sky faded as Ciel returned to other duties, and left behind the reddish void that filled the sky while both of the major deities were too occupied to pay much attention to this particular realm. It would have been foolish to think that such major players only had their celestial fingers in this specific pie after all. With the disappearance of the night, the three thrones were once more revealed. Father of Light’s was empty as ever, and Prince must have had the Firstborn to deal with as both he and Spirit were already absent. This left behind the two deities that had originally combined their realms into one boundless forest.
“Just like the old times.” Vilja sighed. “Been a while with just us here, hasn’t it?” She sat down on the grass in front of the throne of iron, leaning against Sylvia’s legs.
The Goddess of Joy didn’t answer, only making a lazy attempt to struggle against the rope holding her still.
“We used to just laze around here. You sang beautiful stories about times so long ago that I can’t even comprehend it. I mostly chewed on things… but it was fun, wasn’t it?” The small goddess reminisced of a time that may well have been thousands of years ago because of the questionable way time worked for gods. “Things sure have gotten complicated since, and not in a good way.”
Sylvia still remained silent. After her outburst in the mortal world and Vilja finding out that she had been kept in the dark about some matters, The Goddess of Joy hadn’t said a word to her. Vilja read that as her being upset that she helped with restraining Sylvia, but at no point did she feel anger being directed at her.
“You know, there’s a part of me that wants nothing more than to chew through those ropes and see what happens. I don’t like seeing you like this and I like to think we’re still friends – or is that a bit too mortal of me?” Vilja lamented while poking a flower growing beside her.
“Those are some dangerous thoughts.” Sylvia finally said something in a defeated tone, not at all befitting of her.
Vilja smiled a bit after getting a response but didn’t turn to face Sylvia. “Yeah, I know. Nirmaata keeps telling me to not even talk to you, and definitely not trust you.”
“Nirmaata is very wise. You would do well to listen to her.” Sylvia quietly admitted.
Vilja’s silvery hair slowly wrapped around her friend’s legs. She knew exactly how wise the muse was, and that Nirmaata was without a doubt absolutely correct, but that didn’t mean she had to like it. She had pleaded for any answers to how she could help Sylvia from every other god she knew, but was always met with an awkward silence.
After a long pause in the budding conversation, she spoke up again. “Do you want me to free you? Even just for a little while. So that we can lay down in the flowers, and you can sing for me again?”
“More than anything, I wish to be freed. To flee and make those responsible for the death of my child feel the horrors the first gods had to shield mortals from. To force the world to watch so that none would dare to repeat their crimes.” Sylvia said, getting agitated from even just speaking about it. “But I do not want you to free me. The little part of me, unconsumed by rage, can not do that to you.”
“But I could easily keep you in bay if you actually tried to escape.” Vilja argued.
“But would you? Would you raise a hand to oppose me if I asked you to stand aside?”
Vilja’s hair wrapped tighter around the other goddess’ shins. “I… But would you ask that I do so?”
“Yes.” Sylvia admitted and gritted her teeth. “And that is why you must not even think of freeing me. Allow me to have this shred of sanity that I still keep with me.”
The Goddess of the Unwanted lowered her head and pressed it against her knees. Feeling awfully helpless despite being a literal god. She could obliterate and regrow the entirety of the forest around them with a flick of her wrist, claim countless mortal treasure with a snap of her fingers, force the entire histories of civilizations into obscurity with a moderately taxing thought, but she didn’t know how to help the one person who had prevented her from fading away as a mere copy of a soul, created by a magical trinket.
“Vilja…” The Goddess of Joy eventually whispered, attempting to sound as calm and kind as possible, as close to how she usually spoke. “Could you make me a promise? Fear not, it is not freeing me or some other dubious act… quite the opposite.”
Vilja sprang up from the ground and turned around to take Sylvia’s hand. “Yes! Anything, if it helps!”
Ushering forth a very faint smile, but the brightest she could, the kindest she could, Sylvia made her request. “My chosen one… Emilia… Thankfully she is out of my reach now, but she still possesses something I might one day aim to get for myself. So, promise me that you will protect her from what she can not face without me… promise me that you will protect her even from me, if that is what it comes to.”
“From… you?” Vilja uttered confusedly as her grasp on Sylvia’s hand faltered for a moment.
“Yes, though understand that if such a dark moment comes to pass, I will no longer be what you know me as, so heed not a word I say, allow me no quarter for trickery.” Sylvia explained with a hint of desperation in her tone. “Promise me this and I will sing for you one more time, bound to this throne and of matters none should sing of, but for you, I will sing.”