The seven [Shards of Aolyn the Deathless] were gone, probably teleported away by the deity of sunburns. In their place stood an odd-looking figure, likely one of that same god’s emissaries come to strike her down. Melpomene could have mistaken the person for a Human if not for the sheer amount of divinity and magic radiating off of them.
It was bad enough Sol always deus-ex-machina’d a win at the last second, but did he have to do it before she even finished her final battle? Melpomene ground her teeth at being denied not only a well-earned victory, but even a dramatic death! Fuck this Sol-sent bastard!
“That’s not who I am,” the newcomer said.
He — Melpomene didn’t know how she knew the figure’s preferred pronouns, but she somehow did — wore strange brown pants of a fabric she couldn’t recognize.
“It’s corduroy.”
His collared shirt was a strange red and black plaid affair that buttoned in the front. The shirt was tucked into the pants to show off a corded belt with a black buckle, and the pants themselves were tucked into a pair of faux-rugged looking boots.
“Yeah, they’re not really boots. They’re just fashionable shoes styled to look like boots.”
He wore a scarf as if he were cold, but his sleeves were rolled up, revealing ritualistic tattoos on his icy skin. The tattoos themselves were strange, depicting things that looked Human, but with weird hair and eyes.
“It’s anime, but you should know I only got these ironically.”
His wrists were adorned with braided cord. Over his eyes were thick black frames that could have held light-bending glass, but they were empty. His ears were pierced with silver rings and counterfeit gems. His hair was long on top, but completely shaved on the sides.
“It’s called an undercut. I don’t know if I’m going to stick with it, though.”
Why was Sol’s emissary speaking as if he could read her mind? Gods and other divine beings should only be able to—
“—read the minds of their followers? Yeah. Because, like I said, I’m not Sol.” He casually stuck out a fist, and Melpomene somehow knew he wanted her to bump it with a fist of her own. She approached cautiously and complied with the mysterious deity’s implied request.
“It’s called a fistbump,” the deity explained, “and please stop thinking of me as ‘the deity.’ Thought you’d figure it out by now, but I now recognize how rude and narcissistic that assumption is. As an apology, allow me to introduce myself.”
He took a step back and bowed ironically. She knew it was important she perceived the bow as ironic, but it was performed with such grace that—
“Nope! I’ll stop you there. Ironic is good enough,” he said, rising. “I’m Aolyn the Deathless. Nice to meet you Melpomene, and thanks for the resurrection.”
…
……
……….?
“That’s impossible,” she declared when her brain finished restarting.
“Apparently not.”
Before Melpomene knew how to respond, Aolyn turned his piercing blue gaze to the room’s only other occupant.
Morgan Dragonsbane was doing her best impression of wind, trying to slink out of the room unnoticed, but it didn’t help that her eyes and wounds still glowed with gold primordial energy. The god’s gaze must have triggered some fight or flight response, because no sooner had his gaze landed on the [Omnimancer] than she reconjured the armaments of the [Planar Avatar] spell and dashed toward her new enemy.
She lashed out with a double thrust, both her blades of stone and air crackling with golden lightning as they aimed for his heart. Instead of stopping the blow, Aolyn just watched as both blades vaporized a hole in his shirt and rebounded off his skin.
Morgan was thrown back by the recoil, cracking the enchanted stone wall as she slammed into it. Her armor shattered and her blades disappeared. She coughed out blood as all the air was forced out of her lungs, and the violet glow of the wound over her eye grew in intensity. She fell to the floor as her golden glow disappeared, its power exhausted to keep her alive.
Aolyn the Deathless hadn’t even raised a finger, but Morgan was already on death’s door.
Any other mortal would have despaired, begged for their life, tried to run, babbled like an idiot, shit their robe, or any combination of those very reasonable reactions, but what Morgan did next earned her Melpomene’s eternal respect.
Morgan spat out more blood. Her magic was gone, but there was a fire in her eyes as she raised her gaze to meet Aolyn’s. “It seems fate has ordained that here I shall die” she began, mustering the strength to find her feet, “but fate can lick my ass!” Her yell was gravel and blood, the cry of a warrior. The spellcaster raised her fists. Her muscles, even unaugmented by magic, flexed impressively through her torn and charred robe. A mad gleam flashed through her fiery eyes. “I came to kill a god, and I’m not leaving until I take your head, or you take mine!”
She charged, a mere mortal throwing fists at a god.
“AAAAAAUGH!”
She punched at Aolyn’s face, but the god dodged by simply taking a step back. Morgan’s blow missed, and she fell forward, losing her balance. How she’d even found the strength to stand in the first place, Melpomene didn’t know.
Aolyn stepped forward and reached out his arms, but rather than finish off the [Dragonslayer], he gently caught her by the shoulders and helped her back to her feet. She reeled after he released his grip, but precariously maintained her balance.
After she steadied herself, she looked at Aolyn with a complicated expression, probably lightheaded and confused as to why she was still alive despite twice attacking a god. Before either she or Melpomene could ask a question, Aolyn spoke first.
“That might be the single most badass way anyone has ever threatened to kill me,” he said, sounding touched. “If you’re not doing anything after this, could we grab dinner? I haven’t eaten the local cuisine in…” he trailed off and turned to Melpomene. “How long has it been since I was shattered?”
The author's content has been appropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.
“Not sure exactly. Fifty-four generations of [Daemon Autarchs], so probably a bit under six thousand years.”
“If it’s alright with you, Melpomene, could I read your soul’s memories? I’d like to see what I missed these past few millennia.”
“Um, go for it, your godliness.”
“Just call me Aolyn. This may tickle a bit.” His eyes flashed purple and Melpomene felt something like a thousand feathers wiggling against her soul. She stifled a laugh, but it was over in an instant.
“Ah. I see,” Aolyn said, his eyes returning to their blue hue.
He turned back to Morgan, who now looked more confused than bloodthirsty. He snapped his fingers and her tattered robe knit itself back together. Her wounds all disappeared except for the violet glowing scar over her eye, and she seemed completely renewed. “So Morgan…” he began, nervously scratching the back of his head. “Dinner?”
“What sort of trickery is this?” she asked, narrowing her eyes. She didn’t ready any spells, but her muscles were tensed and she was clearly on edge.
“I’m sorry,” Melpomene interrupted, shrinking down into her previous form, her metal feathers sliding tighter together as she removed the mask from her face, “but you’re Aolyn the Deathless? No offense, but…” She trailed off, gesturing vaguely in Aolyn’s direction. “You don’t exactly look the part.”
“I’ve changed,” he said, a vacant, horrified look seeping into his gaze. “What may have been a mere six millennia for you was for me an infinity. In the void of nonexistence, there is no space, and there is no time. There is only you and the nameless, faceless forever.
“I spent one eternity in despair. I spent another in shame for the poor Daemons I left behind. A third I spent in madness, though perhaps I’d been mad all along.
“It wasn’t until my fourth forever, in the midst of an existential crisis, that I realized an existential crisis was a silly thing to have for one who lacked existence. I laughed into the void, and the void laughed back.”
Aolyn glanced in Melpomene’s direction, but he wasn’t looking at her. His eyes were elsewhere, regarding a horror only he could see.
“Only then did I realize the absurdity of it all. There was no reason for my suffering. There was no reason for my joy. There was no reason for anything, for why should there be? Reason and logic, those fickle lovers that they are, only exist because they tell us they do. They are a question begged, their answer in their premise. They are themselves what they hate — a fallacy — but worse still, they are a paradox.
“If they are true, they cannot prove themselves, but to cease existence because of that contradiction, wouldn’t that be to follow their own flawed tenets?”
Melpomene stepped away. She stole a glance at Morgan, and the other mortal looked just as frightened as her. “S-Sorry, but I don’t understand?” the autarch asked.
“And neither do I!” he laughed. “For how can anyone understand anything in the face of forever? But that’s besides the point. You asked why I look as I do, and here is my answer…”
He took a deep, calming breath, and went on, less manically than before. “When I realized the paradox of logic, I also touched onto the nature of duality. There can only be ‘existence’ because there is also ‘void.’ The two do not contradict each other, but are actually each the other’s proof. As there can be no reason and logic without paradox and fallacy, there can be no ‘everything’ without a ‘nothing.’ Ends exist because of endlessness, shape because of shapelessness, form because of formlessness…
“And suddenly, due to my revelation, I was the void. Because I was nowhere, I was everywhere. I was the empty pillar upon which rested each and every one of the myriad firmaments. But because I was now everywhere — that I even had a now and a where at all — I was no longer the void. I was Paradox. I was Fallacy. I was the deathless god who had been killed.
“And so the void did the only illogical thing it could, and isekai’d me into a teenager’s body in another world called ‘Earth.’ I got a liberal arts degree, and then I died again when a tru—“ He cut the word off, fear briefly flashing in his eyes. He cleared his throat and continued. “A vehicle-that-must-not-be-named struck me down, and I reappeared here, resurrected by you.”
He smiled, the madness and fear in his eyes gone. “So thanks again for all that.”
A million questions flashed through Melpomene’s mind. She didn’t know what to ask first, so she blurted one out at random.
“What’s ‘getting a liberal arts degree?’” she asked lamely.
“It means I’m better at identifying problems, but I feel less equipped to handle them.”
“This changes nothing,” Morgan said. “I was contracted to make sure the Shattered God stayed shattered. Now that you’ve been put back together, it’s my job to break you apart, no matter how futile my attempt may be. When a witch of the [Wicked Coven] makes a pact, they don’t break it.” Lightning began crackling all over her, and she assumed a fighting stance. “I only ask that you make it quick, Aolyn the Deathless.”
“If you want a fight to the death, Melpomene is probably your best bet, but before you do that, I assume that your contract is with Sol?”
Morgan scrunched her eyebrows. “In a manner of speaking. It’s with the [Solarian Courts].”
Aolyn snorted. “He’s still calling it that? What a nerd. This is why gods shouldn’t exist.”
“Aren’t… you a god?”
“Yeah, but I’m culturally atheist. Anyway, I’ll get you out of that contract in a jiffy. Be right back.”
As suddenly as he appeared, he was gone. He left with an azure flash of light, leaving behind the two warriors who just a few minutes earlier had been trying to kill each other.
An awkward silence passed between the two of them.
“So…” Melpomene began, “[Tier V] [Omnimancer] with the [Dragonslayer] keyword, huh?”
“Yes…?” Morgan raised an eyebrow, suspicious.
“Impressive. How’d you get it?”
“What, my class?”
“Uh, no. I meant the keyword, but if you want to talk about your class, that’s cool too.”
Morgan scoffed. “If I tell you about that, would you tell me how you became a [Liege]?” The way she said it sounded derisive, implying that both of their requests for information were absurd, but Melpomene couldn’t figure out what was absurd about either of their questions. Maybe it was a cultural difference?
Confused by the [Dragonslayer]’s tone, Melpomene decided not to overthink it and just take her words at face value. “Sure! I could even show you how to do it if you want.”
Morgan blinked. “You will?”
----------------------------------------
Sol hated council meetings, but at least the food was good. He teleported from his heavenly realm to the moon exactly thirty seconds after he received the emergency summons — late enough to communicate his disintrest, but not so late as to be rude — but rather than go straight to the meeting room, he apparated beside the maître d’hôtel of Luna’s creatively named Lunar Pantheon.
“Send the braised pig, a charcuterie board, and a bottle of the house red to the council room. One of the desserts too, something I haven’t had yet, if you would.”
“Of course, your divinity,” the [Tier S] [Harbinger of Madness] replied from behind their podium of imported terran marble, their tentacles rubbing against each other to mimic humanoid speech. Sol always detested his sister’s pets, but at least they were diligent.
Sol tipped the creature a [Minor Token of Sol] and was on his way. He walked at a casual pace, crossing the hundred yards between him and the council room in two steps. He burst through the double doors while speaking, certain that he already knew what the meeting was going to be about.
“The [Brackets] stay!” he shouted. “If Treskur called this meeting to get rid of them, I’ll motion we transition to [[Double Brackets]]!”
“This meeting isn’t about that,” came a voice Sol thought he recognized but couldn’t place. He didn’t bother identifying the speaker. The hundred-or-so members of the council were always changing, so if he didn’t immediately recognize who spoke, they probably weren’t important.
“Then what could be so urgent that it couldn’t wait until the next balance patch meeting? It’s only twenty years away.” He walked past most of his fellow council members on the way to his seat across the room, failing to notice the stiff expressions on their faces.
When he got to his seat — more of a throne, really — he frowned. “You’re in my chair, new guy.”
“‘New guy?’” the oddly dressed humanoid deity parroted, not shifting from his lounging position atop Sol’s throne. His voice was the same one that Sol failed to place. “That’s no way to greet an old rival, is it?”
Sol opened his mouth to tell the upstart godling to go do something anatomically impossible for a mortal, but then it clicked.
For one long second, the deity-filled room was silent. A bead of sweat formed on Sol’s brow, then immediately evaporated since his body was formed entirely of superheated plasma.
“A-Aolyn?”