The strips of flesh congeal as their blood fills veins once more in a mockery of life. There is no skin to cover vitality. What need has God of flesh to conceal His overwhelming power made manifest once more in the world? There is no stain strong enough to paper over His divine light. There is no pathogen strong enough to infect His undying flesh.

His implacable will is returned once more to the undying body of a mortal. He is returned once more to the creation abandoned eons ago. There is no skin to block the blinding red light shining as a dawn far brighter than any star could hope. There is no shield of hands to block the eyes of gods now blinded by His radiance. They could not hope to conceal themselves from Him.

The first of mortals falls broken to knees as the play-god of fire remains tall. Blood becomes powerless, rendered unable to control itself in the face of He who stands above it, the flesh whose veins were once rendered open to any who would dare wield their power. Needless to say, plant life has no power over those given dominion over the soil— to He who once gave dominion to those now overrunning His creation.

A red star descends from heaven, and all bodies fall under its weight. Some try to stand, but none are able, save the lone… thing outside reach to the six. A hole has been punctured in the fabric of the world, and even as a tiny shadow of a god this vessel is more than able to sense it. But it doesn’t matter. The thing outside Him is not relevant in this moment.

Amanda feels herself stretch almost beyond breaking as time loses meaning under the weight of a god cohabiting the broken flesh of a mortal, a vessel, a shattered collection of ribbons of bone and sinew stitched together under His divine power, being not so much the mending of a vessel as the destruction of all the things once limiting her as she would retain self despite this overwhelming feeling of total chaos, of being thrown to the winds of a void outside time, of being lost without reprieve in a see of memories stretched out over her own immortality intermixed with tens of thousands of millions of centuries stretched out into nothing as a thousand worlds and ten thousand worlds and fifty trillion thousand worlds are established and forgotten, seeds planted and left alone; a quintillion returns to mortal flesh to see the garden pruned, fall to ash, teeth consume all flesh, vines overrunning, perfect harmony, and an infinity of other possibilities.

The fate of this world is as yet undecided, and at once already beyond salvation. So many choices have led to this point, and the bodies of mortal gods would continue to strain against His divinity? They forget themselves and yet He would allow them to rise. He would allow Zorvilon, once faithful flame of the divine creator, at once His right hand and the man wielding the dagger that once drove Him, blood dripping, from this plane to rise once more and strike down the one remaining faithful.

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Amanda’s tongue quivers in place but at once her mind is strained beyond breaking. What meaning is there in the death of a flower? It has been pruned so new life may emerge. What meaning is there in a gardener caring for a single flower in a field of ten-thousand? Care is taken on the whole, but the fate of an individual blossom is left to fate and to chance. What meaning is there in saving something that drove out salvation so long ago? Over an infinity of reincarnations nothing remains the same, and yet through all things only one constant emerges.

Zorvilon extends his palm and a plume of orange sparks consume the kneeling Anderson. His flesh chars but does not burn. His power strains but is not consumed.

Amanda considers the new form outside time. Is this even her anymore? All the memories are retained, and yet all her attachments at last are severed. So many lovers, friends, all left to rot. So many attachments, bonds, familiarities, projects, started and finished, abandoned and returned to. All is meaningless against the great infinity of their sum.

So much power and for what? To try and love someone that might remain by her side? To love someone so easily willing to sacrifice those who have done him no harm, who have nurtured her own body damaged by his carelessness?

Anderson’s face begins to melt, and yet he does not move.

It’s not the first village brought to slaughter by her eagerness for love. What difference does it make?

His hands begin to tremble as the once firm Left Hand of God begins to falter. Yaldabaoth is right there, and yet stands fixed in place. Devotion looks to its object and sees itself abandoned.

As Anderson’s hand rises from the ground to strike at the pretend god of fire so arrogant as to strike at his creator’s own flesh, Yaldabaoth, too, raises His hand. Light flashes from His palm and mist pours into the Left, restoring him to what he once was in the moments prior.

All the weariness of a losing battle, all the fatigue of fighting alone for so many years, all the weight of time and burden of carrying so many faithful is lifted. Tears stream from the face, and Yaldabaoth turns aside, looking to the two forced to bellies and unable to pick themselves up without burning more energy than the effort would be worth.

No words are exchanged as the creator’s eyes pass them by. They do not thank Him for His mercy.

Yaldabaoth disregards them once more, and turns to face the rear. David has come to greet the maker he would destroy, to smother the God who once would protect this world. Yaldabaoth regards His floating mirror donned in white skin, absent the resemblance of flesh. There is God without skin and man without resemblance to his kind. There is at once the gardener and the worm poised to slit His neck.

And yet to the worm it appears this is a winning battle.