by Min Thu Nov 06, 2014 10:36 pm
silence,
some things were simply not meant to be,
{written for the prompt: "god screamed"
A millenia ago the world chanted the song of creation and prayed to their god for their dreams and wishes. A hundred years ago the people praised a great sword-hero and feared the dark. A century ago they forgot about the Original One and sang the name of the she-champion who defeated a galaxy. A year ago they murmured stories of the same she-champion who went mad and of her cold body under the frozen Lake Verity. Today there was only dark and chills and the long-forgotten god who still breathed.
The Original One breathed along before the universe came.
The universe simply hadn't caught up with it yet, it told itself, and just maybe, maybe, maybe he would believe it, this time. It had all the time in the world, it created the very guardian of time, of course it had time. Of course it had time and it would wait until the silence broke and it's children cheered again and offered their sacrifices to appease it. It would wait, it reminded itself, because a go must be patient.
When the universe was created, its shards became this Plate.
The day passed and it still waited. It willed itself to be patient. For a god must be patient, benevolent, tireless, caring-- it must wait for it's children. All of it's children, it's blood and kin. The ones that fought and the ones that killed and especially the ones that were long locked away from their very worlds. It would wait for them, no matter the cost.
The power of defeated giants infuses this Plate.
On the third day the bitter she-champion visited it. With eyes that twinkled like stardust and veins that pulsed with every tick. She sat in front of it, sneered, and laughed, laughed, laughed.
"Look at you, all alone. I thought you would've lost your mind, already." A foolish remark, because a god must be set in stone and cherishing and perfection. She scowled. "A sad excuse for a god, I think."
It refrains from it's urge to snap the she-champion like a twig. Instead it turns away and wills silence once more. After all, the she-champion's words are false. It has many children, children that love it and it loves back. Followers of all kind who would kill to be with the god. It was the epitome of divinity.
Two beings of time and space set free from the Original One.
It can hear the clangs of metal and roars of hate. They are fighting again, it realizes, and they fail once again to visit it. Sometimes it wonders why it waits for such unruly children--it feels time being ripped--and why two concepts that go so naturally together quarrel so much. So long since their last visit, the god wonders when they will come back. After all, it loves them, it created them, surely they will come.
Surely it's patience will bear fruit, it reassured itself. They will visit their purveyor soon--space is crumbling--it is sure of it.
Three beings were born to bind time and space.
At least the fae visit it, it thinks. It sat quiet in it's home with insurmountable knowledge, burning emotions, vengeful willpower--omnipotent. That word is chanted in it's head, omni, omni, omni, and it gives it solace. For it is omnipresent and it realizes that it does not need visits from it's children, because it is everywhere.
The pixies may not be physically near but it's concepts are always with it, the god knew, and that was enough to count as a visit. Though this did not apply to it's first two children, the awful lack of time and space in this realm, it did not mind. It was always there. Always, always, always.
Two make matter, and three make spirit, shaping the world.
Omni, omni, omni, omni, o m n i-- it cannot get the word out of it's head. It is omnipotent. It is omniscient. It is omnificent, all-creating. It created time and space and life,
But why does no one visit it? The Hallowed Halls of it's home had grown too quiet, there were no more prayers. No more dreams. No longer did it hear the quiet frantic praying of maidens. No longer did it hear the chanted omens of prophets. No longer did it feel the presence of it's very children.
For something so holy, so divine, it felt so forgotten.
The powers of Plates are shared among Pokémon.
On the seventh day it reminded itself, again, that is it omnipresent. It does not need visits. It does not need company. It loved it's children, it's children loved it. But without fail the she-champion appeared again with the same bitter smile and the same cruel laugh and she scowled, scowled, scowled.
"Pathetic," she spat. "Weak." It turns slowly to meet the she-champion's eyes. It raised a single, cervine leg.
This time, it snapped the girl like a twig. Again, there is silence.
The rightful bearer of a Plate draws from the Plate it holds.
Time does not exist in the Hallowed Halls. Every day is an era, every minute is century. But everything goes by so fast and it waits, waits, waits for someone, anyone, but it has been long forgotten and it's name has been lost to the years. It does not realize the prayer slips messily pasted against it's stairs, the dusted scrawling of priests long dead. The blood smeared beneath it, the earth it had silenced. (and the body of a she-champion that it once knew,)
The aftershocks were always the most painful. It breathed again, alone. And then it screamed.
(Today the living whispers stories of their deaf god, and the rotting world that they wander.)
