by Elise Kova
Creation wanted to object. But silence was the only thing he was able to provide.
Destruction—Zoria, the woman who was his true companion—slowly shook her head. Pain welled in her eyes and he was now too far to wipe away the shining drops, like so many extinguished stars, from their corners. She turned and ran. He wanted to chase after her, wanted to stop her from being outside of arm’s reach ever again. But he couldn’t move. Her words cemented him in his spot.
His affections for her seemed so complete. So then why couldn’t he object to them being solely by design?
What was the true nature of his feelings?
What was the true nature of who he really was? Not just in relation to her, but to himself?
Seven
There was no telling how quickly or how far Destruction ran, but Creation felt the distance like a physical tear, his chest splintering beneath the strain. After finally being near her, touching her, however brief, his very being went into withdrawal at the loss.
This torture kept him rooted in his spot, feeling the whisper of Destruction’s fading magic taunt him for being unable to follow.
At least, that’s what he told himself. Or rather, desperately tried to make himself believe.
If he was being honest, it was less the agony of her distance and more the truth in her words.
Despite his immense knowledge, Creation had nothing to counter her accusation.
They were meant to be together; he was literally made to be with her. But what stake did such a belief have if it had been merely implanted into his mind, body, and soul? What value were his feelings if they’d been fabricated by the gods with a vested interest in their relationship’s success?
The invisible link between Creation and Destruction vibrated with a distant pull, too taut to bear any more force. On reflex, Creation reached for it, with one hand towards the forest as the other dug tense fingers into the meat of his chest—right over his heart, as though to keep every last bit of her in, no matter how small.
Their separation grew too vast. The link snapped. Creation stumbled, his legs suddenly heavy, pulled down by the weight of exhaustion and grief.
Deep, deep into the very essence of his soul, Creation knew their mateship to be true. He knew. Her magic swirling and molding about his own should have been proof of their destiny.
But questions and doubts still spiraled.
He found his feet dragging him not in the direction of her desperate flee, but elsewhere. To where, exactly, he was unsure. He just knew that if he didn’t start moving, he would become rooted forever to this spot.
Creation headed in the opposite direction, for if she relented to be with him only because he gave chase, then their relationship would be as solid as air.
Minutes, hours, perhaps even days, he wasted wandering the forest. Mortal time meant nothing to him and he rarely bothered to count it.
Every now and then, he would reach for a sapling or a dying patch of greenery, trying to relish in the feel of their rebirth beneath his hand. But after learning his magic’s response to Destruction’s, after knowing what true power had felt like, it barely passed for contentment, let alone distraction.
Eventually, his ears picked up distant sounds of life, the forest parting way for a man-made clearing, a small village opening amidst forged earth. He heard something akin to celebration, chanting voices mixing with cacophonous music and natural clatter. He followed the noise, at the very least curious to find source of such jubilee.
Though mirth was particularly distasteful now, Creation took in the sights and sounds with an appreciative acceptance. Whoever was being celebrated right now must have been important, their presence gathering the entire village’s attention.
Creation shouldn’t have been surprised to find Light there.
Amidst a large crowd of villagers, their clothes timeworn and faces marred with grime, Light stood tall and welcoming, his embodiment amongst the mortals as pristine as his one amongst the gods. However, here, he had donned the illusion of flesh (still glowing).
It made sense that, in his state of turmoil, Creation had inadvertently followed a path directly to one of his creators and the greatest divine of them all. His soul yearned for solace in the hands that made him. Though, whether he was looking for assistance, understanding, or reassurance, he was still unsure.
As Creation approached the mortals, he heard awed chanting, voices young and old proclaiming their fidelity to the one they called “Zeus.” Though he was moderately aware of the various monikers attached to Light, this name was unfamiliar; perhaps Creation had been given less of an unending knowledge and instead more of an applicable one?
Light finally noticed his presence, his seemingly omnipotent gaze dragging lazily over his form as if he’d been expecting him. Perhaps he’d been aware of Creation’s wandering from the moment he’d left the glade. From the moment he’d—somehow, impossibly—failed at his singular purpose.
Through some inherent understanding, Creation followed the unspoken order to filter through the crowd to Light’s side. The villagers took him in with a similar sense of wonder, hands grasping for but not quite touching his golden tunic.
“Chosen of Zeus,” some whispered.
“Hair white like snow,” others observed. “Are you the God of Winter?” It seemed the mortals possessed a similar innate ability to identify divinities as the divine themselves possessed to recognize each other.
“He is no god,” Light announced. “But he is a well-loved son of mine and the Demigod of Creation.” Light held out a golden hand, motioning for Creation to approach.
“Son of Zeus,” one said. It seemed to catch like wildfire across the crowd until someone else uttered, “A prince of gods.” There seemed to be agreement toward that. “Prince of Creation.”
“While I have heard your prayers, it shall be the powers of my son that will give you what you desire.” Light turned to Creation. “Come, you shall assist me.”
Creation gave a small nod, and they began walking through the parted crowd of onlookers, all bowed with their foreheads against the dirt. In lieu of bringing up his concerns surrounding Destruction, Creation opted for the more immediate inquiry. “Do you not have followers who call you Ra?”
“Those who wish to worship at my feet are free to call me whatever they wish,” he replied, tone free of emotion, which Creation couldn’t decide if he was relieved or unnerved by. “Light, Jupiter, Zeus, Ra, the praises still reach my ears—all I need to do is listen. As easily as the words and actions of the gods and demigods beneath me.”
A chill ran down Creation’s spine; the iciness beneath his words might not have been noticeable to the mortal ears of the villagers following them, but Creation felt it like a chiding hand upon his shoulder.
“You know you were made for this,” Light offered simply, his eyes never leaving the mortals they passed. He paused from time to time, reaching out to lightly cup the faces of some, run his fingers through their hair, or brush a thumb across their foreheads, their temples. “She should have responded to your sway as easily as I can sense that you have responded to hers. Do not let her actions dissuade you.”
An involuntary flush rose to Creation’s cheeks. What Light was saying was truth, pure fact, and yet it left him feeling a bit breathless. Perhaps it was his new body’s reaction to his embarrassing failure. But at the memory of Destruction within his grasp, her nearly luminescent gaze as all-encompassing as her magic, he found he couldn’t lie.
Instead of bringing voice to these thoughts, however, he heard himself parroting on half-second delay, “I was made for her.”
At this, Light spared him another glance, an eyebrow raised. Under his calculating gaze, Creation wanted to fidget, possibly squirm, but he kept his face impassive and his shoulders square.
They came to a stop, and Light spoke louder, no longer just for Creation’s ears. “Loyal subjects, my son shall bless your fields, bring them to life once more.”
Creation looked ahead of them, noticing for the first time that they’d walked to the edge of town. There, sloping slightly, was a stretch of farmland gone barren. Creation could almost see the threads of life and possibility that had been torn apart.
Had Destruction run through here on her desperate flight?
His magic rose, as if trying to assist him in pushing the thought away. Creation brought up his hands with it, casting his essence across the fields. The yellowed grasses greened, and the hard soil became dark and rich—teeming with life again. But, that which was already growing and thriving, his magic did little for.
“Do you see, now?” Light asked.
“I do.” His magic responded best to things destroyed, ended. In every way, it had been designed to work with hers. The celebrations of the mortals lauding him as their prince faded. Instead, he heard Destructions words, harsh and bitter at the back of his mind:
You’re nothing more than a shell. You only feel what they designed you to.
“Yes . . . designed . . . but does that mean this bond between us . . . this connection . . .?” Is she right?
A flicker of emotion passed over Light’s face. Annoyance.
“You are but a tool, Creation,” he said, voice not quite angry, but close enough to have some of the nearest villagers recoiling in fear. Creation almost did the same; it took far more strength than he was aware he possessed to stand his ground. Especially as Light turned the full force of his glare on him. His voice carried the same debilitating authority as the magic radiating off him in waves, and Creation very nearly knelt in submission at the onslaught. “Just like you have shown here, this day, you are meant to follow orders and do as you were made.”
Much like Destruction’s words had left him frozen, Light’s ultimatum had his knees locking in place, tension holding his neck and spine in a stranglehold.
“Your very reason for existing, the only reason you have been gifted life at all, is to control and temper Destruction on behalf of the pantheon. This life, bestowed upon you with great mercy and benevolence by your makers, serves that single purpose alone. Nothing more.”
“He shall save us from the Demigod Zoria and her trail of destruction,” some of the mortals closest whispered.
Creation fought the objection that there was nothing, truly, to fear from Destruction. She was merely scared and alone. He had sensed much in her, but true malice wasn’t among them.
As his rage hadn’t just been nearly tangible, Light relaxed his shoulders and reached toward Creation’s tense frame. Strong fingers, warmed by their internal light, carded through his silver hair, letting it fall with a gentle touch over one of Creation’s wide-set eyes.
“What you feel, the power and temptation drawing you to her, is what you are meant to feel. Do not wander from it, or from my gaze and the warmth of the pantheon.” Light smiled, pulling away from Creation. Before truly washing his hands of the situation, however, he added, “Perhaps it would be wise of you to spend your time assuring that this life we bestowed upon you does not go to waste, rather than questioning it.”
Creation barely registered Light’s departure, most of the villagers following in his wake. Some stuck behind to offer Creation praise and thanks, or small gifts from their homes. He paid them no mind, removing himself from their presence the moment he had the wherewithal to do so. And even then, his movements were sluggish and directionless, feet dragging him back towards the forest.
You’re just doing what they command, Destruction’s words filled his head again, screeching like a murder of crows. You don’t feel anything.
You only feel what they require you to, she may as well have said.
You are but a tool, Creation. Light had done nothing to assuage his confusion and guilt, his steadily rising panic. What you feel . . . is what you are meant to feel.
It was because Creation’s mind was whirring and occupied that he didn’t register another godly presence until a hand had wrapped around his upper arm, yanking him into the cover of the forest’s edge.
The first thing he noticed was the tangle of black curls, and the next, a wolf’s huff as it poised protectively between their feet.
Hunt.
Before he could ask why she was also walking amongst the mortals, by this Aristonian forest specifically, she placed a calloused fingertip to his lips. Her eyes scanned his face, filled with emotions he couldn’t decipher. Though when she spoke, her voice was eerily calm.
“Follow me. I want to tell you something.” Hunt dropped her hand and turned away, already walking into the forest.
Creation glanced back toward the village; workers were already out in the fields, tending to the new life he’d sown. When he looked back at Hunt’s retreating form, she was already far enough away that he had to run to catch up. “Were you watching?” he asked once they were walking side by side.
“Yes.” Hunt replied without shame, navigating between the trees. “I’ve been watching you since you left.”
“Why?”
“I think the whole pantheon is watching you.” On that, Creation couldn’t object. He knew the importance of what he was trying to do, and it seemed only logical to think that others would be equally invested. “They’re all watching and waiting. Put all the stock of the world in Light’s plan for you.”
“Except for you.” Creation sensed the caveat in Hunt’s tone.
She nodded, reaching down to scratch her wolf tenderly between the ears. “I love my divine brothers and sisters, but I’m much more suited for going off and doing my own thing.”
Creation hadn’t known the woman long enough to say if such was true, so he took the statement at face value. Something in him seemed to resonate with her sentiment.
“I wish you well, Hunt.” He meant it, too. If she was a loner or one for the group, Creation had no reason to feel ill toward the goddess. “But I must go now and do what I am made for.” He took a step for the depths of the forest.
“Is that what you want?” Hunt moved in front of him, stopping his progress yet again.
“What?”
“I heard your questions down there. I know your doubts.”
“Light removed all of my doubts.” Creation wanted to say with conviction, void of all hesitation.
“You were told to have no doubts, just as you were told to go be with her for the sake of taming her.” She leveled her eyes with his. Creation searched the dark skin of her face, unblemished save for a sliver of silver in the shape of a crescent moon at the center of her forehead. “Is that how you want her? Tamed? Controlled? With you only by chase, or force, or sheer will? Is that how you want to live?”
No. Everything in Creation objected so vehemently to Hunt’s suggestion that even his magic rattled in protest. He restrained himself, whispering, “Of course not.”
A smile spread across Hunt’s lips, her white teeth peeking out from between them. “I thought not. Because you have sense, Creation, and the beginnings of what I’d dare call a mind. Just from the questions you ask, I know you’re not one who likes the idea of fighting against nature.”
“But I have no choice.” Light’s words were seared into his mind right alongside the god’s brilliance. He was made to be with Destruction. He was made to “tame her”—as Hunt would put it—for the sake of the world.
“Continue on with me.” Hunt turned, motioning for him to follow once more now that she seemed to trust he wouldn’t run off again. She began jogging along the forest’s edge, not even looking back to see if he was behind. The goddess didn’t have to. Creation only spent a second staring after Destruction’s path in debate before following.
He may not know what Hunt had planned yet, but he did know that he would take the excuse to prolong his chase of Destruction. It was a path he did not want to walk and would only do so by force. Hunt was showing him what he hoped was another way.
They tore through the woods just at the edge of the tree line and the hills that flanked them. Far behind them was the village
he had met Light within. For a long stretch there was nothing but plains and sloping hills.
Creation felt it before he saw it.
A pulsing energy, a crackling dissonance to the natural order of things. It wasn’t like Destruction’s magic—an acceleration of the inevitable breakdown of all life. No, this was more of a transformation of matter—twisted, frayed, and abused.
Hunt and Creation stopped at the top of a ridge overlooking yet another village in the valley below. Or what was left of it. This one had seen a horror that was new to Creation’s eyes—yet his being knew it all too well.
“Chaos,” he whispered.
“This is her work,” Hunt affirmed. One house, turned to be made of sweets, being gnawed on by the black-eyed and gnarled shapes of half-men, half-wolves. The road had been transformed to ice, bodies trapped beneath it. One structure couldn’t seem to make up its mind on what it was as it rotated through changing shapes and colors. “It’s an affront to nature itself.”
And nothing like Destruction. Now having felt both of their magics so clearly, Creation couldn’t believe the two demigods had once been one. Destruction’s magic accelerated and played into the natural order. Chaos’s magic was, as Hunt put it, a complete divergence from it.
“As far as I’m concerned, this is the real threat, not Destruction. We can preempt the latter. But this is utter madness.”
Creation allowed his horrified silence to be his agreement.
“Which is where I diverge from my brothers and sisters in the pantheon. As far as I’m concerned, they’ve busied themselves with the wrong demigod. They saw Destruction as the low-hanging fruit in her relative stability and made you. If they can control her, shield her from Chaos’s grasp, then they think Chaos will tire and give up hunting her.” Hunt motioned to the village. “Does this look like the work of a woman who will roll over quietly because things became difficult?”
“Not at all.” Creation finally tore his eyes away and looked to the goddess. “What are you thinking?”
