by M. M. Perry
Whom the Gods Fear
M. M. Perry
© M. M. Perry 2016
Table of Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Some stories are about the necessary evils of wars, the sacrifices people make, the darkness that can overcome others and the futility of the fight. This is not one of those stories.
Chapter 1
Issa couldn’t remember the last time she felt so content. For so many centuries during her mortal trials she longed to return here, to sit on this very marble bench overlooking the River’s headwater. She thought, while mortal, that she knew what she had been missing, but she was mistaken. The grandeur of the place was beyond something that mortal memory could hope to recreate. The greatest poet, with all the words mortals ever uttered at his command, would fail to summon even a pale shade of the River’s beauty. Not that any mortal would ever have a chance to try. No human had ever been here save one, and he was promptly destroyed after his incursion was discovered. The River was a place made by the gods, for the gods—simultaneously of the world yet remaining outside its boundaries, every commonplace element embroidered with the limitless variation of divine whim. The River was a respite for the gods from the pettiness of life on Tanavia, a place where they could escape the dull world of the humans and their incessant pleas and serenely luxuriate in beauty.
The River, being outside of Tanavia, wasn’t bogged down by any rules of mundanity like causality or reason. Its headwaters burst right from the mists at their source. If one was so inclined to part the mists to peer beyond them, they would find no lake, ocean or cataract fed the River. Nothing lie beyond the River’s boundaries, save an endless, sparkling haze. The haze itself was a thing of beauty, a gently swirling, unsettling cloud of diamond dust that caught and refracted the warm daylight that enveloped the River. Not even the water that burbled past Issa’s bench was free from celestial embellishment. Blue and crystalline, it flowed unadulterated by dirt, mud, or the effluvium of life one would find in the mortal realm. There was no bed to the River’s waters. It flowed across the air itself, a ribbon of liquid crystal draped across a blanket of glittering firmament. The River’s waters were banked by fields of dense, ever-cropped grass and eternally blooming wildflowers. Issa slid a foot free from its slipper and gently tucked her toe into the yielding grass. She worked it down under the blades and lifted. There were no roots to tug free, because there was no soil for them to bed in. All she found beneath the emerald carpet was the glittering mist that bounded the River. Issa looked up from her idle poking to the bank opposite her. Buzzing insects and darting humming birds flitted endlessly from flower to flower, never returning to hives or homes or nests. They lacked them, as well as any instinct save the unwavering compulsion to ceaselessly dance among the flowers. Their only purpose was to be picturesque. They drifted past artfully arranged flowering trees and bushes that were always impeccably groomed, though no hand ever tended them. Each blossom bloomed anew every morning without ever withering. Issa wondered if she would still be here, waiting, as day ceded ground to night. She half hoped so. She longed to see the slow ballet of nocturnal blossoms unfurling as the daytime blossoms folded back in on themselves. Night in the River was as intricately and delicately woven a piece of magic as day was, ensuring never-ending stimulation for the senses of all who visited, no matter the hour.
Issa focused on one hummingbird working its way through the flowers. Its meandering flight was taking it slowly upriver, towards the misty headwater. As it neared the denser boundary where the diamond-dust mingled with the mist wafting up from the River’s waters, she expected it to turn back and start its circuit fresh. Instead, the iridescent creature surprised her by darting right into the mist. It parted the beautiful void, churning eddies and whorls in the wake of its flight, ascending as it grew further away from her, towards the mound of land that poked through the mist beyond the head of the River. She lost sight of the bird as it dove in amid the flowers on that farther shore. She let her gaze drift up the hillside until it came to rest on the immense temple that topped it. The center section of the temple dominated the wings that flanked it; a monstrous, pearly white building capped in glass. Marble columns the height of ten men supported a domed roof where a stained glass image was inset. The glass depicted the gods in a battle against the dragons. The glass was enchanted in such a way that as the sun moved across the sky the glass filtered and distorted the light, chronicling the epic contest in a slowly morphing series of images on the temple floor. Throughout the course of the day, the battle raged in reds and blues, purples and oranges and all the colors in between. In the evening, as moonlight filtered through the glass, the depiction of battle was replaced with one of gods at peace, resting in fields composed of the cool shades of night.
Twin marble buildings, nearly as large though they stopped short of overtopping the central edifice’s magnificent dome, hugged either side of the structure. They were beautiful in their own right, but where the sparkle and flash of the central temple’s dome loudly demanded the eyes’ attention, the companion structures merely glinted mutely in the sunlight. This had been a purposeful decision of the River’s architect, who did not want the lounging quarters and other necessary amenities to distract from his domed masterpiece. He wanted every eye drawn to the temple. The smaller companion structures served as a place for the gods to retreat to when their senses became overwhelmed by the River’s near infinite display of beauty. If needed, the houses could hold a hundred gods each quite comfortably. At the moment, the houses were empty; no one lounged there.
Issa closed her eyes and took a deep breath, savoring the River’s scents. She could pick out some individual notes—honeysuckle and lilac, and a hint of rose. She opened her eyes and looked to the stone bridge that spanned the water a few strides away from her. Unlike everything else in the River, it lacked both grandeur and embellishment. It didn’t even have a railing. Quaint and unadorned, its unassuming drabness stood out so stridently against the backdrop of unrelenting beauty, an overlooked patch of canvas peeking through the artist’s masterwork, that Issa couldn’t help but have her attention drawn to it. The River’s creator had certainly engineered the effect deliberately. Issa wasn’t certain if he had thought it charming, or if there was some message or even a joke meant. Whatever the meaning, the architect had meant it to be pondered, positioning it so prominently just past the source of the River. It was close enough to the headwaters that mists flowed softly over it, some splitting down to the grassy shore on either side to finally settle on the hair of anyone who sat on the benches to either side of the bridge, leaving behind a kiss of shining droplets before dissipating. When Issa touched her raven black tresses, her hand came back damp.
“No one has come yet,” she said aloud to herself, wiping the wetness onto her robes. Issa hadn’t come to the River to idle in its beauty. Her mother, Timta, had sent her to the River to await the gathering of the old gods. Issa was to speak on Timta’s behalf while Timta finished off some lingering business with Issa’s half-sister, Cassandra, Timta’s demi-god child. The fact that Timta was with Cass, and not her, only vexed Issa for the briefest of moments. Issa knew Cass was a tool, born out of need, and would never be first in their mother’s hear
t, while she had been born out of love. Once done with the grand plan Timta had designed, Issa was certain Timta would set Cass aside. Cass was the product of her divine mother taking a human companion out of necessity, not love, while Issa was the one proof that Timta had ever experienced divine passion, and would be for all time. When Freesus had cursed Timta, she had made certain of that. To this day Issa had never exploited this aspect of her relationship with Timta. During the countless sessions of arguing and pleading she had engaged her mother in over the long years of their existence, she had held this one arrow in reserve in her quiver. She knew precisely how it could be done as well, piercing deep into her mother’s heart and leaving her vulnerable to Issa’s manipulations. This thought flitted through Issa’s mind in an instant and then was gone. Such dark thoughts only troubled her when she was reflecting on Timta’s relationship with Cass. The fact that it bothered her, bothered her. Issa hated feeling the nagging suspicion that, despite all evidence to the contrary, Cass held some power over their mother. No matter how she turned the problem around in her mind, no matter how high she made the mental pile of fact and supposition that argued against it, the fear would not disappear completely from Issa’s mind. Perhaps, she considered, it was because of those few disparities in how Timta had treated Cass, juxtaposed Timta’s treatment of herself.
Issa had spent centuries suffering under mother’s ire, ignored and left to her own devices, while Cass had only had to suffer two years of servitude in Oshia’s temple, a fate Issa would have much preferred over the forced, implacable aging Timta had visited upon her. If that hadn’t been enough to stoke her jealousy, Cass was now being favored with a boon from Timta which Cass was likely even now using to end a god’s life. Issa didn’t delude herself that she would likewise be treated to such a favor from her mother for her own contributions to Timta’s machinations.
Issa’s bitter thoughts were interrupted by an earthy, fecund odor, not entirely unpleasant, but at sharp odds with the carefully balanced harmony of scents that were native to the River. She didn’t need to turn about to know that the first of the old gods she had been waiting for had arrived and was standing right behind her. If he had been in the flush of his power, as he had been when she had last seen him, she might have felt some trepidation about this meeting—he was, after all, only now released from an epochs long imprisonment that she played a key role in bringing about. But she did not fear him. He would be weak for some time while he gathered the tattered wisps of his long denied divinity back to him. Timta assured her of that much and Issa trusted her, so far as one could trust any god. She knew it was probably stupid to do so. After all, Timta had been the one to sentence her to hundreds of years of torture, cursing Issa to age endlessly without even the promise of death to release her. But Timta finally relented and returned Issa to her godhood, not because her period in mortal torpor had run its predefined course, but because Issa had, in a sense, turned her coat again by taking up Timta’s cause against the very god Issa originally helped stage a celestial coup d'etat.
During the early decades of her punishment, Issa hated her mother with an anger that burned so hot she couldn’t even consider it without flying into a rage. It had taken long years for her to move past that and recognize her exile for what it wasn’t—death.
Mother cared about me, about what I did, she realized one day, perhaps a century into her banishment. She cared enough to spare me, when any other god would have wiped me from existence for what I had done. It took her even longer to realize that her mother hadn’t spared her out of love, or at least, not just out of love—she wanted, perhaps even needed, to teach Issa some lesson. She still felt, even now, that she was missing something, and her mother was frustratingly still keeping her in the dark about some aspects of her plan.
Could I be wrong, she wondered. Could it be that Cass is the one she loves, and I am the daughter of necessity? Issa could feel the ember of hate and envy stirring inside her, and she tried desperately to control her petty anger. It was hard to tamp down feelings that she so carefully husbanded for decades. Cass’ sudden appearance center stage in all Timta’s machinations certainly hadn’t done much to help assuage Issa’s insecurities.
Issa wrested control of her own mind, banishing both the ill will she felt towards Cass and the traitorous suspicions about her mother to the background once again. Timta’s earned Issa’s undying loyalty the moment she restored Issa’s celestial powers. She would not turn on her mother again, not now that she had what she always desired—recognition as Timta’s beloved daughter.
Issa slipped her sandal back on and straightened her robes about her unhurriedly. When she was satisfied, she turned herself round on the bench, her back now to the River, and saw Natan for the first time in a nearly innumerable number of years. She only half-stifled a snicker. Natan was still favoring his ridiculous reptilian eyes. Issa knew he took on this particular visage to intimidate those around him. It failed to evoke the desired reaction from Issa. She didn’t find them filled with bestial menace. She simply found them silly. Other than the eyes, he was fairly normal looking, for a god—flawlessly beautiful in every aspect of his being. Issa knew he, like any god, could choose to look however he wished. Because of that, physicality played a very small role when it came to appearing attractive to another god. Oshia, for instance, had something else—some mystical aspect that gave him an undeniable attractive quality to mortals and gods alike, including Issa. Oshia’s father had something of that quality about him as well—enough at least to make it easier for Natan to seduce others to his will. Issa could see that Natan had turned up the smoldering in his eyes, trying to bring that seductive ability to bear on her. It had no effect. Compared to the hurricanes of desire Oshia had roused in Issa in the past, Natan could barely muster a sun shower.
“You’re the first?” Issa asked. “I’m a little shocked.” She remained seated and flipped her damp hair over her shoulder. Her amber eyes narrowed as she studied Natan, her distaste evident on her face.
“I was hoping I’d find you here. I needed to see you before my siblings start choosing sides…” Natan said.
“Foolishness, Natan. All the old ones will come to Timta’s call. The time of reckoning has finally arrived. My brothers and sisters did this to you all. They left you all to rot for all time, and none stepped in to help. Except, of course, for me. Not even your own son was willing to try to save you from an eternity in limbo,” Issa said, finally standing to face Natan in anger.
Natan shook his head sadly, the very image of the disappointed sage pointing out the flaw in his student’s work.
“Parents can find it in their hearts to forgive, you of all people should recognize that.”
Natan paused dramatically to let his words sink in. He could see Issa was honestly considering this. He waited long enough for the possibilities, should he be right, to begin to play out in Issa’s head. It was working. He just hoped Freesus would keep the others distracted and absent for just a bit longer. The most crucial moment of his scheming had arrived. In the next few moments, he would either have her, or he would have failed.
“How long do you think the anger—the resolve—of a mother or father will last after they start hearing the pleading cries of their children, begging for mercy? How long before they give in and forgive them? How long after that before they turn on Timta, the god that convinced them to visit torture upon their wayward children? And when they do, do you think Timta, a god who always lacked the charisma and force of will to lead any of us, a god who always let others take control, a god weak enough that my conniving wife Freesus was able to trick her, to berate her, again and again without repercussions… do you think that weak, ineffectual Timta will be able to stand against them? Do you think that at that moment, she will be able to save herself, let alone shield you from their wrathful revenge?”
Again, Natan paused, watching Issa carefully. He knew he might have only moments. The old gods would be anxious to gather and form a pla
n. He knew firsthand the infirmity their long, shared isolation had left them in. They would all feel defenseless and angry—a dangerous combination that didn’t lend itself to quiet contemplation and rational thought. Most of them would be eager to rally to Timta, to keep her happy, if it meant she would extend her protection to them while they recovered. It was only because of his own quick thinking that Natan had managed to keep them away from the River for this long. A hint of danger, an intimation that perhaps it was not Timta, but their own children awaiting them at the River, waiting to once again banish, or even destroy them utterly this time, had been just enough to keep his fellow old gods fretting among themselves and get them questioning Timta’s invitation. Freesus quickly caught on to Natan’s plan, and drummed up enough fear that when Natan bravely offered to scout the River ahead of them for safety’s sake, the other gods leapt on his offer with relief. Now his few precious moments alone with Issa would have to pay off. He knew he might not have this chance again. He saw doubt in Issa’s eyes, and chose his next words carefully, unsure if the doubt was aimed at him or Timta.
“If you were the target of Freesus’ malevolence, what would have been your reaction?”
“I would have killed her,” Issa said without hesitation.
Natan stifled his smirk. He had sunk his hook.
“Of course you would have. There can be no half-measures when it comes to challenging a god. Our own release, your return from mortality, these prove what comes of defeating a god, but not destroying them. And deep down, you know that. There is no room for mercy or half-measures.” Natan rested a hand on Issa’s shoulder. “That’s what I find so delightful about you, my lovely Issa. You are calculatingly ruthless. It is why Oshia chose you as well. You have it in you to make the hard decisions, to meet out fate as it must be, without letting emotion sway you. Yours is a steel core of resolve, a resolve that your mother, that most of our brethren, for that fact, lack. And that is why you are the one who should lead us. You, not Timta. You are the one who can finally bring a lasting order to the heavens, not Timta. And it’s time you told her as much.”
