A Brief Look At Mortality

[Caliborn]

<center><b>A Breif Look At Mortality . . .</b></center>

<i>Author Notes: I'm not sure why I decided to post this here except that some may enjoy the idea/story... it probably won't make much sense to most of you, but that's alright. Ignore the names and focus on the main idea. ^_^;; It was mostly just an experiment with style... Anyway, this is a prologue (of sorts) to an original story I'm writing called </i> White Legacy. <i> It's set in a medieval world where wars amongst the Gods have torn the mortal world apart, and the God of Death, Ahron, will not rest until every soul is under his domain. At this point, the war is just beginning, and his armies of the dead have ridden from the Dethlands (his Domain) and just begun to invade the lands that two of his sibling Gods occupy. Because no one had expected such a move from him, and because the dead cannot be killed, the lands are quickly overriden... And when a God's people die, so does a God's power.

<b>Story Notes:</b> Lynae and Dros are the Gods of the Screamers, a race that dwells to the east of the mountains that separate the Dethlands from the Living World. When Ahron first drove his forces through the passes, his first stop was to massacre the people of the Screamer race. As a result, Lynae and Dros were weakened terribly and both of them almost fell. For his own reasons, Dros instead made a great sacrifice, which was the true reason for the War of the Gods starting.

This story takes place just before that great war, when the Screamers were almost entirely wiped out.

First POV is Dros.
Second is of the last General of the Army.</i>


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Lynae sat, head pooled in her arms on the great white marble table, weeping uncontrollably. It tore my heart, seeing her, our lovely, beautiful child Goddess, weeping. The priests, knowing exactly why she wept, simply went about their tasks. I watched them, from the corners of my eyes, though my gaze was on Lynae. They refilled the bowls of holy water, cleaning the marble counters running along the huge room of last night's dust. Normal, day-to-day things that they tended to. They seemed to take very little notice of us, but I knew. I could feel every one of them; I knew they were all worried, and I saw the dried tears that stained their cheeks. I wanted to go, to comfort them. But I had so very little strength left. I wondered, if I stood just then, if I would be able to remain standing.

I glanced down at my hands, folded together above the white marble. They were transparent, and not because I wanted them to be. I could see the white marble clearly through what should have been solid skin. But flesh was a thing I could no longer hold onto; a thing I had no power to keep.

The room my sister and I sat in was immense. It was the second-greatest room in the greatest church of our land; the ceiling reached nearly an eighth of a mile high. It was square, made completely of white marble and huge, towering stained glass windows, from floor to ceiling. A marble counter ran the length of the room, interrupted only by the artful windows and two immense doors, made only out of quartz and limestone, with silver and gold tracing patterns throughout. Various tributes and items of wealth and valuable stone lined the counter, with barely an open space.

In the center sat a long, rectangular table, the likes of which could be seen only at the Emerald City. The stone was impermeable and unbreakable; it had been made by myself and Lynea, and the only recognizable stone within the massive table had been marble, from which this entire room had been modeled after. Throughout the clear white, colors danced and blossomed from the sunlight. There were two windows in three of the walls, every one tall and wide and every one portraying a different scene in the different shades of glass. The only wall not covered so was the one that lead back into the church itself. Lynae had loved this room, and its colors, and now she only wept as the glorious sun trailed over and through her, as transparent as myself.

I stood. My power throbbed within me, much like a bloody wound might. In every aspect of the word, I was dying. The pain was too unimaginable for any mortal to comprehend, so Lynae and I didn't worry the priests and servants with what ailed us. Nothing they could do would help. But they saw something was wrong indeed, anyway, and they wept for us.

"Please, leave us for a moment." They all stopped at their work, and I could see and feel the worry in their eyes. Was now the time? They wondered. Was now when our beloved Gods will fall?

They nodded, though, having no choice but to obey. The great doors opened, and then closed, leaving my sister and I alone.

I glanced at her, gripped the chair, and then fell back down into with a sigh. If I as a God could barely stand to move around in my almost-physical form, how could I do as I was planning?

Lynae and I were dying. But so help me, if there was a way to save one of us, I would take it, no matter the pain to myself. I knew a way to buy Lynae more time. There was no other. As much as it pained me, I knew it must be done.

"Lynae."

There was a long pause before she mastered her tears enough to look at me. Her eyes, so bright and blue, still shown with all the childlike qualities that all her siblings couldn't help but love. She was, in a way, the youngest and the brightest of all of us, and we all would do anything for her. It truly did hurt to see her eyes clouded over so with pain and suffering.

I closed my eyes for the briefest moment, thinking of Ahron. This was all his fault. A flare of hatred sparked inside of me, so unfamiliar. Gods, never in history, had felt hatred. But Ahron had planted the seed in all of us, and we could do nothing about it.

When I opened my eyes, I found Lynae still looking at me. As there were no longer people with us, there was no need to keep up the pretense. I released my feeble hold on my physical form, reverting back instead to my spirit. Lynae joined me unquestioningly. It was much easier to simply be as this, in spirit. But were we to disappear from our children, they would lose all hope, and so we endured the pain of being physical.

"Lynae." I began again. Her eyes were still wide, hurt. "Do you remember what we talked about?"

Her eyes narrowed, then, and she shook her head, not allowing me to continue. "No, Dros. No. I don't care what happens, I won't do that. I won't."

"Look at our people, Lynae. Look at our children."

Her eyes shook with more tears, restrained. I wanted her to be emotional; as much as I hated to do it, I had to push her into this. I knew there was no other way. My sacrifice would be what saved Lynae and what forced the other Gods to take action. To go to war against Ahron.

"What people, Dros?" She cried at me. "What children? Don't you see them dead before us? Don't you see them dying? For the love of life, Dros, don't you feel it?"

"Of course I do." My voice was a quiet murmur. "That is what makes this necessary."

She spun away from me, angrily, in agony. She was refusing to accept what I said, as I knew she would. "He comes to the City tomorrow, Dros. At dawn! You want us to abandon them now?"

"Not abandoning." My voice was still quiet as I continued to explain. "You will still be here."

"NO!"

"Lynae."

She spun back to face me, shaking her head. She would've been crying now, as well, if she could in spirit form. I saw the pain of her soul. She grew quieter, pleading. "Please, Dros. Please. Please don't make me do this. I could never go on without you, not if I was the one to finish you off!"

"It is Ahron that kills me, here and now." I met her gaze unwaveringly. I was ready. "Not you, not I. Listen to me, Lynae. You know we have no choice."

"Let me talk to Avilen one more time." She was still pleading. "Let me--"

"You know as well as I that you would have no more strength to return from such a journey." I could not tell her that Avilen already supported us, and it was not his consent we needed to gain. I could not explain that as well as saving her, this action would save our living world. This would be the key to push the other Gods into war. But she, the baby sister, would not do it if she knew that reason lurked beneath the one I gave.

In a moment I was beside her. I took her hand in both of mine and met her gaze, showing her I was not afraid. That was pure acting. Gods were not scared in the way mortals sensed it, but I felt every scrap of unease that was possible.

"No . . . " She was pleading, still. "Dros . . . Dros . . . please . . ."

"Do it." My voice was calm, unruffled. She closed her eyes, shaking her head. I pressed the palm of her hand against my chest, and whispered, "Lynae, while you still have strength enough."

I began it, knowing we had precious little time. We were weak enough even now. The room exploded into light, by my vision; an endless swirl of colored fragments flowed before my eyes. I laid my soul bare before her, and then, when I was sure she felt it, I . . . let it go.

I'll never remember what happened next. The agony was so pure and powerful that I felt nothing, for a moment. For a moment, everything was black, and for a moment . . . I didn't exist.

I saw everything, and nothing; I was everything, and nothing; I knew everything, and nothing. I was a drop of the ocean and the ocean itself. Even now I cannot remember . . .

Suddenly, though, I had form again; a huge part of me had been torn away, never to be repaired. Moments passed before I was aware of anything, and the first thing I sensed was Lynae, near, crying. Crying more than she had been before. I could feel her arms around me, feel them in a way I had never felt before. Everything was dark. Feeling, hearing-- all my senses were dark and dull. It was like having perfect vision all your life, and suddenly becoming nearly blind. All my sense were like that. I felt . . . clumsy, heavy, dulled.

My eyes opened and color invaded again. But the colors were duller, white-washed; I knew I would never see them the same way again.

I had more than blinded myself. Such despair as I have never know welled up in me, filling my chest. I could no longer sense my people. I could no longer sense anything than the limits of my five senses would show me.

I had become mortal.

I had given my last drop of immortality and power to Lynae. That was the only way to free her; it was the only way to sustain her until help came. I had become the unthinkable; I was a God, turned mortal.

It hurt more than I thought. I had never imagined I would lose so much. I felt confined, trapped. Absently, I wondered how mortals could stand it, everyday.

Slowly, my arms came up, holding Lynae. She could not stop her tears, now. After a moment of watching and holding her, I almost joined her, though my tears would've been in pure relief. Lynae was whole. My power, feeble and small as it had been, had rebuilt her. She was no longer transparent in physical form; she was whole. I gripped her to me tightly, too unsure of myself to speak. Yet, Lynae was whole, Lynae would live, and that gave me all new hope.

I'm not sure how long we stood there in that awkward embrace or how many tears Lynae shed. These past times, she had cried more than 100 times she ever had before, over our dying race. So had I.

Eventually, she knew we had no more time for such comforts. She pulled back, still clinging to me tightly as though I would fade away without her. I smiled at her, softly, reassuringly. It calmed her somewhat, though I knew what she had said before was true-- she would never stop grieving for me, even if I had done it to myself. Gods could not.

I could see the questions in her eyes. The 'why' was predominant.

What I had never expected was her next words. Pulling away completely, she said, "I wish you had taken me with you."

I stared at her. Such hopeless words had never, never, come from her mouth. Her brightness, her life, was fading terribly. I felt such a stab of fear that my breath drew short, and I had to pause a moment before I had breath enough to talk.

"No, Lynae. Don't ever say that. Don't let this be in vain." How dull my voice! How mortal it sounded! When she tried to turn her head away, I reached out, catching her chin and forcing her to look at me.

"Listen to me, my dearest sister. When you stop smiling, when you stop hoping, our race has died."

She simply did not seem to hear me. I pulled my hand back. It was time to finish this.

I reached forward, then scooped her up and into my arms, gently. She was so light. Her arms went around my neck, and she closed her eyes, clinging to me still.

I carried her out of the room. Servants and priests alike stopped and stared. They probably thought it was Lynae that had fallen. How humorous it would be when they found the truth.

"Rest, Lynae."

"Put me to sleep, Dros. Please?"

I closed my eyes for a moment, feeling that particular pain in my chest again. Slowly, I began climbing the stairs to the highest room. We were acquiring quite a following; every mortal who saw us, no matter their status in the church, were following; they had collected in a great group, following us at as close a distance as they dared.

"I cannot."

She gave a small sob, fingernails digging into my shoulders. My arms tightened about her. Even now, she was weakened.

I finally reached my destination. One of the priests who guarded the doors moved quickly, throwing them open.

This room was larger than the other. It was a circle, various patterns displayed in a never-ending series of tiles across the floor, made from gold, silver, and other precious metals. The curved walls were white marble, as was the style of the church. Lynae loved white marble. A rug lead the way to a marble dais, sitting clear and empty in the middle of the room. Only recently had the room been completed. There were no windows, here, but the entire ceiling was one large, glass dome; sunlight poured through the curved panes of glass. In the center was a metal circle, a cylinder, contructed so that it caught the sunlight and reflected it, making it seem like the sun itself, almost blinding. A perfect ray fell from that spot to land on the dais. No matter where the sun was, no matter what time of day, that dais would always be bathed in light.

I walked the distance to the dais; it took a few moments, as the room was huge. I laid Lynae upon the warm, cushioned bed; she released me reluctantly, her movements heavy with sleep. One arm fell above her head, small hand turned upward, while the other arm rested across her stomach. Green, her favorite color, was the color of the cushions she now laid on, and white marble, her favorite stone, made up the base of the dais, carved with great care and love.

Her eyes opened, tired. I smoothed her light hair away from her face. "Rest, Lynae."

Her gaze lingered on mine for one last moment before her eyes closed, and I stepped back. Very suddenly, the dais glowed brightly, far too bright for mortal eyes to see. I winced, glancing away, raising an arm to protect my weak vision. When I looked back, she lay encased and warm inside beautiful, clear crystal. This church would be safe so long as Lynae lay there in stasis and asleep; her powers, as weak as they were, would protect this church and those inside it from Ahron's hordes.

I heard the gasps from those that had followed. When I turned, I found half of them staring at me. I wondered why, then I realized. In their minds, a God would not wince and cover his eyes.

I faced them all, seeming confident, but truly more unsure and fearful than I had ever been before. "One of you, at all times, is to be by her side. At all times. Is that clear? Should anyone destroy the peace and harmony of this room . . . " My voice trailed off. It was an empty threat; there was no way either of us, I or Lynae, could carry anything out. But they all nodded, listening.

"All right, then."

I stepped down, walking to them. More gasps met my approach and followed me as I moved through them, hands reached out to clutch at me, as none of them believed their eyes.

They all knew what made a God. Lynae and I had been in this Church, with them, all of their lives, and their parents' lives, and their parents' parents' lives, and so on.

They were beginning to comprehend the impossible; that a God had turned mortal. They knew that I was no longer immortal, but they didn't know how.

When they started to follow me again, I spun, eyes narrowed. I was angry, and helpless, and I hated that feeling. "One of you is to stay with her!"

They gaped at me, uncomprehending. I spun away, marching through the halls, with no idea where to go or what to do.

The day wore on and word passed on quickly. Night descended. They had taken to ignoring me, an abomination, an impossibility. They were never outright hostile; instead, whenever I entered a hall, it would suddenly become very deserted.

Dawn approached swiftly. I don't know why I stayed there, at the church. I had no purpose anymore.

Shouts of alarm flooded the hallways as the first rays of light touched the sky. People throughout ran to open balconies, including me, to see the commotion.

I reached the railing, squinting out over the city, trying to see. I felt blind and useless. Our soldiers, what remained of our West Army, were falling back before the onslaught. They had been driven back right up against the city walls.

The gates were opened for them. A small trickle got in before the enemy, too, began to push their way in. The gates were slammed shut, locking the remnants of soldiers out there, before the walls.

People ran to help the few soldiers who had gotten through. Women cried, standing before the doors to their houses, knowing that just beyond the think stone walls of the city, hundreds were being hopelessly slaughtered. The enemy took their time, from what I could see; they had all day, after all, to conquer our city.

I remembered Lynae's words. I remembered my own certainty. This city would fall.

I spun, running through the hallways, yelling to any priest that would listen to get everyone within the church, and quickly. Too soon, there would be no Central City. The church was the only safe place. Despite their fear of me, they listened and obeyed, sending messengers out into the streets with warnings to come, and come quickly, within the walls of the church. I myself ran out there; most did not recognize me for who I had been, only a messenger of the church, desperately ushering them inside the marble walls. The church was immense enough to hold most of the city, though I had no idea what they would do when food ran out. A stream ran through the undergrounds of the church, and so they would have plenty of water.

I moved quickly. These were my people. Perhaps they were the last of my people. I would save as many as I could.

In my haste, I nearly passed a soldier who had come in from the gates. I stopped, and turned. His eyes weren't dead; at least he wasn't one of them. Then again, in their haste to get inside, none of the saved soldiers were. This one sat just outside a house, a woman was tending to his injuries.

I told the woman tending to him to get as much as she could carry, only what she could carry, and then to run to the church. She gaped at me, but after a moment of me pressuring, she finally ran inside.

I turned back to the soldier, who sat on a stump, nursing a wound in his side. He was bleeding a lot. With sudden certainty, I knew he would not last.

He was staring at me. I cleared my throat, about to tell him to move on, too. I had little time.

"I don't understand." He blinked, still staring. "Dros?"

Oh. Now it made sense. He recognized me, and now, wondered why I wasn't the God I had been.

I knelt quickly, using the rest to regain my breath. Running, it seemed, wore a person out faster than I had assumed. I glanced into his pain-filled eyes, the eyes of a soldier who would die all too soon.

I watched him a moment, then said, "Tell me . . ."

" . . .Tell you what?"

How could I explain what I wanted to know? "About the . . . the battles. The war. The armies. What's happened?"

I'm sure he wanted to ask me more questions, like why he had to explain this to someone who was supposed to be an all-knowing God. But the urgency in my voice made the decision for him.

He began to talk. And I began to listen.

I stayed with the dying soldier even after he grew quiet. When the great gates began to tremble from enemy weapons, I stood again. The soldier was no longer able to even move. I wished him luck, and though it tore my heart to leave him, I knew I had no choice.

I walked back through the city, now deserted. The formerly lively streets were dead and empty; windows gaped from houses like eyeholes. I quickened my pace and made it within the church steps when the front gates were broken down and enemy forces began to pour in.

I forced myself to ignore the pleading looks from the people sitting in the hallways; the priests did not acknowledge me at all, because they had far too many guests to attend to. Too many of those people here were crying; too many others seemed deadened already and without hope.

I made my way again to the highest tower and room. The church was immense, almost as big as the castle, but I knew my way quite well. In earlier days, at the dawn of creation, Lynae and I had played in all of these halls.

I found the room quickly enough. It was hard to ignore the shouts inside the halls and out-- hard to ignore the unnatural sounds of the beasts that made up Ahron's army.

A priest stood faithfully by the crystal dais, rising and clearing his throat roughly as I approached. I came up to my sleeping sister, and when the priest moved as if to leave, I shook my head. I wouldn't be long.

I placed my hand gently on the crystal enclosing the last God of the Screamers. I closed my eyes as well, then, letting Lynae feel my thoughts.

Grant me this last request, Sister?

Were it possible, I could see her shaking her head, stubbornly trying to talk me out of whatever new idea I had come up with.

Please?

There was no reply. There could not be; in every aspect of the word, she was sleeping. Then I felt it, a tug, a hook that gripped me somewhere inside. I opened my eyes to see the world spin, a flash of the priest's calm face, and an explosion of color.

Then I was gone from the room.


*****


"General. General Mendate."

I glanced over, looking for the man that had called my name. The soldiers were in horrible shape. Food and bandages were in short supply; most walked with poorly dressed wounds, and more then a few were getting far too lean. All had lost that speck of innocence and childhood that was one of the predominant traits of our race. It was saddening, but I, too, had been forced to harden my heart. Were I to sit and pity all the grievances this war had brought our people, nothing would get done, and I would surely be driven insane from the hopelessness of it.

The soldier ran up to me, saluting smartly. Ah. A messenger.

I nodded, and the man began his report. He did it purely out of memory; paper was short, as well. He recited it dully, yet quickly. He had many other places to go, I'm sure.

If I had been any bit a lesser man, that report would've crumpled me. I had no idea how the messenger was handling delivering it so well. Then I realized. His eyes, his voice-- he had been Deadened, used his voice to its limit in some hopeless sacrifice for our kind. A year ago, I would've shuddered. Now I only nodded internally, used to the needs for such measures.

Our soldiers lead a double life. All of us had the power to Scream-- a trait any in our race was provided with-- which was the power to unleash a sound so horrible and crippling that the enemy could fall without even being touched by steel. The Screams were caused by extreme emotions within us-- extreme fear, or hatred. Each emotion's scream would cause a different effect. A fearful scream would cause the enemy to freeze, and a truly angry one, a hating one, would make the enemy fall dead on the spot. There were other variations, too. But on a battefield, it was hard to control them very well.

The screams had become our best defense, but we were quickly running low on it. There was one great drawback to using the weapon-- that was, it used up a bit of the screamer's soul. In normal times, that bit could quickly be regained with rest. But now was the time when battle called for a scream every hour, perhaps one on top of the other-- horrible, yet necessary. Too many of us had lost our spirit, our emotions. Too many of us had been Deadened-- no longer able to feel anything, having lost our spirit and souls. The Deadened were the walking dead-- bodies with no feeling or soul.

Many soldiers no longer had a spirit. At first, we had put them out of their misery-- a quick dagger to the heart, so the body would join the spirit. Now, though, we simply did not have enough soldiers, and the Deadened could at least still carry a sword, and keep carrying it until a mortal wound brought them down. They had become our fiercest combatants; and we used them, disregarding and going against every tradition and belief we had, because it was necessary.

I myself had had only a day to recover from using my Scream just the day before. I was old, an my soul did not heal as fast as the younger ones did. If I were to Scream today, I, too, would be Deadened, and another would take up the post as General.

The messenger finished with his report, waiting as he was told to do. I watched him dully, wondering if the shell of a being had any idea of the disastrous news he brought.

I cleared my throat. "No reinforcements? Not one? Not one, single, solitary man?"

The messenger shook his head, not bothered at having to repeat such things. I sighed, about to send him off, when he added in a dead tone, "There are none left to send."

I stopped. This had not been in the report. For a moment I stared. "From the West Army? The entire West Army has none to spare, you mean."

A shake of the head.

I felt my blood begin to run cold. "What happened?"

"They were wiped out." His eyes, his voice, his attitude-- dead, dead, dead. He was the walking dead.

"The entire West Army?" My voice wavered. I could not help it. Less than a month ago there had been nearly half a million men. I could not believe it.

A nod. He began to explain, in the same Deadened voice, what had happened.

I wanted to shake him. I wanted to do something, anything. I wanted to yell at him, to ask him, "Don't you care about that? Don't you care that every single one of your comrades are gone? Don't You?"

He would not have answered. How could he? It did not touch him. The death of 500,000 men did not touch him.

I still could not believe it. "The entire West Army . . . " My voice was too soft, too quiet. I glanced up, hopelessly. "Did any make it? The pass to the North Army was nearby. Surely, some, a few hundred . . .?" I didn't need the shake of his head to confirm what I already knew.

Abruptly a thought occurred to me, and my blood really did run cold. "Leriaton . . . The Central City! Dear Gods . . ." I waved him off, before going in a dead run to the officer's tent. My subordinates would already be in there, making a plan of attack for the southern craters. I had to warn them. We had to turn our soldiers around. The Central City was no longer protected.

I rushed through the entry flaps, pausing just inside to regain my breath. The others looked up as I came in, puzzled. They were gathered about the table, various maps strewn over the surface. I didn't take time to study them all, preparing to simply rush onward. There was no time.

"We've received the report," Lieutenant Kaacile informed me. That was good. I had less to explain.

"Did the messenger also tell you that we are now without a Western Army?"

That brought on quite an uproar. Every man stood up straighter, exclaiming their disbelief. The West Army was too huge. I impatiently cut them off with a slash of my hand. We had no time.

"It's true. There is not just the remnants of the West Army; there is no West Army. Listen. We have to turn this army around. We have to. The Central City is without protection. We have to . . . "

Abruptly, my voice trailed off. My eyes flickered to the corners of the tent, where a man sat, head down. I had not noticed him in my rush. A female nurse sat beside him,mixing something in a bowl. He was no officer. I paused, about to demand who he was. Perhaps seeing my eyes, the man looked up.

I nearly choked, gaze going wide. ". . . Dros . . ."

The God smiled, softly, without mirth. "Hello, General Mendate. How goes the war?" Dros. One of our Gods. I knew him; I had seen him before. It startled me that he was here, now. I dropped to one knee before him, but he sighed. That speck of humor was gone. "Stand, General. No need to pay homage to me anymore."

I did stand, staring. Dros looked tired. Hunched a bit as he was, his dark brown hair obscured the brightness of his blue eyes slightly. The shadows, even in that corner, were powerful enough to cover nearly half of his body. He had always been lean rather than muscular, but for the first time since I could remember, he seemed thin. Weak. A God, seeming weak. It was . . . repulsing. Unnatural. His glow, his life, was zapped, seeped away. Legends said that the Gods could feel every one of their people's trifles-- I could understand why he looked so slumped. It was quite a load, even for a God. Especially when our race was dying.

"Have you come to help? Dros, we can't hold them. I know that if we retreat, we'll be giving up a key territory-- but we have to. The Central City--"

I stopped. Dros simply stared back at me. Something was different about him. The life, the light, the God in him that I remembered was gone. It was more than him seeming tired, wary.

I swallowed. I was not liking this turn of events. "What has happened? Why are you here?"

"I suppose I wanted to go out fighting." He shrugged, then winced as if in pain. The nurse beside him said nothing, but seemed to stir whatever it was faster. "And there was no where else to go."

Again, I swallowed. "What?"

Dros didn't seem to hear my question. His eyes grew distant, lonely, even. "The Central City has fallen."

There was dead silence in the tent. The other officers stood silently, heads bowed. I glanced at them, impatiently. They knew? Why hadn't I been told? But the irrational anger faded as I realized that they had probably just found out themselves. Still. There was something . . . something else. Something I was missing.

My gaze went back to Dros. "You've not come to help."

"I've come to help however I can. But that is not much."

"What do you mean?" I wanted to growl. Yes, he was a God, and demanded respect from his people at all times. But I was tired. I wanted no riddles from him; I had no hope left. And he, who had offered such hope in the past, dared sit there as if he had given up on us too? "What do you mean?"

He met my gaze. His eyes looked so . . . vulnerable. I had never seen my God's eyes vulnerable before . . .

It all began to fall into place. Slowly. The nurse. The officer's silence. The hopelessness. Dros, wincing in pain. A God in pain.

Then I saw it, and the last piece fell into place. Once I saw it, my eyes could not stop staring. It was the symbol of our downfall. It meant that our race was not dying . . . it was dead. Giving a last few, feeble kicks.

Dros's left arm was swathed in a bandage.

The bandage was covered, soaked through, with blood.

Gods did not bleed.

It was only until one of my subordinates whacked me on the back that I realized I had not been breathing. I gasped in a breath, pulling back, tearing my eyes away from the abominable thing. I heard a sound, in the corner. The nurse was weeping. Still faithfully stirring, her shoulders shook in unrestrained sobs. Dros moved his good arm, to lay a hand gently against her shoulder, comforting.

"How?" I finally managed to gasp out. Dros's gaze returned to mine. "How? Dear Gods, how?"

He smiled. Again, without mirth. Then he began to explain. Began to explain what happened to the Gods of a race when the race was dying out. Explained how they, along with their race, would begin to die. He explained, softly, calmly, how Gods turned mortal.

"Lynae is still . . . herself." He finished, finally. "But she is . . . changing, too. She is wracked with grief. Granting my last request, she sent me here. She lies on a dais in the White Stepped Church. It is the only untouched building of the Central City. Everything else . . . ruins. The priests care for her. They, too, grieve. They could not bear to look at me."

Dros, mortal. Lynae, turning mortal. Their race . . . dead.

"Tell me there are others." One of the officers looked up. He was pleading, begging, asking mercy from a source that could not grant it. "Tell me we are not . . . we are not . . ."

"I'm sorry." Dros faced us all, glorious even mortal. "You are the last. There is . . . there is no one else. The other armies are gone. All the lands have been invaded, devoured. A few, a scarce handful, have escaped into the Great Morbiddion, where even Ahron's hordes dare not go, yet."

It was incredibly hard to accept. Near impossible. We were not even 10,000 men in all, camped out here. More then half of us were deadened soldiers. How could we be the last? There had been . . . there had been millions . . . It simply could not be. It was harder to accept than the Central City, falling.

Almost as hard to accept as one of our Gods now being mortal.

I found a chair and sat down, hard. My gaze found the carpet. Absently, I noted that the nurse was still weeping.

We might as well all be dead. The situation could not get any worse. We had no hope. We had nowhere to go. We would be crushed between the enemies at the Central City and the Dethlands. We were stranded in the mountains. If the opposing army did not find us soon and slaughter us as they had done the rest of our race, starvation would get us. What a choice.

And Dros was mortal.

[Morrighan]

Wow.... Talk about intense!! This has me hooked!!

Can't wait to see more, Cali!

[Caliborn]

I have the prologue to the story semi-done, but it needs to be re-written...

But the prologue to the actual story happens about a thousand years into the future, -way- after all this has happened and the war is supposedly over. ^_^;; In other words, it's a huge story that I hope I'll be able to finish someday...

*Glomp* Thank you for reading! ^_^ I'm glad you liked it!