A Slow Descent Into

1. And We Are The Gods We Used To Hate

At first, the worship feels wrong, misplaced. He’s been worshipped, one way or another, for his entire life, and he’s always felt strongly adverse to reverence from others. 

He’s just ‘Harry’, why are they coming to him? What is he supposed to do? His effect on the world is still quite small. A gentle flutter of leaves, a flash of Fae light in response to a prayer. 

Their prayers sit heavy with him. Bricks piling high in his arms. How can he help them? They ask and hope and pray for ease, for comfort, for help. But what can he do? Send a ripple of wind through the grass? A spark of light?

It is all so useless. 

Gabrielle takes joy in her little miracles. For years, she bubbles and laughs, a vibrant white spot of delight in his brooding. 

“You don’t have to solve their problems, darling,” she says. “That isn’t what they need.”

And he’ll then ask, “How can I help them? How can I be what they need if I’m so useless?”

And she laughs, little bubbles of light bursting and shattering at the sounds, white and gauzy. “Show them you’re here. Show them you’re listening. Give them something, some one , to believe in. That’s enough. That’s what they need.”

The feeling settles in. He can do that. He can be that. For them. 

The altars are strange as well. The first ones appear suddenly, pillars and towers, monuments and obelisks, monumental and grand. Each shrine seems dedicated to one of Them: Equipoise, Concordance, Him . 

And then, eventually, for Harry and Gabrielle. 

The two of them, together. 

Their shrine is simple. 

The platform stretches across surrounding hillocks, three deep steps leading up to it, perfect horizontal lines intersecting organic matter. The worshippers made it from a pale white stone, Harry isn’t sure where they found it, it isn’t natural to the area; but he loves the way it gleams in the pale daylight. 

Atop the platform stand seven pillars arranged in a circle, encompassing the altar in a seven-pointed star. The altar itself is simple, a small shrine covered to hold the candles and incense, two free standing braziers next to it. One burns in Gabrielle’s pale white fire. The other purple. 

And they became known by their new names. 

Supplanter and Verve, The Conqueror and The Strength of Gods. 

2. The Gods We Hate Are The Gods They Love

The Strength of Gods often says to him, “My usefulness is fading, how am I any use?”

The Conqueror will always respond then, “Use is a horrible mark of value, my dear.”

She still calls him Harry, and he smiles everytime. ‘Harry,’ what a quaint name. It’s a reminder of a time of life when there were no gods, when there was no flock. 

The years pass, slowly, inch by inch, time muddled in the Fae way, the way he’s grown used to. 

And slowly the flock thins, the worshipping stops, and their usefulness fades. 

“How do we measure value? Where can I find it? Again, dear? I need it again.”

Supplanter then goes silent. The hills of home mire and fog. 

They hold hands, still. But her fire dims.

Whispering in her ear, he’ll say, “Verve, my darling, Gabrielle, rouse yourself from these dreams.” She stirs at her name. It feels half-forgotten, like a memory, like a small wisp of an idea, disappearing behind the gauze. 

“ Gabrielle, Gabrielle, Gabrielle. ” Supplanter’s voice echoes: a whisper, a reminiscence, a mere thought. 

3. In The Infinite Stretch of Eternity, Sleep Now, My Dear

The white stone turns grey with age, spotted green with lichen, brown and dull. 

The flock has long diminished, no one remembers anymore. There’s no one to tell the story of The Fall. In the shadows of the great city, new life takes form, it grows and changes, creates something new, wonderful, and strange. Unstructured magic streams in beautiful gauze over the whole countryside, over the whole area, a net of lively power hanging above the world. 

More ruins fall: temples and monuments, obelisks and towers. 

The seven-points become six, then five; pillars lying across ageing stone.

Moss grows.

The little girl loves the ruins. Her parents named her after them, Verity, they call her. Verity, don’t stray too far.Verity, stay near home. Verity, Verity, Verity.

Verity loves the ruins. Climbing over the fallen pillars, jumping across the cracks in the steps. Hiding under the crumbling altar. It becomes a hideaway, her playground. 

This morning, Mother had been nit-picky, clean up, Verity. Fix your room, Verity!

But she escapes! Right after breakfast, slipping out the backdoor while Mother turns around to put the dishes away. 

Running fast, in a skipping sprint overtop the grassy hillocks, between the little flowering mounds, over the bubbling stream, she runs right out of sight of home, beyond view from the kitchen window, so Mother can’t call out for her to come home. 

Giggling, she calls for Petty. The small deer pokes its nose out from the little grove of trees, munching on a tuft of wildflowers. There’s a spot of blood amongst the leaves as Petty snatches a mouse out of the undergrowth as well. Her fangs turn red and Verity giggles again. 

“Let’s go! Let’s go!” she calls, and runs off towards the old ruin. She’d drug an old sheet out there a while ago. The one with holes in it Mother had tried to throw away. It is perfect though, just what she needs for her fort, and she drapes it over the altar. Petty bounds around, snuffling at the edge of the pillars, looking for more mice most likely, as Verity sprawls underneath the canopy of the sheet. 

The sun glows warm and white behind the cloth, little golden spots dappling the warm stone beneath her, rays poking through the speckled holes. 

Petty sticks her nose beneath the sheet, and Verity laughs pulling the little deer down to lay next to her. 

She points to the altar. “Gods used to live here, Petty, I just know they did! This must have been their home.” 

The deer’s black eyes are solemn in the gauzy light. 

Verity loves the gods here. It’s not that she knows them, or even thinks they still live here. But she loves her hideaway, so how could she not love whomever had lived here before. They share a kinship. A love. An appreciation for the little ruins. 

It’s quiet here. Always so quiet. No wind, no one, nothing. 

“Hi, strange gods, I wonder if you can still listen? Mother tells stories, sometimes. Well, I always ask for them at bedtime. But Mother… well she has it hard, she doesn’t always know how to arrange them, does she? Words, I mean.” 

Verity trails off, musing quietly to herself.

“Anyways, hi! I’m Verity, but I guess you know that by now. This is Petty,” she reaches down to pet the tiny deer who huffs in response, licking the blood from around her snout, “she’s not really my pet, but she’s my friend!” 

Petty rolls onto her back.

“I wonder what it was like, when you lived here. Was this a temple? What did you like as an offering? Did you help people? I’d suppose you could’ve helped Mother…”

She trails off again, going quiet, sniffling a bit. 

Dragging her sleeve across her nose, she continues, “well, I just wanted to say hi, old gods. Thank you for sharing your home. I wish I could do more… I wish I knew more… but history… well, it tends to elude me, doesn’t it? Teacher is always disappointed, but I can just never keep it straight! It’s not my fault the dates and whatnot just won’t line up in my head.”

She sits for a while, the stone warm against her back. 

A breeze rustles the curtain of fabric hanging over her, a small spark of light, white and purple flashes.

And she smiles.