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One Last Opal, pt 3

comidacomida copyright 2023

Death was a mortal concept. It was a point at which life as it was known came to an end, and the animating spark in one's body shed the flesh, muscle, viscera, and bone that had housed it since the first beat of its heart. Gods were not born and they did not die-- not until the God of Questions paused long enough to ask "Why not?"

Corwin Muscroft, in Avatar form, refused to leave His ailing mortal coil as He breathed His last. His heart had failed Him, and so to did His body. Rather than flee His flesh, the Whispering One instead embraced it and, unlike the rest of His divine kin, He came to know death. It was not the death of a mortal; unlike their kind, Corwin had no animating spark. Instead, He returned to the realm where His brethren dwelled, only, it was not the same, because HE was not the same.

When Corwin returned the the celestial heavens He found himself in a place that was not a place, accompanied by Beings that were not truly beings. There were other presences with Him, but They were apart. They were the other deities, and yet, despite being near Him, They were not with Him. Seir Kadan was the first to speak. "Oh, Corwin... what have You done? Gods are not meant to die."

Despite not existing in the same was as They did, the dead God nevertheless could communicate with Them. "We presume to know the mortals, but how can We understand them, and empathize with Them, and advocate for them if We do not experience things as they do? Is it not Our duty to be among them? Is it not Our responsibility to comprehend the word in the mortal way?"

Strove was not nearly as convinced. "No. We see things as We see things because We are gods. They see things as they see them because they are mortals. How can a clock maker create a clock from the viewpoint of a cog? The big picture is lost when a tinkerer too close to their work."

De'anna, however, was sympathetic. "Dear Corwin... Your heart was in the right place--"

Strove interjected. "In the right place to be stabbed."

The Goddess of Magic shot the God of Science a sidelong glance before returning to Her point. "You wish to better represent mortals... but You cannot do that from beyond the grave."

Corwin was not in a manifestation which could allow Him to smile, but He knew that the other deities could tell. "I disagree. I have come to understand mortals more fully than the three of You put together. Only by being among them and feeling their emotions, experiencing their grand successes and most telling failures have I come to understand what has been missing in the world... and now I can make that happen."

Seir Kadan's dour expression rarely changed; in that moment, however, He raised an eyebrow. "It is the way of the Mortal to contemplate our ways... not vice versa, Corwin. And, now that You have gone and given Yourself over to death, Your knowledge may as well be lost. You cannot share it with Your followers-- or any mortal for that matter. If what You say is true-- that you have some insight indecipherable unless we were to go among their kind, then You cannot even possibly hope to share it with Us, Your only source of company. You are dead, Corwin. That is all there is to it. You have wasted eternity."

The Dead God did not agree, and He would have laughed from the humor that bubbled up within him. "Ah... if only You could understand the Creation of the Ancients as I do. But, I suppose I could expect nothing less from those would would stand off at a distance and let the world fall apart rather than being willing to get involved. You--

Seir Kadan was not pleased with the accusation. "You have no call to speak about Us, Corwin. You are DEAD, and We are alive. Surely there must be an understanding that one method is sane, while the other is pure folly."

Corwin again conveyed the impression of a smile; He did miss being able to emote, but the deities would know well enough His meaning. "On that, I agree, Father God. Still, I am willing to forgive the three of You your shortcomings."

Seir Kadan tired of Him first; Strove shortly thereafter. Ultimately, De'anna was the only deity left to keep Him company. Corwin felt that, perhaps, there was hope for Her yet when She asked the question He knew would ultimately come. "What was it like?"

For the longest time, Corwin felt that De'anna was the only deity who could ever understand Him. In that single question He was both convinced that She already did, and that She never truly would. "An end... a beginning. It was the conclusion of life, dear sister... the thing that all must ultimately face."

She shook Her head; the Goddess of Nature knew His words were true, but was also willing to challenge him on what She felt was incorrect. "Not gods, Corwin... NOT gods."

Although He attempted to convey humor in His words to Her, He could not manage to convey a smile. "Apparently one of Us is incorrect, De'anna... and, from what I have experienced, I know it is not I."

* * * * *

While even the longest lived mortal could not exceed as much as two centuries alive, they had eternity to be dead. In that regard, insofar as Corwin could reason, existing in a state of death was the natural condition for a mortal's soul. Being dead Himself did not get Him closer to a mortal soul, rather, it let Him catch the faintest glimpse of something which would otherwise be forever out of reach. He did not go to where mortal souls went upon their death; He had returned to the Place inhabited by deities... but He had not ascended back to His prior post because, as it had been repeatedly said to Him, he was dead.

The death of a god was not an every day occurrence and, in fact, since being created by the Ancients, no god had actually died... not until Corwin. True to their seemingly infallible nature, however, the Ancients had apparently taken into account the exceedingly implausible instance in which one could die and, therefore, Corwin found Himself in a unique situation, being the only one to actually do so. It was novel... for a time, anyway.

There were certain rules woven into the fabric of creation and, in most cases, the threads of fate and the tapestry that was reality remained immutable and secure. Still, in the event of something 'exceedingly and extremely extrordinary', there was a chance that creation could be inadvertently put at risk. The Ancients certainly hadn't wanted that and the gods, for the most part, were of the same mind as the Ancients. To that end, at the beginning of creation, a special form of protection was put in place-- beings made of creation themselves, with powers that could affect reality, not unlike an Operator. They were known individually and collectively as the ach'de.

The Ancients put the gods in place to ensure that the world maintained a balance; beyond that, they had several other safeguards but, in all his time in existence, Corwin had never thought that any of those checks and balances would be used against Him. While not exactly a prisoner, Corwin was dead, and that meant that His capacity to serve as a god was non-existent. To better maintain order, the ach'de had been deployed, keeping Him separate from the rest of the divine. Within His initial time as a dead god, Corwin was simultaneously bemused by the beings, but also frustrated.

There were things that Corwin wanted to accomplish and yet, since He was dead, these things were beyond Him. When another deity chose to speak with Him, the Dead God was able to respond and a dialogue could take place but, the moment They lost interest or turned away it was as if He did not exist. It was a power of the gods; they could commune with the dead. Like any of the mortal dead, Corwin was at the beck and call of his fellow deities but, also like the dead, that communication was at Their leisure and not His.

Corwin weathered that limitation well enough and spoke with each of His contemporaries every few years; Gods did not measure time a mortals, meaning there was no rush for them to engage with their slain compatriot. In the end He didn't mind; although he could not use his powers to affect the mortal realm, He still had a godly sense that allowed Him to monitor it. In fact, that was how he spent the majority of His time. Corwin watched his followers, the return of the Muscroft line to Maan Ellis, and the ascension of his Son. He most definitely liked what he saw.

His time was not entirely lonely-- not in the traditional sense, anyway. As the years past, the presence of the ach'de were changed due to their new role. 'Living Magic' in as much as a gaunt was, ach'de were far more powerful, being the manifestation of spells crafted by the Ancients into a mutable presence which could take physical form and, as the time went by, they gained the ability to interact with Corwin-- they started speaking to Him. He was always happy to talk because talking meant that He could ask questions... and the ach'de apparently enjoyed being made to think.

While the ach'de could not be swayed from their tasks, they were free to interpret how to carry it out and, as the years passed and the questions were asked, He led them to actually think about their roles and guided them in their interpretation of what was expected of them... such was the power of questions. Corwin never pushed them, nor argued-- He patiently let them make up their own minds with his carefully cultivated questions guiding them toward an ultimate conclusion... HIS conclusion... HIS point of view. It was an important step for what was to come next.

After two decades, Corwin was able to see that His plans on the mortal real were not only put into motion, but they were, in fact, progressing in exactly the manner He needed them too. In line with those expectations, the ach'de were also primed for what would come next. At that point, the only thing last to be done was to be patient... and Corwin Muscroft was the epitome of patience. He often told the ach'de that, were there a god of patience, He would certainly have long-since earned the title. They did far more listening than speaking, but the Dead God liked to think that they agreed with Him on that point.

Despite how irregularly the other gods came to visit Him, Corwin was not entirely unprepared when Strove called to Him; it was not an idle summon. "Corwin! Your abandoned familiar reached out to Me asking that I satisfy My favor to You."

In that moment, Corwin knew that the next exchange would determine the future path of everything. "I see... and what was Your response?"

Although the God of Inspiration couldn't interact with him, Corwin wondered idly if He would have been struck by Strove were He available. "I am not about to provide a Favor to some Gaunt as a surrogate for You without confirming that You will consider it repaid... so I have not answered."

Corwin was content enough knowing that Strove was frustrated; he further pushed in that direction by answering Strove's question with another of his own. "Well... can You do a Favor for a dead God?"

As anticipated, Strove was nonplussed. "You're DEAD, Corwin... there is nothing I could do for You."

As if resigning Himself to the answer, Corwin let Strove come to the only possible conclusion with very little guidance. "Then I suppose you doing a favor for My only representation left among the mortals will have to suffice."

Strove was not a foolish god. "Yes or no?"

Corwin was all too happy to answer, especially since he knew that His will would be done. "Yes."

The knowledge of the ritual granted to Joshua was put to perfect use. Corwin did not remain in his metaphysical prison for much longer as his servants and followers sprang into action. His Werrit used her filch magic to reach out to him; combined with the magic of the ritual, she was able to steal him from the Place-Which-Was-Elsewhere, but it was not that easy since the ach'de were there to stop her.

Corwin, however, asked his final question. "You are here, granted the task to guard a dead god... but the ritual is complete and, as I leave you, I am no longer dead."

They saw things his way and, thus, the ritual could be complete. Returned from death and ascending to the highest station as an undead god, Corwin Muscroft overcame great adversity and started his reign as the God of the Dead. There were sacrifices, but they were unavoidable if His great plan was to be achieved, and that meant they were well worth the price.

* * * * *

Having been restored to a semi-balance of life, many things had changed for Corwin Muscroft, not the least of which was His name; those undead who were called back from death were granted new titles and, ever after, Corwin would be Mal-Corwin. The God of Death had returned to His prior empire, which had been modified significantly since His passing. Joshua had done a fantastic job reacquiring that which had been stolen from Mal-Corwin and, even with the passing of his 'son', the God of the Dead knew that there was meaning to it; he could take comfort in that, and rejoice in Joshua's sacrifice and ultimate success.

This was a thought which ran through His head even as He stared at the tombstone over an empty grave, (mis)identifying the spot as the final resting place of His son. He had visited the site in His manor's garden multiple times a day since He had arisen, but that morning was the first time He was not alone. "You came to know her well over the years, I would imagine, Jiibelle?"

The Werrit standing By his side was dressed in muted colors, somber in her garb and her demeanor. "She was the best of us, Master Malcormus... I understand why she is gone, but that doesn't make the parting any easier."

Jiibelle had become one of His most reliable followers despite her having elected to follow Him during the time He had been dead. The twenty years in service to His son had changed her from being a self-focused sneak-thief into a powerful instrument for the cause, and her loyalty was without question. She did, however, have free will, and He appreciated her ability to think for herself. "Of course it doesn't. It would not be a sacrifice if it were easy, My dear."

He saw tears in her eyes, and it pained Him to witness her suffering; the moment her shoulders began to quake with silent sobs, Mal-Corwin took to steps to close the distance, embracing her to offer her what comfort He could. Although it had taken Him decades to learn how to comfort mortals, it was a trait that stuck with Him even through His banishment while dead; she regained her composure long enough to ask him "Why did the Ancients make it hurt to lose those who mean so much to us?"

Offering her one more comforting squeeze, Mal-Corwin disengaged, moving to take a seat on a stone bench. He gestured to the spot beside him and Jiibelle obediently sat. "My dear... the Ancients did not create that pain. Loss is something that all mortals encounter, and the pain which is felt from the absence of someone so dearly cared for is always commensurate to loss experienced. To feel this so deeply, it is readily obvious that Garna was significant in your life."

The Werrit held her paws clasped together in her lap; Mal-Corwin saw that the one which had suffered a serious mana burn during the ritual was healing nicely, but He didn't let that distract Him from her words. "I lost my mother young... while Garna and I didn't know one another very well, she helped me feel welcome, and helped me learn my place in the household. More than anyone, she made this manor feel like home."

Gently folding His arm around the demure Werrit, Mal-Corwin draped his cloak over Her shoulders; His body no longer held warmth so he could offer her nothing but access to an extra layer of cloth against the early morning cold. "Mal-Ferren tells me that you have taken a liking to her siblings."

She turned to regard Him. "They were devastated to learn of her passing... I... I couldn't possibly explain..."

He held up a hand to forestall her rapidly returning sobs. "Shhh... I understand, My dear. You needen't say it-- I can see it still troubles you. They will continue to be cared for, I assure you... and, if it would bring you comfort, I would gladly leave their well-being to you. They may not be little ones any longer, but family is, and always has been priceless in My eyes. I can tell the same is true for you."

Jiibelle nodded. "Yes, Lord Malcormus... it is. I accept. Thank you."

Mal-Corwin offered a comforting smile and reached up with a gloved hand to wipe a tear off of her cheek fur. "Answer a question for Me, if you would, My dear."

The Werrit bowed her head. "Of course, my Lord."

The God of the Dead slowly drew back, giving her space. "While I shall ultimately reveal Myself to the people of Maan Ellis and the whole of the world, I do not believe I shall do so as the arisen Mal-Corwin Muscroft. The name you have chosen for me... Malcormus... would you allow me to make use of it on a formal basis?"

The gaze of adoration and joy in the Werrit's eyes told Him everything He needed to know before she even answered. The two of them parted from the tombstones, each feeling better in their own way. Malcormus valued His followers far too much to consider their sacrifice to be anything other than an extremely costly loss, but knowing that others within His orbit felt their loss strongly let Him know that he was doing well. Moving back into the shadowy corridors into his partially mothballed manor, the God of Dead sought out his most loyal follower. It did not take long.

Malcormus had never been required to summon Ferren; Mal-Ferren was even more accessible as their divine connection let the undead Werulf know the moment he was needed. Arriving to stand beside the Dark God as surely as if he'd been summoned by a dog whistle, Mal-Ferren was only to pleased to be in his presence again and, if Malcormus were honest to himself, the feeling was mutual. "Jiibelle will be in mourning for some time, Mal-Ferren."

The Werulf blinked his eyes; since his conversion to undeath, Malcormus' right hand had a powerful green glow to them, illuminating any shadowy space he occupied. The Dark God found that it suited him. "Master, she knows that it was Your will and that there was a reason behind the sacrifice."

Resting a hand on his companion's shoulder, Malcormus watched as the Werulf's fur puffed out. As members of the undead most of their senses were horribly dulled except for how they interacted with mana and life forces; food which was not alive and kicking was bland; the scent of everything but blood and fear was dull; tactile sensations meant little unless it was the feel of a being imbued with necromantic power. As Malcormus Himself was the only other undead in his life, Mal-Ferren was berift of any positive touch aside from His.

Stroking his follower's fur gently, the Dark God noted "Understanding something with one's mind and feeling it in one's heart is often at odds. She will come to terms with it in the near future and, later, she will become bitter."

Mal-Ferren snorted dejectedly. "She would not dare. It was Your will, Master Muscroft. If she ever loses sight of that, I will make her remember... forcefully if I must."

Malcormus was warmed by His follower's ardent assertion and the threatening growl to his words, but He waved the concern away. "You let Me worry about that, My friend. You have far more to concern yourself with other than one to-be-errant Werrit."

The Werulf's tail began to wag immediately. "You have only to direct me, Master... I look forward to serving You once more."

Smiling, the Dark God gestured toward the hall; He then strolled down it, Mal-Ferren accompanying Him without another word. As He walked, Malcormus explained. "Now that I have returned, it is time for the rest of the world to hear of Our movement. We will gather the disenfranchised, the rejected, the reviled, and the ignored... and We will make Ourselves known. We will rise up and be heard. This world belongs to everyone, and none may be denied their rightful place."

Mal-Ferren's eye glowed so brightly it looked like they were balls of balefire in his furred sockets. "You one said that, if You were ignored, You would make the world burn."

The Dark God's grin took on a vindictive sharpness. "Gather the torches, My friend. It is time for us to tell the world We will not be denied."

The Werulf's tail wagged furiously. "To war?"

The room around Malcormus grew darker and colder as his will became manifest. "No, Mal-Ferren... there are those who will not follow Us, but it will not be a war; it will be a slaughter."