This New World Has No Place For Old Gods

“It doesn’t count if you’re already planning your defeat.”

Eros would probably find himself scattered across the cosmos before he could blink if he ever dared to mention to anyone outside this room that Azrael – the Archangel of Death himself – was whining.

Although, that said, his death would prove his point, and leave Az feeling particularly disgruntled—which was always an amusing thing to witness. Not that Eros would be there to see it, of course; or at least, he wouldn’t for the first eight days or so.

“Even a God would be a fool to challenge Death,” he pointed out, eyeing Azrael as he sat slumped on his grand throne.

It was something of a horrifying marvel. Azrael had built the throne himself, and no one was quite sure—or brave enough to ask—if it was a statement of bitterness, resentment, or some twist form of judicial punishment. You see, Azrael’s throne was built from the remains of those who had raised his personal ire. But instead of bones, as many would perhaps expect to see here, Azrael claimed their nervous systems. Long tendrils of pink, stringy flesh were woven together to create a grotesque lattice, and over many millennia Azrael had gathered enough to fashion a throne with no equal.

Eros remembered asking the Archangel once what the point was, and knew the chances of him forgetting the answer he’d received were slim to none.

“They’re dead,” he had said. “They are in Death’s hands, and beyond your reach now. So why keep pieces of them behind?”

In return, Azrael had given him a grin that had sent chills down Eros’ spine—and that was not an easy thing to achieve. With no small amount of pleasure in his voice, he’d explained, “They say the deceased bodies of mortals are still in some way tied to their eternal souls. It brings me sweet joy to know that the spirits of those who have angered me may feel the pain of their long-departed flesh when I take my seat.”

It’s a dangerous thing, to risk the fury of an immortal, because their memories are long, and their hearts and minds are slow to forgive.

Eros’ preferred form of retribution was humiliation. The ruining of a reputation had far-reaching consequences that often strayed past even his imaginative capabilities. But for Azrael, the right-hand of Death themself, vengeance took on a different meaning. The boundaries provided by the fleetingness of human life were irrelevant to him—his reach went far further than that.

“Death will do as they have always done, my dear,” said Azrael, leaning forward so that his elbows came to rest on his knees. “They will not take sides. They will not make enemies, and they will not make friends. For them, nothing is ever personal. But make no mistake, this is personal.”

Eros’ return look was flat. “Many things are with you, Az.”

Azrael scowled. “Do not pretend you do not also long for the Old Days. Humanity used to love us. They feared us. They were all too aware of our power. And now? We are but relics of a forgotten age. Our shrines are nothing but quaint curiosities for their changeable hearts. There is no belief for us anymore, my dear. And you cannot be a God without those who worship you.”

“Our duties remain the same, Azrael,” Eros shot back, a warning tone in his voice. “My issue is not with humanity. It is in the fact that what you propose would disrupt the natural order of things. Whether we are believed to be real is irrelevant.”

“Is that so?” Azrael rose to his feet, his movements seamless and elegant. For a split-second, his form flickered. The illusion that covered him wavered. And in the place of a robed figure was a shining light, blinding to human eyes, that broke through the cracks of the shadowy figure he instead chose to present.

The Grim Reaper, some called him. Cloaked in black, and wielding a scythe, he was the paragon of Death. Some considered him an omen of darkness. They feared him, tried to run when their time came. Others thought him a guardian of the dead, and those accepted his hand unfalteringly at the end.

But regardless of their beliefs, Azrael’s purpose was stagnant, as unchanging as time was fluid. It was not dependent on the beliefs of mortals.

Which was why his wish to recapture humanity’s attention was so perplexing. And why his plan to challenge Death was so foolish.

“What has humanity accomplished since they moved away from our guidance?” Azrael asked. “Some would argue much. A great many technological wonders. Miracles of medicine. They have even dared to look out to the stars, and travel beyond the safety of the planet that was gifted to them. What intelligent little apes they are...”

Eros narrowed his eyes. “Get to the point, Azrael.”

“The point? Oh, but my dear Eros, can you not see for yourself? All of these incredible achievements, every new innovation, has a fatal downside. Their technological industries are turning their own atmosphere into a writhing mass of gaseous poisons. Poisons that are suffocating the very Earth itself. Their breakthroughs in medicine are delaying the deaths of billions, and suddenly the balance of all life has been shaken to the point of instability because there are just too many humans.”

“And space travel?” Eros asked, feeling his confidence waver. “What could that possibly do to harm them?”

“Oh, very little in the short-term, so long as they get it right.” Azrael smirked, walking past Eros and heading towards his Otticaivu. All immortals had one. They were windows, through which could be seen the Earth. “But I ask this of you, my dear: What happens when their technology has advanced to the point that they can survive on other planets?”

“We cannot know for sure, Az.”

He scoffed. “Of course we can. For all the things that change about humans and their desires, one thing, throughout all of time, has remained constant. Their need to grow. To spread. As soon as they dig their roots into another cosmic lump of rock they will proceed to do exactly as they have done here; they will destroy it, or they will destroy themselves. Perhaps not intentionally, and perhaps it will take thousands of years, but they will.”

Eros stared at him. “And how would starting a war with Death help this in any way?”

Azrael gestured to his Otticaivu, the gleaming stone sitting innocently on its opulent pedestal of polished septarian—one of few geological marvels to catch (and hold) Az’s interest. “See for yourself.”

The true wonder of the Otticaivu was their ability to transcend time. Most Gods were at the mercy of time in the same way that mortals were, and the ones that had more freedom to move within the temporal weave of the universe had strict rules they had to follow. The Otticaivu were not bound by such rules. They could look forwards and backwards, explore different temporal pathways, and even, on occasion, grant their users the temporary ability to disrupt the flow of time.

There was some debate over whether the Otticaivu were is some way sentient. At times they followed the will of the user, and others, they seemed to have a will of their own.

Today, when Eros placed his hands on the spherical stone, he was thrown forwards.

He was painted a picture of the human world in ruins. The Otticaivu dropped him in a city street, and left him to explore this alien place as he pleased.

Most of the buildings had long since fallen into disrepair—a broken window here, a door hanging off its hinges there, and every now and again there was a pile of rubble in the middle of the street, and a building with a hole in the wall far above. Cracks in the ground were beginning to show signs of plant life, the green shoots poking their heads timidly out from the dark.

There were no people.

The streets were vast, but empty of all human life.

Then, in the corner of his eye, he caught sight of a fox. It was plump and healthy, its nose perked up at the sky. Behind it came two others—its cubs.

As if given a signal he could not sense, other animals came out to join the foxes. Sheep. Dogs. Mice. Birds circled overhead, their songs loud and clear and vibrant without the clamour of human activity to drown them out.

The image faded, and Eros was returned to the present.

“What was that?”

Azrael smiled. It was not a vicious smile, or a sardonic one. It was hopeful. “That is what will become of the world if you agree to help me, Eros. Our battle with Death will result in a lot of human casualties—we would not be able to keep it contained within our realm, even if we were to try. And with their numbers lessened, nature will once again reach its equilibrium. The world will find its balance, and, under our guidance, humanity will once more learn to live in harmony with the rest of life on their beloved Earth.”

Eros shook his head, but he knew he had been won over. The vision he saw... It was dark in some ways. It brought despair to his heart to see the achievements of humanity abandoned to the dispassionate claws of time; to see a space designed to be inhabited by the many so desolate and empty. But, in all things, there was light. And in that vision, he saw more hope for humankind than he did at present. Because Azrael was right. The path they were carving for themselves was unsustainable, and one day—whether it be ten years from now, or several thousand—it would lead to their extinction.

“You must understand, my dear,” Azrael said, placing his hand on Eros’ shoulder, “though they have caused me great sorrow and turmoil over the years, I do not do this out of anger, or hatred. I do it out of love. Humans are not the only lifeforms put into my care as they pass between life and death, and too many of the creatures I have carried across the veil have been the last of their kind—because of the actions of humanity. I love them, and I do not wish to see them gone. But, sometimes, drastic measures must be taken. To protect them, and to protect their world.”

Eros was quiet for a long time. A tingle of disquiet remained, but it was a mere spark amongst a roaring flame. A flame that recognised the frightful truth of Azrael’s words.

“Is this truly the only way?”

Azrael sighed. “Perhaps not,” he said at length, “but this is the way that produced the clearest outcome. Even the Otticaivu was uncertain of what would happen when I offered up alternatives.”

Eros nodded. “Then I will help you, Azrael. Even if we are going into this knowing we shall not win. There is no conquering Death.”

“No, there is not.” Azrael glanced over at him, and once again his form shimmered with the dazzling light he chose to smother. “But to make this work, dear Eros, you must fight as if you intend to win. It will be a difficult fight, and a painful one, and you and I will both die. Perhaps this will be the one time our deaths are permanent. I made light of it earlier, I know, but there is no point in fighting if you accept your defeat from the start—even if the odds are against you.”

“I understand,” said Eros, nodding again. “Though, I do have one more question, if you’ll humour me.”

“And what is that?”

“Why me? I have no jurisdiction over war, no wisdom in battle, no great skills to boast. There are countless others who would be far more useful allies.”

Azrael rolled his eyes. “This is not a choice of tactics, Eros. You and I both know those who specialise in war would never agree to such a plan—they despise losing too much.”

Eros frowned. “Then why?”

“Everything you do, you do with passion. With your whole being. Now that you have agreed to this, I know that you will put your every effort into seeing it done. There is no greater gift to give, and no greater ally to have, than one who gives you all.” He smiled. “In any case, you have been my cherished friend for a long time now. Quite frankly, my dear, there is no one else I would rather die beside.”