When Gods Laugh

The rules were simple: only the Chosen could communicate with the Gods, and only the Prophets could appoint the Chosen. Everyone else could donate their gold and wait until called upon to receive answers to their prayers for help. It was a very good system, and (if the Prophets were to be believed–which they were, without question) it had worked for thousands of years.

In the town of Maribrisa, before the sun even had a chance to rise, it was becoming extremely clear that these rules only worked when the world wasn’t on fire.

Smoke was filling the town. The quaint fishing village was bathed in the orange and red glow of flame, and the shadows around the buildings grew until they were indecipherable from the smoke. The fishermen in the coastal oasis were used to the wet humidity of the coast, but this dry heat that tore at their faces and stole their breath was something they had never experienced. The flames licked at the homes and swallowed the mango trees away from the water, the fires catching and spreading faster than they should’ve been able to in the lush, wet soil. Confused screams turned into terrified ones as heat spread and filled the air. The orange and yellow light in the flames turned white and seemed to glow golden as unfamiliar conquerors in shining iron armor walked unharmed through the light. Their palms turned heavenward, calling the destructive element to consume all in its path.

Down the road, in the town square - away from the shore and the starting point of the invasion, knelt a boy. The square was really just a few shops, an inn, and the old church, which had an immaculately sculpted stone statue of a girl standing outside. The statue was lifesize - over 5 feet tall, with a crown built atop her head. She had a sword at her side with an ornate staff in her right hand, raised above her head triumphantly. Her left hand was stretched out in front of her, as though she was reaching out to the rest of the town. The plaque beneath her likeness read: “Talia, MageKnight of the God of Heroism. Chosen for her bravery and courage in the face of evil.” A boy knelt at that plaque in fervent prayer, having placed a gold coin in the statue’s hand and a dried flower on the plaque, ignoring the cries from his sister as she screamed his name – “Desmond, Desmond, please where are you –” but he was unable to finish his pleas before he was seized under the arms and tossed into a wagon with the rest of the surviving townsfolk.

Later, that night would be called the Eve of the Ash Tides. For now, to the people of the small fishing town, it was simply the beginning of the end. Their crops were buried in ash, and their boats had been burnt to ruin. The following weeks were filled with fear and flame as the invading knights proved to be cruel masters. They spoke a different language, but hatred and anger were universally understood. The once peaceful fishing town used to be filled with the smell of mango pastries and the sea as the fishermen went about their day and made their living while the children played in small tide pools. Now, the remaining survivors were not permitted to board their boats, and they were only allowed to work in the fields under the watchful gaze of a man known only to them as The Executioner. They were kept in the barns with the livestock until one dreary and cloud-filled day, all the people were herded into the town square with no explanation. It was uncommonly decorated, with newly erected statues of foreign gods and idols around the square. Desmond – a boy who had previously knelt at a statue of a hero– looked on with tears welling in his eyes as the same statue had been covered with mud and painted symbols that he knew to mean desecrate the holy space. He looked around at his friends and family, in a space that had once meant home and laughter, and he wept. As the tears spilled over and fell down his face, he finished his prayer.

Damn the Chosen and the Prophets and the gold they required.

He thought of the Gods who were said to love them, and prayed to any that would listen. So lost in his thoughts and the prayers themselves, he didn’t notice it when his lips started to move, mouthing the words. The people near him in the crowd shifted uneasily, the tension in their shoulders spreading around him as his prayers grew in intensity and with it, so did his voice. First an ardent whisper, then breathy speech gave way to impassioned cries. The crowd grew more and more restless with each word and as the volume grew, so did their fear. The guards had noticed, and were elbowing and shoving their way through the mob, though with each step the wall of people grew thicker and more frenzied, their fear giving way to terror as the boy never stopped speaking. Something electric passed through the air, growing stronger as he continued his prayers. Hair stood on end as dark, thunderous clouds swirled in the sky with lightning sparking between them. Time stood still as the din of the horde had grown and the boy was no longer the only one shouting. The men in their metal suits became even more violent in their need to get to the boy, shoving villagers to the ground and reaching for their steel. An older woman, the village midwife, reached out with a viper’s speed and gripped an armored wrist that had been drawing a sword. The conqueror broke her hold as fast as she had captured it and backhanded her, drawing blood from her nose and throwing her to the ground. Time now seemed to fly forward. Hands reached out, shoving and clawing at armor with no purchase. The few guards who had been in control were quickly overwhelmed under a fevered mass of bodies, until they seemingly remembered their metal. This would be a slaughter, as even a unified front of people was no match for the sharpened, dual edged swords of conquerors.

A thunderous boom shook the ground of the entire square, and lightning struck the church, the largest idol, and finally the statue of the girl in quick succession. Time stopped once more as flame erupted in a violent orange and white explosion, setting ablaze the church and the idol. Through the smoke and the glow of fire, Desmond -now on his knees, having been forced there by savage and impossibly strong hands– was the first to see. The stone of the statue glowed golden. The bright light filled the square and blinded the crowd. As the glow dimmed, the people were stunned into stillness as they saw the stone crumble around a girl. She took a shuddering breath to awaken ancient lungs, and stepped out of the flame. She stumbled briefly, shaking off the slate and shale before finding her footing and ascending a few feet above the ground. The staff was still in her hand, raised triumphantly about her head with a brilliantly made sword still sheathed at her side. As she took in her bearings and looked at the chaotic scene in front of her, she addressed the crowd. “Good people of the Lord, do not fear! I have been awakened to deliver you from this evil.” Lightning struck around her again as she descended to the ground.

With a grunt of effort, she swung her staff above her head and drove it into the ash and soil as she landed, where it stuck solidly with the tip still glowing a light gold. Desmond gazed at her with a spark in his eyes, a hope that spread from villager to villager as they stood tall for the first time since that first harrowing night. The knights nervously shifted in their stance, those that had caught villagers or drawn swords were frozen in fear and the confusion from their leaders was palpable. No one moved for a long moment, and then three things happened at once:

Talia, the girl in the statue, tried to draw her sword. It was steel, and heavy– heavier than it should’ve been to her. She was able to draw it halfway out of the sheath when her grip faltered, and she watched, helpless as the blade fell to the ground.

The boy, kneeling on the ground, watched the glow fade from the staff and felt his strength drain with it. He could only watch the girl as he was lifted bodily off the ground and restrained, a makeshift gag placed in his mouth to silence him and any guidance or warning that may have come. The realization that there was nothing more he could do kept his body limp in the arms of his captors.

The God of Heroism, watching from afar, laughed.

He laughed and laughed, thunderous booms echoing out highlighted by the lightning as Talia flung a hand out and shouted a spell only for nothing to happen. The storm finally raged above and with another crash of thunder, rain poured to the ground. It left the girl drenched and her heart hammered in her chest, but with no magic or strength to fuel her she didn’t even feel the cold.

It was over quickly after that. The ceremony, the reason that everyone had been hauled out of the barn where they were kept and marched into this poorly decorated and bastardized version of their town square, continued on. A sacrifice was chosen to appease the conquerors' gods, and an innocent young girl was murdered in front of her friends and family. Talia and Desmond were in chains, held as trophies by the captain of the invading troops and to remind the rest of the people what resistance meant. Tears hadn’t stopped running down her face as she kept her head down, unable to meet the eyes of any around her. First there was only shame. Why couldn’t she lift her sword? Why had her magic faltered and left her helpless? She couldn’t understand, and in her confusion and fear her shame shifted to fury. The men who had invaded this land kept her chained to a lone fence post on the edge of the town. She allowed them to think her tears were weakness as she watched them ruin this town. She allowed them to throw mud at her in humiliation. Through it all, she planned her escape and, hopefully, her eventual return.

The God of Heroism kept laughing, through it all. It was no sparkling sound of joy, but a derisive sneer of contempt. He only blesses those who are heroic, not those who can only snivel at their captors’ feet. The girl who emerged from the statue was, in fact, just a girl. Blessed with just enough divine magic and a grand entrance to catch everyone’s attention, she was still nothing – her power matched that of the pitiful offering made to him to appeal for his help. He keeps laughing as she was kept in chains, then just smiles as she slits a throat and escapes in the night when her guard turns his back. It’s a cowardly move, sure, but he knows that everyone starts somewhere on the quest for his favor.

Desmond watched Talia flee after a crimson spray struck the ground and the guard’s body went limp. He hesitated, the weight of his people and their deaths heavy on his heart. He couldn’t do anything about it, and the darkness of night seemed to crowd in around him, crushing his chest until he could barely breathe. The wind picked up, and in the distance he saw the girl go back for her staff. She moved quietly, and his breath left his lungs as she pulled the staff from the ash. He watched as she hesitated before testing its weight and lofting it above her head, spinning it in her hands before she disappeared back into the dark night. As sudden and fleeting as lightning, a memory struck: he had still seen the golden glow, he had witnessed a miracle, he had felt the presence of the Divine. That memory –that spark of hope– caught fire in his chest. Maybe it was naive, but he ran out into the night, chasing after that girl from the statue knowing that even if it was a long shot, he still had to try. This tiny, unlikely chance was all his people had left. He carried that flame long into the night, and allowed the burn to fuel him even further after that.

The God of Heroism looked on, boredom now taking over as the action from the day had faded. He saw the little girl run, and the small boy follow her. Clearly, the mortals still needed time to learn their lessons; heroism and valor aren’t just given, they're earned. This pathetic lot wasn’t there yet– not by a long shot– but perhaps someday they would be worth something to him. He makes note of them and decides to watch their journey for now; even Gods need a bit of amusement.