Slathir stared out the silver-lined window into absolute, perpetual Darkness. Nothing stared back at him, and there wasn’t so much as an inch of movement to be seen. As had been every day for the last year. For as long as he had watched.

  As a god, he had learned that sleep was largely optional, and he could forgo it for a frankly unreasonable length of time. So, staring out a window for a year straight did little to physically wear him down, though it was mundane to the point of insanity. Which was helpful in a twisted sense, since it was sort of the reason he’d done it in the first place.

  He blinked, finally glanced away from the Abyss that ‘hung’ outside, and began to scribble on a piece of parchment. It was already filled with an assortment of poorly done notes and analyses. Of course, he first had to blow a year’s worth of dust from it and make sure he still had ink.

  It was rudimentary, hardly a very philosophical or scientific take on the subject, and he had no doubt that if he presented it to his kin, he would be a laughingstock. Worst of all, Loron might even take offence at what had been written.

  He paused and considered that again, “No, not Loron. For the same reason he is hard to converse with, he is unlikely to show any outward anger or disapproval. Praise be that the God of Knowledge was born with infinite patience.”

  Or perhaps the patience of a learned scholar is simply the simplification and manifestation of his own personality?

  He made a note on a corner to think more on it in the future.

  His assertation that he spent half an hour writing down in ink was a simple one, and obvious in retrospect. Then again, most conclusions were.

  On top of being largely resistant to physical damage, he had found that a god’s brain was also highly resistant to natural psychological effects. To clarify, it meant that acts of immense boredom and otherwise madness-inducing activities had no effect on the structural integrity of their psyche or Soul. In simpler terms, it meant that a god could not go mad the same way that mortal beings could.

  He lowered the quill and leaned back in his chair. He sighed.

  “What am I doing?”

  How old was he now? He’d long ago lost count, but he still felt like a child when compared to his kin, and especially to Frandwil and Melgos. Though in reality there was very little in terms of substantial time between their births, Frandwil simply carried himself in a way that he could never hope to imitate.

  He had surety. His position was known to him, and his role in the circle of existence was established. He suffered no doubt, and whatever he did, he did so with confidence.

  Ah, the circle of existence.

  Or the googolplexagon of life. That was what Loron had begun spouting a decade ago, but sometimes he felt the god got too lost in the specifics. He would spend all his time deciphering grand concepts and the nature of the information that tattooed his body, and it became hard for anybody else to understand what he was talking about.

  But he was the God of Knowledge, just as Frandwil was the God of Darkness. Everyone knew what that meant, even those primitive beings Creation had brought forth after them. What were they called again… right, of course. Humans. Such a strange name.

  But Slathir? He was the God of Demons. And even now, centuries later, a gap of time so long he had not bothered to count, he still did not know what that meant. What was a Demon? What did it mean to be a God of something that had yet to be made? What were his responsibilities and duties to Andwelm or Creation itself?

  It was that line of questioning that found him taking a seat opposite another god. One other who had been staring at a single scene for years, although his was for a greater goal than simple documentation. And he certainly had a better idea of what he was doing.

  It was his foster-brother, Melgos, the God of Evil, who was at that very moment attempting to fuse a lion with a snake and what looked like a porcupine.

  He felt a strong bond with him. He was of the First Generation, the first nine gods born before him, and was in fact third-oldest, created second after Frandwil and his sister, Mayare, the Goddess of Light.

  However, being one of the oldest in nature meant nothing in reality, which was that Melgos was strange. Really strange, even while being compared to other gods. Even while being compared to Slathir himself.

  He was the only one of them who never kept one form or appearance. His original form, whatever it was, had probably never been seen by anyone save Creation. He was fluid, ever shifting between faces, colours, textures, and sizes. Though he stayed male, certain… aspects of that tended to shift around just as often, and that was probably the least strange part of it all. While hunched over the table, he appeared as a tall man, his arms and legs covered with red scales that, when you moved around, reflected and shifted any incoming light. It was quite beautiful, really.

  He also didn’t feel old in the same way Frandwil did. He deferred to the God of Darkness, and it was no secret that he considered him in some ways his father, or as close to a father as a god could have. When Creation had brought Frandwil into being, Melgos had come as well, being wrought of the evil and shade found in the shadows of the older god.

  Being in a similar position, Slathir had often found himself in the company of the nebulously-defined God of Evil. What was Evil anyway?

  Melgos said he knew but had never offered to tell him or go into detail. He spent most of his time creating. Fusing together creatures, splitting them apart, bringing half-life to ambitious monsters that would send chills down the spine of any who saw them. The sort of thing that would send mortals screaming and running to the hills if they ever saw it.

  Which is what he was doing now. His eyes twitched as he hovered the head of the lion closer to the snake's spine.

  “So, how was the last year, Slathir?” He asked without looking up.

  “It went as expected. I have concluded that we, in fact, cannot go mad in the same ways mortals do. I’ve yet to find a method that could lead to our own insanity, and though it may be conjecture, believe that we are incapable of it.”

  He sniffed, “Well, that’s something, isn’t it?”

  “Hardly worth the year.”

  “Need I remind you that time is a resource we have in easy supply?”

  “Is it really?” He leaned forward, taking care not to bump or disturb the project, but meeting the other god’s eyes for a moment, “Every decade I continue to reside in Eravros without a declared purpose, the more questions are asked. Even the nicest of our kin cannot hide their concern. I’m not deaf, and I can hear how they speak of me.”

  “Frandwil’s Halls of Eravros are open to all, that is what is written. I’m not sure if you heard, but more Humans have found themselves at this borderland between reality and the Abyss. Strange really, I did not think they would find the existential dread that appealing.” He sniffed, “None will take action against you while you remain here, not without incurring the wrath of Frandwil. And myself.”

  “Respectfully, I doubt you add much to that list.”

  Melgos winced, “Valid.”

  “And welcome as I am, I remain without purpose. I am a God without a designation, a wild card that could tip any balance if I saw fit. I don’t think I need to explain to you why some may fear that.”

  He paused, looking away from the skin and talons beneath him. They had both felt the small, almost untraceable touches of Light roaming closer to Frandwil’s claim. It was bold indeed for sparks of it to reach so close to their primordial counterpart.

  “You have a designation. You are the God of Demons.”

  “Which means what exactly?”

  He frowned, “How should I know? It’s the words of Creation, and that holds more weight than anything else.”

  “Important words that yet remain undecipherable. What are Demons, Melgos?”

  “How should I know?” He repeated with a shrug, “I am the God of Evil, of Monsters, and Gruesome Death and Mayhem, not the God of Demons. I don’t think, even if I wanted to, I could answer you honestly.

  “…That last part is new.”

  “Mortals are getting more creative by the day.” He continued with his work, “Demons are what you make them, Slathir. Neither I nor Frandwil nor any other god could give you an answer you’d find satisfactory.”

  “That doesn’t mean I wouldn’t appreciate some guidance.”

  “I hardly believe it would be appropriate.” He swung his hand to the beginnings of his newest experiment, “Do you think this would be the same if you had influence over it? If Mariath had her way, this new creature would sprout flowers wherever it goes. If it were Mayare, it would be her servant and trail Light behind its figure. It may only be a true creation of Melgos when it is I who holds sway over its aspects. And I would say the same to you.”

  “You know you’re not as helpful as you seem to think you are.”

  He chuckled, “Would I be myself if I were? I-” He cut off, the bones and other pieces of animals cluttering to the stone table before him.

  “Melgos?”

  “We have company.”

  That was when Slathir felt it. Two presences revealed themselves at the doors to the Halls of Eravros, awaiting entry. No mortal would dare. It was two gods.

  Within seconds, he and Melgos were striding into the main hall, the seat of Frandwil. Already, their foster-father sat on a throne of pure silver. His face was covered in a resting frown, which was the norm, but now it grew darker by the minute.

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  It alleviated a fraction when his eyes met the two of them.

  “Melgos. Slathir.” As he turned his head, a wisp-like afterimage was left in its wake. “It would seem we have visitors. Some of our family have deigned to speak with us.”

  “One wonders what must’ve compelled them to do so,” Melgos added in a sour tone. As he did, his scale-like appearance shifted from red to light crimson, “Who is it? It’s hard to distinguish them.”

  It was true, Frandwil had an uncanny ability to tell apart one godly presence from another, a feat that not many of their kind could achieve. Though it might have been explained by their presence in his own domain, and so close to the Abyss itself.

  Slathir himself could barely tell their presences apart from one another, but then again, he rarely spoke to his kin. The most had been exchanging messages with Loron, and those had been short and brief.

  “Neither of them are those who might put themselves at risk being this close to the borderlands.” He answered while stroking his chin, “But regardless of that, I am intrigued by this. I have never spoken with her in person before.”

  He said nothing more as the giant stone doors before them cracked open slightly to reveal two figures.

  The figure on the left wore beige and baggy robes. His face was old, and a single bronze eye was looking around the room, taking it all in with familiarity. His other eye was covered by a strap of spare cloth, ripped at the edges as if pulled from his robes minutes before. In his arms, he clasped a massive hourglass where thousands of sands trickled down by the second, and yet there was no change in their levels.

  The other drew more of his attention. The dress she wore was plain, without a single frill or additional colour. At least that was what he assumed, because most of it was covered by her hair, which wrapped around most of her head and fell down to her ankles. It was oddly braided, with hundreds of simple knots and iron pins holding it together. Even as she stood there, her cyan blue eyes peering out from the shadows where her face must have been, and fixing themselves on Frandwil, she fiddled with a bunch of her hair and stabbed a pin into it.

  Kel Rahtart, the Goddess of Prophecy, and Kal Trathar, the God of Time.

  Now, what would compel them to come here?

  “I hope you have found the state of my home to your liking.”

  Kal Trathar's face flickered with a smile at the god’s comment, “As bright and dark as I remembered it, Frandwil.” He bowed his head to the remaining gods, “Melgos, a pleasure as always.”

  “And to you also, Time Warden.”

  “And Slathir.” He bowed his head again, “It has been too many years since last we spoke.”

  He simply nodded, “It would seem so, Kal Trathar.”

  “And I do believe that neither you nor the host of this hall has ever been acquainted with Kel Rahtart.” He indicated to the goddess next to him that still remained fixed in her position like a statue.

  “Never in person, no.”

  The Goddess of Prophecy’s eyes flickered as she turned her gaze on him. And then, to his shock, a single tear ran down her cheek, “Eight-fold God, I see you. Ours is a meeting that was foretold.”

  He flinched. Her voice… it didn’t match the movement of her lips. Even as the sound of her words disappeared, her mouth continued to move, almost a few seconds behind her own voice. It was strange, yes, but their kind tended to have their… quirks.

  “As much as your presence warms my heart.” Frandwil continued with his straight face, “I must be blunt in asking what brings you into my halls? Not simply to reminisce, I assume.”

  Kal Trathar nodded, ‘She wished to speak with you in private. Any more than that I cannot gather, for she deemed it unnecessary for me to know.”

  “And you? What is your purpose?”

  He shrugged, flicking aside some of his shoulder-length white hair, “She asked me to accompany her. I thought it wise not to refuse.” He paused, before grimacing, “In fact, I am not sure I could have refused.”

  The God of the Abyss was silent for a moment as he met her gaze. Then, he nodded, “I understand. Melgos, Slathir, if you would not mind…?”

  It was a request, not an order, but both gods nodded. Melgos disappeared in an instant, spiriting himself back down the corridor they’d come, no doubt to continue his experiments. Slathir almost joined him, if not for a look he caught from the God of Time as he turned to leave. Considering it briefly, he instead walked down to him, passing the goddess as she approached his foster-father atop his throne. The two of them walked beyond the gates and into the hallways beyond in silence.

  .   .   .

  They eventually settled into two chairs, covered in pillows, in a lavishly decorated lounge that was currently unattended. Even as he sat, he could feel the eye of the other god following his movements. He had forgotten what it was like being in the presence of others.

  “It has been too long since last we exchanged more than pleasantries. I was beginning to believe you avoid us on purpose. Has the life of a recluse been calling to you recently?”

  “I would hardly blame you for thinking that. Is it a shared sentiment?”

  He tilted his head from side to side, “Perhaps to some. Though you would not be without peers in that regard, my boy. I haven’t spoken to Lathtar or my own brother for several decades now. But many living in Clatharia do find a God without purpose cause for concern.”

  “They are not wrong in their beliefs.”

  “Creation has given us all purpose, Slathir. Even if it can sometimes seem obscure or misleading.”

  “Misleading.” He scoffed, “That might truly be one of the greatest understatements you could have made.”

  The bronze eye was almost piercing. “And what is it that you believe?”

  He found it hard to maintain eye contact with him, so he turned away, “I fear that it is my purpose to be forever bereft of purpose. I am the only Demon and the God of Demons, therefore, I am a God whose domain covers only himself.”

  “That is what you assume to be true?”

  “It is the only thing I know to be true.”

  He shook his head, “The only god who knows our futures and what our fates have in store for us is currently occupied a couple of rooms down.” He flicked a thumb to the covered hole where his other eye ought to be, “I should know. In the grand scheme of things, she’s only the real truth there is.”

  “If that is the case, then what is my purpose. What must I do to find meaning in this existence?” The desperation in his voice was plain as day.

  He shook his head again, “That’s not a question someone else can answer for you. Only you know what your own truth is.”

  “That’s all anyone says that I’ll find my path myself, and it’s up to me and only me, but I don’t.” His one hand shook slightly as he gripped the armrest. “How am I supposed to come to my own conclusions by myself when I have no idea what I’m supposed to be doing?”

  Kal Trathar smiled sadly, tapping the hourglass in his hands. He looked down at it for a second before meeting his eyes again, “Let me show you something.”

  He reached forward and took Slathir’s hand in his. Before he could object, he’d placed both of theirs on the edge of the hourglass and tilted it slightly anticlockwise.

  The world spun, degrading into sand and dust, the chairs slipping away from beneath them, and then they were in another place entirely, another time entirely.

  And it was familiar. Rolling grass covering a hill at the beginning of the world, stars hanging overhead as silence and emptiness filled existence. It was the place of their birth. The origin of the beginning. Slathir knew in an instant, though, that he was at a point in time even older than he was. And it was because of the people standing before him.

  Nine figures stood atop the crest of the hill. Nine gods of the First Generation, the first beings of the world and the true firstborns of Creation.

  “Look at them, Slathir.” Kal Trathar said, “Gaze now upon your mighty forefather Gods.”

  They all seemed to be rather dysfunctional.

  Two figures, each burdened with the Light and the Abyss, were arguing with one another. He recognised Frandwil pointing down at the earth beneath them, and this was perhaps the most animated he’d ever seen him. Across from him, Mayare was red-faced, putting several of her golden arms to the sky above them. Wisps and flashes of their mana were already clashing. Hidden beside them was a tiny figure trying his best to into the shadows, rocking back and forth after curling himself up into a ball.

  Away from them, two goddesses held hands, and while neither was arguing, their visions and focuses were entirely different. Mariath was bent down and inspecting a patch of grass and trying to get the other’s attention. Her sister, however, was too busy picking apart a dying plant. Neither seemed to have noticed the contradictory nature of their domains yet, but both scowled as a bright and fiery figure strolled past them, his presence burning both subjects of their inquiries away. Chalador, the God of Fire, flashed his white teeth to all that could bear to look at them, and even as a memory, Slathir thought it was almost blinding. He alone seemed unconditionally happy.

  Out of the corner of his vision, he could see a lone figure staring up at the stars, not moving so much as an inch. He didn’t speak, and there was an unspoken radius of emptiness around him. None of his fellow gods would go any closer.

  And finally were the last two, another pair. One pale-skinned and radiating a chilling aura, a war-hammer as big as he was slung onto his back. Kal Mandor, the God of Ice, looked around with contempt, most of all for the smiling God of Fire, in every way his antithesis. The only person saved from his ire was the god beside him. He was lying on the ground, one arm propped under his head. The other was clasped around a large hourglass.

  The two-eyed and lavishly dressed God of Time peered around and spotted them, whilst all others passed them by. He squinted, then nodded at Kal Trathar, who returned the gesture to his past self.

  “I have often revisited this moment. I remember seeing at least a dozen of me coming back to watch this scene, again and again. Rather disconcerting for a young god.”

  Slathir tore his eyes away from the nine gods, “Why are you showing me this?”

  “Because I felt you needed to see this. You needed a reminder. Do you think that just because we are gods that we are all-knowing and all-powerful from the very moment Creation brought us into being? That right there, Frandwil, Mayare, Lathtar and all the rest knew exactly what they were doing here? Look at us?” He gestured around them, “Half are too stuck in their own heads or developing their own prides, and the others are already finding reasons for conflict with each other.”

  “But they figured it out, didn’t they? They found their purpose.”

  The God of Time pulled back the cloth piece that covered his face. Behind it was a gaping maw, and infinitely spiralling emptiness where his second eye should have been.

  “We each suffered to find them, and some of us took longer than others. We are flawed beings with powers that mortals cannot comprehend, living on a timescale that is longer than the trees themselves. Ask Lathtar how long he pondered over the stars and his tome before he understood, ask Teratheer and Mariath what the cost was when Death and Nature realised what they meant to each other.” He prodded Slathir’s chest with a finger, “Do you think Frandwil, who awoke before time itself, was the same God he is today?”

  “… No.”

  “Of course not. He walked across the Abyss itself before he realised his own purpose in this world.”

  He broke off, looking towards the summit. Then it all dissolved into sand and dust, washed away like a hurricane into the sky, and when it cleared, they had returned to their exact positions. Kal Trathar released his hand and leaned back in his seat.

  “What I’m saying,” he continued, “Is that you need to keep learning, not stop, and pout that you don’t know what’s going on and ask for help when it gets hard. Look at your… brother, Melgos. He has his faults, and some things he does I do not agree with, but what I cannot fault him for is his creations. Did you know, he has created more unique, new species and ideas in the last three hundred years than any other god has this millennium.”

  “He knows what he needs to do.”

  “And he found it by picking apart everything he could get his hands on and putting them back together for hundreds of years.”

  The older god sighed and rubbed his forehead. Some of the fervour and energy he’d spoken with left him, and it almost seemed like he deflated. In that instant, he looked to Slathir like a God that had walked through time.

  “I’m sorry if I was too blunt or rough with you, Slathir. But the last thing you should be doing is giving up or seeking others to do your job for you.”

  Slathir nodded and pulled himself to his feet. Surprisingly, his jump to the past hadn’t left him unstable. He could feel, somewhere deep inside his mind, something begin to tick as thoughts and ideas formed.

  “I… no, thank you, Kal Trathar. I believe that was something I needed to hear. Fate, it seems, truly does only belong to one being in Andwelm.”

  He laughed, “Ha! Well said.”

  They began to walk to the door, the older god trailing after him, when Slathir paused and turned back.

  “Sorry, but… you said that in the past, you saw yourself watching the moment of your Creation several times, correct?”

  “That’s right.”

  He pointed a finger towards his head, “Then what about the missing eye? If he, you, saw it before, how did you still lose it? Surely you would’ve been able to put two and two together.”

  All he got was a shrug, “My hubris and pride were a thing for the stories back then. Some things cannot be answered, and some things are simply the way of fate and the Creation. I was not meant to see the future, but I was meant to lose this eye, for without it, there would be no Goddess of Fate and Prophecy. We cannot outrun our own destiny.”

  Slathir still frowned, “But you have seen the future, in a way. Each time you go back to witness a moment in time, you are showing your past self a snippet of what the future holds. Is that not seeing the future?” He gestured to the room, “I reckon you’re probably doing it right now.”

  The God of Time opened his mouth, then closed it again. He tilted his head, and one eye stared at something no one else could see in the corner of the room. Finally, he smiled and walked past the God of Demons.

  “Well done, Slathir.”

  And what he said next escaped the ears of the other god, for Kal Trathar muttered it low under his breath.

  “I only hope your heart can survive what will come.”