Chapter Text
An anomaly has occurred, the apocalypse is forthcoming.
Prematurely, the Original Creator has dispersed, ‘His’ will has wavered for the final time.
Within the rapidly deteriorating barrier, high above the planes of the mortal realm, two deities engage in combat, exchanging blows. Neither triumph. Though both have been driven to delirium, conscious minds more insane than not, in ‘Their’ brief moments of lucidity, ‘They’ notice something is awry, the foreboding feeling of foreign bodies entering ‘Their’ domain. ‘They’ are even more desperate to awaken.
Alas, The Lord of Mysteries is fated to bask in everlasting slumber.
The last hope of humanity, the pillar that Earth desperately needed, a failure.
During ‘Their’ last breath, ‘They’ come to a truce, ‘They' will fight to the bitter end, thus, ‘They’ turn to ‘Him’ to carry out ‘Their’ final gambit.
One that places everything on the line.
In the depths of the cosmos, the abominations on the far side stir. Some cast ‘Their’ gaze towards the miniscule, now defenceless planet. Something within all of ‘Them’ burns, the wish for convergence, a carnal desire, one which engulfs ‘Their’ entire beings. ‘Their’ actions governed by ‘Their’ primal instincts.
As prophesied, the moment ‘They’ set ‘Their’ sights upon the Earth, the lands shatter.
Bit, by bit, everything ceases to exist.
Evernight is the first to fall.
Mere moments before, ‘She’ floats motionlessly within ‘Her’ divine kingdom. ‘Her’ figure dons an unwavering black dress adorned with countless resplendent lights. On the terrain beneath ‘Her’, ivory moon flowers and night vanilla dot the landscape of the divine kingdom like the flickering stars in the night sky above ‘Her’. Alongside the flora, weaving through the incandescent flowers of white, flows a stygian river of black. Despite the miasma emanating from it cloaking the ground and all in its vicinity with a stench of death, a certain eternal peace exudes from that which it touches
The air is still, tranquil, even if only for a fleeting moment.
Beyond the sempiternal darkness of the sky above, crevices form and the domain quakes, screeches of madness leak through. The previous serenity is nothing but a memory.
With each crack, ‘She’ readies ‘Herself’. ‘She’ knows it will not be enough.
A single pillar cannot hold up an entire world upon ‘Their’ shoulders.
A pair of arms emerge from ‘Her’ ribs, in hand, an enormous black sickle materialises. The ivory flora begin to rapidly grow, spreading, expanding, consuming the land as far as the eye can see, as if attempting to engulf the very terrain it originates from, hoping to protect with its entire being. Soon, the flowers form a sea of white, humanity's last defence. The river of styx stirs, intertwining evermore with the growing meadow, those from within its depths rouse.
A deceased god rises from the substratum, figure as tall as a mountain, situating ‘Himself’ beside the flourishing night, a giant covered from head to toe in tattered silver armour with nothing but an abyss peeking out from behind the helmet’s visor. In hand, a longsword held at the ready to slice until nothing but dust is left. Other beings long lost to the world also emerge from ‘Their’ slumber, brought back by the waters of purgatory, all for a single goal.
Preservation.
The invaders from above move, the chaos that ensues puts the hell of the Abyss to shame.
The Immortal Voice reaches ‘Her’ first, ravings akin to the indoctrination of the Hidden Sage flood ‘Her’ mind, corruption enough to phase a true god. Simultaneously, something is devouring ‘Her’ kingdom, something large, all consuming, and at the centre of it all, there is a serene mother. From ‘Her’ towering figure, life births. Twisted, grotesque, perverted life. The river of darkness resists, corroding all which it touches, dragging the newfound vitality deep into its bottomless depths.
Flower consumes spawn, spawn decimates flora.
The battlefield continues to rage.
In a fit of desperation, ‘She’ lifts ‘Her’ sickle and cleaves. Slashing across the very essence of the kingdom, no mercy to any in its path. Half the Great Mother is shredded, a cacophony of wails pierces all present. Instantaneously, a wave of misfortune hits all those not favoured by the domain, small mistakes turn fatal as the enemy numbers dwindle ever so slightly. Riding on the previous momentum, ‘She’ throws the bird shaped accessory in one of ‘Her’ hands into the fray. An inferno erupts, a phoenix emerges from the ashes, with it comes a brilliant light of hope.
The tide shifts.
Invaders are gradually warded away.
Yet, as quick as the flames of hope emerged, they are extinguished just as fast.
Something glows within the null space above the kingdom, an ethereal ring. ‘They’ rotate, slowly. Three indistinguishable figures appear on top, switching, running, changing, round and round and round. Something sounds, and the inevitable occurs.
The clock is rewound.
The sickle is back in hand, the brood rejuvenated. Darkness consumes the environment once more. The light cremated, returned to char. Any and all struggle forcibly pushed towards a destiny of otiosity.
‘She’ feels despair hanging over her neck like a noose. ‘She’ attempts to slice once more, alas, ‘Her’ limbs are bound. ‘She’ becomes aware of the decay creeping up ‘Her’ dress, infecting ‘Her’ skin and soul. Porcelain skin turns to onyx, fur disintegrates to ash, galaxy submits to gravity.
The Evernight Goddess has been completely, utterly incapacitated.
The other gods are powerless to help, merely spectators as ‘They’ await ‘Their’ doom, an ever growing Supernova ensuring ‘They’ all meet their destiny in isolation.
‘She’ refuses to give up.
‘She’ struggles.
Yet, bit, by bit, ‘She’ is overwhelmed.
Starry eyes turn dull, hope evades ‘Her’.
Nobody is present to spectate ‘Her’ last moments, ones where ‘She’ mourns.
Mourns ‘Her’ failures, mourns ‘Her’ misfortune, mourns the fate of the planet ‘She’ protected so dearly, and, in her final moments, ‘She’ allows herself to at last mourn a time ‘She’ can never return to.
Alone from the beginning to the bitter end.
A single crystalline tear drops from the vanishing deity, it falls, forming ripples on the surface of the receding lake of the underworld.
Within the brief rotation of a clock’s hand, a goddess is returned to nihility.
Having overcome the primary nuisance, the invaders from above all rejoice. Earth’s fate is sealed, the small planet’s time is up. The remaining gods have little resistance ‘They’ can give. With all but one failing to reach the pinnacle of ‘Their’ divinity.
The Chasm of Storms is next, the Lord sits at the apex of ‘His’ domain. Despite all ‘His’ efforts, neither lightning nor the onslaught of typhoons is able to damage the eldritch bodies of the invaders. Though the struggle is fierce, the Lord of Storms eventually succumbs to ‘Their’ assault. Leodero is no more.
The Land of Perfection follows, a state of excellence one second, utterly desiccated the next. Neither the technology of today, nor that from an epoch ago is able to overcome the overwhelming onslaught of corruption and power the assailants bring forth. The God of Steam and Machinery joins the fate of ‘His’ failed products. Yuggs Stiano perrishes.
Within the next kingdom, a weary elder, the God of Knowledge and Wisdom stands at the edge of ‘His’ domain. Omniscience and omnipotent eyes gaze straight into the intruding abyss. The abyss stares back. ‘Their’ attention is too much for ‘Him’ to handle. Herabergen falls.
Sensing the demise of ‘His’ friends and foe, The Eternal Blazing Sun merely waits. Radiant light pervades throughout ‘His’ domain. A futile effort, as the encroaching darkness will soon smother all embers of hope. Aucuses is brought to ‘His’ knees.
Last of the orthodox, lies the Earth Mother. ‘Her’ struggle is fierce. ‘She’ manifests into a mountain range of flesh, where at the peak a thick black fog spews, an endless production of abominations that desire life. ‘Her’ creations intertwine with the spawn of another Mother, something akin to a land of reproduction forms, an amalgamation of desire, a battle to see who reigns supreme. Unfortunately, ‘She’ too is eventually consumed. Lilith is submerged in eternal slumber.
Within the Abyss, the Devil Monarch worries not, for ‘He’ feels the return of ‘His’ mother’s embrace. Similarly, in another isolated space, long lost to the world, a mummy wrapped in decayed straps shifts, a bastardised smile forms on ‘His’ face. ‘He’ has finally received ‘His’ salvation. ‘They’ have both long been lost to corruption.
The Primordial Demoness survives the longest. In ‘Her’ damaged state, ‘She’ closes ‘Her’ eyes, as the tips of ‘Her’ hair shake. ‘She’ stares into the glass. Beyond the mirror lies ‘Her’ but not ‘Her’. Cheek is shattered. ‘They’ return to chaos.
Humanity remains none the wiser, perhaps ignorance is the greatest bliss of them all. Only the most astute of the population, those chained by divinity, yet utterly insignificant within the power struggle between deities are burdened with the knowledge of dread.
The Angels obtain clarity for the longest.
Those within the clergy have mere seconds to mourn the lost connection with their chosen god, before ‘They’ too succumb to the corruption rapidly approaching. ‘Their’ entire beings are weighed down with fear like no other as ‘They’ approach ‘Their’ inevitable fate.
A small, chubby child trips, on ‘His’ place on the ground, ‘He’ gazes into the sky seconds before it shatters. ‘His’ eyes are no longer filled with childlike innocence, instead,’ They’ are pitchblack voids. With a dice in hand, ‘He’ throws it to the floor and prays. ‘He’ rolls a six.
Within the spirit world, a headless figure as tall as a castle donned in a complex grim dress is stagnant. ‘Her’ four heads are frowning. A gold coin is clutched in ‘Her’ hands as ‘She’ brings ‘Her’ heads together and prays.
Hidden within The Star, ‘He’ senses an error gradually forming, a glitch within fate. ‘He’ warns ‘His’ vessel. The act itself is futile.
Abroad a ship surrounded by various mythical items, Queen Mystic closes ‘Her’ eyes and ears to the world. ‘She’ realises that neither of ‘Them’ have awoken, ‘She’ laments the loss of ‘Her’ world. ‘Her’ last moments are spent cradling a crown inlaid with many dark gems.
A descendent of death is situated in front of a desk. ‘He’ is not unfamiliar with the approaching feeling of inevitability, the call of the world beyond. ‘He’ quickly finishes what ‘He’ is writing. Holding the letters in hand, ‘He’ prays.
High up in the sky, countless crows all donned with monocles smile.
Most pitiful of all are the major arcana, ‘They’ know of their gods plight, yet even with ‘Their’ newfound divinity ‘They’ are powerless to assist.
Justice is wandering within the mind world when ‘She’ realises something is awry. Something dark invades, shaking the very core of the subconscious land. ‘She’ is lost to its depths. Audrey Hall vanishes.
The sea rages, The Hanged Man hears the message of the ocean. Simultaneously, ‘He’ feels the creeping of new corruption degrading his vessel. ‘He’ prepares for the worst. It isn’t enough. Alger Wilson succumbs to the decay.
Within the church of The Fool, The Sun is worshipping ‘His’ god. Unlike most prayers, ‘His’ words are met with a single reply. One of warning, of desperation. Nothing is left but void by the time ‘He’ could have replied. Derrick Berg returns to a land untouchable by gods.
The Magician rapidly races across space. ‘She’ is starry eyed, body more translucent than not. Door after door opens, desperation clouds ‘Her’ eyes as ‘She’ tries to find something, anything to assist ‘Her’ god. To awaken The Fool who could save them all. ‘She’ enters a door. Fors Wall meets ‘Her’ end.
The Moon hears the cry of ‘His’ ancestor. ‘He’ is desperate to assist. As a last resort, ‘He’ calls upon ‘His’ door of summoning. Instead of help, ‘He’ beckons ‘His’ doom. Emlyn White is another casualty.
The Hermit blocks ‘Her’ eyes and shuts ‘Her’ ears, spirituality warning ‘Her’ of the approaching onslaught of knowledge that ‘She’ should neither hear nor see. Despite ‘Her’ preparations, the sin of observation has already been committed. Cattleya pays the price.
Judgment senses something awry within ‘Her’ domain. ‘She’ attempts to regain control, to do something, anything to prepare for the oncoming deterioration. Unfortunately, ‘She’ is too slow. Xio Derecha is crushed in the face of absolute authority.
Last of all, The Star. ‘He’ has been warned by The Angel of Time, ‘He’ attempts to conceal ‘Himself’, but the act is futile, ‘He’ has already been spotted. During ‘His’ last moments of clarity, the voice of ‘His’ god pervades through ‘His’ ears. ‘He’ makes out not what is being said before ‘His’ body disappears bit by bit, as if wiped from existence by an eraser. Yet, unlike his fellow major arcana members, instead of an oncoming abyss, ‘His’ vision is met with grey, an expanse of grey fog. Leonard Mitchell approaches an uncertain fate.
One second ‘They’ all exist, the next, ‘They’ are gone.
During Earth's last moments in existence, ‘He’ is writing. Deep within the Chaos Sea, eyes clad in a simple white cloak and adorned with a thick golden beard, ‘His’ silver cross glimmers. Though ‘His’ eyes are usually as clear as a childs, they are clouded. The shadows around ‘His’ figure fluctuate. It's not until ‘He’ hears the roll of a die, the flap of a raven's wings, the mangled voices of two deities in one, the drop of a single crystalline tear onto death, and sees the Angel of Fate in front of ‘Him’ nod, does ‘He’ smile.
Placing the quill down, ‘He’ gazes outwards.
Beyond the outer gods devouring ‘Him’, beyond ‘His’ deteriorating planet.
‘He’ is staring at a star.
A bright, flaming star.
Within an endless void, a figure is falling.
Descending.
Plummeting.
Green eyes are glazed, hollow, the window to the soul reflecting nothing but the all consuming abyss around him. His brows are creased, visage in more pain than not.
Each thought he attempts to form flees faster than the next. Something is hammering against his temple, his skin crawls, veins rupture, a familiar yet unfamiliar murmur pervades through his entire skull. With each second, the mutterings grow louder.
Suddenly, the sound of glass shattering pierces through the null space. The very realm itself warps, a flurry of colour floods into the darkness. Black swirls with grey forming a marble mural, a cacophony of tinted hues. Ebony emptiness attempts to engulf emerald, it fails, a grey haze envelops the falling figure’s body instead, curling around him almost affectionately, protecting him. Gradually, more of the scenery collapses, pieces of reality begin snapping, falling into the void, immediately being replaced by an ever expanding grey fog.
Soon, the darkness has been completely chased away, all that is left is a dull expanse of mist.
Scenery turns to white, a majestic crumbled kingdom comes into view, the red gloved figure continues to fall. Right beneath him lies an ancient stone table with chairs adorned on all sides. Hastily, the grey haze condenses, thickening, as if creating a bed. Soon, he lands. Fabric meets cold stone, a flurry of fog explodes. His face is more serene now, the pained expression tamed, almost tranquil. For a few seconds, or perhaps something closer to eternity, he lays there, engulfed by the mist, like a pearl protected by a hard shell. Around him, the environment too shifts, grey fog clarifies, elucidating more of the ruined landscape. Degraded stone pillars, some upright, others nothing but rubble on the floor.
In the centre of it all, lies the poet-like figure. Body draped across the long decrepit table, hair tousled, jade eyes distant once more, neither lucid nor present enough to recognise the scene around him, the familiar smell of the atmosphere.
Slowly, something begins to form within the ruined kingdom.
Grey fog unites, swirling and twisting, coalescing until something more recognisable forms, another joins the fray.
‘His’ shape is less stable.
One second ‘He’ is a mass of black appendages, thrashing all about, the next ‘He’ is a cloaked figure, black gloves on hand, eyes hidden, with nothing but a downturned pale mouth peeking out from within the endless darkness. Despite the discontinuity within ‘His’ existence, ‘He’ pays no mind, simply proceeding in ‘His’ approach to the table. Each step causes the environment to shake, shudder.
From beyond, there is something encroaching upon the serene realm, countless entities setting ‘Their’ gaze upon the sefirot. ‘He’ hastens ‘His’ advance. There seems to be something cloaking ‘His’ morphing figure. An overwhelming fog of anguish, an oppressive curtain of grief.
At last, ‘He’ reaches the table. Tendrils reach towards the other’s face, the miniscule caress conveying the unsaid words hanging above the two.
A promise for next time.
An apology for what is to come.
At the contract, in a brief moment of lucidity, verdant eyes widen. He understands not what he sees, delirium still eating at his mind, clouded thoughts extending all effort to stay within the present moment. Red gloves tremble, reaching forwards hoping to grasp something, anything.
The act causes a laugh to emanate from ‘Him’.
Gloved hands meet, red intertwines with black, onyx tenderly clasps crimson.
‘He’ wishes to perpetuate this scene forever, alas, the grey fog shifts again and ‘His’ attention turns towards the end of the table. This time, revealing ‘Their’ figure.
Like ‘Him’, ‘They’ are everywhere, yet nowhere at once. An amalgamation of tendrils one moment, the next, a smirking figure with naught but long cascading hair leaking out from beneath ‘Their’ outer garment.
At the sight of the other, a sigh permeates out of ‘His’ being. Appendage relinquishing the sanguine hand in ‘His’ grasp. ‘He’ turns to face the other, waiting, unwilling to budge from ‘His’ position. The act causes ‘Them’ to chuckle, ‘They’ move towards him. As ‘They’ encroach upon each other, the domain quakes, and increasingly more unwelcomed gazes lay upon the realm.
No sound, word nor action is shared between the two.
Soon, ‘They’ collide with ‘His’ figure.
‘I am thou, thou art I’
Two figures reduced to one, one now a little more than two.
‘They’ turn ‘Their’ gaze upwards, staring through the quaking grey fog, omnipotent gaze staring directly at the unwelcomed trespassers, warning ‘Them’, challenging ‘Them’, before settling back downwards, a softer look, one towards the unconscious poet sprawled over the table.
As ‘Their’ castle reaches its limit, ‘They’ place ‘Their’ hands on the poet’s forehead. At the same time, ‘Their’ sacred territory is invaded, intruders bursting in front of all dimensions.
Yet the act itself is already futile.
In ‘Their’ last moments, ‘They’ are protecting him.
A clock ticks, and all is rewound.