0 - WHAT THE STARS HAD WITNESSED

We are all afraid of what lies in the abyss.

What is an “unknown”, a variable, has always been a daunting question in the minds of the sentient.

Whether it be humans—free thinkers, innovators, animals—wild, energetic, or even….

The pillars rose past the clouds in the expanse of black lit by silver—Chandra looking down on the world with the gaze of a bystander as Astrarus sent stars to keep him company. The gleaming ivory towers embraced the sky, the structures of earth fulfilling her will to embrace the sky. And yet…

And yet, the gates that opened to the worthy, to the mortals that carried Gods’ blood in their veins, were always so detached.

Poets from the ages had described the Heavens as perfect, eternal, ever-loving, ever-giving. The poet, Dante Alighieri, from the Solar System, had described it in Paradiso as "a light flowing like a river / Glowing with amber waves between two banks / Brilliantly painted by spellbinding spring". The poetess Cynthia from the Noverra star system had described it in her work Transcendance as a land of high towers, gold-littered streets, with the wafting fragrance of ambrosia and the melody of harps played by the cherub-sized angels. The bard Casimir from the Technis Spacestead described it in his ballad Odi Ston Theo as a land of unity, a land of freedom and fearlessness in all aspects of life.

Yet, they failed to account for the fact that the living were made in the image of the divine, and hence, their creators would also be as imperfect as their creations.

Past the langing chandeliers and the lantern-lit hallways, he slept; tanned skin caressed by long locks of raven hair. He lay in a fetal position, his face and expression as perfect as the Goddess that resided in him. Yet, the man, Adithya’s eyes twitched for a moment.

Voices echoed in his mind, sights came crashing down into the realm of Morpheus as the Oneiroi—little pixies—sang him a lullaby. His hands gripped the sheets of the blinding white mattress until they matched the colour of said sheets. Memories fell upon him like shards of glass from broken cutlery. Walls quivering under the weight of something unstoppable. Glass splitting into tiny, bright teeth on the floor.

Footsteps—heavy, hurried—coming closer. The bittersweet voices of a man whose singing calmed the soul of the young boy that he was. Whose singing, coupled with his mother's, lulled him to that embrace of Morpheus. It tamed the timid soul of the boy who was too scared of the embrace of Hodur until the man showed him the bewitching gaze of Lord Chandra, the one who hid within the light, only to guide the lost souls in the dark.

Screams folded over screams, and the moon, which was once so beautiful, being the only witness…it seemed wrong. Why was it staring? Was it laughing? Why didn't it help? Wasn't the moon supposed to soothe him? Calm him? Then why did his mind see red? Why did the clouds curl into malicious smirks? Why were the Gods so cruel?

Then came the flashes of tanned skin which rushed toward the woman’s face, the spill of red that came soon after, more of which dripped down on the floor, which suddenly felt too cold.

In the Asphodel of his mind, the voices of those blurry-faced people, those people his aged mind never could place, sang to him. The voice of the past churning into the echoes of the present, pulling him closer, his arms reaching out and then—its melody stopped midway by harsh, deafening yelling that replaced it, cut into pieces by words that came at him like knives. But to him in the present, knives hurt less than they had the indifferent cruelty.

He could still feel her; those arms that had once lifted him high, above the heads of the crowd. Hands that stole food from his plate just to hear him whine. Eyes—blue, bright, alive—half-hidden by oil-dark hair. Those eyes now like plain mirrors; transparent, inanimate, reflecting his wide amber eyes. The fear he tried so long to overcome as he watched Thanatos rob him of her.

He could still smell it, that cruel metallic tinge on the cold blade as that burly man dropped before him.

Again, those crows called to him. Again, he felt Bhairava gaze at him.

His stomach flipped backwards, his body lurched forward, the moss-green, sticky liquid escaping his throat alongside the tears that came soon after.

“No matter what, Adithya Naicker, the vale of blood will always be your home.”

And a thought—thin, sharp—cutting through the emptiness:

If it had taken everything from him… why shouldn’t he take himself with it?

His amber eyes pursed shut, glowing like embers as cold droplets fell.

No…” he said, his voice weak. The angels sang.

“No matter what you make yourself out to be…you can never escape what once was.”

Bhairava mocked him, Bhairava soothed.

Chandra watched, ugly, red, wrapped in the blankets of evaporated water that leered over the scene, glaring.

“No…” he repeated, the azure growing from within, the flames growing hotter, the voice of the Oneiroi fading into the background. “I’m not who you think I am… I’ll never—”

“Rage… Seethe, for wherever you go, the blood moon will hound you”

His eyes shot open, the little ones paused their singing, their whites whizzing around him, their wingbeats checking up on him.

And as always, he let the tears fall.

—-

The fires had gone out long ago, and the oil lanterns dimmed alongside the closing eyes of the populace. But his amber eyes opened to that overarching darkness; his body, larger and tanned, his mind still dragging onto the same memories, hounding him like a phantom choir singing in a hollow opera that sang a desolate tune. The mountains outside the window of his penthouse-style house were silent, except for the whispers of the wind that blew from the west through the rocks and torn banners of a war that had ended days ago, carrying with it the scent of rusted metal and dried blood. The sky, black and endless, and in it, the stars stared down like cold witnesses. They did not look away. They never did.

Lord Chandra and the gems that shone in the expanse of navy blue had always haunted him since then.

He’d caused this. The reason? A wail, a cry for help. But the one that the voice belonged to was no longer there to bid him thanks. Instead, he received even more tears, similar to those he’d seen before, several times over the aeons. He pulled at the stiffened cloth around his hand, the white coated with dried crimson, as he'd done time and time again. The goddess’s power still throbbed beneath his skin just like it always had since that frigid night—an echo of the moment he bathed in it again, of the cost. It made the air around him hum faintly, like an old prayer sung through gritted teeth.

Somewhere far below, a village’s last lanterns flickered. He wondered if they had heard the battle, if they would tell stories about the God of the mountain who killed hundreds and walked away. “A God that knew destruction alone and sang odes to it!” they’d say.

But only he knew the truth, the lack of intention behind his actions, but there was no one left to plead his case, not even the one he’d wanted to protect through his actions. He could only stand. Breathing in the scent of conflict like the harbinger of chaos they’d envisioned him to be. The wind shifted. Cold. Familiar. A reminder of the long road that awaited his footsteps, herlading azure to rain down, searing hot, searing and charring skin until it turned ash-grey.

He stood, brushing frost from his coat, and began the descent.

The stars followed him down, watching… as though waiting to see whether the broken man they had abandoned could piece himself back together again.

What is an “unknown”, a variable, has always been a daunting question in the minds of the sentient.

Whether it be humans—free thinkers, innovators, animals—wild, energetic, or even…. Gods.

Yet what is known yet forgotten, locked in the sealed safe called the unconscious, is much more horrific.

He knew, yet he didn’t.

But deep in his heart, shackled by stark blue, Adithya would always remember the crimson night where the man he’d once loved had taken everything from him.

And where he’d washed his hands with crimson that smelled familiar.