It Wasn't Supposed To Be Like This

Pools turned from vibrant scarlet to murky black as Sol felt his intestines slide from his violated torso and into his spasming hands. The heavens’ blessings had faded, reducing the vibrant starscape to muted and bruised gray. Radiant splendor once shone from his skin. That was what he had been known for. Across all tongues, they had called him Lightbringer as he’d marched towards this confrontation.

Now, that ethereal glow was wavering and sputtering in his chest like a candle beside an open door. Death’s disease was spreading through his veins.

What was left of his armor fell away with a hollow clank. Shock overwhelmed his muscle control, and his body began a desperate attempt to fix itself.

Entrails slid along hysterical palms as he tried to shove his insides back into the gaping wound. Snot and detritus mixed with red. A gag attempted to escape. Organs were heavier and warmer than expected. Cold air greeted his exposed liver. Golden fabric billowed, pathetic in its glory that now heralded beauty to no one. He had failed. They had all failed.

An unfamiliar sensation gathered in the edges of his fingertips as they turned cold. It started with urgency, arriving immediately with full agony instead of building between breaths. As he looked at his organs splaying out at his knees, he realized he’d never contemplated what made him on the inside. That alone was enough to trigger the blunt force arrival of the shivers that seized his sides and sent a stream of tears burning through his eyes.

The world hung still and strange around him, and his chest felt as though it was turning over within itself. Everything began to hurt, and it wasn’t purely from the injury.

He was feeling fear- seemingly for the first time.

“Nooooo. No. No. Nooo,” he cried through mangled enunciations.

Tears of gold ran down his ashen cheeks. His enemy had been downed and left vulnerable, but at the precipice of decimation, Sol had hesitated, unable to override the most basic foundational truth of what he was. He was supposed to be a being of joy, but he felt no joy in killing. When his hand had raised to deliver destruction, the light within it had sputtered.

That pause had given his foe the opening he needed.

Now, he was dying in silence, unable to vocalize his terror through the shattered jaw and severed tongue. Whispers layered over the screams beside him as his party of loyal friends was impaled by the barbed totems that were slowly rising around him. Soon the smothered, once black and blue plains of the Eternal Obsidian would become their gravesite.

“You… you hesitated?…” his enemy stuttered before chuckling.

Its putrid breath was cold on Sol’s face as it neared him to inspect the wound.

The light in Sol’s hands and chest was starting to fade. Once shining fingers now flickered weakly, and he watched the dimming powerlessly, the same way he watched the clouds shifting above him. This wasn’t what he wanted. It wasn’t supposed to be like this. He should have struck the villain.

He should have killed him.

The forsaken one who few dared to acknowledge or worship. Divine personification of emotion, just like Sol, but also nothing alike.

Fear.

They had called him Metus. That was the name they whispered. No one wanted to worship or revel in fear. He was there, all along; he was there. But they had ignored him. They had all played their part in leading to this moment.

But now it was too late.

Both hands laced together and shoved inwards into the steaming heap that was once his center as the steaming ropes of red tangled in his lap. All around him, the battlefield began to fold on itself as the heavens roiled towards their new conclusion. Pillars of light had cut through the sky only moments ago, burning away the ash and sorrow with incandescent hope. Those beams were now shattering and falling towards the surface like broken glass, striking obsidian and exploding outward in violent waves. Everything was falling away.

His friends were no longer screaming. And that was worse. Only manic, gagged lamentations were sounding out. Hope was gone, turned to ashen waste. Ambition was writhing nearby, sobbing as an outcropping of barbs was slowly, agonizingly penetrating his exposed flesh. A single totem struck his soul stone, and he let out a bleat of horror as it began to crack. Grating, scraping, suffering chipping pierced Sol’s ears as he heard his companion’s stone shatter and the light of their being devoured.

Metus laughed wickedly, dripping filth and ink as he forced himself to stand.

Beside them, Peace remained, trying her best to crawl away. But fear’s avatar limped towards her, just as the last pillars of light broke above them. Jagged remnants of glorious purpose fell like blades, striking her wrists and legs and pinning her to the ground as she screamed out.

“No! No! NO! Sol, help!!!” she howled.

Muscles tried to respond. Purpose locked in his fingers as pure light coursed from his arm through his palm, turning his limp hand once more to white. Then the light sputtered. Again he tried to gather light to shine towards his foe. Again it faltered.

Metus retched and snapped as he reached her frail, broken body. Silver light was surging through her chest as the last bits of her essence tried to convince her not to give up. Metus’s hand rose.

Then the cries stopped.

Just days ago, she had stood in a field of crystalline blooms, arms outstretched as she spun in the billowing shards of summer and proclaimed that it was good. All of it was good.

He heard her struggling and tried to move to her, but his spine was severed. All he could do was collapse on his side and briefly catch the image of Metus crushing her breastplate in his hands as fluids of white ruptured outward in slopping bursts.

They were gone. All gone.

Celestial soul currents frothed high above them as the sacred Star Stream destabilized. Streaks burned through the clouds as fragments of goodness deteriorated from the world’s sky and fell to the world in balls of flame.

Metus continued to remake himself, growing stronger with every instant. Down below, the crowds of faithful, just moments ago believing the terror was over, began to realize their heroes had failed. Screams rose on the winds like rustling leaves, gathering into a chorus of wails as the populace saw their hope fade.

All of it gave the villain strength. Every lamentation and scream turned to nourishment, turning him more finished and titanic, assembling himself into the sum of everyone below’s undoing.

Lifeforce flowed upwards through Sol’s throat as he lay on his side, and he began to choke.

This was what it felt like.

Death’s cold embrace was coming for him, collecting in his extremities like frost on morning’s edges. He was all but dulled now. Winds gathered in strength as the songstresses of the distant realms wept. Haunting sobs sang out from every corner of the world, drifting through the clouds and rising to the top of the obsidian tower to serenade the end of all things.

Metus flinched as his wounds burned away, then stood upright in full power. Sol felt warmth streaming from his mouth as he failed to speak a plea for reconsideration. Not for his life. That no longer mattered. But for the millions down below who would now have to endure what was coming.

Collapsing star shards struck around them, exploding in angelic chimes that devolved into snarling, murderous screeches. More and more crashed down, littering the polished black soil with geodic craters.

“I… CURSE ALL OF YOU!!!” Metus screamed to the crowds down below.

Even his screams sounded afraid. It was in the high-pitched, frantic tinges that lined the edges of his words and in the shaking cadence. He was afraid of what he was becoming. Afraid of what he had done. Afraid of it all. Fear itself was afraid, but it did not stop. Thunderclaps seemed to echo every word, as the crying songs built into a sorrowful wail that drowned out everything else. Sol’s fingers twitched. Black closed around the edges of his eyes.

This was all his fault.

Metus stood at the very edge of the precipice and let out a sob. He didn’t gloat. There was no need. Gloating was something a proud victor would do. He was not proud. He was trembling and alone.

“All those years begging to be seen. You will see me now!! Scream in sorrow and wallow in rot, for on this day, your world becomes mine!”

Panic erupted, and the bodies below began to run from the battlefield. They sprinted and screamed in every direction, trying to get away from the beast that was standing in the center of the gathering storm. But it didn’t matter. The black barbs came for them all.

Obsidian blades exploded up from the ground, sending geysers of red upwards as limbs ripped, bones snapped, and lights faded. Those who survived only fed him even more. Every bloodsoaked step from frantic feet. Every panicked voice of someone trying to survive. Every horrified screech as a soul watched a loved one rip in two. It all fed him.

All the while, Sol was fighting to force himself up. Above them, the Star Stream still held currents of gold, and he knew that fragments of joy remained alive.

“Please… p-please…” he begged the stars as he attempted to lift his hand to draw light from the sky.

Weak, milky ethereal light streamed downward in isolated drops that fell around him. The rain would have to be enough. He could feel the pattering along his back and arm and knew the stars were trying to answer him. Each strike of rain gave him a tiny surge, and the light in his arms began to return.

It was getting harder to see.

This was his last chance.

Even if he felt no joy in killing, he felt joy in saving joy for all those below. It was their existences that created and fueled him. All those memories and moments of wonder, when pleasant softness rose in their cheeks and soul stones, turning their bodies amber for a moment. Those feelings of smelling a freshly cooked meal. Of hearing a newborn laugh for the first time. Of seeing a swift sunrise on a quiet dawn. Of feeling a lover’s lips against their own. Of silence, stillness, and well-nurturing rest.

All of those moments of joy deserved to survive, regardless of what happened to him.

Reality began to fold on itself. Clouds bent onto the soil, turning the sky to fog at their feet. Torrents of rage and dread surged between fissures and shards as the grief of a billion dead souls soaked the world. Metus roared. The ground shook. Pulses of white rippled outward, and chunks of displaced rock began to float across the battlefield as light drowned out color, turning everything to ink and blankness. Metus turned with a growl when he felt the currents of warmth building at his back.

The two enemies locked eyes, and Sol unleashed the blinding light from his fingers.

Pure white fired out in a concussion, severing sound and soil. Beams of scorching purity raged to the horizon, cleansing all in their path.

Except Metus.

Sol bit down in strain and tried to contain his scream as he poured every drop of existence into the attack. But it wasn’t enough.

Deep within the white, a figure of black was still standing there in the silent void, eyes locked on him.

Once again, the sensation of dread arrived in his fingers, then snaked upwards against the currents of light before settling in his soul stone. True fear coated every fiber of his being as he realized the being before him was unharmed.

It fought the force and lurched forward as the energy streaked across its body like water breaking against rock. Sol’s agony overwhelmed him, and he let out a cry as the attack built. Still, Metus pushed closer, fangs bared and eyes wicked.

“Do you feel it finally?” Metus asked.

“Do you feel ME?”

White flickered.

Metus reached out to touch the white, inspecting it with curiosity.

“No one ever sought out my embrace the way they did yours. They only felt me when they did not want to. I was never welcomed or celebrated like you. And now that I feel you, I understand…”

Strength faded. Metus paused to bathe in the feeling that was drenching him. Instead of being eviscerated, he was luxuriating.

“So, this is joy. I can finally feel it. That is what I feel, yes? I am feeling you, because you are feeling me!”

Claws slashed down, ripping through Sol’s face, sending chunks of his cheek to the ground. Chaos and noise returned to form as the attack died.

Sol cried out and collapsed forward, defeated.

Just as the darkness began to bite at the centers of his eyes, Metus was there, kneeling before him.

“No. You don’t get to die. You will watch this. For all time, you will watch this, dear joyous one,” he snarled.

Clawed fingers seized Sol’s head and slowly hoisted him upright. Entrails hung like tapestries. Tiny vines of black snaked upwards along Sol’s limp legs as his captor rotated his body so that they could watch the slaughter below. Jagged nails pressed into Sol’s face and began to pull across his lips, causing him to unleash something below a scream, more akin to a gurgle.

“I always loathed that smile,” Metus whispered as he fought against tendon and muscle.

There was a scraping, nauseous rip, and his fingers clawed fully across Sol’s jaw from side to side.

Down below, the last remaining faithful watched their savior’s mutilation, falling to their knees in acceptance that doom was upon them.

“Can you hear them? Can you hear the screaming? That will be all you hear from now on,” Metus spat.

Thorns dug into his skin and suspended him. Obsidian shards pushed upwards and gave him support. Vines met his face, and he whimpered as they slowly pried his eyes open. Soon he was ensnared, unable to move, and unable to scream.

The last thing he felt was the other vines tearing along his throat and into his open stomach as everything turned dark.

In that darkness, the screams turned deafening. That was how they remained for as long as his mind remained intact.

“Goodbye, Sol,” Metus muttered.

Nothingness devoured him, and all he could do was twitch and fight as the sounds of maimed death rose at his feet. Hope, Ambition, and Peace were dead. Joy was consumed. Fear had won, and the world’s collapse was unleashed.