The World That Is

The world has always existed. Humans twisted themselves in knots trying to determine how what they knew came to be. For generations the unnamable powers that made things as they are had drifted in and out of the stations of nature, until they weren’t.

That was when it began, Morai decided. Ever since the first witch cursed the primordial gods with mortality, the world as humans knew it began. To go from unknown infinite power to being a thing with a name was quite traumatic. The first Inevitable, Yvaine, had been particularly revolted to go from being the concept of the end of all things to experiencing death for herself slowly over the course of hundreds of years. Morai had more or less become accustomed to the idea. Though, when she gazed up at the night sky with its dwindling stars, it was as if she found her own bloated corpse bobbing to the surface every night. It was a part of her, and yet, she felt no connection to it.

The Spinner had taken to watching over her lost magic, and keeping those blessed with it safe. All of creation was hard to contain in one fragile body, especially one preoccupied with all that came before. At a certain point, delegation was necessary to stay sane.

Some gods had gone into hiding. The Fates, including Morai, had done their best to maintain their roles in upholding the natural order. It wasn’t as easy as it used to be. The first human she tried to escort to the other side had laughed in her face and insisted he wasn’t dead, he still did. She stopped reaching out to people directly after that. If people found out it was possible to talk their way out of being dead, there would be no end to it.

To be respected, Morai had painted silver streaks in her inky blue hair and wrapped herself in swaths of silk only generational wealth could provide. As of late, chain smoking from a long thin pipe had helped distract people from her ageless beauty. Still, she found people rarely took her seriously until they met her cold, starry eyes.

For the gods that remembered not existing, their time to expire was quickly approaching. As someone who had figuratively died once already, she thought her presence would be a comfort. It rarely was.

Her carriage pulled to a stop at the foot of a crumbling castle. This part of Europe always smelled of rain and overturned earth. She needed no invitation to enter. At the sight of her undead warriors, the living often made themselves scarce. In an empty dining hall, before a meager fire, sat the people’s god.

“You need to get your affairs in order,” she said, the irony not lost on her. He was a gaunt man, slouched in on himself in black robes. The look he gave his younger-elder sister was withering. “You’ve had hundreds of years to decide what to do. If you haven’t made a decision yet, I will for you.”

She’d given him two options: choose a successor to take his place or leave it in her hands. They wouldn’t dare leave it to chance, not after the powers of despair had been drawn to a warlord. The world needed a god of order.

“I wouldn’t wish this burden on anyone,” he said.

“You don’t have to.” Smoke curled up out of the edges of her frown. “You’re still going to die soon. I figured a control freak like you would want a say in the matter.” It would be a dignified death. Yvaine spent years crafting it, and as her successor, Morai couldn’t change it. “It’s not so bad,” she relented. “I survived it well enough.”

“You were a human sacrifice.” He loved to remind her she had a life before Yvaine fragmented into her.

“True, but unlike other sacrifices, I actually became a god.” She paused. “Not the god they were hoping for, but divine nonetheless.” She circled around his chair so he had to go out of his way to ignore her. “What I wanted most then wasn’t pity, it was guidance. You are the only one who can teach your successor how to serve your role. Order’s a subjective thing; I doubt you want them winging it.” She tilted her head further into his line of sight. “When have I ever been wrong?”

He thought of Yvaine, willingly sacrificing herself to fix his mistake. As she promised, death continued without her like clock work. Morai was the only fragment to insist she was the same person at her core, which was comforting. She understood why he feared order would change in his absence.

“You choose,” he said finally. “I’m sure you already have.”

“The only thing certain is death. I can’t predict the rest.”

He sank further in his chair.

“Chin up,” she said. “It’s not the end of the world.”

The world will always exist, but it will be different.