To meet the Gods

“It is time to meet the gods.” Whispered Dillon as he ran a finger along his blade. Setting the knife on his lap he picked up the black grimoire laying at his feet.  He ran his fingers along the leather cover, creating a crevice in the thick layer of dust that had long since caked the book.

He took great care to be gentle in handling the book.  The yellow pages looked as if they would crumble on contact.  With every gentle turn of the page a thick moldy odor,  filtered through his nose, he flipped through page after page until he found what he was looking for.

The text on the pages was faded to a light grey, making it difficult to read, but he would manage.  He reminisced about the times in his childhood exploring the pages of this moldy book.  The grimoire wasn’t just a book of spells, it was a book of his family’s history.  

It told the story of the banished God of the divine realm.  The God of wisdom, Dillon’s great-grandfather.  Banished from the Divine realm for attempting to overthrow the archaic order of the Gods.  Dillon’s family spent all their lives in shame knowing they may never relive their former glory.  That is until his brother found a way to return to the Divine Realm.  His brother has studied the ancient texts for years in hopes of finding a way back to the Divine Realm, and one day, only a week ago, he found the answer. Dillon felt a pang of remorse creep up his heart at the thought of his beloved brother.

    It was he who dedicated so many years of his life to find this method of escape, and yet it was not he who was going to the Divine realm.  Dillon’s brother along with his father had died in a fatal car accident.  Dillon had no dought that the Gods must have been rather amused at their unfortunate passing.

    All of this didn’t matter now.  Dillon reached into his coat pocket to grab a folded piece of paper containing his brother's notes.  The notes scribbled in his brother's messy handwriting said, “Read the text on page 28 backward”. He again picked up the ceremonial dagger, one of the few weapons capable of killing the Gods.  This along with the clothes on his back would be all he would take with him.  He already knew who his target was, Qualit, the God of War.      

    The darkness Dillon found himself in slowly began to fade.  He saw a blurry orange glow.  Very slowly his vision cleared and the orange glow took the shape of a fire.  And soon his vision cleared enough for him to notice several dark figures standing with their backs to him.  

    A wide grin crept onto his face as he realized just how lucky he is, not only did he make it to the divine realm, he practically had the Gods dropped in his lap.  He again turned his attention back to the figures standing around the fire, whom he assumed to be the Gods.   With a loud booming voice the God in the middle spoke, “Qatar, can your farmers produce enough food for our standing armies.”

    The God farthest to the left spoke in a tired, nervous voice, “Well, I believe we can but maybe not for long”

    “What do you mean,” His voice began to rise.

    “Well, the farmers are beginning to join the rebels at an alarming rate.  I fear if we don’t heed their demands, we may lose all of our agricultural resources.”

    Suddenly the God in the middle shouted in an ear-piercing screech, “We will not give in to the demands of these rebels!  Every farmer who does not comply with us will lose their head.”

    The God stood there, breathing heavily.  All the Gods glanced at each other, and then back to the God in the middle.  He took a deep breath and composed himself saying, “Sorry for my outburst.”

     The proceeding conversation seemed like a murmur in the back of Dillon’s mind, as a million thoughts raced through his head. Dillon couldn’t believe it, there was another rebellion? Was his great-grandfathers’ cause not lost after all?  Dillon’s thoughts eventually turned to a different matter.  Witch one do I kill? This of course was a stupid question.  The God in the middle was their leader.  He was Qaulit.  

        Dagger in hand, he slowly and quietly crept towards the God in the middle.  The Gods continued their conversation, completely oblivious to his presence.  He was now standing directly behind Qaulit. His hands were sweaty, his pulse hammered inside his head. His grip on the dagger tightened as he raised it in the air.  He knew, fail or not, he was going to die, but he was fine with that.

    Just as he was about to bring the dagger down on his oppressors unknowing back, his wrist was gripped so tightly, it felt as if his bones would crush.  The pain brought him down to his knees as he looked up into a face that betrayed no emotions. Dillon didn’t even see him turn around.

    A calm yet wrathful voice said, “And who are you.”

        Dillon didn’t respond as the pain in his wrist was too great for him to say anything other than a low, guttural, cry of pain. The God of war’s pitch-black eyes wandered down to the dagger in Dillon’s hands.  His face went pale, leaving his dark eyes to stand in contrast to the rest of his face.

    All of God’s composure left him as he screamed in a hoarse voice, “Guards! Take him away!”

    The panicked whispers of the other Gods were soon drowned out by the thunderous footsteps of metal boots.  Sood Dillon found himself surrounded by dozens of men, all clad in black armor.  One of the men struck Dillon with the flat side of his sword, and everything went black.

    When Dillon awoke he didn’t recover his senses immediately, instead, he had the sensation of his feet being dragged across a cold floor along with a throbbing ache in his head. His shoulders began to ache as he was suspended by his armpits. He couldn’t open his eye’s all at once, he opened them only partially, making everything seem like a giant blur. He could tell he was in some sort of hallway, and at the end, he could see a bright light.

    He soon opened his eyes fully, allowing him a better view of his surroundings.  He could now see he was in some sort of dungeon, on both sides cells lined the halls. The cells weren’t made of an actual wall, instead, they were all made of thick metal bars, allowing Dillon to see their inhabitants. Dillon could see that most of the prisoners lay down on the cold floor, broken and defeated, others however, stood looking at him with what seemed to be a look of pity. Dillon soon found himself being dragged out of the cool darkness of the dungeon, and into the harsh light of a blazing sun.

    It took some time for Dillon’s eyes to adjust to the blinding light, but when they did, he was greeted with the sight of a large wooden stage. While the structure was certainly massive it seemed decades old, small cracks had formed around every corner, showing obvious signs of decay. The two people who suspended Dillon released their hold, causing him to fall to his knees before a flight of stairs. 

    The fall only served to disorient him even more, he looked back at his captors, seeing their masked faces for the first time. They dawned shirtless bodies, allowing Dillon a full view of their frighteningly muscular builds. 

    One of them looked down at Dillon and pointed up the flight of stairs, “We’re not carrying you up there, walk.”

    Looking upon the hooded men he realized why he was there. He begrudgingly stood up. His whole body began to shake as he slowly made his way up the stairs, focusing on one step at a time. His knees felt as if they might buckle any moment, yet he continued on, head held high.  He decided to live his last moment showing some form of dignity.

    Reaching the platform he saw a large square filled to the brim with what seemed like a hundred faces. Yet there wasn’t the air of excitement that Dillon expected to see. While Dillon would have expected the crowd to be cheering or laughing, he instead found their faces to look somewhat scared.

He noticed a bucket in the middle of the platform, he assumed this was where he was meant to go. Never once taking his gaze off the crowd, he walked to the bucket, with a stoic expression on his face. He kneeled before the bucket and bent his head down. He could see the feet of a man who had now stood next to him.

While Dillon knew he would die fail or not, he still felt a pang of fear rip through his heart, creating a lightness in his chest. He closed his eyes and tried to resign himself to his fate. 

Dillon heard a hoarse cry emanating from the crowd, “You will not be forgotten! We will tell stories of your name!”

A tear began to roll down Dillon’s cheek just as everything went dark, for the last time.