Godslayer

Submitted for the Writing Battle Tempest Raven challenge. The story required the following three prompts: CROSSWORLD FANTASY (genre), HEALER(character), and COMPASS(object). Word count limit was 1000 words.

Status: Judging

I have never healed a god before. Warriors, of course — even kings. Then again, I suppose there is a first time for everything. 

The clinking of my armor echoes through the pristine halls of the Divine Planes, my boots landing heavily on the marble floors. I fiddle with the compass in my hand, checking it for perhaps the fiftieth time in the past hour. The device led me here, just as the Divine Matriarch promised. I nearly laughed in her face when she explained its function. A moral compass, she declared, to guide you on the right path. 

In my long pilgrimage from the Mortal Planes, it became a sort of holy symbol for me: a reminder of my faith and a validation of my purpose. At first glance, it’s an unremarkable thing, tarnished and utilitarian. But it works, and for that, it is more valuable than even the holiest of relics. It points toward a pair of double doors taller and more magnificent than any structure I’ve ever seen. When I reach the threshold, I pocket the compass once more. Hinges groan loudly as the doors slowly swing open to reveal a terrible, beautiful sight. 

I have never once seen their face, and yet I know it as surely as my own reflection. My god sits upon their throne, stunning even in their agony. White hair, smooth as silk, cascades down onto the floor. Their skin, paler even than light itself, shimmers in the scattered rays of sun. Long limbs stretch beneath sheer ivory fabric, splayed in such a way that feels both vulgar and elegant. 

The visage would be perfect, a picture of divinity, were it not for the ethereal sword buried deep within their belly. 

Even gods bleed, it would seem. 

Black ichor pours from the wound, saturating the pools of hair upon the floor. I swallow the bile that rises in my throat. Reflexively, I reach for the compass. Its arrow beckons me further inside the throne room, towards the dying god.

“Come.” 

I didn’t see their lips move. I wonder if perhaps I imagined it; yet the very essence of my soul demands I move forward. Obediently, I approach.

My deity is sprawled motionless on the throne. Were it not for their own power surging in my veins, I would think them dead. Closer now, I can see that the blade is buried deep. It pulses once, constricting the nearby blood vessels, emanating a blackness I can only describe as death incarnate. 

“I must remove the sword,” I say aloud. 

“Do what you must.” A command, a plea. 

I know a powerful weapon when I see one. I lift the lower skirts of my tabard, placing them over the blade’s hilt before wrapping my fingers around it. Even with the cloth between us, the moment I feel the weapon's heft in my hands, I know its name: Godslayer. 

With painstaking slowness, I withdraw the blade. It resists a little, loath to be parted from its purpose; but I manage well enough. I carefully set it to the side and turn back to face my god. All the while, they stay perfectly still, perfectly silent. 

The rancid smell of death is unmistakable. My nostrils sting with it. My hand reaches for the compass like a child’s safety blanket.

“What happened?” The words escape my lips before I can stop them. 

Their face remains unmoving, but I hear their voice impose itself in my mind. “There are those who would see me killed.” 

I shake my head, as if to rid my thoughts of the impossibility. “You are the only truth that exists. You are righteousness. You are eternity.”

My god does not respond for several moments. 

“Eternity is a long time.” 

Their words were only for me to hear, and yet they seem to ring throughout the throne room and the worlds beyond.

I swallow hard and begin to remove my equipment, setting each item on the floor beside the throne, careful not to let anything touch the blade. “I must purge the sickness. It will take some time.” 

Silence. I work quickly, unsure of how much longer they have. Once I am free from my armor and weapons, I position myself at their side. Golden light begins to emanate from my hands and settle into their skin. Only then do I hear their voice again:

“How can you tell what is right?” 

I recoil at the absurdity of their question, nearly losing concentration on my task. Why would they ask me such a thing? A test of faith, perhaps? It must be. 

“It is You,” I reply, “Your power. I am but an agent of Your will.” 

Silence again. Sweat forms at my brow. I adjust my hands slightly, hoping to disguise the anxious tremor in them. Several long moments pass, and the smallest sliver of purified blood begins to glimmer amidst the black.

“It’s working,” I whisper, voice shaking with the effort.

My god breathes a long, heavy sigh. It carries the weight of millennia, of every choice and failure and victory of every being to ever exist. My chest nearly collapses for having been in the presence of it. Still, my god does not speak. The silence is suffocating.

My eyes dart nervously towards my compass. It rests on the nearby table amidst my other belongings: my armor, my prayer book, the incense I burn as offering to this very entity. I almost look away, almost miss it, before my eyes recognize its verdict.

The arrow does not point towards my god, nor my hands, nor the healing magic emanating from them. It points, unwavering, towards the blade.

Godslayer.

“What happened?” I ask again — this time, with unspoken significance. 

“Eternity,” they explain once more, “is a long time.”

The air grows thick with the silence between us.

I have never killed a god before. But as they say: there is a first time for everything.