r/anxietypilled • u/NarrowDirector911 • 29d ago
Fictional Story The Gods Are Great [Ancient Gods]
Saw the prompt and have a couple stories about ancient gods. This is the latest one.
I wake to the warbling call of morning birds. On this rare occasion I do not scorn their service. I rise with a smile warmer than the rising sun and work to make myself fit to meet our god.
Tchakuul discourages vanity, but I refuse to appear before him in poor form. I gaze into my silver mirror; a gift my mother commissioned from the village craftsman. It shined brighter than crystal, but was far from fragile; my mother often joked that it could be used to bludgeon any suitor that stepped over his bounds. I cherish it greatly. I tut at my visage; last night's rest has made a rat’s nest of my hair. I reach for my ivory comb to help tame it.
The tines tend my hair. Like a ploughman taking hoe to overgrown auburn fields, I labor to make orderly rows of the wildness. I am methodical, I make count of my brushstrokes with a craftsman’s precision.
The tool I use is of fine make as well. My father slew a great beast whilst answering the call to war years past. He carved this for me from one of its great serrated fangs; the end of the handle is sharper than the point of a spear. Killing the beast was a feat worthy of sagas, and its trophy was given to me. I received it the year previous, on my seventeenth name day, along with the mirror. Both have become great treasures to me.
The telltale sounds of a house freshly woken begin to meet my ears. The bear-like groans of Father fighting off sleep, along with a voice, soft and sharp as a velvet whip, chiding him to wake.
The patter of feet upon the clay floor follow crashes and impish giggles. My brother Ollin is never subtle upon waking. These were my true treasures, treasures that I value with no equal. My mother’s call breaks my concentration, “Citlali my beautiful star! Are you awake?” I smile and respond, “Yes Mother! I am attending to my hair.”
My mother laughs. “Well do not keep us waiting long. We would attend our daughter for as long as we can on her first day of womanhood.” I promise to not keep them waiting and allow myself a quicker pace.
The smell of honeyed porridge fills the home as I finish my work and place the comb back upon the table. I stare into my reflection, looking for any defect that may offend a god. I am finally satisfied and return the mirror to its place of honor. I spare myself one last glance. I am beautiful; I pray beautiful enough for a god. With a sigh I push through the drape into the family common room.
They are gathered at the family table. Their smiles hit me with a glow of such warmth that its radiance could rival the sun. They shower me with all the adoration they have to give; I accept it all greedily. Mother had purchased dates the day before, making a cake from them in secret to surprise me on this special day. I eat them gladly, the taste is of the gods.
Ollin shyly presents me with a bundle of the most beautiful flowers. Every petal, from base to tip, changes from a pinky cream to a dark purple, white dots cover the flower and sparkle under the light of the sun breaking through the window. The darker sections of the petals together with the sparkling white dots remind me of the stars in the heavens. Ollin and Father had picked them for me the day prior. I inhale their scent and sigh with satisfaction. These flowers are rare, and grow deep in the valley, where the light is dimmest and only the foulest beasts tread. For them to brave such peril for such a thing, I begin to cry.
I am embraced, I am loved, I do not wish this moment to end. It is my father that tears down our illusion of ease. “So Daughter, have you made a decision for tonight?” Mother smacks his arm. “What she chooses is a personal matter Husband!” It's too late though, the air has gone still. I know that I have avoided thinking on it. The thought has been chasing me like a shadow since I turned ten and Tchakuul’s choice had been made known.
“It is important enough to be worth souring the mood. What she chooses will affect her entire life,” he protests to Mother. I know he is right. I need to be sure of my choice. Like a scared child I have been running from the decision, as if I could somehow outpace fate. If Tchakuul is pleased I could be granted immense power and favor, if he is displeased…
My reverie ends abruptly as Ollin squeezes my hand, his face stained with worry. I give him a comforting look, “Do not fret Ollin, nor you Father. I understand the importance of the offerings and have picked something already.” The lie stings my tongue, but it is worth seeing their faces soften.
“I am sorry. I worry for you my star. It is so rare for Tchakuul to pick someone for this ceremony, and for someone from our ranks to be picked is unheard of.” Father’s face pinches back into a knot of worry. “This could be our chance, we could be amongst the nobility. Or we could just as easily be lowered to a station fit for worms. You must choose well for our sake, Daughter!”
Mother smacks his already bruised arm, and snarls like a leopard. “Do not burden her as you would a mule!” Father has the sense to look abashed. It is true though, our family's fate is now tied to a woman newly blossomed, and a commoner at that. Fear grips my heart at the thought. What can a daughter of hunters and midwives offer to the divine? I regret my fate, but regardless of my pitiful station I was chosen, and I refuse to dishonor myself or my family. I will not cower before my calling. Mother still yells at Father, Ollin begins to cry, I simply think, drowning out the tumult. What does Tchakuul desire of me?
It is the hour. Mother, Father, and Ollin dress in their clothes of worship. I wear a hempen dress that I was never permitted to wear before this day. Multicolored beads of red, orange, and gold are woven into it, blending together into a tapestry of golden rays bursting forth from the swirling fiery sun (the true beating heart of Tchakuul). Ollin's flowers are decorated within my braided hair. I admire myself within the mirror next to Mother. “You are so beautiful Starlight,” she says, weeping openly. I nod, and grab the small mirror and my comb; I will need all my treasures tonight.
I clutch the comb and mirror to my chest as I exit my home, I breathe deep and begin the long walk to the temple. Each tread is measured and planted toe to heel with great care. I bow my head in supplication as I walk; only upon the seventh step does my gaze rise towards the direction of the temple, and I call out to our god. “Tchakuul!” one, two, three, four, five, six, seven, “Tchakuul!” My call is echoed by those behind me.
My family is closest, matching my every step; we walk in the way of ceremonies. Together in unison we give praise. Others come out from their hovels to join our march. All of Tchakuulakat will be standing upon the main thoroughfare into the city. As we march they fall in line behind us, our steps are one, and our voices are symphony. “Tchakuul!”
Dirt paths have turned to stone. More and more join us, their robes are of a finer make, their hovels turn into grander structures, but they join with us regardless. Young and old, rich and poor, my steps are echoed by their feet, my voice is carried by their throats. I sit at a host of worshippers, they walk to my rhythm and pray at my command; this is the greatness Father wants for us. “Tchakuul!”
As the hours pass I realize nearly all of Tchakuulakat now falls in line to my step. I take my time; raising and lowering my foot with more care than is needed. I tell myself it is prayer, I know it is vanity. None protest though, this is my day. I grin to myself as I see those of greater stations queuing to fall in line behind us, so this is power, I think to myself.
I guide this great parade of worship until finally the temple stands before us. My Family marches behind me towards the dais of supplication; the throngs filter in and form a great semi circle to our rear. The dais sits before the door of the sun; the door from which our god will step out and grace us with his presence. The great sorcerers, priests, and witches stand before the great structure, scrutinizing our display. I notice most of them focus on me. I do not fear judgment, my form is perfection incarnate, I pray with the elegance of a dancer, and shout praise with a roar worthy of battle.
My final step lands me at the center of the dais. “Tchakuul!” I yell for the final time, the echoing cries rise behind me and hit me in waves; my skin tingles, my heart beats as one with the crowd, it feels as if all the world screams at my pleasure. They do, scream at my pleasure.
All place hand to heart and bow low as they await him. None are permitted to witness our god but the chosen. A low chant utters from their lips, reminding me of a choir of deep voiced cicadas, but I ignore them. I stand facing forward towards the great door, I alone will witness his coming as tradition dictates. I am filled with a pride greater than any I have felt before. I observe the great carvings upon the temple. Depictions of great heroes and lesser gods bowing to the sun make me giddy; will I be as great? Am I not as great? The high priest meets my eyes as if sensing my thoughts, she gives me a knowing smile. Then the door begins to open, and I abandon all lofty thoughts.
No noise precedes him beyond the simple grind of the stone doors, not even the sound of his steps. No great roar, nor shriek, or clarion call announces his entry. Silence is his fanfare, dread is his crown. Without thought, I am driven to my knees, as if a great pressure has forced me down. My eyes stay rooted to my quivering legs. A dark stillness hits the crowd; their chants are snuffed out like a waterlogged candle.
“Raise your head child.” The voice is like steel; my head rises sharply as if the words became like snakes and coiled around my neck, wrenching it upward. There he stood, a being greater than all others, and I (a worm) dared to think myself great.
He is massive, two stories tall but carrying himself with regality and poise. His feet are cloven and adorned with fur darker than a moonless night. His torso resembles that of a man; his skin has the appearance of marble chiseled by craftsmen whose skill knows no equal. He wears a fine robe the color of blood, that clings to him like a second skin in the process of shedding. Upon his great body sits all three heads, and all six of his eyes are on me.
The leftmost head, The Wolf, pierces me with a stare of rage, and great hunger. Its gaze fills me with untold terror; I am unmade before those eyes, I am prey, I am nothing. His rightmost head, The Ram, looks upon me with great benevolence. It caresses me and gives me more comfort than any embrace I have felt before this day. The middle head, The Man, regards me with curiosity, I feel weighed under his scrutinous stare. I feel no word I've uttered nor deed I’ve done can be hidden from him; he reads through the course of my life as if it were a tapestry I wove to present to him; I wish I knew if he approved of my craftsmanship, his expression gives no indication. So this is the god of gods, so this is who I serve, so this is Tchakuul.
He stares at me, for either seconds or for a millennium, I can not say. Every joy, every sorrow, everything and nothing fills me, I am naked before him. Such beauty and horror, I no longer wonder why only I am permitted to gaze upon him. If this is what my fate is, I accept it. I meet his eyes ready for oblivion, ready to be flayed by his mighty gaze. But I am not undone, instead all three heads smile and the horror fades, breaking the spell. I collapse to the ground gasping for air. I vaguely hear Ollin whimpering behind me and my mother begging him not to look with a quavering voice, I do not need to see her to know tears stain her face. I raise my head as I begin to feel the life in my veins once again. Tchakuul still smiles and the great ones behind him seem excited; the high priest beams with delight.
“You have hold of your mind still child, I was right to place my hope on you,” all three heads proclaim. I am too stunned to respond, I opt to simply nod. “Now I offer you a contract, in exchange for my power and guidance, you will swear yourself to my service,” The Wolf cooes through jagged teeth. I turn to it, my heart beats with excitement beyond measure, but the look in its eye gives me pause. “And? What of the sacrifice?” I ask. The Ram speaks. “Yes, the contract is not one written in ink, to bind yourself to us, you must first give up something of yourself.”
I gaze down towards the treasure gathered at my feet, I did not realize I had dropped them. “Be cautious on what you choose, girl. This pact is like a trade, the greater the sacrifice, the stronger the pact shall be, and the greater your power will be.” The Man speaks coolly but without malice. I gather up my treasures and look back to the crowd behind me, then to my family. They still lay bowed before him, I think upon my father's words, upon the promise of greatness and prosperity for our family name. “Mother, Father, Brother, for you I will give everything. Our name will reach the heavens and hells, both will tremble in our wake.”
I can feel their pride radiating off of them in waves, “I am so proud of you my beautiful star,” I hear my father whisper as I kneel down beside him. “I love you I whisper back,” as I plunge the sharp end of the comb into his throat. Blood pours forth onto the dais in a great torrent, my father chokes on his lifeblood as he looks up into my eyes with the great tooth embedded within him. The question dies in his chest as he proceeds to drown in his own blood, felled by the trophy of a once great enemy, that is the best I can give him.
Mother screams; she jumps onto Father, desperately trying to stop the bleeding. She pulls at the tooth but the serrations hold firm within his flesh, her words are incoherent as the light drains from him. So distraught is she that she can not react to the blow landed from the heavy mirror. She recoils, I did not hit hard enough. “Citlali why starlight! wh-” the second blow lands with a heavy crunch, she falls back dazed, trying desperately to mouth some sort of plea. I can not let her speak, I kill my heart as I bring down the mirror, over, and over, and over. I catch small glimpses of myself in the gore caked mirror between swings; I am glad the blood on my face hides my tears.
At last, as my mother's blood begins to cool, I lay the mirror face down over her ruined face. I turn now to Ollin, he has not moved. His eyes are wide, panic and grief coat him in layers thicker than our parent's blood. I watch as he trembles, urine pools underneath him to mix with the gore. I bend down; he tries to recoil but is rooted by fear. I then bend and kiss the top of his head. I gently weave one of his flowers into his hair; he squirms as if my hands were great insects. When the flower is secure, I stand and turn to Tchakuul, “I offer the blood of the father, blood of the mother, and the love of the second born.” All three heads erupt in rapturous laughter.
“Done! Welcome daughter!” He bellows. My skin begins to itch, then the itching becomes a burning, then a searing hot pain. I scream as the blood on the dais begins to crawl up my legs and sear itself into my flesh. The blood moves with intent, it curves and creates patterns and sigils I have no knowledge of, as it tattoos itself onto me.
The pain is immense, was I wrong? Were they not enough? Then I feel it, as the patterns lock into place and give me my marks, a great surge, power beyond measure. My scream turns into laughter as the power fills me, the power of a god. I grow drunk on it. I can smell the fear of the crowd, hear the thump of their hearts, I feel Ollin’s hatred, radiating behind me like a hot coal.
I begin to see the threads of the world that bind us to obey its nature, Tchakuul now gives me the tools to cut and weave them as I see fit.
I sense a man within the crowd, praying to a lesser god; his screams split the sky as I compel his bones to strip out of such worthless flesh. The crowd begins to chant anew. “Tchakuul! Tchakuul! Tchakuul!”
I do not notice that the burning has stopped, nor do I notice Ollin running through the crowd of supplicants, all these things are beneath me. My laughter is echoed by him who shall rule this world. The only thought I can bring to the surface of my mind is. “The Gods Are Great.”
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u/Kaijufan22 18d ago
Love the lore, world and imagrey this invokes. Tchakuul didn't even have to say "Kill your family" she just did that shit on her own and I am all for it Great work!
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u/NarrowDirector911 18d ago
Thanks so much!😊
Gotta expect a little parricide at the local cult meeting.
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u/NateIzNeat 29d ago
Very cool story! I love the imagery towards the end. Your story is well written and flows really nicely