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Death and the Sunrise

Summary:

Berath has always known their role, they are the axis on which the Wheel turns. They are stability. They are not mortal, not alive, not a being with a family. And yet, as Eothas once again goes against all they were created for, they only watch.

Notes:

This exists mainly because there are a bunch of cool quotes I found, and also because I consider Berath as like the mom or big sister of the chaos pantheon family, and she does care about Eothas okay? I love them.
The Watcher mentioned is technically my Favaen, and Berath alludes to her past a few times (so feel free to check out my series about her if you want^^) but the first chapter is written in second person and I've avoided pronouns, so you imagine your own Watchers if you want to.
Have fun!

Chapter Text

Your eyes are open, though something tells you they shouldn’t be. You look around. The world is purple. How strange, you could have sworn it was dark just a second ago. Did Berath call you again?

“I have not. Your soul is bound to this place now however, and sometimes it seeks the way back here on its own. You will not remember this once you wake.”

You blink in surprise.

“You wanted to ask.” Berath says, looking at you with the same stoic face she has always presented at your meetings. Is the deity even capable of something else? And how did she know the question that never quite formed enough to be asked?

“You are one of my creatures now, hound, as much as you were his. There is nothing of you I do not know.” At some point in your life that may have intimidated you, but at this point, what is one more ominous claim.

Perhaps it’s wishful thinking, but for a moment you think Berath’s feature softer, an odd tinge of fondness appearing and vanishing in the blink of an eye.

“Indeed. You have come far from your days spent cowering in his protection.” You blink again. Cowering seems an unfairly harsh choice of words for a childhood.

Berath remains steadfast. Her hands on her sword, towering over the tiny spectral form before her. Unfaced. Unmoved.

“For someone who knows so much, you understand very little, child.” And what should you understand? It’s not like any of them ever explain things! Except for Woedica now apparently, and you are very hesitant to believe anything that woman tells you. You doubt Woedica has ever done anything without an ulterior, self-serving motive since the day she was born.

“You know better than most that we were not born, Watcher, no matter what my brother likes to pretend. Why do you insist on referring to us like this?” Because- because they are alive too, in their own way. Aren’t they?

“We are not, Watcher. We weren’t born but created, each of us had a purpose they were crafted for.” Something remains hanging in the air. Something aside from the ever-present soulfragments flitting about as if searching for a new body already. Had a purpose?

Berath’s gaze remains hard and cold, ever the world’s constancy, but it seems farther now, almost looking through you. Seeing something her own wheel had long crushed.

“Most of us have long lost that original purpose. You see what my brother has become, do you think Eora would still stand had he always been like this?” And how should you answer this? You see the destruction your god wrecks in his path every day, and each time break a little more. For all those come to harm, and for Him, for you know just how much it breaks him as well. Could it really be worth it? Could it be worth what would come after? You feel your head tilt up to the looming figure, like a child seeking affirmation from a parent. A strange way to think of Her of all the gods, but it seems appropriate.

“I have no answer for you.” How can She not? Does She not think it will work? Why does She still let Eothas go free if She doesn’t?

For the first time Berath’s stoic façade moves. The goddess of death sighs, a long sigh, deep and filled with more emotion than you have ever felt from Her. She sounds tired. But the crack in her composure is already gone the next second.

„My brother is a soft-hearted fool. And I am too for allowing him his weakness.“ You don’t understand. How could you?

“I have told you that we have lost our original purpose, my brother is not the only one for who this is true.” Berath’s gaze is almost expectant as it settles on you more deeply. You feel like a young acolyte again, being tested in school. But for once you think you might know the answer, even if you’re not entirely clear on the question. Woedica?

Berath nods and you feel a strange rush of satisfaction.

“Woedica was created as our queen, but her power and ambition posed a threat to us and kith, and so we dethroned her. She still is, still holds her title above us, but the truth is, her role has changed. She is no longer queen or judge, though she pretends to be. We have accommodated to this change, and the years have not passed us by either.” You stare up at her, more confused than before. It was more than she’s ever told you, and yet it’s far too little to truly make sense of her words. Why is she telling you this?

“Because you won’t remember regardless. You never do.” A wave of defiance floods through you. Why shouldn’t you remember? This is the one time you actually seem to get some answers, and you will make sure to write down every one of them later.

Her odd choice of words passes you by, unnoticed as defiance makes you stare upwards.

Berath is as unmoved as ever. Obviously, she doesn’t believe you. You will make sure to prove her wrong.

“What you believe is of no significance to me.” Then why tell you?

Berath looks at you. To others it might seem like any other time she’d looked at you, but you know better. She looks at you like Eothas once did, standing in an ocean looking back at you. Brows pinched just so, her shoulders a tad lower than before, and her eyes the matt black of a starless night sky, you feel a vague sense of regret settling over you.

“Because I do not wish for my brother to die.” At any other time, you might have rejoiced at the words, but now they are only infuriating. What does it mean? Why should He die? How will you knowing this help Him? Especially if, as Berath claims, you won’t remember it?

“You won’t remember, no, but perhaps, if I just tell you often enough, He will.” Something presses against you, sharp and insistent. The purple in your sight becomes darker, denser, and you feel the weight of an uncountable amount of soul pieces pulling closer, latching onto you, as they recognize your turmoil. You understand, they are confused, and you are familiar, something alive, stable. It doesn’t make bearing their attention any easier.

Berath takes one hand off her sword far above you and swipes it through the air, as if flicking away insects, and perhaps for her it is. The souls clawing at you are ripped away, scattering back into the beyond, and for a moment you stumble after them from the force of the command.

The next moment you find yourself back in the spot you stood before, without remembering any movement on your part. You glance up to Berath, confused and frightened at the reminder that this is not your realm. You have no power here. You are as much at her mercy as these souls around you.

You want to keep asking, but you feel your throat close up and no sound comes through. Vaguely you are aware that you have no throat here, but logic has no power against the fear welling up inside you. The world around becomes unfocused, her face alone takes up your sight. White, bony skin stretching across high cheek bones, eyes blacker than the void surrounding you, stringy hair just as dark hanging limply over her ears.

You feel cold. Your surroundings are too loud and too quiet at the same time. Something pulls at you. Is it her? Has she finally grown sick of you? You can’t die again! You have to know! You have to ask! You have to-

 

You hear quiet thumps and feel a soft swaying beneath you. A familiar queasy feeling already settles in your stomach and you swallow down a groan. Your body feels heavy and sluggish, much like you felt almost every day five years ago. Whatever you dreamt last night, it can’t have been good.

You throw your arm over your face, the coolness of your skin helping somewhat against the headache building behind your eyes. Any dream or nightmare you had is long gone from your memory, so you’re fairly certain it wasn’t another memory. Your brain always made sure you’d remember those.

With a sigh you pull yourself from the bed, putting a hand against the ship’s wall to steady yourself. There is work to be done. You only hope you’ll hit land today.

The strange feeling of urgency stays with you the whole day.