A Divine Spark - 2. The Lost One

The divine spark that had once been Ashran felt every single soul being ripped out of Anu’s blessed custody. It heard their calls of pain and their wails for salvation, and every death pulled him closer to the city and away from the uncaring river banks. It had no eyes to see, no ears to listen, no mouth to call out, but only a body of flesh and bone needed those things to communicate. The divine spark saw the city as it really was, its seams and cracks and fissures, its dark and light places, even the nooks and crannies where lost souls and bad spirits had taken refuge when the new god of Kutha had taken up residence.

With every sacrifice, it was pulled closer to the temple doors, as if souls themselves had gravitational pull on each other, and when it finally drifted through the copper plated double doors and into the prayer hall, it could perceive the other sparks being ripped out of their mortal shells.

The blood on the white marble floor looked like decorative flowers adorned with those pieces of a body that made it function and the smell of coppery rust, vomit and pain drifted over the ghastly ornaments like pungent perfume. Had the spark been mortal still, it who had once been Ashran would have joined the ranks of soldiers onlooking in sheer horror, shell-shocked and sick to their bones by the actions of their priests.

Since it was human no more, made out of nothing but divine force and the fleeting remembrances of a temple boy, it had no eyes for the gruesomeness that took place before him as twenty-five forgotten priests, preachers and servants were sacrificed to Nergal.

Of much more interest was The God Nergal himself, who stood amidst the massacre, picking the freshly de-bodied souls out of the air like grapes from a vine.

They were white as the clouds of heaven when they left the mangled corpses, but His touch colored them bright red just before he pushed them into his chest, where they disappeared. They had lost their way to Anu’s heavenly chamber, led into the underworld by Him Who Devours. It was the fate the spark who had once been Ashran had denied himself by jumping off that cliff.

When the spark drifted closer to the doings of Nergal, the god stopped for a moment and then turned to watch the curious apparition that had entered his temple. He could feel repudiation on that one lost soul and extended one hand to invite it.

There were other gods who denied lost souls their salvation, because they were impure and had often fallen from faith, but Nergal was not one of those gods. Since his followers had decided to have him be a god of the underworld, where all those souls went who were not welcomed into the heavenly fold, he had learned to tolerate, nay, be fascinated by the impure and imperfect, by sinners and criminals, atheists and heretics.

It was a tricky business to persuade them of taking his hand and let themselves be touched by His might, but The God Nergal had nothing in more abundance than time and patience.

The spark wandered closer, following the example of all the other souls like it was supposed to. Once ripped out of their mortal coil, even the most stubborn and preposterous minds understood the need for eternal rest, or the chance to be reborn; stripped of their fear and morale they were just as pure as a god himself.

The spark would not pass up the chance to be reaped and carried to its place of rest.

The spark who had once been Ashran brushed against the outstretched fingers of Nergal.

A small, sun-hot charge of electricity passed between god and soul, giving the once white gleam a reddish tint.

Nothing else happened.

~*~

The sacrifices had taken almost all of the night, and Nergal was filled with souls, energy and the never-ending admiration of his subjects. The priests had started cleaning up the leavings of both sacrifices and secretions of onlookers and there was nothing else to do but to wander His new halls and fill them with His presence.

The God Nergal was not a vain god, because his flock did not think him so. He cared for every one of them and he took every new believer into his fold without questioning their worth, though he did ask for harsh and numerous offerings and sacrifices in return. Even in the ranks of fellow Gods and Goddesses, he was known for his tolerance for evil-doing and greed for souls, taking any and every spark left behind into his divine dragon belly.

But He Who Devours couldn’t devour everything, as he had found out that same night. How the faith of nearly thirty thousand people could be stopped by the beliefs of one little soul, he could not fathom, but it had happened, right there in his new sanctum.

That resistant spark drifted behind him like a fleeting afterthought, ever since he had touched and not devoured it, but The God Nergal didn’t mind. He knew about the workings of the world, he knew that the real power lay with the divine sparks. Those souls had made the gods, not the other way around, and if that soul so chose, it would join him sooner or later, or leave to find another place, or… turn into a bad spirit.

Maybe the spark would linger around for months, years, eons, but not a moment longer than it itself chose. Of course, that choice was colored by the beliefs the mortal had held before his death, which probably was the reason why The God Nergal hadn’t been able to swallow it; but beliefs could change.

“One day you will decide to leave those improvident ideas behind,” He told his companion as He reached the inner sanctum. Of course, the spark didn’t answer yet, as it did not know how to talk to a god, but given enough time, even that would change. Nergal watched the new temple servants pull ropes around Anu’s cracked effigy and hummed in contentment.

“And until then, you can stay in these halls and watch fate unfold as it always did, always does and always will.”