A Divine Spark - 3. The Threefold Existence

Time was of no essence for the spark and the temple never changed. Years flew by and filled the holy grounds with believers and priests and sacrifices, offerings, small attacks, big wars and prayer, but it was all the same to It who had once been Ashran.

With time also came the realization of abilities only a soul had, and with this came self-awareness and opinions. Those were nothing like the awareness, thoughts and opinions It had had as a mere human, but It developed enough of a mind to distance itself from The God Nergal, albeit in a polite way.

There was no definitive dislike to be had, no palpable fear to be felt, just the distinct feeling that It would lose something precious, if It got too close to that strange, otherworldly presence. What, It could not fathom, nor why It should care about parts to add to or strip from its existence.

The spark and The God Nergal could have communicated, if they had chosen to, but it seemed like that reluctance to get too close was reciprocal and Nergal generally did not give It more than a passing glance.

Only when one generation of mortals had passed and made room for a younger, different generation, did things change, but even those changes were minute and inconspicuous.

Drifting through shade and rays of sunshine, interchanging in the halls and hallways of the temple, the spark one day realized a shift in the streams of people coming and going, that It had not noticed before. Once It took a harder look at the revelers and priests, It did observe that there were a new group of novices scattered all over the temple.

First, It expected those young, fragile boys to be a new kind of sacrifice for The God Nergal whom they worshiped; a few of them were actually killed in bloody, archaic rituals. But the numbers of sacrifices were inconsequential for the whole group, as there were many a dozen of bright-eyed, lithe younglings.

The spark that had once been Ashran had never felt anything for or against the activities inside the temple, developing nothing but fleeting attention for what the worshipers called their rites and ceremonies. This time, however, It couldn’t deny interest and puzzlement for those strange acts the priests taught their young novices.

It had been too long for the spark to remember what speech, language and understanding were like, for It had no mouth to practice and no conscience to form whole thoughts, like the ones a person needed to voice their needs and wants. It could not understand what those priests were teaching with their voices and was left with no method of learning but drifting around the groups of two, three or four mortals, watching their actions in silent wonder.

However, the more It watched, the more questions It felt building up inside its boundless mind. And with every new question the need to find answers multiplied, until the sheer weight of nervous energy baring down on the spark was too much to stand any longer.

That was the moment when It went to find The God Nergal, who was able to talk to It. Able to answer.

~*~

It was once more that room in the inner sanctum, now proudly presenting a marble effigy of The God Nergal, infused with jade and gold and silver threads, where the divine spark found Him who he sought. Beneath the never-ending waves of believers, priests and scholars, bowing deep as they murmured an endless sequence of prayers, The God Nergal stood proud and lonesome, just like his statue. He was smiling at the red haze of emotions wafting towards him, a powerful haze of devotion, fear and religious hysteria that had no scent and every scent at the same time. Smiling, erect and heartless, just like the cold, consecrated stone image of himself did; like the almighty thoughts of his cultists had shaped him.

It who had once been Ashran floated closer than It had ever before since that first night, but there was no haste to be felt by either one of them. Nergal had offered a resting place to It and It had taken him up on that offer, but had been ultimately unable to finish its journey. Whether they met in a heartbeat or in a year, nothing would change their stalemate.

Much to Nergal’s surprise, there was a new tint to The God’s silent companion, a curious silver intermingled with its virginal white and the tainted red of one touched by a god of the underworld, and the way the spark hovered around him made Nergal curious. He turned away from those who fed him, held out his hand once more in that silent offer for eternal rest and watched as the divine spark slowly orbited his wrist without ever touching him.

“I assume you are no longer decided on how you go through time?” he asked that one soul, knowing full well It did not know how to communicate. Even movement, which the spark itself did use to get from one point to the other, was not born out of decision to move but out of simple will to be somewhere else. It was a very complicated existence, being a shapeless spark.

There were other ways of communicating though, as the divine spark now indicated by changing directions in its eternal journey around The God Nergal’s wrist.

The God Nergal moved with mighty steps through the writhing throng of mortal bodies, never touching and never ceasing to touch those who offered their minds and souls to him, until he reached those twilight-filled hallways, where he and the divine spark usually moved in perpetual circles. There he offered the palm of his hand as a point of orientation for the spark, as it did not know up from down, high from low, and a front from a backside.

“There are three things to existence,” he then spoke with a voice that was audible and soundless at the same time, “a heart, a mind, a soul. There is no more flesh to your heart, which makes it inconsequential for any and all purpose. There is no life to your mind but the shreds of things that have been, and they are nothing but cobwebs in a world void of light. There is only your soul left, but it is your most mighty tool, and anything and everything you will ever long for.”

The divine spark that once had been Ashran seemed to mull over those words as the sun turned to hunt the moon, and the moon crawled back into the earthy womb once more.

Finally, it spoke as only souls could speak- not hearts and not minds-, and it was a bitter-sweet feeling to hear those sounds, as The God Nergal hadn’t since the dawn of existence.

“If all that divides me from those who give their bodies to those who take it in your name, is my inconsequential, ethereal heart and the cobwebs of remembrance I brush through in my darkness, there is nothing left to hold me back from your embrace,” it pondered, floating above Nergal’s ebony hand. “But still, those other souls come to you under your greedy touch, whereas I am in unrest.”

The God smiled, as it watched the one force on earth with the ability to do anything and become everything it wanted be hindered by its own design. As The God Nergal did not have a mind of his own and could only move in the confines of what creativity had given him through the beliefs of mankind, he couldn’t answer in a way that would have truly moved that divine spark.

“I am He Who Devours, but you are eternal. I could move mountains if those who pray in my name deemed it fit for me to do so, but there is only one force able to move you.”

The spark floated lower in agreement, whispering, “My all-goddess Anu, whose embrace I denied, just as I denied you.”

Nergal shook his boundless head, dripping blood and entrails with every movement. “How could you deny Her who has the power to force you?” he asked, not expecting an answer, as it was a moot question.

“Force is exerted in two possible ways, and as I am not getting closer to my all-goddess, I therefor am pushed away. It is the way of the gods,” the spark replied, hovering along His arm, unable to hold still for long. “Heresy is what tainted me to her tastes, for I am not worthy anymore. This darkness, this shattered heart and the cobwebs of what once was are what heretics and unbelievers are punished with. This is how I know I am lost.”

This time, The God Nergal pondered over those words for longer, as they held the key to the enigma concerning the existence of that one divine spark. While it was true that The Goddess Anu had set in place rules and commandments to discern the good from the bad, those rules had come from the minds of her followers and they were enforced only by their minds. If His divine companion was a believer strong enough to put every priest to shame, the need to obey those rules could be carried over into the afterlife.

“If this is the verdict you speak over yourself, then it is so. You have imprisoned yourself here for eternity and my touch will not set you free, as long as your all-goddess exists,” He finally told the divine spark, and lowered His hand to His side.

The spark who had now found its voice hovered for a moment, then It drifted a bit further away, lost in thought.

As The God Nergal once more went to join His believers to revel in their faith, It followed, always staying behind him, but never again truly leaving his side.

As the city of Kutha thrived and grew and the believers wove a more intriguing pattern of rules and stipulations for The God Nergal, the spark grew too, feeling its very soul take a new shape. The way The Devourer Of All sometimes watched It with more fervor than he watched those who fed him, spoke of his own wonder.

There were those among the priests, who seemed to feel its presence like a breath of hot, desert wind against their necks, whenever it came too close to their doings, but as they were of most interest to It when they were doing those rituals that didn’t need entrails, those mortals often accounted that feeling to The God’s presence. The spark did not care for recognition by those who shaped The All-Devouring, fearing— as it had learned of fear, again— that attention to It might change its shape like it did to Nergal. The God Nergal, on the other hand, grew more and more curious to the spark’s fate and future. What would happen, if his believers were to find out about his divine companion? Was the mind of a mortal mightier than its soul? Could the beliefs of those still alive overpower the beliefs of one so steadfast in his adoration for his Goddess?

Madrak, the high priest, was old and had been old for a long time. Blind, all but deaf and bed-bound by joints so creaky, he rather peed himself than try to stand up, he was still revered and renown as a soothsayer, a vessel for The Never-Sated. Madrak’s mind was easy to touch, as it was empty like a pitcher at noon and without the iron-willed fervor the younger priests wielded.

With nothing but a brush against his scarred, dry forehead, The God Nergal showed him the spark, the shimmering, silver-white-red light, as it hovered close to His shoulder. With nothing but a small thought, all was one for a heartbeat, then separate again.

As the old man shrieked and thrashed in wild terror, as he shouted of visions of the Shining Red Guardian, Nergal stepped back and watched, curiously. Night and day came and went thrice, then a white, shining spark rose from Madrak’s dead flesh, hovering above the cadaver in confusion.

“Come,” the spark said from its perch above The God Nergal’s shoulder.

The soul came, brushing against its kin on its way to Nergal’s devouring mouth. Then it was swallowed, leaving the spark who once had been Ashran to ponder for itself, leaving Nergal to wonder what He had done.

“You have found two of three,” The Never-Sated finally said, “a soul and a mind. What force is it that will make you gain the body-- push or pull?”

The spark danced away from its divine company, further out of the priests’ quarters and down towards the catacombs and ritual chambers, until It could go deeper no more, and this time, Nergal was the one who followed, drawing lines of never drying blood against the holy, cold walls of His deepest sanctum.

The spark hovered, shivered and finally said, “I understand now. I saw the thing I am supposed to be, I comprehend, fathom, the shape I need to become. I know my fate.”

The God Nergal watched as the spark swallowed each torch’s fire, each candle’s flame, the dust from the floors, the crusts of blood from the walls, bundling, ever bundling them, tighter and tighter around itself, until a shape was born. It was fearsome and visceral and in every way as Madrak had envisioned it, a demi-god, more powerful than any other being.

The demon turned its bloody head and sank down on one knee to bow before The God Nergal, just like Madrak had envisioned it.

“I am at your command,” it snarled, as flames licked through its hair.

Nergal sighed, then turned around. “And I had such high hopes for you.”