Kardekir wiped the sweat off their brow, quickly untying, and then flinging their metallic helmet to the ground, with a clang. Their hands had gone white and numb, holding their massive, curved sword as if it was their savior, because it was. But now, as the different standards fell away, and the myriad dots that scattered the countryside ebbed and flowed, Kardekir felt comfortable to loosen their grasp, the sword an icicle against their calloused hands. All around them, the pinpricks did the same; for they weren’t really pinpricks, this was simply how a Primordial generally sensed those around them, a side effect of being a god. These were soldiers, more specifically, Kardekir’s own, whose energy had been spent over the past week in brutal clashes along the fertile plain of Yethenor.
Or at least it had once been fertile. Now, as Kardekir shrank from dwarfing even the mountains, down to the size of the mortals they lead, they could see the full toll of this endless war; the fertile fields they had cultivated millenia ago had been reduced to ash, the horrific storms that tore across the region as of late bearing nothing but ill will against the region. But it was more than simply a singular bad harvest, which is where perhaps the soldiers of their army would have stopped. To them, this war, as it had been for generations, was about the reclamation of what had been theirs, and in addition, to protect their lands and their peoples from enemy incursion. What had their sacrifices accomplished if their birthright was nothing but a blasted heath, an overcrowded graveyard that stank from the bonfires of plague victims and the broken flesh of the villages torn asunder by the hounds of war?
But it was worse than they could ever imagine. The ground itself shook in pain, vibrating ever so slightly, in such an imperceptible way that no mortal could ever hope to attune to it, but that was child’s play for a Primordial. The land had been poisoned, not through any direct attack (Kardekir blessed his good luck, but to whom his blessing went they did not know), but through the endless violence that had been wrought upon it. Kardekir tried to recall how many times they had fought battles here; when the dwarven clans loyal to them had fallen to the north, a great campaign had been fought to hold off the orcish invaders. And after that, when Sibrig’s giants had crushed the orc hordes, another theatre of conflict had burgeoned. For quite some time these plains had been out of Kardekir’s hands, as Sibrig had held them with an iron fist, hoping to starve the vast enemy hordes, but that had failed, and finally, Kardekir had liberated it.
But had it failed? Kardekir remembered the screams, the cries of children, languishing in starvation, the silence of towns whose occupants had turned upon one another to gain sustenance, and with all that, could this really be considered a victory? Would their soldiers not return to starvation, to Valwath’s endless and horrific storms, that buffeted this continent and every other, endless attacks from the sky itself, screaming death and destruction for all to hear?
Perhaps they could use the army’s current momentum to capture those ancient clan holds yet again, finally securing the subcontinent and allowing for peacetime growth. Yes, this was a solid plan, though one that they would have to pass through the generals; while Kardekir’s words were scripture, it was always wise to have critics, or else they would share Tatheon’s fate, whose servants and patron nations had died away, leaving them enraged and backed not by true servants, but the generations of rotting remains whom Tatheon had failed to defend.
Kardekir passed by one leg of the massive caravan that made up their army’s support system. This one had a hastily painted sigil that denoted this section as a hospital, but from the smell and the blood splatter around it, one could easily mistake it for a butcher shop. The soldiers around it, and the staff stood at attention, or mimicked the motion to the best of their abilities, everything coming to a halt as Kardekir passed. They were divinity made manifest, an avatar of the creative powers that suffused the entire world. It was just that recently, they had been doing all too much of the opposite.
Various people looked towards Kardekir. Some were simply on guard duty, as far too many hospitals and the like were raided along the course of this millenia long war for anyone to trust their safety; it was far too common to attack these places, in order not only to deny the possibility of healing and resting troops, but also because of the moral loss seeing your wounded and paralyzed burn alive. Others were medical staff, all of whom were slow and tired. There were far too many injuries, and far too few surgeons. There were even less than normal, as not days before a midnight raid had struck the hospital, the raiders slaughtering guard and doctor alike. Most were the wounded, with various injuries. Fewer and fewer were coming with flesh wounds recently, and this worried Kardekir. This could mean simply that those who received minor wounds were realizing the minute nature of their injuries and remaining in active service, but it was more likely due to the increasing brutality that was being unleashed on the battlefield. Even the former represented a shift towards nihilism Kardekir would have once tried to root out. But that was ages ago, long before any of the nine Primordials even dreamed of warring amongst themselves.
What had happened? Kardekir thought, as they entered one large wagon, which had been converted to allow for beds to be stacked over each other, so that the wounded could rest in a compacted space. Long, long ago they, and their siblings, had been peaceful caretakers. They all had been gardners, planting the seeds of life across the
world, then nurturing them so they could grow and become great. Those times had known true peace, true happiness. The mortals who served them had not a single want in the world, and the Primordials had been happy.
But it did not last. Darkness overtook them. Jealousy for one another’s holdings slowly corrupted their hearts. Soon, petty insults became cruel accusations, then threats, and then blows, and then eventually war. And still now, millenia later, they fought the same war, endlessly capturing and losing the same regions all while their servants propagated themselves, then died, and so on for all eternity.
Staring into the face of one of the wounded, who had taken an axe straight to the face, while trying to heal them, Kardekir remembered something else; they had been involved in devastating Tatheon’s holdings. It had made sense at the time; on a continent oceans away, Tatheon’s humans were birthing at an incredible rate, one that would give an enormous edge, and allow Tatheon to ship them across the world to new battlefronts as they popped up. Something had to be done, Kardekir remembered, and so they had empowered their dragonic servants to lay waste to the central kingdoms that formed Tatheon’s realm, while a short-lived alliance with Resa led to the total political collapse of the region as a madness thick as snow spread through the great cities, the populace slaughtering each other to save themselves from imagined invaders. Not long after Resa, or maybe it had been Karedkir themselves, had reneged on their alliance; it was far too dangerous to allow another Primordial even the slightest of advantages, and so-called friendships were broken as quickly as they were made.
And now a similar thing was occurring to them; Sibrig had tried to starve their servants here to death, and when that failed, tried to throw legions of orcish slaves to crush them. These were atrocities, plain and simple. Kardekir had committed a fair share of them, as had all the Primordials. They had failed their servants, they had betrayed the world itself, and in their arrogance would not recognize it until the very last root of the world shriveled and died, until the last child’s cries were snuffed out, until all things living and dead ceased. Not unless something stopped them, here and now.
Kardekir stood, having forgotten about their plans to recapture the clan holds, having forgotten even about the wounded soldier and their most-likely fatal head injury, and marched from the caravans, past priests and retainers and officers, straight out into the ashen fields that no doubt represented every field any of the Primordials had ever cultivated. Kardekir broke into a run, growing in size as they did, until they yet again dwarfed the great mountain ranges to the north. There a great storm was brewing, as Sibrig was amassing a horde of giants, pulling them from other conflicts to crush Kardekir’s resurgence.
Kardekir stared out across the globe. The different Primordials continued their war efforts, each stuck in an endless loop of revenge-fueled counterattacks, in an endless cycle of brutal atrocities. Kardekir had been that way too, utterly consumed by violence and hate, and even now they knew they had not been absolved of the weight on their soul. Still, something had to be done, if not to undo the sins of the past, then at least to save the future.
And so Kardekir hollered at the top of their lungs, a cry that pierced the broken shards of the heavens and shook the decaying worldly core. It was a challenge, a promise to end all the conflict, a gamble for complete and total victory.
One final battle, one final fight to decide the fate of the world. No armies, no proxies, nothing but the nine Primordials themselves, to finally determine who should rule over the world for eternity. Enough with the cowardice, enough with the atrocities, all of it would end, here and now.
Each of the other Primordials no doubt were worried; if they lost they would die, and that would be it. But here was their greatest chance to win the most; never before had such an offer been made, not since the very beginning of this millenia-long war, back when they all thought they could seize victory easily. And perhaps they too were horrified by what they had become; perhaps they just wanted everything to end, and this would release them either way. Peace in death, or peace through the death of all others.
Kardekir summoned their curved blade, and charged out into the open ocean, as eight other titanic gods greeted them the last way any of them knew how; through the sing-song of death and war.
The sky turned dark as nine gods struggled against each other in one massive melee. Blood rained from the sky, drenching the clouds a ruby red, and with each blow, a great shockwave burst across the globe. Continents cracked, oceans overflew, and a great many rivers turned purple from the downpour of ichor. Cities collapsed, and populations were scattered, all while nine gods continued their final, greatest dance.
And then there were eight.
And the caps of mountains burst and lava flowed freely from them, burying ancient battlegrounds in lava.
And then there were seven.
Great chunks of rock slammed into the earth, annihilating everything within the resulting blast radius.
And then there were six.
A great cold fell over the seas and they were filled with rime.
And then there were five.
The great forests that dominated so much of the world burst into flames, the air itself growing heavy as smoke from above and below suffused it.
And then there were four.
Three.
Two.
One.
A bloody, broken curved sword fell from Kardekir’s hand. They stared out over the world; they were the last. They had won. But whatever miniscule feeling of victory Kardekir felt in this moment was snatched as they looked themselves over; they had been quite literally flayed, and quite a bit of the blood on their own hands was their own. But beyond that, the world began to grow dark. Not because of some external force, but because Kardekir’s eyelids grew heavy, their eyes tired, hoping to accept the final rest they had given to their siblings. There was a buzzing, a calming melody that promised no more suffering, no more atrocities, no more pain or hate. And Kardekir wanted very much to join this melody.
But the melody grew discordant. Kardekir saw the world change, and become unrecognizable. Peoples migrated across the globe, empires rose and fell, and landmasses grew and were explored, added to the collective understanding of the world beyond even the wildest dreams of the Primordials. It was terrifying, looking out at how things would change with them gone.
Everything they had known would wash away. Everything that they had known would most likely be forgotten. Even now, oblivion itself beckoned, and that would be the end of one and the beginning of a myriad others.
And it was beautiful.
So Kardekir joined with the melody, bringing it back to its original form. It was true that what would come next was unknown. Everything Kardekir had been, everyone Kardekir had known, along with everything else, would fade, and be replaced. It was true what came later could be worse; but it also could be better. All that truly could be said was that now, there were endless possibilities waiting to be born. And in that sense, it was the greatest single thing Kardekir had ever seen.
Yet something tugged at Kardekir, for they did not want to leave really, as much as they wanted the peace promised to them. But they knew they had already overstayed their welcome, had left a world they had found once to be paradise in ruins, and so could not expect much else. But perhaps they could send something, a sign or a message, perhaps they could fling a light to the future, as one last lasting legacy, to make right what they had failed so miserably before.
They considered their sword, and then tossed it aside; what sort of light was a sword, a sword drenched in the blood of millenia of war? What sort of light was war? No, it had to be something else, something to stop such from ever happening again, a light others could look to in times of hardship and be comforted, or inspired.
And so they sang a song. And the song reverberated across reality, and pervaded all things, and then went silent, but whose echoes continued to spread across existence for all eternity, in all manner of shapes and forms.
Would they die? They couldn’t say, just that they desperately wanted sleep. Perhaps they would return one day, to a world born anew. Or perhaps they would find the world having outgrown them. The Primordials had failed as protectors so utterly, it would not be surprising if they were abandoned. But these questions did not truly bother Kardekir, nor the lack of any answers. It was time to accept this age was over.
Kardekir finally closed their eyes, an indefinite sleep overtaking them, as they greeted silence, their single oldest and greatest friend.
And thus, the world moved on.
