Creators of Fates, Holders of Power

Spes climbed up the mountain, a final challenge before his ultimate salvation. He hung on roots and vines as he pulled his living corpse further up the slope. He had bread and honey in his bag: a temptation, an offering, a distraction. Despite his bony body, he would not dare snack on the morsel. It was his only hope to gain an audience with his god, Vindicta. Yet he needed something to help him push on, so he looked back down the mountain for motivation, not daring to snack on his offering.

He saw his city below, filled with servants, soldiers, citizens, and slaves who all now belonged to Homicida. Spes could still remember how Homicida had offered betterment for the city’s people. He could remember how the masses, his family among them, cheered on this illusion of a savior a year ago. And he remembered how, once given power, Homicida put a sword through all those who opposed him, real or otherwise. His parents, good citizens that they were, constituted such a threat. 

The true reason for their death was never given, not to Spes anyway. Maybe it was because they worshipped a “devil” that was the household god. Maybe they had been too free in their speech when it came to mocking the tyrant’s spendthrift attitude on personal monuments or the military. Maybe Homicida did not approve that merchants such as themselves would dare conduct trade without his permission. Maybe they truly were “traitors to the state” as Homicida said, a threat that needed to be killed and whose corpses now hung from the city walls. It didn’t make much difference to Spes. They were dead, and the tyrant was to blame. 

As he looked down, Spes made out a work detail of slaves outside the city wall, carrying large rocks into the city. What those rocks would be used for, he didn’t know. A new statue for the tyrant, a public stoning, it hardly mattered. He heard them scream and yell in agony as the rocks wasted their energy, and the ropes they held burned their fingers like fire. He turned around, unable to stand the sound, and with renewed zeal made his way forward at the pace of a wolf, but the elegance of a toddler. 

As he neared the top of the mountain, he felt a weird yet comforting touch of safety, as if the whips and swords of soldiers could not harm him here. Even as he continued to starve, as he had for days, he felt full and satisfied in his resolution, giving him strength for the final step. As he walked onward, the sky that had been a dark, foreboding grey filled with clouds that extinguished the light was now mixed with slivers of sun that cut through the coverage and shone down on Spes’ face. As he reached the top of the hill, the light shone brighter and brighter, taking up half of the sky with its aurora. As he stood at the pinnacle, he looked around. Standing out from the shrubbery and rocks was a stone throne, covered in moss and bird shit, weakening its once formidable power on the eyes. But undoubtedly, the center of attention was the gold skeleton that sat on the throne. Once bright and shining, now dim and covered in vines, the god Vindicta and its power had been worshipped in the past, uncared for in the present, and would be fully forgotten in the future. For despite the deity’s seemingly supernatural and endless power, one is only a god when others view them as such. In the era of Homicidae, servant to none bar himself, there was no room for belief in a being above himself.

Spes approached the empty-eyed skull and laid down his bread and vase of honey before it in humble submission. He got on his knees and prayed. He prayed for the end of the tyrant, for punishment to fall on the origin of this crisis, for his family’s justice, and for a return to the old ways. He waited several heart-wrenching minutes, and suddenly he heard a voice in his head, the voice of a powerful but defunct being.

“Spes, disciple, fifteen, loyal, brave, demanding, defier, hero, traitor, endurer, believer…” The list of descriptions went on, entering Spes’ mind like a never-ending flood.

   Spes trembled. He looked up to see that the clouds had now fully departed, the light shining down on the mountaintop for all in range to see. When he looked back and saw the hollow skull, still lacking action yet still holding thought, nothing seemed to have changed. He wasn’t sure if his mind was shattering or if this was all real. Nevertheless, he asked the skull again for help in his dilemma, asking for an answer to his prayers, and for the freedom of his people from Homicida. The bones answered.

“Homicida, forty, tyrant, killer, slaver, heretic, liar, king, not a king, conqueror, clever, trickster.” Despite the fear and awe, Spes remained where he was, still amazed by what he was seeing. The god continued, its voice, weak yet powerful, filling his head. 

“People, victims, slaves, blinded, deceived, betrayed, captured, coerced, non-believers.” 

Spes felt recognition, felt justice, and thanked the god for these words of understanding. But his master could not hide its honesty or judgment, and mustered one final, broken but understandable decree. 

“Electors of their tyrant, electors of their suffering, electors of their punishment.”

Spes wondered in concerned confusion what that meant, but before he could discern, he turned to see that down the mountain was his worst nightmare. A force of Homicida’s soldiers marched forward, wearing crimson armour as they marched up the mountain, led by the tyrant himself. He rode on his horse with undeserved elegance for someone of his cruelty.  Briefly, Spes worried he would be beaten and hung upon the city walls like a trophy, following his family’s cruel fate. But suddenly, the skeleton glowed faintly, the sky shone brighter, and the formation stopped. All of the tyrant's mortals looked up in astonishment and took in the glowing, gold-filled sky. With sudden speed, a beam of blinding light hit Homicida and his men, briefly reflecting off their armour and weapons in an incredible lightshow. But the beauty and display turned to blood and death, as suddenly Homicida, tyrant and conqueror, a near god among his people, turned into a puddle of flesh and bone that flowed freely with the melted armour. His men followed, melting alongside their lord, screaming in agony. Some tried to run and escape the rays of death; others, accepting fate yet seeking a different end, tried to grab knives in melting hands to quickly end their misery. 

As this holy massacre had been unfolding, Spes noticed how the skeleton began to glow brighter and brighter, its power growing. Unbeknownst to the young man, the people had noticed their god’s work, and their beliefs rekindled as the news spread throughout the city like locusts. However, just because Homicida was now a puddle did not mean Vindicta’s work was done. Spes watched with horrified eyes as the sunlight that had just killed Homicida expanded and began to encompass the entire city. A hellish choir of screams from his city’s dying populace sent chills up Spes’ spine, and he turned back to see the skeleton, once bright and blinding, slowly fade in luster and lose its shine, its source of belief dying out once again. And then it hit home, harder than any whip ever did. The words of the god rang out in his head one last time; whether from Vindicata themself or his own memory, it didn’t matter.

“Electors of their tyrant, electors of their suffering, electors of their punishment.”

To Vindicta, this was justice. But to Spes, it was murder. This atrocity, this punishment for all the city’s people, was too much. Even if it wasn’t faulty in logic and reasoning, how could this be the right thing to do? As if it could hear his thoughts, his god, now broken and on the verge of not even being a memory, spoke to him, and by extension, humanity, for the last time.

“Power comes from people, as it dies with people”.