The Whispering Night

Blind. Numb. Betrayed. Alone. Roitaven, poisoned by contact with Skivrend’s darkness and injured by Mixaq’s illusions flailed chaotically through space and time. A cacophony of incoherent voices shattered through His mind that fed His raging madness. A madness that threw all of His being into a spiraling mess. Stars collapsed into singularities and planets burst from their orbits as He fled toward unseen solace. How could He have been so careless to be corrupted by darkness?

The voices rose in volume and intensity as Roitaven reached into His own head. His hand was whipped and wounded by what it discovered there; a writhing mass of unimaginable darkness and spite. Roitaven struggled to grasp His mind’s intruder as His body crashed through a nebula of newborn stars. Brilliant colors of fire and energy sparked and flared across creation. Roitaven became divided by the darkness within his mind and the bright energy of life that surrounded his body like rainbows of lightning and fire. His mind desperately pushed against the engulfing darkness hoping to purge it before all of his mind was empty.

The God of Light was certain that His end was imminent, but Roitaven was fortunate, lucky beyond measure. The power of birth, new life, of Light, that surrounded Him in the nebula gave Him strength that stunned the internal darkness. Roitaven gripped a tendril of the corruption and began pulling it from His mind.

As the tendril of darkness coiled in front of Him, He began to slowly regain clarity. The formerly unintelligible voices within His mind diminished in number and He began to understand them. They spoke of things that were foreign to Him; sadness, anxiety, mortality. They whispered the void into him. Roitaven pulled and pulled and the darkness coiled before Him. The voices dwindled and dwindled until one final word was spoken: “family.”

A single being took shape before Roitaven, the shifting dark bubbled and coiled about itself, still attached to the God’s bright cranium. It was an abomination, ten thousand heads erupting from its amorphous flesh. The heads uniformly called-out for Roitaven. Grasping the squirming entity, he wrenched it forth from his own being and threw it into the nebula. The entity moulded itself like a puzzle cube and coalesced into a myriad of shapes. The body forming into the wriggling faces that turned to their father.

“Who are you? What am I?” They asked in a cacophony of voices.

Yet Roitaven was disgusted by the Being that had come from His God-Flesh; a child born out of ignorance and deception. Tired from his bout with the illusions, he cast the beast from the nebula and His undesired offspring was left abandoned in the outskirts of space.

Before he cast Grival out, Roitaven spoke to him:

“For you, there is nothing. No life can come from a horror, no love will be spared, no order created, you would do better to waste across the ages or be cast into the Opilan star, but be no more.”

Blind. Numb. Betrayed. Alone. But not alone. Ten thousand minds inhabited one outcast piece of God-Flesh in the emptiness of space. A war for dominance was inevitable. At first, alliances were formed to gain control of the limbs, the mobility. Gnashing writhing skulls and necks in bloody self destruction for conquest of the same body continued as their numbers dwindled.The thousands of heads ripped at one another with razor teeth and ferocious pleasure until only dozens remained.

Each alliance had a different goal that it wanted to accomplish, and a subsequent conflict ensued. This was a war for total control. Too much God-Flesh had been lost in the succession of wars, so the minds began to attack each other carefully and strategically. It was a war that lasted little more than a blink of time to the gods as the competing minds of the new deity discovered and exploited each other's weaknesses, knowing several steps in advance of themselves.

An alliance of four heads prevailed and they formed to share one mind and body.

Of ten thousand abandoned minds, four endured. Bloodshed and hardship united them as they took mutual ownership of the God-Flesh born of Skivrend and Roitaven. They were dark and light, their heads each in turn the embodiment of cynicism, hope, wisdom, and hatred. They called themself Grival, the name taken by their mutual mind. They sought justice.

So it is said.

By Ira Caine