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he handles broken clocks and burnt out cogs with fingers thin and bone and dusted at the knuckle. you will ask him how long, how long before it is fixed, and he will turn a blank slate stare on you and you will think of wither, of rot, of boiling over. and then he will smirk, and what erupts is not just heat, but warmth, too, and he will tell you not to worry.

he's easy to spot, circling the sky and talking to the birds. there's always something red and flashing too far away for you to see, to understand, to know entirely. don't feel excluded. we have tried to greet him before, and we have yet to succeed. he will come to us when he is ready. instead, he sends the crows to eat from our hands. we think he wants them to trust us. only after them may he follow.

he fixes what he can. he helps who he must. you think he must be tired, but you haven't seen him sleep.

he will stand with a slouch over the world as it dances and straighten his spine not for you but for himself. he will be selfish when he thinks no one is praying. that's okay. the gods are young, and we forgive them when they need it.

when your heart breaks, seek him out. he is buried in machines and machination and ruin and salt, but when he learns you are looking, you will find him, eventually. explain your woe, your sorrow, how you want to take apart your ribs and fill them instead with flowers and wire and sugar. when he turns on you, do not flinch. he is far from benevolent, but his eyes will not sting.

destruction can mean many things, he will tell you in a voice that sounds like everyone you've ever loved and everyone that's ever hurt you. how much those two voices overlap depends only on you.

when he presses the pads of his fingers to the parts that hurt, it's okay to tell him you ache. he knows. he knows. he will be finished with the engine in your chest within the hour, and the raw edges, the sensitive splinters will be set aside in a jar he insists you take with you. when they are healed, they will find their way home.

it's best to take heed when he tells you how troublesome it is to leave parts of yourself lying around, especially when they're sharp.

besides, he will shrug, pulling his mask back over his angular, starspeckled face, you need the hurt. as much as you hate it, it's a part of you.

some of our young gods died long ago, along the way, victim to their own wickedness, their own wayward. we don't see them often and neither will you unless you ask for them, unless you find what they own and call on them to claim it.

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please, don't be scared when you see him, wirecrossed at the eyes and gold all over. he saved so many and lost so much. he won't be kind to you, because he doesn't know that you, too, have suffered - his pain is so great it leaves no room for anything else. he inherited it, and to seethe and feel is his birthright. if you do the same, you are the one infringing.

call him close to the trees and let him lean against one. the bees will know him, buzz fond and loud, nest in his hair, in his hands. eventually, he will be able to look you in the eye. he is the blindwild prophet, the forseer, the one you repent to.

he will become your sin, and he will destroy himself over and over to free you.

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if it's faith you seek, go to the beach. our youngest god is picky and temperamental and often cruel. his rules are the hardest to learn and the strictest to follow. if you are successful, if you meet him, you will understand.

bury your bare feet in the sand and turn your back on the sea. it's cold and dark below the waves, too many twisting currents and moving landmarks. he likes our world better than his own, but saying that will upset him, and he is just as turbulent as a summer storm, just as wild and likely to pull you under. he may not like the water, but he is better in it than you are.

he pulls doubt from you in strings of light and fashions them into wings. destruction, he will insist, is his to define. destruction, he tells you, means one thing at a time.

sometimes, the gods disagree. we don't interfere.

when you are full of glow and good, something in his eyes will change. you shouldn't ask about it.

sometimes, the gods can only give us that which they cannot give themselves.

he will leave you on the shore and head homeward, to the bow of his ship. don't follow him in. he won't ask you to, but you may feel compelled to go after him. we've lost many because they were reckless and wanted to feel angelic again.

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he visits the despondent when we ask.

how can a death-god die? no, no, you misunderstand - he doesn't call on the sick. just the suffering.

when you are staring at the backs of your eyelids and too heavy to do much more, when everything seems to lose that which makes it everything, he will ask you in a voice far too loud what exactly you need mending.

he thinks in gears and switches. you will need to translate your flesh into a language he understands.

if she comes with him, don't panic. she will sit on his shoulder and paint jewels into his skin and he will work as if she is vital. she is.

the empty will be removed. the black hole will come back (it has roots, you see, and even gods are unwilling to dig their hands in too deep), but so will he, prepared to take that which removes the everything and crush it in his fist.

once, the others had tried, used their might and will and minds to wage war against the little circle of murk he had coxed up and out of your throat. after hours of attempts, he simply squashed it flat under his heel and sent them all on their way.

he is not friendly, nor is he pleasant company, but you think his intentions are good.

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one more story? very well.

we live in a world where the gods choose to be seen. they don't ask us for much and we, maybe, should ask less of them.

so, when you meet the boy in the sky, or the smoke, or the stupor, or the sea, or the sulphur, thank them before you tell them your name. they have helped you before, and they remember you.

the new gods are fresh faced, but they are older than you could ever hope to know.

don't ask them how they did it. don't ask them what they sacrificed. they told me, once. i heard the story. i laughed and i cried in the company of our god-children and when they were done,

i stopped asking them for help.

#dirk tag.#dave tag.#eridan tag.#mituna tag.#equius tag.#maybe i can only write pretentious bs on my phone. anyway i really like this ons #*one whatever