The wind lashed at her pale cheeks, burned her eyes and deafened her.
Presumably, the mountaintop for which she was standing upon held no significance in any era. The likeliness of this being the ethereal Pangaea mountain she had been called to was minimal, however she knew she could travel no further than this mass of heightened rock
The wind was berserk and seemingly murderous as it began to tear away at her faded skin. It ripped her, eroded her and parts of her were whisked off into the grey sky in an instant. The goddess emitted a howl which seemed to echo for eons, the sound travelling down the mountain yet for no one to hear.
Faces from her memory appeared before her eyes. A son, maiden, huntress, warrior, brother, a demon in the skin of a young girl and several more-- she reached out to them with a skeletal hand, yet they dodged away from her grasp. Her lower half of her physical being had vanished and the wind began to slowly devour her middle. Then went her fingers, her stomach, her forearms....
Was this an illusion?
Maybe she was mad; psychotic; insane.
Whatever her condition, she held the knowledge that what was occurring was signalling her end. This legacy of the war goddess who attempted to live amongst the mortals; the war goddess who attempted to stray from her primal instincts yet failed; the war goddess who wanted to hold value and importance; was up to its finale. She felt no sense of accomplishment now. In fact, she barely felt anything at all.
What if I told you this was all a game-- a plan? What if I'm just buying myself time in order to build a mask, a facade; returning only to consume you all?
Maybe Tartarus is waiting for me at the top just to throw me back down into the deepest-- most disturbing crevices of his kingdom to spend the rest of my days with Cronus and eventually destroy myself in a fit of insanity.
Maybe nothing will happen.
I think the latter would be the worst.
The hood acquired by thievery hung over her head, masking her face in darkness as she sat hunched over the small piece of parchment. Several dots of ink decorated the paper- indicating where the goddess had contemplating starting yet had stopped as she didn't know what to write. It wasn't until realisation stabbed her chest did she bleed the words, fluid and empty; combinations of the same letters that meant nothing to no one.
Leaning back on the creaky chair, she held it between her fingers as her darkened spheres furiously climbed over each sentence-- trying to decipher what she had written. But it was childish scribble and she had said it all before. This angered the goddess as she pulled on the parchment, ripping it down it's middle and she watched the pieces flutter down onto the wooden tabletop.
Sometimes she likened herself to that of a computer; with programs and a purpose in which it has the ability to achieve. However, when a computer is exposed something foreign, a virus-- it's hardware malfunctions and it's circuits become confused. The entire machine is poisoned.
She didn't exactly know what her virus was. Was it greed? Jealousy? No, why would she after so many centuries suddenly crack? It would have to be something new, something foreign.
The relationship between herself and humanity had always been strictly business. They were pawns on her chess board and she knocked them down as she pleased. That was until she went to Bansin; until she met humanity on the same playing field. It was something new for the goddess to be amongst them. They were foreign. Befriending them exposed her to many risks and weaknesses she wasn't aware of; guilt, separation, love. However she learned things she could not and she gained an understanding of an immortal life; being a mother, friend, companion. Thus, they were her viruses. And she wasn't particular certain if she wanted to rid herself of it's poison or not.
Pulling one half of the ripped parchment towards her and turning it over, the goddess began to write once more. She had to make a choice-- to be who she is supposed to be, or to be something she is not.
'A goddess of destruction does not have the capacity to reconstruct.
A goddess of war does not have the ability to possess peace.'
She wanted a solution to please both aspects of her existence; she wanted someone to point her in the right direction. Her destination was on the horizon, and she felt as though something was awaiting her with bated breath.
Half of her hoped it was an answer to solve everything.
⊱"Stalked through the midst of battle deadly Enyo, her shoulders and her hands blood-splashed, while fearful sweat streamed from her limbs. Revelling in equal fight, she aided none, lest Thetis’ or Ares’ wrath be stirred."
"Scattered thoughts--
I wept for the child today.
When will I feel shame for my selfishness?
Immortality is a curse, I would be better off dead.
Destruction seeking peace; the ironic aim I will never achieve yet I will carry this burden for the both of us, Eris.
I shall write her a letter soon.
I miss them all.
Out of no where, a piece of parchment appears before the goddess. The words written in cursive by a shaky hand. Light smudges of blood adorning the sides of the paper. "Enyo.. It's happening again. I have to kill. I need to kill. I-I don't know what to do. Hundred.. Maybe two. One week. It's only Wednesday. I miss you."
The goddess tossed and turned the small note in her hands, the harsh rain had already splattered the parchment and caused some of the words to run but she already knew what they said. The deity exhaled; her voice small and raspy as she hadn't used it for some time.
33 days? 34? It was all blurring together now. Time meant nothing. She couldn't remember the last time her eyelids had fluttered shut; the last time she had slept and dreamed.
"Don’t you dare hide away if it gets bad either Enyo."
Her orbs flickered to a shade similar to that of midnight as her fingernails clutched and dug at her scalp.
"You are my mother and I love you."
The voices surfaced so quickly; so loudly. Is this what insanity felt like?
“Why do you take orders from Cronus anyway?
"Since when did you, take orders from anyone?”
A wail emitted from the minor deity as she fell onto her knees, stone slicing into her palms. But she was so entirely numb she felt nothing. All she could fathom was the intense throbbing coming from within as if a beast was twisting and ripping her from the inside, desperate to get out. She shook so violently, her hands could barely keep her up from the cold ground. A mixture of tears, blood and dirt smeared over her cheeks gave the once ethereal goddess such a disgusting appearance. She felt filthy inside and out. And she wept until she had the strength to pick herself up again.
The goddess would go through this similar pattern every few nights that it was now almost a ritual. No matter how far she seemed to run from them all, their voices trickled from her memories and doused her in an ugly flame of guilt and pain. Even the voice of the dead.
As much as the goddess of war was infatuated with destruction, she had never experienced it's fatal force like this before. It had never been directed at her. She was destroying herself as if she were an empire destined for rubble and ruins.
That's all she really was; a shadow of her former self as she lurked in the darkness, making her way to her desired destination. She had her sights firmly set upon an important location in history; where one of the most immense battles took place. The mountain of Pangaea where the gods fought the titans; the mountain that may very well not exist. It was highly ironic she was heading to such a place when she had been so deeply affected by the rage of a titan. But something was drawing her there. The goddess couldn't explain it. She wasn't even sure of it's location yet every small village she passed she believed herself to be getting nearer. The higher she climbed, the closer she was.
However, on what she was sure was the 35th night, she had snuck into what she believed was an abandoned home. A woman had discovered the shamed deity lurking like a rat, shooing what the goddess believed to be her child away to a safe location as she grabbed a handgun from a draw. The problem was that the closer the goddess got to the land of myths, the more the village people were aware of the existence of deities. The glint of realisation in the woman's eyes was enough for the war goddess as she swiftly evaded the bullet that had been shot in her direction, running through the dark house to regain her composure.
She couldn't risk it. The people around here-- they were aware of the gods. Even if one measly mortal spread the word there was a weakened goddess slithering through the streets, a goddess who had brought nothing but disaster to the world; she wouldn't stand a chance.
The goddess crouched, adrenaline causing her fingers to tingle as she reached for the small knife wedged in the side of the boot. She could hear the footsteps, closer, closer. Heels against the hard floor. The war goddess specialised in mass murders, massacring hundreds at a time. But killings where she actually had the time to enjoy wedging a mortal life right out of it's fleshy home-- they were rare for her, so she would savour them. She felt the fear from the female move closer, and she breathed it in through her nostrils, leaving a rusty bitter taste on her tongue similar to that of blood.
Click.
The woman had her finger on the trigger now, and the goddess caught sight of her shadow against the wall. She could hear the mortal's heart beating, thumping against her chest as anxiety and fear exuded from her body. The woman stepped out, the goddess twirled the blade in her hands and flung it, perfectly lodging it between the woman's ribs and stabbing her heart.
A gasp.
A thud.
The life flew out of the woman and dissipated into the air.
And a pair of child's eyes peered out from the corner, glancing down at his mother before meeting the goddess' frightening dark orbs.
"Upon watching wars wage and not doing much else, I have regained an understanding of the very basics. How quickly hundreds and thousands are slaughtered; that every day, month and year of their life has been ended in such a tiny fraction of time. The death toll is peculiar as it is not how many have died, it is how many lives have been consumed by destruction— by me."
