“Why do you persist?” the voice echoed through the temple. “You know the only two outcomes of being here, one of which is vastly more likely than the other, so why do you keep doing it? What makes you think that, this time, you will find a secret third option?”
The question was valid. Many people had stood here and had attempted the impossible. While no one had actually succeeded, the challenge remained.
“We come here to kill our gods,” the current challenger replied. His voice was deep, it was full of strength and confidence. It was the voice of a hero who had been raised from birth for this very task. It was the voice of a man soon to be dead.
“I am not any god of yours,” the voice said. “I never wished for such a station and I would decline it if it were offered. Many of your kind have heard these words. Like you, they didnt believe them. A few, those who are worthy of what you would call my mercy, were allowed to leave here to spread word of this. The rest, well, you’ve seen the pit, havent you?”
“Your words do not scare me, God of the Wills,” the hero replied. In his right hand was a long, gleaming silver sword, sharpened to a keen edge and unused on anything living. “I was trained my whole life to stand here and destroy you.”
“Why?” the voice asked. “Why waste all that time when you know that I could kill you without moving right now? Or at any point since you entered the borders of my domain. Little human, were I the sort to break a vow, I could kill each and every human on your tiny little world before you could blink. There isnt anything human that can do anything to me that cant be undone with a single thought.”
“That is correct,” the hero said. “But this sword isnt human.” The grin on his face spoke volumes about his confidence, but very little about his skill.
“Know, this, human,” the voice said as a gust of air blew through the room. “Your presence, and that tool, mean nothing to me. You arent going to kill me with a blade made from virgin metal. Your stories of me, and my kind, are fiction. Your kind made them up. And yet you come here and act them out like your word bends reality. I am not your God of the Wills, whatever that means. I am a companion to your star. A traveller, in much the same way your species is. I do not wish harm upon your kind, nor do I actively produce it. I abhor violence, however it is brought here without my consent or knowledge and small humans die needlessly.”
“Today shall be your turn to die,” the hero said. “For, you see, this blade is not mere virgin metal. It is an untainted blade. Specially made to slice through the flesh of a god.”
“And which of my siblings taught you how to make an untainted blade?” the voice asked. “What did you offer in exchange? What makes you think you can move fast enough to touch me with it? What makes you think what youre staring at is even me?”
Before the hero, on the back wall of the temple was a giant stone throne. It was old, so very old, but the hero didnt know that, and if he did, he wouldnt care. It was made from a stone that could never form on Earth. A stone from a galaxy that died before humans were banging rocks together. Hand carved by artisans and stone workers who were enslaved by someone who did call themselves a god, the throne was covered in runes and symbols from dozens of civilisations, long extinct. All up the back of the throne, if it could be deciphered, was the history of the species the booming voice belonged to. Including their home, currently lost, and their stated goals. Not even the voices species could decipher this long dead language, so any secrets that were kept withing those carvings were lost to everyone.
In the chair, reclined and looking as if they were simply watching TV in their living room, was the mighty being themselves. They were vaguely humanoid in that they had a head at the top of a torso and equivalent limbs to arms and legs where they were supposed to be. The proportions were slightly off and even this hero was a little perturbed as he looked at the being. Upon its head was a crown, of sorts. It consisted of what appeared to be giant deer antlers attached to a bronze mask which covered the beings upper face, blinding them. Randomly, strung up between antlers on either side of its face, thin golden chains hung, swaying in the breeze as it cut through the temple from every and any direction.
The creature was dressed in what looked to the hero to be a combination of different outfits. On its lower half, it looked like it was wearing leather hunting pants. Its torso was covered in a skin tight black shirt, inlaid with find gold patterns. Over the top of this, hung a green overcoat. It was open, and pushed back of the creatures body, falling as far as what would be mid thigh. At the creatures waist was a simple silver belt buckle, although there appeared to be no belt to go with it.
Finally, hooked to the overcoat at the neck, was a thick fur cape. Most of it was behind the creature, acting as a cushion for it to sit on. At each point it was attached to the overcoat, a golden badge shone. The symbol on the badges, shared by the pommel of the sword in the heroes hand, was considered to be this creatures icon; its name. The creature had never said this. The creature had, in fact, its own name, and was happy to share it with people who asked. It was known on Earth, but to speak it was considered heresy. Again, not by word of the creature itself.
The only other item was the large, thick bladed, scythe that leaned on the throne, within easy reach of the creatures right hand. The heroes eyes had been locked on that arm since he arrived. So far, the creature had not so much as twitched. Either it was extremely confident, or it did not see him as a threat. He hoped, prayed, as ironic as that was, that it was the latter option.
The hero, still staring, waiting for his moment, could not tell if the being before him was a male or a female. It was one thing he had not been prepared for. He did understand that there werent many people who had returned home from a journey here, but he would have thought this would have been part of their story once they did.
Almost out of instinct, he took a step up the stairway that led from the level he was on to the upper level where the throne was. He immediately saw the right arm twitch and his many years of training kicked in and he ducked and moved away from where the scythe would have sliced him, if that had been what happened.
What, instead, happened was the creatures left leg jerked up and kicked the hero before he could even see it move. He was flung back to the major entrance and lay there on the stone floor, only the wind knocked out of him.
“You see?” the voice said. “Your training was not enough. It will never be enough. Even if you trained generation after generation of your best people, you cannot kill that which cannot die.”
“You have died,” the hero said through gritted teeth. “Weve seen it. Your head, rolling down the stairs and out the door. You cannot deny that.”
“And I havebnt,” the creature said. “I dont. That, indeed, happened. Yet here I am, unharmed and with my head attached.”
“A new you,” the hero said, struggling to get to his feet. “A different you.”
“There is no difference to me,” the voice said. “I am who I always am, who I always was. No human can change that and I do not understand why you keep trying to disprove me.”
“Because,” the hero said, wobbling on his feet. “We do not need you anymore.”
“You never needed me,” the voice said and for a moment its singular monotone was replaced by something you might call a scoffing tone. “Another thing I cannot understand,” it continued in its regular monotone. “This need for me to be something I clearly am not. Is it that hard to take your own responsibility?”
“None have such a responsibility as I,” the hero said.
From where he stood, shaking, he hurled the sword towards the creature. The gleam of the blade caught the light of the sun behind the throne and in the greatest proof that fate is real, the flash of light was perfectly reflected onto the creatures mask.
Immediately, the creature screamed in agony. It had only made contact with the mask for a fraction of a second, but it was clear that the pain received in that fraction of a second was lingering a lot longer. While the creatures arms were racing up to soothe their face, the sword, still spinning, managed to embed itself, point first, in the upper shin of the creatures left leg.
The screams redoubled and the creatures hands stopped heading for the face and rushed to its leg. But it was too late. The gleaming silver sword was already threaded with lines of black and red. The untainted blade had won.
“You havent won,” the creature gasped as it wrenched the sword from its leg, thin black tendrils of something, stretching between the two like hot cheese on a slice pulled from the box. “I cannot be killed by a human.”
“So youve said,” the hero replied as the sword was thrown back at him, cleanly entering his chest through the sternum. It did not seem to phase him. “But I am not human. That sword is not human. We know what harms you and what doesnt. And we have allies. Those of yours who would see you die and your domain given to them. The blade has tainted you. You know you cannot survive.”
“The blade is tainted,” the creature said. “And returned to he who would defile something so blessed. Of the two of us, only I will sit in this throne. Only I will continue to.”
“Sit in your throne,” the hero said, starting to feel the dull ache of the sword in him. “Die in it,” he whispered with venom. “That is not the artifact that is desired.”
“I know what you seek,” the creature said. “But you dont understand. I wont die from this injury. You will.”
“I am not-”
“You are part something else,” it said. “You tainted the blade and then the blade tainted you. Whatever plague would have befallen me is eating you from the inside. My people didnt warn you of that, did they? And when your body dies, whats left of its flesh will sustain me.”
The hero tugged at the sword but only succeeded in pulling himself forward. He struggled against the deeply embedded and no longer silver blade and failed to pull it out. He grunted and swore and tripped, falling onto the stone floor, his life slowly ebbing away as he tugged harder and harder on the weapon.
“Why do you always persist?” the voice said.