1 Gods

The sky was dark and muddy on that day. To be fair, it remained that way for most days now: morbid and reeking of death. It was as if the heavens themselves forsaken the earthen world and sent death to their door. On the ground, however, the affairs of heaven didn't matter much.

Stretches of farmland went as far as the eye could see. Upon these mounds of tilled dirt, emaciated workers worked the land with their backs bent and heads lowered. Their clothes were tattered, stretched, and worn beyond sustainability. Their expressions, invisible to their masters, spoke of despair – the kind one felt when they gave up life.

And thus, they repeated their actions of hitting the soil for the entire day, forever. The crops they tended to, however, were gray and withering, a sign of the decay the world faced.

On a stretch of soil identical to the others, a young boy worked. His name was Abram, and he lowered his head like the others. His eyes were dull, lacking any of the brightness of happy children. Indeed, he was no happy child.

A few days ago, his parents fell sick, leaving them unable to work. Lord Vizier, who ruled this domain, showed his family great mercy. Instead of executing his line, he gave them a chance to live if their child worked harder. Although a slave's will was broken, twisted by years of servitude – Abram could see the defiance of his parents, though that defiance could mean death.

"It doesn't matter anyways; Lord's word is absolute."

Abram raised his sickle. With a thud, he cut down a stalk of limp wheat. Grabbing it with a hand, he was about to put it into his back pouch when his face went pale. A few small pieces of grain fell onto a puddle.

Abram panicked. Pleading for his miserable life, his heart thumped and his hands reached for the puddle. Anxiously searching for the grain that fell, his fingers navigated the muddy puddle but found no hard grain.

It seemed that his movement had caused a commotion, as an armed man approached his patch of land with curiosity and cruelty in his eyes. Abram froze. The nearby slaves fixed him, taking the only chance they had to raise their heads. Some looked at him with pity, others with amusement.

Either way, Abram knew, "Am I going to die?"

"Raise your head!" A voice ordered him. Its tone was impatient as if he couldn't be bothered with such a task.

Abram shook. Slowly, he faced the guard.

Cold eyes analyzed his being. It was a familiar look and the terror of all slaves. When Abram looked at a passing ant, he likely had the same face. Pure indifference. It was not even evil – for the guard did not recognize him worthy of morals.

"How is it you are not performing your duty, but a theatrical routine? Explain yourself!"

Abram's mouth moved, but no words came out.

The guard stopped. He froze his gaze on Abram's hands. In it, a stalk of wheat limped down. Most noticeably, it contained no grain, only useless animal feed, and a withering stalk.

The guard burst out laughing. Abram lowered his head.

"Stealing grain from the lord? You sure are brave."

"Brave enough for a farm animal."

Abram didn't plead. The rules of the lord were absolute, and the guard's sword enforced those rules.

"Slaves! All raise your heads!"

With a sudden motion, everyone went from discreetly observing them to fixing them with a reverent gaze.

"Some of you do not appreciate the generosity and benevolence of the lords above us. Some of you go a step further, even stealing food from the lord's mouth," The guard turned to him, emphasizing his crime.

The guard looked pleased with himself. The theatrical act attracted everyone's attention to him. Smiling, he continued, "It is then with the will of justice, the arms of the Gods, and the grace of Lord Vizier that I shall teach you all a valuable lesson."

His leather sheath shook. A shining sword came out of it. Slaves hissed in the distance, while Abram lowered his head further.

'This is not my life, after all, it is the Lord that gave me life, and He who shall take it. I served my family well, I-

It was then that he remembered. If he died, his parents would also be executed. In that instant, an uncharacteristic emotion took hold of him. He couldn't describe it, but for the first time in his life, the lord sounded wrong.

'No, he is wrong.'

He didn't know anything different. As far as he knew, it was justified. However, he loved his parents, that much he could say. He didn't want them to die, not because of his rebellion.

Raising his head, a terrified face met with the sharp edge of the guard's sword. The guard looked stunned, "Who told you to raise your head?"

Abram wasn't defiant enough to speak. He eyed the guard, regretting what he had done.

'What is that sound?' Abram noticed a crackling sound. Also, at the edge of his vision, a black creature arose. It was blacker than storm clouds, and it flew endlessly. Following back to the source, Abram froze.

Waves of orange and red danced in the distance. A fire had taken hold of the domain's town, and judging from the height of the blaze, it was a large fire.

The guard also stopped. Furrowing his brows, he gave Abram a look, "Slave! Redeem yourself from your crime! Save your Lord, even if you lose your life!"

When he finished giving his order, the guard ran towards the fire. Abram also followed, though it was for a different reason. Saving Lord Vizier was important, yes, but there were people he wanted to save much more.

A sweat ran down his forehead. Abram could feel the heat from his current position, a steady run away from the fire. Accelerating and putting it all he had into his skinny legs, he bolted towards the town. This was unlike any moment in his life. Even as his parents died, the excitement and freedom rushing into his blood flushed his face.

Other slaves were running in the opposite direction, using this chance to escape from subservience. The guards that could make it out also followed. It was a strange scene where both oppressed and oppressor were equal. Equal in fear, that is.

All of that made it so that Abram found himself alone in front of the lively fire. Uncaring for the fumes that plagued through his lungs, he peered into the fire. It had made a wall of flames of the wooden fortress.

As the seconds trickled, Abram's earlier excitement washed away. Instead, the terror and fumes came back. Coughing, he looked at the fire with hate greater than any he had ever felt. A slave did not have many people in his life. There was the master, and then the parents. A slave could only trust his parents, as Abram did. When he starved, they discreetly stole grain. When he coughed too loud, they worked louder to mask his voice.

That trust did not extend to Lord Vizier. Of course, he was the lord's property. Then again, was beating his parents when they breathed in his presence appropriate? Was starving them when he had to feed guests appropriate? These blasphemous questions were all the rage amongst younger slaves, who didn't yet relinquish their life to servitude.

And now, both figures would die. How could he fight such a huge fire? It couldn't be brought down with fists or cut with a sickle. Only the gods could.

The fires continued their dance of death. Around him, blazes wiggled their way into any flammable material, spreading the flames, the ashbringers. Abram fell down his knees. Without any strength inside of him, only his emotions blazed. His eyes grew red, both from the fumes and his grief.

In front of him, a spark, glowing brighter than the others, jumped out. Then a second one, then a third one. Abram doubted his eyes. A silhouette of flames was starting to take shape. It blazed like any fire but maintained the distinct shape of a man.

Thinking it to be a hallucination, Abram shook his head. The creature also shook its head. Then, with its flaming hands, it reached for its 'neck'.

"Good day to you, orphan," A hoarse voice rang out, dry and crispy like the sound of gears turning.

Abram stood silent. "I am no orphan."

The creature shook its head, "Do you believe that? In that case, my task is much easier here."

Holding out its hands, it continued, "If you think your parents are still alive, I shall give you the power to verify that and possibly save them."

"A creature of my mind cannot give me power, even less so a creature of the flames that brought death today."

The creature laughed. Abram plugged his ears, hurt by the scraggly sound. For a figment of his imagination, it felt surreal.

Abram woke up from his thoughts. The creature approached him. Bringing its hands inwards, Abram wondered what it was doing when an immense pain diverted his attention elsewhere.

On his torso, a patch of skin turned a sickly red. It burned unlike any beating Abram had received. The creature retreated its hands.

"Do you still believe I am not real? I'd enjoy spending more time in the mortal realm, but I implore you to make a decision, for I have not all of the time in the world."

Abram looked down to his burnt chest, then up at the creature. With the pain blurring his cognition, he said, "Can you give me the power to save them?"

"You slaves are a bit slow in the mind. Indeed, that is what I propose to you. For a cos-

"I'll take it."

The creature seemed stunned, but a nod of its head displayed its pleasure. "Decisiveness I like. I'll legitimize our deal. Reduce your mental defenses."

In that instant, Abram clutched his skull. A weird sensation of something digging through his head emerged. It was not painful, but it was not comfortable either. It was as if a worm was making its way into his brain. It continued for a certain point, until it stopped.

"Moron! Reduce your mental defenses. I cannot do anything without your consent."

Abram nodded. Focusing on the worm, he loosened his body. Indeed, the creature resumed moving through his head. Then, a flash blinded Abram. As if a lever had been pulled, a flood of information washed over his brain.

Abram opened his eyes. Looking towards the fire, no despair appeared on his face. Instead, euphoria flashed over him. Holding out his hands, Abram expected a result.

Fortunately, the creature had not scammed him. As if a whirlpool appeared in front of his hands, the air was sucked out. However, it was not air but water vapor. Indeed, a hovering ball of water formed in front of him, slowly growing in size.

Abram marveled at this conjuration. It was strange. The ball felt like a temporary extension of his limbs. He could control it as he could control his legs, moving it however and wherever he wished.

The water ball soon became a water wheel then a water ball the size of a small house. Feeling like he would lose control over it if it continued growing, Abram halted it. Then, shaping it into a sickle, he launched his first offensive against nature.

The blaze sizzled when it came into contact with his water sickle. Disappearing into steam, the wall of fire in front of him disappeared, leaving only a dark useless ash.

"Not enough."

Nauseously moving into the town, Abram paled when he saw the extent of the fires. Holding his hand out again, he produced a water sickle.

With a thud and the sound of failing foundations, a large burning mill threatened to fall on him. Moving aside, Abram lunged his water sickle towards it. The fire hissed and disappeared.

This was still not enough. A sudden urge, however, threw him into the ground. Puking out gray matter, Abram wiped his mouth.

As if it was a gift from the gods that forsook them, the storm clouds finally demonstrated what they were good for.

A small drizzle fell onto the ground. It was raining. Unfortunately for Abram, the rain was too light to extinguish all of the fires. Unfortunately for the fire, Abram did not have to rely on nature.

With both of his hands this time, he willed all nearby water to move. As if he was divine, all rain in a large radius moved towards his grasp. Forming into a ball ten of times greater in size than his water sickles. The ball reflected the entirety of the town on its curvature.

Abram thought he recognized one burning house. Clicking his tongue, he prayed to the gods. A flood of water the volume of a small lake crashed on the town. Abram gurgled from the pressure as he was thrown onto the ground. This feeling of paralysis lasted for a whole dozen seconds, as the water leveled and he found himself breathing again. When he opened his eyes, only a gloomy gray color appeared. No more orange.

A few drops of rain collided with his twisted body. He really hurt everywhere. How ironic. He had brought the flood to save this town, but now he couldn't move to see the results.

Anyways, he was worn down. With water blanketing his body, Abram closed his eyes and went to sleep.