Deathbringer/Lifegiver

Chapter 1

         “Life.”


         “Death.”


         “Just admit I'm right, you insufferable ninny.”


         “Shove it up your arse, you yellow-bellied son of a bitch.”


         The Eldest and Middle gods had been arguing for who knew how long. Time didn't work the same here as it did in the land of the mortals. The Youngest of the gods sat in a newly-conjured  chair, idly swirling the tea in his cup. At the moment, the ether surrounding the three resembled a grassy meadow in springtime. It could – and often did – change between one thought and the next.


         The two gods were inches away from each others' faces, continuing their drawn-out argument. The Eldest chose to dress in the latest style of the time in the land of the mortals – a finely-embroidered green surcoat to match his eyes, a white linen tunic and matching pants. His soft leather boots looked newly-purchased. He had the air of an aristocrat, gesturing dismissively with a well-manicured hand. His straight, brown hair was tied neatly back by a leather thong.


         The Middle, by contrast, was shorter, broader, and the embodiment of a warrior. He wore a style of armor that hadn't been popular in combat for over 100 years. His black hair and beard was greasy and unkempt. The Youngest wondered why he preferred to look like that. After all, it wasn't like there was actually dirt here. The Youngest, being shy by nature, preferred neither finery nor outdated armor, but rather simple garments, slight stance and unremarkable features. The less he was noticed, the better.


         The argument raged on. “How could you say death is more powerful? After all, old boy, without life, death would not exist.”


         “To hell with that, death takes all of 'em in the end. If life was so damned powerful, how could death stop it?”


         “I-I think you're b-b-both wr-wrong.”


         The Youngest's voice was almost a whisper compared the the other two, but was heard nonetheless. The Middle stormed up to him.


         “Oh yeah? And what do you know? You got a better idea?”


         “No, I j-just think there's s-s-something else out there. B-besides, the tea's getting cold.” He was lying about the last, of course. The tea could no more get cold than the cushions on the chair could wear or the green of the grass fade. The statement seemed to interrupt the argument, however, and the two decided to call a truce for the moment.


         The Eldest conjured a plush, purple wing-backed chair, sat down and helped himself to some tea. The Middle opted for a throne-like monstrosity made out of iron and shaped to look like a pile of skulls. Instead of the tea, he conjured a tankard of ale in his hand, drank deeply and belched. Content in the relative peace and quiet, the Youngest watched the ever-changing landscape. The other two seemed deep in thought about the problem at hand. After many long moments, the Eldest spoke.


         “Let us resolve this peaceably. We shall create champions, one for each side, and they will determine who is right.”


         The Middle grunted, “Backing down from a good fight, eh? Figures. Alright, just none of your underhanded tricks, you scurvy dog.”


         “My word as a gentleman. I'll expect the same from you, of course.”


         “Hmmph.”


         The Eldest walked into a newly-created bed chamber and lay down on the soft mattress. The Middle and Youngest stood in attendance beside him, the latter fidgeting uncomfortably.


         “Gives me the willies when he does this...”


         The process began slowly. The Eldest's thighs, now exposed in his silk bedclothes, began to gently swell. His face was contorted in pain. The growths continued to enlarge and before long, forms could be seen moving underneath. The skin stretched tissue-thin, offering a view of two human babies struggling against their prison.


         “Now!” cried the Eldest through gritted teeth. The Middle manifested a long knife and sliced open the nearest thigh. The youngest caught the squirming newborn in a blanket, suppressing his urge to faint. The process was repeated on the other thigh.


         The Eldest lay back in the bed, exhausted. The cuts were already healed. The Youngest saw to the infants, a boy and a girl. He smiled at the red faces, screwed up for a good cry. He approached the bed with the children.


         “Nicholas and Tamel,” sighed the weary god, putting a hand over each tiny forehead. He was already drifting off to a healing sleep. “Take them to the land of the mortals. Find them homes...”


         The Youngest handed Nicholas to the Middle, who grunted indifferently. They made preparations to leave.


         “Now remember, we n-need to find them homes where they'll be taken care of...”


         “A home's a home,” said the Middle, wrapping the boy child in a new blanket. “Don't worry, I'll find someone to feed him and wipe his arse. You just worry about your whelp.”


         The babies dozed as they were transported to the mortal world.








         Crazy Tym was not crazy in the traditional sense of the word. He didn't roam the streets, talking to people who weren't there or telling people who were there about their impending dooms. In fact, Crazy Tym never went to town. He swore off civilization a long time ago, and it was because of this fact he was called crazy.


         He was quite content to live in his shack, which was nestled deep in the marshes of Loum. No one bothered him, and he preferred it that way. Years had passed since another human being had ventured into the swamp, so it took him by surprise when he saw a large, stocky form hunched over at his front door.


         “Damnit, what does he want? Well, I'll make sure he knows he's not welcome.” He fingered a large boning knife stuck into his belt and began to run toward his home.


         The man – at least Tym assumed he was a man – seemed to be fussing with something on the ground. Good, thought the hermit, I'll catch him unawares. The muscles of his thin, insect-bitten legs bunched, ready to quicken the pace in a final, deadly sprint. His hand, dirty and raw from digging in the mud, clamped down hard on the knife's hilt. He lunged at the intruder, who he could clearly see now as a short, stout man...


         And encountered nothing but air. Tym didn't take his eyes away from the intruder, but the man was gone. Puzzled, he decided to go inside to see if anything was missing.


         He didn't notice the basket until he nearly tripped over it. A pitiful wail came from inside. Stooping down, he saw a baby bundled up, large brown eyes distraught and searching. Attached to the baby's blanket was a note:


         “He is the Deathbringer and his name is Nicholas. Keep him alive, he'll do the rest.”


         “Strange thing to say about a baby,” mumbled the hermit as he read the note a second time. “Probably just a kid someone got tired of...” The baby started crying, and an old and bittersweet memory bubbled up from Tym's subconscious. A memory of a time when he was not called crazy and he was happy and in love.


         He smiled a crooked smile at the child, who had given up on crying and was instead regarding Tym, his expression serious. “You don't look like you could bring much death, little one. How about I take you inside and find you some food? I had a son once, and you kind of favor him...”








         The Duke and Lady Bourgemont sat uncomfortably on the plush couch of their sitting room, listening to the story of a stranger they were becoming more sorry they allowed in by the moment. He looked harmless enough, a puny fellow with limp, blond hair. He was well-dressed, but the duke decided he was probably some sort of impostor, or maybe just touched in the head. Whatever the case, he was trying to sell them on a very fantastic story about the extraordinarily ordinary-looking baby who lay in a basket on the table between him and the couple.


         “So you see...um...it would really help out the gods if you just t-took her in and raised her. She is such a precious child, and the Lifegiver besides...”


         “Listen old boy,” interrupted the Duke, tiring of the conversation. “I don't know what your game is, but we're really not interested. Take the little bastard to an orphanage or something. Lifegiver indeed...now if you will be so kind to leave us...”


         Before the Duke could call for a servant, the stranger was stalking toward him, eyes blazing in fury.


         The Duke paled. “Listen, I'm sure she's a fine baby and all, but she's just a common brat...”


         “HOW DARE YOU,” The man was not so small anymore. His height did not change, but his stature was that of a serpent prepared to strike. His anger filled the room until the Duke felt as though he and his wife would be squeezed out. A hot wind came from nowhere, blasting in his face and running widdershins around the room.


         “SHE IS MORE POWERFUL THAN YOU COULD IMAGINE, AND SHE IS THE DAUGHTER OF GODS. COMPARED TO HER, YOUR BLOODLINE IS DIRT, AND YOU REFUSE???” he continued his deadly advance, and the Lady passed out. The Duke stood his ground, but his pale visage and palsy-like shaking betrayed his fear.


         “My apologies sir, I had no idea...”


         “YOU WILL TAKE HER, GRENDUL BOURGEMONT, AND REST ASSURED THAT IF SOMETHING HAPPENS TO HER, IT WILL BE ON YOUR HEAD.”


         “Y-yes sir, I understand...”


         The stranger seemed taken aback by the Duke's reply and stopped mid-sentence, once again the small, unobtrusive visitor.


         “Sorry, didn't mean to reduce you to stuttering. I...ah...know how that feels. So you will take her?”


         “Yes sir. My dear, if you would be so kind?” he motioned to his wife, who had recovered and was huddled behind the couch. At his word, she got up, smoothed her dress and picked up the child. “If I may be so bold, sir, you're one of them, aren't you? A god, I mean...”


         “That is...ah...not important. You will care for her then?”


         “You have my word, my lord.” Duke Bourgemont felt a more formal title for the man was now necessary.


         “She is a darling, isn't she?” said the Lady, smiling. All fear was replaced by the joy of unexpected motherhood.


         “Well then, since it's all settled, I shall take my leave.”


         The stranger began to walk out the door, stopped and turned toward the couple. “By the way,” said the man, giving the Duke a penetrating look, “Her name is Tamel, and remember, if you do not care for her, I will know about it...”