Age: Timeless
Role: Fallen god
Other: N/A
Role: Fallen god
Other: N/A
Username: Hengst
Name: Jainkoa — 'Warrior of Ages'
Gender: Unknown (He/him or they/them)
Name: Jainkoa — 'Warrior of Ages'
Gender: Unknown (He/him or they/them)
Prompt:
A warm fire spread its charming glow throughout a large room, illuminating the energetic bodies of multiple young Kalons playing about the book shelves with one another. A game of tag seemed to have occupied their attention, and their joyful laughter was a song in the ears of an aged male. His muzzle was greying, and his smile carried a sort of kindness to it which any person could easily relax in the sight of. One could sense he had seen much in life, and it had changed him. The scars that littered his old hide were proof enough of that. Yet... there was an undeniable twinkle in his eye, and a spring in his step which showed he was not yet content to seat himself in a rocking chair and watch time press on. Rather, he settled back in a satin armchair and grinned half to himself.
“Now, children, don’t you think it is high time to start settling down? Why, it’s nearly centermoon! Come, come. Sit down. I’ll tell you a story— would you enjoy that? Heh, I think you all would.”
The kits scrambled over each other in a wild dash to tumble down at the elderly male’s feet, giggling and tugging at each other’s tails as they peered up at him with big eyes. They chirruped with joy, each loudly requesting that his or her favorite tall tale be told. He was an excellent storyteller, skillfully bringing people and events to life right before the noses of imaginative younglings with only his own words. Any little Kalon’s day was brightened at his fables and novellas which he distributed freely at his own leisure. Making a half-hearted attempt to calm the group down, he brought a claw to his lips and shushed them. This did the trick well enough.
The old face softened at the sight of them waiting obediently, and he scratched his nose briefly before looking up at the ornate ceiling of the library they occupied. It painted a scene of a four-eared dragon— its amber frill flared up against the tight muscle overlapped with green and black scales— with a cruel maw opened wide and reaching out its mighty claws in an attempt to slay a much smaller figure. They were both unmistakably Kalons, but the latter was of a far more plain appearance. Soft brown fur and a gently curved figure, they seemed weak and fragile in comparison to the gigantic opponent they faced. They bore only a sword with which to strike it down, and though it was hardly the size of the beast’s wild eye, it carried a glow to it which seemed to leap from the painting in its power. A rasping chuckle grated from the lungs of the storyteller, and at once he knew what yarn he would spin for the eager pupils before him.
“Alright, then. I have decided. I know you would like to hear the chicken story again, or maybe the one about the old church bell. But some stories carry a certain novelty to them, and wearing them out with repeated use causes them to lose their luster. Others can be told again and again without any repercussions and are just as delightful at the first. And yet, still, others? They need be told only once, and that is all the time they require to root their way deep into your hearts, and subsequently stay with you forever. Be it the ones you are cheering for, the lessons you learn, or sheer curiosity— some stories simply do not need to be told twice. This story is one of them. Why, my grandfather long before you weaved this tale for me. He did not create it, of course. The world itself is its author. It is a… oh, what is the word? A historical recollection of sorts, I might call it. The beginning of who we are. Yes, this story explains why we are called Kalons… why we bear the mark of tail shines.”
For a brief moment, each and every young one flicked a glance in the direction of their tails. The iridescent patches seamlessly one with their coats glowed gently in the firelight, nearly hypnotizing. But their attentions were soon fastened on the old Kalon once again, for he had enticed their fantasies. All of the sudden, a silly little fable seemed unworthy of their times. He bowed his head briefly, settled his paws down on the armrests, and then began his tale with a dusty rasp that seemed nearly as ancient as time itself.
“Many are unaware of the truth of the lovable sheep-nosed creatures which are known as Kalons, believing them to be a species of new creation and unique appearance. But, the truth is, Kalons have always been here. They have changed, yes, but they are nothing of a new making. They did not always have the signature shines which adorned each of their tails; this is true enough. In fact, thousands of years ago, they were not called Kalons, either. They had no names at all: save for creatures, mortals, subjects, and all other insipid titles which their god bestowed upon them to call their own. But one among them, armed with only a heart of gold and his bravery, changed that forever. With his awe-inspiring sacrifice, the sun rose over a new age, and Kalons knew who they were. They were not the mindless followers of a broken divinity. They were their own.
For as long as time had been— through all of history— Jainkoa existed, and all the innocent subjects of the world of Zyn had once firmly believed that he would be there long after the final stars in the sky died away, too… protecting them. Their naivety would cost many of them their lives, though they had done nothing to deserve it but merely existing. But, alas, such is the way of gods: temperamental and swift to tear apart that which no longer pleased them. Even Jainkoa, as good-hearted and gentle as he had once seemed, soon moved on to more interesting projects. He left behind his loyal servants for new hopes. Or, at least, that was his intention. He did not get very far concerning such.
But, to properly understand Jainkoa’s reasoning for abandoning his subjects, one must go back to the very beginning. To judge a god based solely off of another’s view would be pointed and cruel, for they work on levels higher than mere mortals are apt to swiftly understand. The cogs of Jainkoa’s mind turned more swiftly, his emotions coursed twice as potent, and his attention was far more limited. Immortals, after all, yearn to do all that they can possibly do, for they have nothing to lose. One would expect them to take their time, but rather? They seem to be fueled by a driving ambition that even the very strands of existence unravel paw in paw with their sluggish paces. For thousands of years he had cultivated the spark of a kingdom, guiding it away from evil and shielding it from all the harms of the heavens and hell below which would seek to snuff it out, and it had passed in but a moment. All that Jainkoa knew was a blur, constantly turning and pulsating, and the hand of time demanded he must move on. As thus, one ought not to be so quick to turn a cruel eye upon him. His concerns were simply for things far more divine. But, no, in the beginning, he did not think as such.
Jainkoa loved life. It made him joyful, and his eyes— the sun and the moon, as all civilized mortals know— would sparkle with delight whenever he gazed upon it. Gods and goddesses all about him created galaxies and planets and a multitude of breathing creatures, and he was happy to watch and learn from those more experienced than he himself. Small they were, he was quick to admit, and quite fragile, but they were dancing pinpricks of light in the heart of the young divine one. He, too, desired to create and nurture something all of his own. After all, children all have a spark of innocence to them, and he believed he could guide a race of creatures all on his own. And so, after gathering as much information as he could, he began to form a land for his kind to live upon.
It was gorgeous, and all the other divinities knew it. They appraised him as he breathed waves of crystalline-shining water into existence, which crashed up against cliffs of stone studded with gems of all the rainbow, and retreated back towards dusty earth made from the words of his heart. Flashes of red and white and gold shone with the power that radiated from the god, and stars washed up over the head of ambitious Jainkoa to light his path of life. When he came closer to inspect the thing which he had so fiercely poured his soul into, the laws of it forced him into physical form. He was a swirling tornado of flowers and grassy embankments, whom vomited diamonds deep underground and sang butterflies, and smiled with the dazzling glow of a thousand black holes. His tears were stalagmites of ice, and his scales were that of the very earth his subjects walked upon. When he took a breath, continents shook, and his screams birthed hurricanes. He was the world; yes, he was Zyn, and Zyn was Jainkoa. He was their god.
And the god was happy.
Time rolled on for a great long while, and clouds of ice and snow and rain came and went. Forests grew, waters overflowed and receded, and mountains toppled. The mortals he had created to live upon Zyn worshiped him as their creator and overlord, and the incense they burned to him was sweet to his senses. Their songs they lifted up joyfully that swelled on the wind were chimes of adoration in his ears, and he was content to lay and watch his subjects live their lives. They created a kingdom, and as the years went on— though, gods do not have a concept of hours or days or months— it blossomed into a mighty empire that expanded over all the known world. The mortals, indeed, were very happy with themselves, and Jainkoa rejoiced in all of their miniscule successes which he himself could merely blink into reality if he desired. Each hut constructed, each crop grown… they were all, in his eyes, the works of his very own claws reflected in his creations.
But Jainkoa became restless. Hungry. He itched to lift his paws and once more explore, and move on from the world which he had cared for so gently. The gods and goddesses he had once lounged among and laughed with had moved on, bored of watching over Zyn and complimenting his every achievement, and he had not seen them in a great many centuries. It could at times be very lonely for a god without the support of his fellow divinities, and Jainkoa was no exception to vulnerability, especially in his tender age. With each passing day, his desire to go off and catch up to the reckless adventures that the others experienced at their careless whim grew significantly. He yearned for them, and in his heart, he began to grow bitter of his choices. The god was now faced with a clash of morals. Ought he to give up his venture, dooming his mortal subjects to a slow and painful death? Or should he stay and keep them warm and safe, leaving behind the joys he had once known? Most immortals were able to exist in many places at once, but he, sadly, could not. There are a great many classes and subspecies and families of gods, it must be added, and to review them all would take a great long time, but it can be quickly touched on that Jainkoa was not among the most powerful of them. He was young, often foolish, and above all… unimportant. For all the power he seemed to possess— capable of bending galaxies to his will and collapsing black holes like card houses— this unfathomable might in the eyes of mortals was weak and hardly a brow-raiser at best in the eyes of gods. Yes, indeed, the trifles of the world below would never amount to those of heavenly concern.
Thus, Jainkoa became to simmer with doubt; and when the god of a galaxy doubts himself, his doubt is channeled into what he creates. With each passing day, the world of Zyn became more and more corrupted, destroying what had once been the black and white order of things. The line between good and bad was blurred. Natural disasters erupted forth, and the worries of his mind formed into vicious predators which roamed the earth, destroying the helpless in cold blood. The foam of rabid killers, intermingled with the dark blood of innocents, created an elaborate mosaic of violence and destruction. Where towns had once been open and amicable, walls were built up. A kingdom of royals which had never once felt the need to be protected suddenly hired bodyguards out of a primal urge that was fear— fear of the fury of the ones below them. Yes, a seed which all would come to feel terror of had been planted amid dust which once grew bright with greenery… hate. Blood spattered the undergrowth, and wars began to kindle. Like a wildfire, the chaos spread, and amid it all, Jainkoa choicefully turned a blind eye. The kingdom of Zyn became hostile, peasants fought against royals, and its own walled cities turned away from each other as the world went dark. He doomed the once prosperous land to tear itself apart, concluding that it would be better to passively watch than to destroy it directly. When it was finished, only then would he leave.
That promise he made to himself would one day doom him to a curse of unimaginable proportions.
But, again, Jainkoa could not be called guilty of murder and abandonment. It would be vastly unfair. His disdain for the creatures he had once so lovingly cared for was immense— yes, this was true enough. But one must remember how he thought; higher levels of mediation enthroned the kingdom that was his mind, and the savagery of the creatures’ minds were infinitesimal in comparison. They knew nothing, saw nothing,
nothing. They were mere sand grains on the beaches of time, a blot of existence so small that even the grandest of divinities could identify them naught.
Among all of these dramas of the heavens, a mortal was born. He was of plain appearance, with soft fur and gentle eyes turned skyward even from the womb. But despite the simplicity of his person, he was marked with the kiss of nobility. A prince he was, the entire court of royals adored him. Separated as they were from the humble farmers and tailors, even the peasants could not help but smile as he was paraded in the streets by the happy king and queen. He was their firstborn, a healthy little one from the beginning, and his future was paved out in smooth concrete. His name was Nolako, and it is here that Jainkoa’s fall was spelled out in gilded silk which adorned the newborn babe. If only he had known, the poor boy would have been wiped from existence; killed in the womb, perhaps, or fatally injured at a young age and passing on to leave only a memory. Admittedly, a definitive idea of just why the disturbed almighty being would have ruined any chances of his throne being stolen would be difficult to come up with— only another divinity could truly understand the deep interface that was framed in the broken young god’s mind, and besides… no sane person would like to dwell on the death of any good child.
Deeper and deeper into a rabbit hole of misery Jainkoa fell. As bits of his heart broke away, pieces of the beautiful landscape he had once controlled justly died with them. Rot plagued the dying world like anxiety plagued his head.
Meanwhile, the royal boy, Nolako, grew up spunky and full of life. He chased his babysitters with wooden swords in mighty battles, bounded down the halls with unbridled joy, and sang as if nobody else were around to hear him. Even the coldest individuals found themselves reaching into the cloaks of their bosoms to warm their hearts when they laid eyes on him. The corruption of the outside world concerned him little, as he had everything he could ever want at his disposal right in the massive castle. But this was not to say he did not care, of course. In fact, Nolako possessed a unique trait which neither of his parents— in fact, none of his direct family— possessed at all. This was compassion: compassion for all creatures, be they rich or poor or any adjective in between. While his mother and father were off hosting banquets and drinking far too much wine, Nolako liked to sit in the massive window of his room and sing with the birds outside. When his grandfather tried to steer him away from peasants on the street and wrinkle his nose during a royal procession, he would sneak them a coin or two behind his back. But, most of all, the boy loved to play in the garden with his guardian.
Gogorrenak was not Nolako’s parental guardian, but he certainly acted like one far more than his biological family did. They treated him as a spoiled prince, and although they loved, they expected things of him which the little subject did not understand. Gogorrenak, or ‘Gogo,’ as he liked to call him, protected him and guided him. Nolako loved his guardian, and although the battle-scarred former war general did not like admitting it, he, too, cared deeply for the tiny royal child with the big eyes and pure heart.
When Nolako wanted to play in the garden, he had been taught to never leave until he was certain Gogorrenak had given the okay to come out. He thought it very odd that he had to sit at the door as the hulking veteran peered outside at the lovely sunshine and twittering chickadees for a long while until he nodded his head in silent approval, but he was good at listening to instructions, and saw no reason to disobey. When Gogo said it was alright, he could go chase him among the flowers and watch the squirrels scamper through the trees, and that was more than enough of a distraction to keep him from questioning the act.
One day, Gogorrenak did not come to play with Nolako. The boy was sad, but hardly distraught, for he often did not come to play. He was busy, his various sitters often said, and he believed them wordlessly. Gogorrenak was a very busy man, and even though that it was a shame he could not come play, the child knew better than to make a fuss about it. He would be back.
On this particular day, however, mischief plagued his little mind. He eluded his sitter with delight, causing them to partake in a most joyous game of one-sided tag throughout most of the castle, and eventually asked if they could play hide and seek. It was a game he often played with Gogorrenak, and relieved to be freed from the exhaustion of chasing a creature of boundless energy, the sitter readily agreed. As he began to count, Nolako scrambled off down the hall and moved to open a door. He’d been inside of this particular room many times, and knew of all the good hiding places in it— the dining hall! But, strangely enough, it had been locked. With a disappointed sigh, the young prince then turned to leave. He concluded that he would have to find a better place to hide— but a voice suddenly snaked out from underneath the passage and reached his ears, and he immediately lifted them to hear better. Who could have been in the dining hall in the middle of the day?
Voices spoke, so quietly he could hardly make sense of them. But the words were spoken in shadows, and if he knew anything, it was that these were words not intended to be heard by any other.
The chain lock on the heavy oak door then clattered open, and dread filled Nolako. The situation had not seemed right. Every instinct in his body told him to go, but something else seemed to draw him forward. He stepped through the door, ears low and tail hunched nearly between his legs, and hesitantly called out a ‘hello.’
In only seconds, the prince was on the ground. The blade of a knife flashed, and something else parried it and thrust it away. His head spun and he could not see well. All Nolako was able to catch was the hulking frame of his guardian, as he stepped over his injured body and let a blood-curling war cry twist from his throat, before he sank into a deep sleep.
Gogorrenak died that day; defending the young prince who he cared for so deeply. Nobody knew how the assassins got into the castle at first, nor did anybody know how they were able to end the life of the fiercest warrior to ever walk Zyn. The royal doctor solemnly made the news public just a day later that he had been stabbed in the back of the neck— a coward’s move. She theorized that he had survived for about half a minute after the initial blow before passing on— and that was more than enough time for him to dispatch the assassins threatening Nolako. The boy survived with only a minor concussion from hitting the stone floor and a little cut across the shoulder.
For the land to mourn would have seemed appropriate, but, rather, it rejoiced in the only way it knew how: anarchy. No war general meant, that, even if it was brief, Zyn’s army was leaderless and confused. It would be weak, and power-hungry individuals were swift to strike first. While battling back invaders, Nolako battled his own new enemy— guilt.
It was his fault, his own stupidity, that had killed the only man who treated him with kindness that wasn’t masking a plot against him: he had not seen genuine emotion being given to him by anybody but the war general. Even his own parents expected things from him which he did not possess, and as thus, treated him with a blunt, insipid whip of words which stung each time it snapped forward. Only Gogorrenak could succeed in making him smile truly. While still young, he desired the companionship of one he felt close to and understood by, and the other sitters who were brought in never came close. Many were brought in to console his loss and initially replace his dead watcher, but he rejected them all, and confined himself to his room in such a fashion that none dared try to remove him; not even the king felt it to be his duty. So Nolako mourned alone. He mourned for the loss of his only companion, the only one who would chase butterflies in the garden with him or teach him how to use a sword when no others were looking. He mourned for the severed bonds of many soldiers who stood by the mighty subject’s side through many a battle and skirmish. He mourned for plenty, but above all? He mourned for himself, wondering what he could have done differently to stop such a terrible fate from befalling his benefactor and friend.
He was not completely solitary, however. While the prince wept for the fallen general, Jainkoa had taken notice of his fervent prayers and incense-burning. He scented fear and sadness amid that sweet note of honey and grapes, and was moved by such intense pity for the poor creature that he roused himself from his passive state for but a moment to peer down upon the one who called him.
His mistake would prove fatal.
A sudden shift in the god’s activity sent the earth shuddering, and a devastating earthquake ripped across the land. It split the ground into massive fissures, toppled forests, and uprooted entire towns in its destructive wake. The chaos of nature struck like an icy claw deep into the heart of the land, and presently Zyn began to fall farther and farther into its circle of madness. Jainkoa did not notice, however, and instead was intently focused upon the individual who was Nolako. He reminded him of himself, the god concluded— broken, and wishing for guidance from one wiser than himself. Despite having promised himself to let the peoples destroy themselves, a tiny spark of compassion had stirred his soul, and the prince was causing it to be fanned into a blaze.
The divinity knew he could not bring Gogorrenak back to life without severe consequences— although he was more than capable of doing so. So his next idea seemed to be far more logical and an excellent way to make poor Nolako smile again.
When the land of Zyn finally met its doom, he would spare the prince from death! Yes, he would ascend him and grant him the title of a minor god. It seemed too perfect. He would have a friend and confidant, and surely the mortal would be joyous to be saved. Jainkoa was thrilled by his plan, and swore to himself he would carry it out. Then, he settled back into slumber as the world continued to rot.
The years passed, and Nolako continued to grow and mature. He became a young adult, a dashing Kalon with silky fur and dark eyes that bore suffering and tenderness which seemed to pierce your very soul. He seemed to see puzzles where none existed— and he could solve them. Oh, yes, could he solve them! Nolako was a genius. He baffled all the magicians and sorcerers, dropped open the jaws of government officials, and sent the finest scholars into fits of rage. His mind worked different than yours and mine, you see. Just as Jainkoa’s brain worked on a higher level than our own, so did his at its own level. His intelligence seemed almost… inhuman. Perhaps this was what would eventually lead to his victory.
Nevertheless, all the wit in the world could not combat the physical ailing of Zyn. Today, we see this land as a gorgeous place filled with trees and beauty. But all those years ago? It rotted! Rotted, I say! Anarchy remained the supreme leader. The death of Gogorrenak marked the beginning of a new period for poor Zyn— the Black Age. People were afraid to leave their very houses for fear of being mugged. The population of the land had dwindled so greatly that most had no extended family beyond cousins. The elderly, the young, and the weak alike were struck with illness, and the militia of the kingdom had no way to combat a force they could not stab with a sword or beat into submission. They were utterly helpless, able to perform only basic tasks. The army itself could hardly be paid, and many Kalons abandoned their work in hopes of saving their own skins.
Soon, it had become so poisoned and ruined that at last, Jainkoa awoke once more to finish the task which he had started so long ago. Yes, children, he set about to end the world. He first began with natural disasters, which was not quite so unsurprising. A young god is known for destructive tendencies, and he was no exception. Volcanoes erupted from the earth, fissures split apart canyons, and noxious gases choked the air. The world took on a shade of deep, deathly purple.
Fear was his most powerful weapon.
Nolako, however, realized something which no normal mind could have ever fathomed. He did not look at the ones around him and point blame. Instead, he reached a claw up to the sky. The only creature at fault was the god who set about to destroy his own creation… and he saw no solution to the plague of death which was washing across his people other than to obliterate that which had caused it. But, of course, a mortal cannot fight a god. A mortal cannot even see a god. He could only sit fretfully upon his throne as he watched the land fall. He was utterly helpless, children, and there is no feeling quite as horrible as helplessness… especially for a prince, whose job is to protect and serve. An avalanche killed his father just days after the end begun, and his mother passed on of a broken heart hours after she heard the news. Prince Nolako was now King Nolako… but what purpose did it serve? He knew he would soon be dead, too. He had no one to lead, no kingdom to rule over. His crown was but a glorified hat on his head.
But Nolako was not one to give up so easily, even in the face of complete and utter hopelessness. So he began to devise a plan. He burned incense to the god, begging him to pause in his violence for but a moment to lend an ear to his faithful servant, to consider stopping and leaving the land to peace. The young king was unaware of Jainkoa’s plan for him, but that ignorance was what perhaps led this story to its happy ending. Had he suspected, we would not be sitting here today. No, we would not even exist, and neither would Zyn itself! We would just be stardust floating among an empty, abandoned galaxy— as infinitesimal, loathed, and forgotten as Jainkoa himself is today.
Jainkoa, who had quite forgotten his promise to spare the prince-turned-king, was very startled to once again smell the sweet odor of honey which he was so fond of. He turned away from destruction for but a moment to bless his faithful subject and cause him to become a minor god, and in such, doomed himself in a mere instant. His smallest spark of compassion became the very bonfire he burned in. No, Nolako did not come along calmly to the flank of his supposed master like a trained dog. He challenged the mighty god of the world to all-out war, and in his brashness and desperation for a new sensation other than boredom, brusquely accepted the invitation as a wolf opens his jaws for the rabbit.
A battle, my children. A battle of cataclysmic disaster! Nothing is quite as raw and as thrumming as the emitted energy from the fighting of two deities. They fought for weeks and weeks which dragged into months, and the Black Age seemed to be suspended in a blurry pocket of time throughout. Jainkoa fought for his own seemingly selfish freedom, and combined with his experience of infinite ascension, it seemed he would come out an easy victor. But Nolako fought for something greater— the freedom of the entire world. Every creature from the tiniest bumblebee to the greatest dragon fought alongside him in spirit, ferocious and determined to live yet another day. Our wills to live, children, are our strongest instincts, and they serve us all too well. Nolako fought for the freedom of billions, and in the end, he triumphed. Jainkoa was defeated, and with his newfound power, banished to live as a mortal for the rest of his days. The wolf was destroyed by the very prey he sought to break apart. The only sign that he had battled at all was the scar that lined his tail. It shone brilliantly, for it was the blood of a god, and the iridescent pattern he later blessed to be provided to all of us… even Jainkoa. The stories say his shine was once awe-inspiring, but in fits of rage he scratched and scratched it away until it was but a skimpy sea of glittering spots that had no shape at all to them. It was quite a shame. If you think about it, children, our shines are holy blood, in a sense! He also gave us our name… Kalons. He thought that his new subjects deserved more than to be called but ‘mortals’ or ‘servants.’ I think the name suits us well, don’t you agree?
Thousands of years later, King Nolako remains our worthy god of the world, continually restoring what was lost. He judges us fairly, reminding himself that he, once, walked the earth as we do. He loves Zyn, and I have no doubt he will ever become unfaithful, as Jainkoa did.
But, where is Jainkoa now? Surely he is dead? No, no. The poor former deity is doomed to stay here for as long as he let his creations suffer… and that is a very, very long time. Some say he walks among us, in fact! Nobody knows now if he has learned to accept his fate or still hates the world for what it did to him. Again, we can not necessarily hate him. He may have left us to die, but as I have said before, deities have minds far unlike our own. He was simply beyond us.
But I do know one thing… regrets. He has regrets. I am very sure any Kalon put into his place would feel the same way. He regrets trying to destroy the world he once lovingly pieced together, and he regrets leaving those he had a duty to protect to waste away for no reason at all. If he could go back? I bet he would, and equipped with the memories of what had become of him, he would have been a far better god to his people. But we cannot change the past— only shape our futures for the better. If Jainkoa does indeed walk among us, my heart goes out to him, and I wish him peace of mind as he wanders the land he once condemned.”
The old Kalon took a deep breath as he reached for a deerskin flask of water and took a long drink of it before leaning back in his chair and smiling wistfully. The young Kalons before him sat mostly gaping, while a small young one in the back corner of the room was fast asleep. Hours had passed, and he became keenly aware of the dying embers of the fireplace which threatened to plunge the library into darkness. He stood up and stretched before laughing to himself again.
“Heh… now, off to bed with you, children. Keep that story close in your heart, all of you. It is all of your jobs to tell it to your young one day. It is a story we must not forget. It is important.”
The kits all scrambled off, whispering among themselves eagerly of the tale they had just heard, as he approached the sleeping child and scooped him up. He mumbled something incoherent before settling once more into quiet rest.
The old Kalon, his hairless green hide dotted with all sorts of grayish patterns, began to carry the youngling off to his room. His two pairs of ears rested against the sides of his head, and his sunset orange reptile eyes were sleepy and filled with shame. A crest of the same shade as his irises gently shook, and he waved his scarred tail to and fro. The shine upon it was neglected and dull, reduced to a fraction of its former beauty, and the scars caused by claw marks were clearly noticeable.
“Oh, Nolako. I do have regrets in life. But the life I live now is the one I deserve… so I will keep standing tall and accept it for what it is. I wish I could go back, but what is done is done. I pray these children don’t have to suffer the same fate as I did,” he whispered mournfully as he placed the little one in his soft feather bed in the loft. The stars twinkled in an ebony curtain overhead as he turned away and walked off, humming quietly to himself. As the door shut with a creak, the kit’s ears began to twitch.
He had heard every word.
[6,080 words]
A warm fire spread its charming glow throughout a large room, illuminating the energetic bodies of multiple young Kalons playing about the book shelves with one another. A game of tag seemed to have occupied their attention, and their joyful laughter was a song in the ears of an aged male. His muzzle was greying, and his smile carried a sort of kindness to it which any person could easily relax in the sight of. One could sense he had seen much in life, and it had changed him. The scars that littered his old hide were proof enough of that. Yet... there was an undeniable twinkle in his eye, and a spring in his step which showed he was not yet content to seat himself in a rocking chair and watch time press on. Rather, he settled back in a satin armchair and grinned half to himself.
“Now, children, don’t you think it is high time to start settling down? Why, it’s nearly centermoon! Come, come. Sit down. I’ll tell you a story— would you enjoy that? Heh, I think you all would.”
The kits scrambled over each other in a wild dash to tumble down at the elderly male’s feet, giggling and tugging at each other’s tails as they peered up at him with big eyes. They chirruped with joy, each loudly requesting that his or her favorite tall tale be told. He was an excellent storyteller, skillfully bringing people and events to life right before the noses of imaginative younglings with only his own words. Any little Kalon’s day was brightened at his fables and novellas which he distributed freely at his own leisure. Making a half-hearted attempt to calm the group down, he brought a claw to his lips and shushed them. This did the trick well enough.
The old face softened at the sight of them waiting obediently, and he scratched his nose briefly before looking up at the ornate ceiling of the library they occupied. It painted a scene of a four-eared dragon— its amber frill flared up against the tight muscle overlapped with green and black scales— with a cruel maw opened wide and reaching out its mighty claws in an attempt to slay a much smaller figure. They were both unmistakably Kalons, but the latter was of a far more plain appearance. Soft brown fur and a gently curved figure, they seemed weak and fragile in comparison to the gigantic opponent they faced. They bore only a sword with which to strike it down, and though it was hardly the size of the beast’s wild eye, it carried a glow to it which seemed to leap from the painting in its power. A rasping chuckle grated from the lungs of the storyteller, and at once he knew what yarn he would spin for the eager pupils before him.
“Alright, then. I have decided. I know you would like to hear the chicken story again, or maybe the one about the old church bell. But some stories carry a certain novelty to them, and wearing them out with repeated use causes them to lose their luster. Others can be told again and again without any repercussions and are just as delightful at the first. And yet, still, others? They need be told only once, and that is all the time they require to root their way deep into your hearts, and subsequently stay with you forever. Be it the ones you are cheering for, the lessons you learn, or sheer curiosity— some stories simply do not need to be told twice. This story is one of them. Why, my grandfather long before you weaved this tale for me. He did not create it, of course. The world itself is its author. It is a… oh, what is the word? A historical recollection of sorts, I might call it. The beginning of who we are. Yes, this story explains why we are called Kalons… why we bear the mark of tail shines.”
For a brief moment, each and every young one flicked a glance in the direction of their tails. The iridescent patches seamlessly one with their coats glowed gently in the firelight, nearly hypnotizing. But their attentions were soon fastened on the old Kalon once again, for he had enticed their fantasies. All of the sudden, a silly little fable seemed unworthy of their times. He bowed his head briefly, settled his paws down on the armrests, and then began his tale with a dusty rasp that seemed nearly as ancient as time itself.
“Many are unaware of the truth of the lovable sheep-nosed creatures which are known as Kalons, believing them to be a species of new creation and unique appearance. But, the truth is, Kalons have always been here. They have changed, yes, but they are nothing of a new making. They did not always have the signature shines which adorned each of their tails; this is true enough. In fact, thousands of years ago, they were not called Kalons, either. They had no names at all: save for creatures, mortals, subjects, and all other insipid titles which their god bestowed upon them to call their own. But one among them, armed with only a heart of gold and his bravery, changed that forever. With his awe-inspiring sacrifice, the sun rose over a new age, and Kalons knew who they were. They were not the mindless followers of a broken divinity. They were their own.
For as long as time had been— through all of history— Jainkoa existed, and all the innocent subjects of the world of Zyn had once firmly believed that he would be there long after the final stars in the sky died away, too… protecting them. Their naivety would cost many of them their lives, though they had done nothing to deserve it but merely existing. But, alas, such is the way of gods: temperamental and swift to tear apart that which no longer pleased them. Even Jainkoa, as good-hearted and gentle as he had once seemed, soon moved on to more interesting projects. He left behind his loyal servants for new hopes. Or, at least, that was his intention. He did not get very far concerning such.
But, to properly understand Jainkoa’s reasoning for abandoning his subjects, one must go back to the very beginning. To judge a god based solely off of another’s view would be pointed and cruel, for they work on levels higher than mere mortals are apt to swiftly understand. The cogs of Jainkoa’s mind turned more swiftly, his emotions coursed twice as potent, and his attention was far more limited. Immortals, after all, yearn to do all that they can possibly do, for they have nothing to lose. One would expect them to take their time, but rather? They seem to be fueled by a driving ambition that even the very strands of existence unravel paw in paw with their sluggish paces. For thousands of years he had cultivated the spark of a kingdom, guiding it away from evil and shielding it from all the harms of the heavens and hell below which would seek to snuff it out, and it had passed in but a moment. All that Jainkoa knew was a blur, constantly turning and pulsating, and the hand of time demanded he must move on. As thus, one ought not to be so quick to turn a cruel eye upon him. His concerns were simply for things far more divine. But, no, in the beginning, he did not think as such.
Jainkoa loved life. It made him joyful, and his eyes— the sun and the moon, as all civilized mortals know— would sparkle with delight whenever he gazed upon it. Gods and goddesses all about him created galaxies and planets and a multitude of breathing creatures, and he was happy to watch and learn from those more experienced than he himself. Small they were, he was quick to admit, and quite fragile, but they were dancing pinpricks of light in the heart of the young divine one. He, too, desired to create and nurture something all of his own. After all, children all have a spark of innocence to them, and he believed he could guide a race of creatures all on his own. And so, after gathering as much information as he could, he began to form a land for his kind to live upon.
It was gorgeous, and all the other divinities knew it. They appraised him as he breathed waves of crystalline-shining water into existence, which crashed up against cliffs of stone studded with gems of all the rainbow, and retreated back towards dusty earth made from the words of his heart. Flashes of red and white and gold shone with the power that radiated from the god, and stars washed up over the head of ambitious Jainkoa to light his path of life. When he came closer to inspect the thing which he had so fiercely poured his soul into, the laws of it forced him into physical form. He was a swirling tornado of flowers and grassy embankments, whom vomited diamonds deep underground and sang butterflies, and smiled with the dazzling glow of a thousand black holes. His tears were stalagmites of ice, and his scales were that of the very earth his subjects walked upon. When he took a breath, continents shook, and his screams birthed hurricanes. He was the world; yes, he was Zyn, and Zyn was Jainkoa. He was their god.
And the god was happy.
Time rolled on for a great long while, and clouds of ice and snow and rain came and went. Forests grew, waters overflowed and receded, and mountains toppled. The mortals he had created to live upon Zyn worshiped him as their creator and overlord, and the incense they burned to him was sweet to his senses. Their songs they lifted up joyfully that swelled on the wind were chimes of adoration in his ears, and he was content to lay and watch his subjects live their lives. They created a kingdom, and as the years went on— though, gods do not have a concept of hours or days or months— it blossomed into a mighty empire that expanded over all the known world. The mortals, indeed, were very happy with themselves, and Jainkoa rejoiced in all of their miniscule successes which he himself could merely blink into reality if he desired. Each hut constructed, each crop grown… they were all, in his eyes, the works of his very own claws reflected in his creations.
But Jainkoa became restless. Hungry. He itched to lift his paws and once more explore, and move on from the world which he had cared for so gently. The gods and goddesses he had once lounged among and laughed with had moved on, bored of watching over Zyn and complimenting his every achievement, and he had not seen them in a great many centuries. It could at times be very lonely for a god without the support of his fellow divinities, and Jainkoa was no exception to vulnerability, especially in his tender age. With each passing day, his desire to go off and catch up to the reckless adventures that the others experienced at their careless whim grew significantly. He yearned for them, and in his heart, he began to grow bitter of his choices. The god was now faced with a clash of morals. Ought he to give up his venture, dooming his mortal subjects to a slow and painful death? Or should he stay and keep them warm and safe, leaving behind the joys he had once known? Most immortals were able to exist in many places at once, but he, sadly, could not. There are a great many classes and subspecies and families of gods, it must be added, and to review them all would take a great long time, but it can be quickly touched on that Jainkoa was not among the most powerful of them. He was young, often foolish, and above all… unimportant. For all the power he seemed to possess— capable of bending galaxies to his will and collapsing black holes like card houses— this unfathomable might in the eyes of mortals was weak and hardly a brow-raiser at best in the eyes of gods. Yes, indeed, the trifles of the world below would never amount to those of heavenly concern.
Thus, Jainkoa became to simmer with doubt; and when the god of a galaxy doubts himself, his doubt is channeled into what he creates. With each passing day, the world of Zyn became more and more corrupted, destroying what had once been the black and white order of things. The line between good and bad was blurred. Natural disasters erupted forth, and the worries of his mind formed into vicious predators which roamed the earth, destroying the helpless in cold blood. The foam of rabid killers, intermingled with the dark blood of innocents, created an elaborate mosaic of violence and destruction. Where towns had once been open and amicable, walls were built up. A kingdom of royals which had never once felt the need to be protected suddenly hired bodyguards out of a primal urge that was fear— fear of the fury of the ones below them. Yes, a seed which all would come to feel terror of had been planted amid dust which once grew bright with greenery… hate. Blood spattered the undergrowth, and wars began to kindle. Like a wildfire, the chaos spread, and amid it all, Jainkoa choicefully turned a blind eye. The kingdom of Zyn became hostile, peasants fought against royals, and its own walled cities turned away from each other as the world went dark. He doomed the once prosperous land to tear itself apart, concluding that it would be better to passively watch than to destroy it directly. When it was finished, only then would he leave.
That promise he made to himself would one day doom him to a curse of unimaginable proportions.
But, again, Jainkoa could not be called guilty of murder and abandonment. It would be vastly unfair. His disdain for the creatures he had once so lovingly cared for was immense— yes, this was true enough. But one must remember how he thought; higher levels of mediation enthroned the kingdom that was his mind, and the savagery of the creatures’ minds were infinitesimal in comparison. They knew nothing, saw nothing,
nothing. They were mere sand grains on the beaches of time, a blot of existence so small that even the grandest of divinities could identify them naught.
Among all of these dramas of the heavens, a mortal was born. He was of plain appearance, with soft fur and gentle eyes turned skyward even from the womb. But despite the simplicity of his person, he was marked with the kiss of nobility. A prince he was, the entire court of royals adored him. Separated as they were from the humble farmers and tailors, even the peasants could not help but smile as he was paraded in the streets by the happy king and queen. He was their firstborn, a healthy little one from the beginning, and his future was paved out in smooth concrete. His name was Nolako, and it is here that Jainkoa’s fall was spelled out in gilded silk which adorned the newborn babe. If only he had known, the poor boy would have been wiped from existence; killed in the womb, perhaps, or fatally injured at a young age and passing on to leave only a memory. Admittedly, a definitive idea of just why the disturbed almighty being would have ruined any chances of his throne being stolen would be difficult to come up with— only another divinity could truly understand the deep interface that was framed in the broken young god’s mind, and besides… no sane person would like to dwell on the death of any good child.
Deeper and deeper into a rabbit hole of misery Jainkoa fell. As bits of his heart broke away, pieces of the beautiful landscape he had once controlled justly died with them. Rot plagued the dying world like anxiety plagued his head.
Meanwhile, the royal boy, Nolako, grew up spunky and full of life. He chased his babysitters with wooden swords in mighty battles, bounded down the halls with unbridled joy, and sang as if nobody else were around to hear him. Even the coldest individuals found themselves reaching into the cloaks of their bosoms to warm their hearts when they laid eyes on him. The corruption of the outside world concerned him little, as he had everything he could ever want at his disposal right in the massive castle. But this was not to say he did not care, of course. In fact, Nolako possessed a unique trait which neither of his parents— in fact, none of his direct family— possessed at all. This was compassion: compassion for all creatures, be they rich or poor or any adjective in between. While his mother and father were off hosting banquets and drinking far too much wine, Nolako liked to sit in the massive window of his room and sing with the birds outside. When his grandfather tried to steer him away from peasants on the street and wrinkle his nose during a royal procession, he would sneak them a coin or two behind his back. But, most of all, the boy loved to play in the garden with his guardian.
Gogorrenak was not Nolako’s parental guardian, but he certainly acted like one far more than his biological family did. They treated him as a spoiled prince, and although they loved, they expected things of him which the little subject did not understand. Gogorrenak, or ‘Gogo,’ as he liked to call him, protected him and guided him. Nolako loved his guardian, and although the battle-scarred former war general did not like admitting it, he, too, cared deeply for the tiny royal child with the big eyes and pure heart.
When Nolako wanted to play in the garden, he had been taught to never leave until he was certain Gogorrenak had given the okay to come out. He thought it very odd that he had to sit at the door as the hulking veteran peered outside at the lovely sunshine and twittering chickadees for a long while until he nodded his head in silent approval, but he was good at listening to instructions, and saw no reason to disobey. When Gogo said it was alright, he could go chase him among the flowers and watch the squirrels scamper through the trees, and that was more than enough of a distraction to keep him from questioning the act.
One day, Gogorrenak did not come to play with Nolako. The boy was sad, but hardly distraught, for he often did not come to play. He was busy, his various sitters often said, and he believed them wordlessly. Gogorrenak was a very busy man, and even though that it was a shame he could not come play, the child knew better than to make a fuss about it. He would be back.
On this particular day, however, mischief plagued his little mind. He eluded his sitter with delight, causing them to partake in a most joyous game of one-sided tag throughout most of the castle, and eventually asked if they could play hide and seek. It was a game he often played with Gogorrenak, and relieved to be freed from the exhaustion of chasing a creature of boundless energy, the sitter readily agreed. As he began to count, Nolako scrambled off down the hall and moved to open a door. He’d been inside of this particular room many times, and knew of all the good hiding places in it— the dining hall! But, strangely enough, it had been locked. With a disappointed sigh, the young prince then turned to leave. He concluded that he would have to find a better place to hide— but a voice suddenly snaked out from underneath the passage and reached his ears, and he immediately lifted them to hear better. Who could have been in the dining hall in the middle of the day?
Voices spoke, so quietly he could hardly make sense of them. But the words were spoken in shadows, and if he knew anything, it was that these were words not intended to be heard by any other.
The chain lock on the heavy oak door then clattered open, and dread filled Nolako. The situation had not seemed right. Every instinct in his body told him to go, but something else seemed to draw him forward. He stepped through the door, ears low and tail hunched nearly between his legs, and hesitantly called out a ‘hello.’
In only seconds, the prince was on the ground. The blade of a knife flashed, and something else parried it and thrust it away. His head spun and he could not see well. All Nolako was able to catch was the hulking frame of his guardian, as he stepped over his injured body and let a blood-curling war cry twist from his throat, before he sank into a deep sleep.
Gogorrenak died that day; defending the young prince who he cared for so deeply. Nobody knew how the assassins got into the castle at first, nor did anybody know how they were able to end the life of the fiercest warrior to ever walk Zyn. The royal doctor solemnly made the news public just a day later that he had been stabbed in the back of the neck— a coward’s move. She theorized that he had survived for about half a minute after the initial blow before passing on— and that was more than enough time for him to dispatch the assassins threatening Nolako. The boy survived with only a minor concussion from hitting the stone floor and a little cut across the shoulder.
For the land to mourn would have seemed appropriate, but, rather, it rejoiced in the only way it knew how: anarchy. No war general meant, that, even if it was brief, Zyn’s army was leaderless and confused. It would be weak, and power-hungry individuals were swift to strike first. While battling back invaders, Nolako battled his own new enemy— guilt.
It was his fault, his own stupidity, that had killed the only man who treated him with kindness that wasn’t masking a plot against him: he had not seen genuine emotion being given to him by anybody but the war general. Even his own parents expected things from him which he did not possess, and as thus, treated him with a blunt, insipid whip of words which stung each time it snapped forward. Only Gogorrenak could succeed in making him smile truly. While still young, he desired the companionship of one he felt close to and understood by, and the other sitters who were brought in never came close. Many were brought in to console his loss and initially replace his dead watcher, but he rejected them all, and confined himself to his room in such a fashion that none dared try to remove him; not even the king felt it to be his duty. So Nolako mourned alone. He mourned for the loss of his only companion, the only one who would chase butterflies in the garden with him or teach him how to use a sword when no others were looking. He mourned for the severed bonds of many soldiers who stood by the mighty subject’s side through many a battle and skirmish. He mourned for plenty, but above all? He mourned for himself, wondering what he could have done differently to stop such a terrible fate from befalling his benefactor and friend.
He was not completely solitary, however. While the prince wept for the fallen general, Jainkoa had taken notice of his fervent prayers and incense-burning. He scented fear and sadness amid that sweet note of honey and grapes, and was moved by such intense pity for the poor creature that he roused himself from his passive state for but a moment to peer down upon the one who called him.
His mistake would prove fatal.
A sudden shift in the god’s activity sent the earth shuddering, and a devastating earthquake ripped across the land. It split the ground into massive fissures, toppled forests, and uprooted entire towns in its destructive wake. The chaos of nature struck like an icy claw deep into the heart of the land, and presently Zyn began to fall farther and farther into its circle of madness. Jainkoa did not notice, however, and instead was intently focused upon the individual who was Nolako. He reminded him of himself, the god concluded— broken, and wishing for guidance from one wiser than himself. Despite having promised himself to let the peoples destroy themselves, a tiny spark of compassion had stirred his soul, and the prince was causing it to be fanned into a blaze.
The divinity knew he could not bring Gogorrenak back to life without severe consequences— although he was more than capable of doing so. So his next idea seemed to be far more logical and an excellent way to make poor Nolako smile again.
When the land of Zyn finally met its doom, he would spare the prince from death! Yes, he would ascend him and grant him the title of a minor god. It seemed too perfect. He would have a friend and confidant, and surely the mortal would be joyous to be saved. Jainkoa was thrilled by his plan, and swore to himself he would carry it out. Then, he settled back into slumber as the world continued to rot.
The years passed, and Nolako continued to grow and mature. He became a young adult, a dashing Kalon with silky fur and dark eyes that bore suffering and tenderness which seemed to pierce your very soul. He seemed to see puzzles where none existed— and he could solve them. Oh, yes, could he solve them! Nolako was a genius. He baffled all the magicians and sorcerers, dropped open the jaws of government officials, and sent the finest scholars into fits of rage. His mind worked different than yours and mine, you see. Just as Jainkoa’s brain worked on a higher level than our own, so did his at its own level. His intelligence seemed almost… inhuman. Perhaps this was what would eventually lead to his victory.
Nevertheless, all the wit in the world could not combat the physical ailing of Zyn. Today, we see this land as a gorgeous place filled with trees and beauty. But all those years ago? It rotted! Rotted, I say! Anarchy remained the supreme leader. The death of Gogorrenak marked the beginning of a new period for poor Zyn— the Black Age. People were afraid to leave their very houses for fear of being mugged. The population of the land had dwindled so greatly that most had no extended family beyond cousins. The elderly, the young, and the weak alike were struck with illness, and the militia of the kingdom had no way to combat a force they could not stab with a sword or beat into submission. They were utterly helpless, able to perform only basic tasks. The army itself could hardly be paid, and many Kalons abandoned their work in hopes of saving their own skins.
Soon, it had become so poisoned and ruined that at last, Jainkoa awoke once more to finish the task which he had started so long ago. Yes, children, he set about to end the world. He first began with natural disasters, which was not quite so unsurprising. A young god is known for destructive tendencies, and he was no exception. Volcanoes erupted from the earth, fissures split apart canyons, and noxious gases choked the air. The world took on a shade of deep, deathly purple.
Fear was his most powerful weapon.
Nolako, however, realized something which no normal mind could have ever fathomed. He did not look at the ones around him and point blame. Instead, he reached a claw up to the sky. The only creature at fault was the god who set about to destroy his own creation… and he saw no solution to the plague of death which was washing across his people other than to obliterate that which had caused it. But, of course, a mortal cannot fight a god. A mortal cannot even see a god. He could only sit fretfully upon his throne as he watched the land fall. He was utterly helpless, children, and there is no feeling quite as horrible as helplessness… especially for a prince, whose job is to protect and serve. An avalanche killed his father just days after the end begun, and his mother passed on of a broken heart hours after she heard the news. Prince Nolako was now King Nolako… but what purpose did it serve? He knew he would soon be dead, too. He had no one to lead, no kingdom to rule over. His crown was but a glorified hat on his head.
But Nolako was not one to give up so easily, even in the face of complete and utter hopelessness. So he began to devise a plan. He burned incense to the god, begging him to pause in his violence for but a moment to lend an ear to his faithful servant, to consider stopping and leaving the land to peace. The young king was unaware of Jainkoa’s plan for him, but that ignorance was what perhaps led this story to its happy ending. Had he suspected, we would not be sitting here today. No, we would not even exist, and neither would Zyn itself! We would just be stardust floating among an empty, abandoned galaxy— as infinitesimal, loathed, and forgotten as Jainkoa himself is today.
Jainkoa, who had quite forgotten his promise to spare the prince-turned-king, was very startled to once again smell the sweet odor of honey which he was so fond of. He turned away from destruction for but a moment to bless his faithful subject and cause him to become a minor god, and in such, doomed himself in a mere instant. His smallest spark of compassion became the very bonfire he burned in. No, Nolako did not come along calmly to the flank of his supposed master like a trained dog. He challenged the mighty god of the world to all-out war, and in his brashness and desperation for a new sensation other than boredom, brusquely accepted the invitation as a wolf opens his jaws for the rabbit.
A battle, my children. A battle of cataclysmic disaster! Nothing is quite as raw and as thrumming as the emitted energy from the fighting of two deities. They fought for weeks and weeks which dragged into months, and the Black Age seemed to be suspended in a blurry pocket of time throughout. Jainkoa fought for his own seemingly selfish freedom, and combined with his experience of infinite ascension, it seemed he would come out an easy victor. But Nolako fought for something greater— the freedom of the entire world. Every creature from the tiniest bumblebee to the greatest dragon fought alongside him in spirit, ferocious and determined to live yet another day. Our wills to live, children, are our strongest instincts, and they serve us all too well. Nolako fought for the freedom of billions, and in the end, he triumphed. Jainkoa was defeated, and with his newfound power, banished to live as a mortal for the rest of his days. The wolf was destroyed by the very prey he sought to break apart. The only sign that he had battled at all was the scar that lined his tail. It shone brilliantly, for it was the blood of a god, and the iridescent pattern he later blessed to be provided to all of us… even Jainkoa. The stories say his shine was once awe-inspiring, but in fits of rage he scratched and scratched it away until it was but a skimpy sea of glittering spots that had no shape at all to them. It was quite a shame. If you think about it, children, our shines are holy blood, in a sense! He also gave us our name… Kalons. He thought that his new subjects deserved more than to be called but ‘mortals’ or ‘servants.’ I think the name suits us well, don’t you agree?
Thousands of years later, King Nolako remains our worthy god of the world, continually restoring what was lost. He judges us fairly, reminding himself that he, once, walked the earth as we do. He loves Zyn, and I have no doubt he will ever become unfaithful, as Jainkoa did.
But, where is Jainkoa now? Surely he is dead? No, no. The poor former deity is doomed to stay here for as long as he let his creations suffer… and that is a very, very long time. Some say he walks among us, in fact! Nobody knows now if he has learned to accept his fate or still hates the world for what it did to him. Again, we can not necessarily hate him. He may have left us to die, but as I have said before, deities have minds far unlike our own. He was simply beyond us.
But I do know one thing… regrets. He has regrets. I am very sure any Kalon put into his place would feel the same way. He regrets trying to destroy the world he once lovingly pieced together, and he regrets leaving those he had a duty to protect to waste away for no reason at all. If he could go back? I bet he would, and equipped with the memories of what had become of him, he would have been a far better god to his people. But we cannot change the past— only shape our futures for the better. If Jainkoa does indeed walk among us, my heart goes out to him, and I wish him peace of mind as he wanders the land he once condemned.”
The old Kalon took a deep breath as he reached for a deerskin flask of water and took a long drink of it before leaning back in his chair and smiling wistfully. The young Kalons before him sat mostly gaping, while a small young one in the back corner of the room was fast asleep. Hours had passed, and he became keenly aware of the dying embers of the fireplace which threatened to plunge the library into darkness. He stood up and stretched before laughing to himself again.
“Heh… now, off to bed with you, children. Keep that story close in your heart, all of you. It is all of your jobs to tell it to your young one day. It is a story we must not forget. It is important.”
The kits all scrambled off, whispering among themselves eagerly of the tale they had just heard, as he approached the sleeping child and scooped him up. He mumbled something incoherent before settling once more into quiet rest.
The old Kalon, his hairless green hide dotted with all sorts of grayish patterns, began to carry the youngling off to his room. His two pairs of ears rested against the sides of his head, and his sunset orange reptile eyes were sleepy and filled with shame. A crest of the same shade as his irises gently shook, and he waved his scarred tail to and fro. The shine upon it was neglected and dull, reduced to a fraction of its former beauty, and the scars caused by claw marks were clearly noticeable.
“Oh, Nolako. I do have regrets in life. But the life I live now is the one I deserve… so I will keep standing tall and accept it for what it is. I wish I could go back, but what is done is done. I pray these children don’t have to suffer the same fate as I did,” he whispered mournfully as he placed the little one in his soft feather bed in the loft. The stars twinkled in an ebony curtain overhead as he turned away and walked off, humming quietly to himself. As the door shut with a creak, the kit’s ears began to twitch.
He had heard every word.
[6,080 words]
