Tome of Lost Tales

Life and Lies

"How do you cope?"

Yoj looked up at his charge, surprised by the question. "How do I cope with what?"

Talat pointed at the dying man in front of them. "How do you cope with such constant death?"

It was a foolish question, or rather, a foolish attempt to hide their true purpose in questioning. Yoj knew that Talat was trying to ask, but he also knew the young god was innately layering a deeper meaning behind the question.

"How much death did you experience before the Dragon urged you into my care?" Yoj asked the question without malice, though he expected Talat to be more flustered by it. Their answer was immediate:

"None."

Yoj's gentle smile was warm and understanding. The two gods had walked the land together for only about three hundred years now, in which Treppeltour had already participated in four wars, not counting the other conflicts and petty murders that persisted amongst humanity. The amount of dying souls the pair had assisted was, in the most literal sense, an undefined amount more than Talat observed when they were but mortal.

Yoj thought for a moment, to put the words in an order Talat would more quickly accept. "Many would say Death is the constant. It isn't our place to disrupt a cycle that has outdated us both. Just as you are driven by the nuance of what is true and untrue, Death is a nuanced feature of existence; as much as we mourn it, it is cathartic for this world. Healing, even." Yoj smirked. It was always amusing to reference one of the many epithets the mortals gave to gods.

The dying man suddenly gripped at Yoj's sleeves, returning the ancient being's attention to the helpless mortal bleeding out on this battlefield. The man's eyes overflowed with tears of fear.

"I am sorry, my friend," Yoj said, "What is it you need of me before you depart?"

At the word "depart", the man's eyes widened. The din of battle had slowed around them, the crimson life spilling out of the man's torso had slowed as well. In the end, he had lived nothing more than twenty-seven years on the land, his life fleeting in comparison to the enigmatic figures above him now. He wasn't ready to depart. Surely, there was more to accomplish, more to grow in this world than the growing pool that soaked his body.

"He fears his departure, though he more fears his life being meaningless," Talat blurted out. "He wants to cling to the world for longer."

Yoj frowned. The young god was hasty, reading the man's history like that. It wasn't time to pass the Judgement. The dying man's fear became even more evident as he failed to understand how Talat knew.

"Again, I am sorry, my friend. Talat is still stepping into their domain. Had you died about four centuries ago, we would actually have been on our way. But young Talat shoulders an important responsibility," Yoj explained, gently squeezing the man's hand. The mortal's grip was weakening as his grip on this plane weakened.

Talat scoffed, brushing off the subtle admonishment from their mentor.

"Now, I ask again: What is it you need of me before you depart?" Yoj continued, repeating the question he had asked innumerable times before.

The man's answer came out hoarsely, choked by blood and fear: "Mercy, Fatal Omen."

The compassion in Yoj's eyes brimmed over into a solitary tear. "If only it were mine to give. All I can promise, dear friend, is that I will intercede to the Arbiter on your behalf." He looked up at Talat, the silent intercession plain to see on his face. The dying man looked to Talat as well, who rolled their eyes and knelt next to the man's head.

Talat's blank expression was in stark contrast to the sympathy and care that gave Yoj his epithet. Talat peered deep into the man's eyes. The entirety of the man's life was laid bare before the Arbiter, years of humanity passing by in a second. Talat's task was to judge whether or not the subject deserved to be rescued from their death at this moment. Should they succeed, Yoj would heal the mortal, giving them a second chance at life. But Talat saw past any lies or pleas of mercy.

Yoj hadn't healed anyone since Talat had joined him.

Talat saw the man's deeds, saw his soul, saw every devious thought and selfish action from his twenty-seven years. It was the same result as the last. Talat stood up, turning away from the man and Yoj.

"He is undeserving."

The man's cries came with a hacking and wheezing of blood. Yoj looked up at Talat.

"Surely there is something worthy here? I have given more egregious mortals second chances."

"Monsters and tyrants don't deserve second chances." Talat scowled down at the man. "Your own flesh and blood? Heinous mortal. Foul thing."

Yoj did not pretend he could see through Talat's eyes. The young god's domain stepped into a more abstract field than his own. But he knew one thing for certain: Talat is unable to lie. Now, it was on Yoj to fulfill his domain in all its simplicity.

"I am sorry, mortal. But the Arbiter has spoken. Perhaps if you lived another four years, you could have done something worthy, and we would be on our way." Yoj said sternly, reaching through empty space to retrieve his threshing tool. A simple tool. The tool of a farmer. The tool of the Fatal Omen.

He readied the tool at the man's neck, aligning it perpendicular with his throat, veins, and spine. The man's sobs did not reach the Healer as he repeated the declaration he had spoken innumerable times before, nor did his death throes prevent the Healer from bringing the tool down and severing the head of an unworthy man.

"Your time is now, and Death shall not be kept waiting."

***

"How do you cope?"

Yoj sighed. The centuries had turned to a millennium. Wars had come and gone. Millions of denizens of this plane rescinded to Eternity like chaff at harvest. Since the first time the question was uttered, the Arbiter had asked it at every mortal they stopped at. Yoj still did not have an answer. Not a good one. Not one that answered the bigger question. All he had were lies. It seemed as if every mortal were just a reincarnation of others. Victims reborn as more victims, bastards reared once again as bastards to defile the just potential of humanity. He could lie to himself, saying that mortals were worth saving. He could lie to Golumbar, or Upres, or even Prviot Krul.

But no thing, no matter how divine or unholy, could lie to Truth Incarnate.

"I cope because I am the god of death. I can never pass on to the same ending that every mortal experiences, for how can I be master of the Constant of Life if I could experience Death as they do?" The answer came with all the bitterness of a rancid morsel. "None of us will, no matter what schemes Upres creates. We are all subservient to the Dragon's blessings. And for what?"

The question would have stayed rhetorical. Sweet, blasphemous thoughts lingering in the mind. All would have been well, but Talat was beholden to the truth and could only answer with the truth.

"All for nothing."