The Lonely King

Back To The Origins

The gods weren't always gods. The world wasn't always at war. There once was peace, long ago when there was nobody to look up to. Now, gods weren't created by titans, and they didn't appear out of nowhere like in other mythologies. Well, that would be a partial lie. The queen of the gods, Satan, was the last god to come to be. Her father was the first. His name was Atticus. Everyone knew him as The Creator, a god of creation. Each god had a specific task, and his was to create. No mortal knew how he came to be, but once he was in power, he created more gods so he would be less lonely. Seeing as he did not know how to create gods on his own, he instead gifted godhood to mortals he deemed worthy. After he made a few gods to help him with the mortals, he soon made a daughter for himself. He wanted someone who would see him as a living being instead of seeing him as an idea. Something to idolize. Something to carry mortal burdens. He created these gods to help him with the mortal's desires and to keep him company. Before any of them came into the picture, Atticus found Seraph. A dying mortal who longed for a second chance at life. A chance to be better.

Atticus watched the villagers in the small community pay their daily offerings. They sent him offerings to thank him for existing and protecting them. He grew tired of the gifts rather quickly. One day, a sickly looking man stumbled up to the statue. Atticus recognized him instantly. He was a grouchy old man, constantly yelling at others, judging those he didn't know. He was a recluse, preferring to stay at home alone instead of wandering the town and meeting with friends. As far as the god knew, this man didn't have any friends. He watched as the old man looked up at the statue.

"I'm sorry, Atticus. I don't have any offerings to give you. I no longer have any currency to buy food or clothes, much less buy offerings for you. I've spent too much on the potions to keep me healthy. As you can tell, they haven't been working. I ran out of time and money. I don't want to bore you with my story, and I'm sure you don't care about some mean old mortal. But I'd like to apologize." He sighed. This surprised Atticus. This old man had never apologized for anything. What could be so important that this grumpy man learned manners? The god listened closer. "I know that none of the village folks like me. I've come to terms with that. They've disliked me for decades, and I deserve that. I never was a very good person, and I deeply regret it. My wife passed away many years ago, my daughter left for an adventure and hasn't been heard from since, and my son refuses to speak to me. Because of this, I became more bitter than I was before. I shouldn't have turned out like this just for those small events. I despise what I have become. I want a second chance. I don't have much longer in my life...the illness will soon take me down with it, and I'm okay with that. But if there is such a thing as rebirth, I would like a second chance. I'm not sure if you're capable of that, but if you are, please grant me this one request. I'll be a better person, I'll be nicer, I'll become the exact opposite of what I am now. I just want to start over. Thank you, and I'm sorry for not bringing an offering." The old man sighed, tears making their way down his cheeks toward the bottom of his chin. Atticus watched as the man stumbled away down the pathway. This was the one. That would be the first friend he made.

The old man that cried at Atticus's statue passed away that night in his sleep. As he died, a smile grew on his face. He was relieved. Nobody went to the funeral. Nobody noticed that he was gone. That, or they just didn't care. Atticus couldn't tell.

Once the old man arrived in the afterlife, he looked around, confused as to why it seemed so empty. Noticing something appear beside him, the old man looked up. A tan 7 foot god stood beside him. He had long, curly black hair, draped over his shoulders and a bushy beard. His copper eyes analyzed the old man, as if deciding what to do with him. He had a sort of glowy feeling that the man couldn't describe, but he could tell that this must have been Atticus. He looked just like his statue, if not better.