The Alamat

They say long ago, Bathala and the gods, their children, good and wicked alike, walked the archipelago. Not in temples. Not in dreams. But on the soil, barefoot, bloodstained, breathing. They ruled not with mercy, but with memory. Each river bore their voice. Each mountain, their wrath. Offerings were made. Oaths were broken. Kingdoms rose and rotted in their name.

Then came the silence.

A silence too heavy, too sudden. Like a scream swallowed by the sea. The old names were buried. The sigils burned. And the gods... forgotten.

But the islands remember.

Beneath the fields, something still breathes. In the farthest provinces where the stars shine brightest, the old blood still stirs. Children vanish on moonless nights. Creatures crawl from the mangroves with bone in their teeth. And in the silence between lightning and thunder, some swear they hear voices. Ancient, mournful, waiting to be worshipped again. And on nights when the stars vanish, the old blood rises again.

But the gods never left. Gone, they are not, but only hidden behind the faces of men.

Written by: Eulocus
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