This time
A/N: a.k.a Ode to Mortality
Once upon a time, there was a god who held nothing.
In a timeless world of stasis and perfection, he epitomised the hypocrisy, the unchanging lifelessness of the immortal. The centuries flowed past on a sea of paper, the artificial passage of time that meant nothing, and in a world of no meaning there was nothing worth being tied to.
Once upon a time, there was a child who had nothing.
Nothing, because he needed nothing; nothing, because he wanted nothing – living a free and innocent life, child of the earth, feeding from it as naturally as any child at his mother's bosom, living as naturally as any animal.
Once upon a time, a child saw the sun.
His first reaction was as any child's; he caught, held on – and young he was, but strong, and having had nothing, he knew only to hold, and not to let go.
Once upon a time, an aunt asked a favour.
And she watched as, for the first time, her nephew had something – had something to lose, had something worth not losing. Watched as he was bound to his charge, was drawn to his sun, was irrevocably transformed.
Once upon a time, a fairytale ended.
Ended, for one, in separation, and for the others, in death. Ended in a blur of blood and gold, of treachery and hatred.
And time passed.
While one was sealed to a living death, the other passed through life after life.
Again and again he lived – short, bloody lives. Again and again he died, hopeless repetitive deaths. Again and again the cycle repeated, changeless and merciless as the hand that set Time in motion.
Once upon a time, a price was demanded.
If the price for immortality was stasis, then the price for life was death. If the price for change was to be changed, then the price to change was even higher.
The price was paid with little things.
It was paid in childish scrawlings on parchment, in the incessant clanking of chains at night, in scoldings and cleanings and caring.
The price was paid with greater things.
It was paid by dying for – not a cause, not a belief – but simply a stubborn desire to live, awakened almost accidentally by innocent golden eyes. It was paid in years of mortality, in pain, sorrow, loss and bittersweet life.
Once upon a time a gift was earned, but still he never reached out to claim it.
If the price for immortality was certainty, then the price for life was uncertainty, and still he clung, with the ferocity that only fear of the unknown can provoke, to his certainties, to his beliefs, to everything that he had had when he had held nothing.
Again and again the call came, but he would not, could not, dared not listen. Pushed it away, into the back of his mind, further, deeper, even, than his lost divinity.
Once upon a time, there was desperation.
He lifted his voice through the bars and called, called to something he did not know, called in a way he did not understand, called for something he did not know, called because he did not understand.
Again and again he called, past life, past death, past mortality, past forgetting, past fear, past change and to a single eternal soul. Called with the patience of the earth – the patience that, an inch at a time, builds mountains. Called with the power of the earth – the power that, in the blink of an eye, razes nations. Called, and was heard; called, and called, and –
Once upon a time, there was a boy who heard a voice.