A/N: Prompt from Peres. The fear of being forgotten.
Warning: The document manager doesn't want to cooperate right now, so this is unedited and likely fraught with typos and grammatical err.
Though he would never return to his mightiest in form, he had reached perhaps what would remain his mightiest state in being. Myrkul was a god, and being dead still made him a dead god. Gods do not just drift away in the barren sea, regardless of how thoroughly rotted their corpses became. How, only bone and an ancient, lingering voice, had taken him so far, so many would never know. But they would remember him. He heard the echoes of his name on their lips, the fearful whispers, the pleas for mercy. It was not distant memory playing tricks on his mind, but the reality extending further beyond any world or plane had ever seen. Mortals praying to a dead god. And they say he had no power left. Those same mortals hid themselves away in every shadowy niche their planes could offer and worshiped him, they built chambers and temples to house artifacts – his artifacts – his teachings, his writings, him, him, him, they sought to preserve him. And that helped. They built upon his name, preserving his memory with their faith.
But even a god knew that faith alone could not sustain one for long. Human minds wander and drift, their thoughts spacing out and coming adrift, rotting and barren, in that very sea. Ideas withered, sparks of imaginations burnt out, sacred promises died just like he had.
Dead, but not forgotten. Fear was something not so easily killed. Myrkul, above all, would know that much. Fear had made homes out of his own shadows, curled around his weakest spaces and whispered things he never wanted to hear. It whispered, 'he has found you.' Though I had no heart, the phantoms of fragments of muscle all worked to contract against the empty space within my hollowed ribs. It ached, somehow. It was like a jilted nerve, stuck and gone, leaving only the anxiety behind.
"Well. Let him come."
And so he did. He wore the face of a woman, and traveled with other sorry ironies. Likes attract likes, and if his company was any indication of his temperament after so many years... well, Myrkul had reason to worry.
But he seemed inquisitive. All the better. By extending the length of his curiosity, he would only empower the strange curse Myrkul had bestowed upon him... and his own being in tandem.
"I was told that you were dead and gone. How do you speak?"
"A god does not easily die... he lives in the fears of him, which linger on... in the doubts that he is truly gone... and in the suffering of those whose lives he brought to grief. Yes, spirit-eater... even your suffering sustains me." He had been waiting for so long to face the Wall, and here it stood before him. Inquisitive to the nature of his fate, he was perfect. The more he absorbed, whether it was information or souls, he further Myrkul's influence spread. "Every anguish that you sow, you unknowingly dedicate to me. Every mortal who cowers or cringes at your name... they are also cringing at mine. With every such pain, the embers of my soul burn a little brighter than before."
"You said that I am two fates... bound in one. How can that be?"
"Two fates, yes... of the hero who plied the Sword Coast, and awoke in a barrow, soaked in blood, I know little. But the other... the Betrayer, Akachi... he is just as I left him. He is empty now... a ravening void that seeks always to fill itself up... to regain what the Wall took from him. So he steals what he lost... a face, a body, a name. These are a mask to be worn for a time, until they are alsodevoured by his unending hunger."
"You're saying that I am the Betrayer's newest mask."
And this mask was intelligent, soft-spoken. She asked all of the right questions, and judging by the way her eyes twinkled, or the odd corner-of-the-mouth twitch, or the way she averted her eyes and pondered her next query – she seemed to appreciate the nuances and irony with which this tale was spun. Even Myrkul could admit that he was a celebrated story-teller, in some sense... but what separated him from the mediocre bard or amateur lawyer was that he always spoke truthfully. One could only appreciate a cruelty that would last, a suffering that could not be dreamed away. An honest pain, like a child's fear.
He answered her questions, but she paused at Akachi's fate.
Just when he had begun to wonder if he was right at all to fear her presence, she caught him off his guard. "I think you're leaving something out." Her eyes danced upon him, not with anger or mistrust, but with a cold and calculating scrutiny. "Why would one of your priests turn against you, without warning?"
How dare she. "Do not presume to hurl blame at my door, spirit-eater. I cannot account for the treacheries of every mortal soul... only for their consequences." Akachi had it coming. Myrkul knew exactly what had happened, and why... it was in his right, as a god, to his priest. His traitorous little priest.
"You're only telling part of the truth. Admit it, Myrkul, Akachi's punishment was also something more."
Had he a body, he would have felt his skin crawling, his pulse increasing. Too smart, this one, too smart for her own good. "Was it, then?"
"You said that my suffering helps keep you alive. That my hunger sows fear and pain, and these sustain you."
"I said those things... yes. If you are so clever, spirit-eater, then make your point." And if she did, what of it? Let her be the first mortal to so thoroughly analyze him and wrench the secrets out of his husk. It would make precious little difference, when Akachi would consume her companions and his current mask, in due time. But let her guess.
"The spirit-eater was a contingency... a plan to keep yourself alive. If this curse was ever ended, your evil works would be forgotten and your consciousness would fade." Ah, if ever there was a mask to meet face-to-face, this would be the one.
"Ahhh, spirit-eater... what a sure wager you were. And of all the masks, you are the first to know what you truly are. Two faces, bound together. One betrayed my faith, the other never worshipped me at all. Together, you are my truest disciple. The irony is deep, and worthy of a god's devising."
She snickered at that, and the little dove awarded her with the most scathing of looks.
More questions. He spoke to her of the Crusade, and how she might go about continuing it. Planting seeds, but she did little to tend them.
She seemed distracted. "I have no intention of leading any Crusade." It was a pity that their little visit would end so soon. She would have her answers and leave to attempt to retrieve her soul, just as Myrkul intended. This mask was smart, but Myrkul had outlived so many; to compete with his artillery of wit and intellect would be to defy the gods themselves – literally. And so he told her what to do, carefully omitting certain information that might give her pause. He would not lie, but he would lead her to her doom one way or the other. Whether she chose to fight what she was or to accept it, she would fall either way.
But she had other questions, as if her fate was of no consequence. "Araman followed me through the portal. Didn't he?"
"My hound is clever, is he not? You opened the door, as Araman hoped, and now he follows your ally to her wretched den. You saw him in your dream of the Gate... saw him for the priest he once was, who served me at his brother's side. And turned against me, at his brother's whim." Myrkul paused in recollection. The sting of old wounds was fresh in his mind, as fresh as it had ever been. Not just one priest, but two, to betray him... all for the ridiculous mortal concept of the sentimental. "He chose his brother over his god, but in his brother's defeat, I showed him mercy. He saw his error and repented on his knees."
"Did Araman really repent? Or did you give him some "encouragement"?"
"Ah, spirit-eater... perhaps some part of Akachi does still linger in your mind. You know me as he once did. Yes, I ensured that Araman would not betray me again. I set a geas upon him and imprisoned his soul in the City of Judgement... a hostage, until such time as he sends your ally's soul to its rightful place." Gods would never be conduits for the sentimental. Kelemvor understood this, too.
"So he serves you, still? How can one serve a dead god?"
"His faith in me sustains him."
"So it isn't about whether or not they are willing to serve you – just so long as they serve you, one way or another?"
"Belief is the currency of the planes, spirit-eater, as your little dove will tell you."
She paused in her contemplation, then snapped back, as if frustrated. "So what do you gain from this, Myrkul? If I end by curse, your contingency plan ends, too."
Smart, but not smart enough. "Will it? You may end your suffering... but Akachi's... will live on. His hunger was born of the Wall... born of emptiness. You cannot destroy that which is empty. The spirit-eater will live on, as will I."
"And in assaulting the City of Judgement... I glorify you."
"In everything you do, spirit-eater... you stoke the embers of my soul."
"Hm," she said, rubbing her chin and darting her eyes away, again. Myrkul was no longer nervous; she was too consumed in her own fate, as he knew she would be. He had wondered if the mask would attempt to use the cursed hunger upon him as well – and not being all together certain of the thing's power, it was a thought that had at first, caused him anxiety. But he quelled it; even if the fool had attempted such a feat, it would still carry on his legacy, wouldn't it? Open some sort of conscious loophole for his memory to persist. Perhaps he could rebuild. Or perhaps it was not that powerful to begin with. But meeting with the mild-mannered scientist on his spine, he had little worry of that, anymore. "Do you have real power, anymore? Myrkul? Are you anything more than just a name? A memory?"
"My priests and adherents are more power than I need."
"Then what's the point?"
What a strange question. What was the point? Well, why bloody not?
She continued: "Are you afraid of death?"
"Ha! Fear of death is known only by mortals... a god has no need of it."
"Then why do you need priests and disciples long after your passing? Why do you need an abomination like Akachi carrying on your memory?"
She was working her way dangerously closely to the heart of the matter, pacing and talking with her hands.
"How weak did you become when Akachi was trapped in Okku's barrow?" she asked, glaring over her shoulder at him. "Is that why you need me to enact this ridiculous Crusade of yours? Do you need Akachi reborn in my image?"
"Akachi will never be remembered through you -,"
"That's completely right. He won't," she said and grinned. Fear had a name, and it had been his own. Now Fear blossomed from his rotting corpse, overtook and outgrew him. How he had suffered when Akachi betrayed him, all for the love of one mortal woman. How furious he had been when Araman chose to follow his brother. But above all else, how afraid. Akachi's mask turned back to face him and let her grin fade. "I don't care if I am remembered, or not. But Akachi won't be. I will grant him the eternal rest that he deserves."
"You might walk the planes for thousands of years and still not end the curse, arrogant thing."
"Maybe. I doubt it, though. I've come this far. Who will stop me? You?" She had the audacity to laugh, and that faded, too. "But above all, I choose not to carry on your legacy, Myrkul. Have you been watching closely? I've not devoured a single spirit since unfortunate Nakata. And I never will. I've found a much better use for this curse. A use you never intended on."
"A lie. In all you do, you glorify me, spirit-eater... you stoke the embers of my soul."
"Perhaps if I were to play by your game, adhere to your rules," she said. Had he flesh, it would be covered in cold sweat. "But instead, I will snuff those embers out."
"Judgment has been too long delayed. Myrkul's time on the Planes is done." The little dove's voice carried, echoing the terror he felt in the back of his mind. It clawed from deeply inside of him, yowling and screaming like a caged beast.
Myrkul had not lied. Only mortals feared death.
The darkness emerged from the girl's shadow, blooming like a wretched flower. But instead of the haunted void that was Akachi, therein was somehow light. A warm... surreal... beautiful light emerging from the heart of the darkness. "Goodbye, Myrkul." It was so terribly inviting... so unbearably smothering.
"A final irony... even in this..."
The words would fade, as would their memory... and soon, he too, would be forgotten.
Had Myrkul been mortal, he might have wept.