Blood of the Stars

We were once many.

We took the names of those long lost, forgotten in every aspect but the whispers that rang through our ears, shaping what we once were. Those were the names they called us, although we went by many others as well. 

These were those that did not belong to us at the start, but they slowly grew – much like a moss spreads over a decaying log, and lichen attaches itself to a boulder. Some of us wondered who these names had belonged to before us, some long-ago world with long-ago gods.

We ruled over every domain. Land and sky, sea and below. Every plant, every hill and every stone. If you listened carefully, you could hear us. If you watched, you could see us. We were everywhere.

But mortals are well known for their obliviousness. We whispered sayings in the ears of prophets, and guided the hands of those who earned our favour, but as much as we aided them, they would eventually be our downfall.

Millennia passed by. We were happy, thriving! There was nothing that could have stopped us.

Until they Forgot.

It was slow at first. Prayers lessened, offerings diminished. We speculated it was just a byproduct of the times, harsh as they were. Perhaps the mortals truly had nothing more to offer us. We were wary, but we were still content.

Some of us were stronger than others. Centuries passed by quickly for us, and with them, the shrinking of those who believed. Some of us were far, far weaker. Before our eyes, our brothers, sisters, siblings and friends withered away to nil, and there was nothing we could do. We took far too long to realize the cause, and by that time, so many had been Forgotten. 

Altars crumbled. Temples were overcome by the wild, roofs caving in and vines weaving themselves into the building’s walls. No mortals were left who remembered us, and because of that, the universe no longer had a use for us.

Our prophecies had come true; we had created the greatest of mortal heroes with our aid, but that meant nothing as long as – as far as those who lived believed – those tales were nothing more than fiction.

Near the end, we were so powerless that of the few that were left, most would not have been able to recover regardless of whether the Forgetting was reversed. Some of us escaped. Not much is known about who they were, and where they are now, only that they were the lucky ones who avoided our fate. Using what little power they had left, they took mortal form, living with a definite lifespan and becoming one with the land once they passed. 

I was one of them. 

I cannot remember how long it has been, nor who I once was. I was one of them, but which one exactly I do not know. It is pointless to ask any other mortals, as by this time we all have been Forgotten, myself included. 

What I do know is that after the last of us either was Forgotten or assumed the guise of a mortal, a new race emerged from our ashes. New beliefs, and new beings somewhat akin to deities. Perhaps they had been there all along, waiting until we were gone for their turn to reside in what we had left behind. Perhaps they had been created anew, by those that, in turn, created us. 

Perhaps they were stronger than we had been, and would last until the end of time. I hope so, because otherwise there would be nobody left to look after the mortals. 

Speaking of mortals, in technical terms I suppose I do not exactly qualify as one anymore, either. Although I used the last vestiges of my life’s energy to take the body of one, after wandering for so long in uninhabited land, some force has taken my body and made it something... other. 

Carnivorous growth covers my body, and although I have learned to control them, when I grow fatigued, they often snap, stick, and bite at things without my conscious realization. 

My flesh is decaying, and already my hip and one leg gape open with wide wounds, displaying shining bone and rotting flesh. 

Small insects surround me as I stumble through wood and forest. Their voices are high-pitched, buzzing squeaks, but after spending so long near them, I am beginning to understand their words.

A small amphibian, which I have reason to believe is a long-toed salamander, constantly circles my feet and occasionally crawls up my shoulder. It is my only true companion as of late, and although it is poisonous, like everything else that embraces my form, I cherish its company. 

I do not know what has happened to my body, nor am I aware of how it came to be so. I live in the undergrowth, foraging for nuts and berries to sustain myself and allowing my plants to feed on insects that get a little bit too bothersome.

I am not too sure who I am anymore. A byproduct of my time as a mortal has muddled my memory, and I cannot recall what my name, names-

Who I once was. I am sure I have said this once. Perhaps more. I do not venture into the domain of mortals often, into their sprawling cities and towering palaces. I have moved, found passage on boats attempting to escape their homeland and seeking new places to call home. 

I am not too sure where I am now. The coast is sparsely populated, with nothing save a few towns and other structures built closer to the periphery of the forest. The local mortals do not venture into the forest, meaning it is safe for me to roam. To explore this land for myself. Perhaps I will finally find a place to sit down and rest ...

[ later. ]

I do not know what has happened. 

A new age of mortals, a new generation of rulers. They spend their time hunting each other, slaughtering families and bloodlines and lineage in the name of conquest. Greed. Their cruel deeds do not reach my island, where few live and fewer venture out beyond, but I have seen ships that come from the main islands covered in blood and corpses. Those who survive seek refuge and tell tales of the horror that they have left behind them.

Where are the deities? Those who were made to protect them? 

I know now that those who arose from our ashes are not gods. They call themselves stars, and they care little for the whims of mortals. They are a civilization, too, much like we were, but whilst they are long-living and divine, what mortals do not know is that these stars have finite lifespans, as well. They live far longer than any mortal might, but I have seen them fade out of the sky, blinking before going dark and silent.

These stars are cold, although only in stature. They do not heed the calls of mortals, do not swoop down to protect those who are in need. Mortals are a plague upon existence to them, and to contact them would be a stain upon their bright minds. 

But so many are dying, so many more than before. They are innocent, and they are not meant to die yet; it is not their time. This does not seem to be of any concern to the stars, as they keep about their quiet business and distant lives.

How might I know this, some may ask. It is not a simple answer. After so long alone, I have begun to... hear things, one might say. It is nothing close to the whispers I heard when I was still a deity, but it has been so long that I can understand the whispers of the Woods. The Woods know many things, but it is not often that one stops long enough to listen.

I know that the stars have a custom that is unique to their culture. It is called ‘exile’. Every time a major lunar standstill occurs, they condemn one of their own to the mortal realm by slaughtering them and then willing them to be reborn in a mortal form. The Woods say that these individuals are not often reborn on my – our – island, but that it has happened once.

One fallen star still has enough power to stop this war, if they wished to. 

The Woods say that it will happen soon once more. That the blood of the stars will drip down to our realm and a new being will be born. 

Oh, if it were to arrive here, what would I do? Would I raise it from a sprout into a being that can help me stop this incessant bloodshed of mortals?

[ later. ]

The Woods were right. The moon has reached its most extreme northern and southern risings, and I accordingly head deeper into the Woods to find the place where sky will touch earth. The blood of a star will spread, hot and bright, and pool upon the land. 

I have arrived.

The Woods are full of dangerous things, of creatures and monsters and cryptids that have a taste for mortal flesh, but I am hardly mortal. I am also a friend of the Woods, and they know that. 

[ later. ]

I must have fallen prey to the lull of the forest’s rustling leaves and fallen asleep. I do not recall the exact moment when I did, but the buzz of something new wakes me. 

Next to me sits a woven basket, which contains a swath of fabric, and a dim lantern that lets off just enough light for me to see the forest growth in front of me.

I feel it before I see it. A thick tension sits in the air, as if all of the Woods are holding their breath. I, too, am greatly anticipating this moment. 

Then, I see it. Luminous, glowing fluid drips in thin strands from some point far above, stretching impossibly high and yet not dripping. Its colour seems to change on a moment’s whim, opalescent and nacreous. This is star blood, although the Woods helpfully correct me – the stars refer to it as ichor. 

The strands weave their way through the shyness of the tree crowns above, although I cannot see them as the Woods here are so deep and dark that the sole source of light comes from my meagre lantern and the blood.

I am struck with a sudden desire to run my hands through this substance, with its alluring glow and shifting hues, but the Woods warn me against it. Although it does not appear to be, this ichor is essentially a gel composed of molten metals. 

Sure enough, as soon as the first luminescent strand makes contact with the thick foliage of the forest floor, there is a hiss and the smell of burning matter. Inexplicably, I find myself terrified of the prospect that this may cause a fire. The Woods brush off that thought, informing me that this has happened before and no such thing has a risk of occurring.

By the time more strands have joined the first and pooled into a puddle of bright liquid, the combined glow has become so bright that I can hardly stand to look at it anymore. I turn my face away from the shine, still listening intently.

Even from behind the hands over my eyes, I can see bright light permeating everything. I can only imagine how bright it is, enough to surely damage my eyes. 

Suddenly, all goes dark, and the Woods become even more silent than they were before. Everything, even the insects and rustling leaves, seems muted. And then, impossibly, I hear it.

The sound is faint, but easily discernible as the cry of a child. 

It is a noise I recognize purely from what I assume, seeing as I have never been near an infant before (perhaps I have, in my previous existence, but I do not recall).

Lifting my hands slowly, I look in astonishment at the area where the pool of ichor previously puddled. A minuscule figure, still weakly glowing, lies on the forest floor. The Woods beckon for me to go to it, and I do. It makes a feeble noise, stirring. As the last of the glow fades, I kneel in front of the small being.

“Greetings, dearest,” I whisper, unravelling the fabric I brought and slowly wrapping it around the child, who gives no sign of being unsettled. “You may call me Venus, although I suppose that you might also call me mamà.”

The baby blinks at me blearily, and he (as far as I believe) coos at me sleepily. I finish bundling him up, and lift him to my chest, where he blinks once more and promptly falls asleep.

“I have a feeling we are going to get along just fine, dearest,” I murmur. “I will take care of you as much as I am able, and in return, if you so please, you might help me end the chaos that is this world.”

The Woods are tired, as well, for even great forests need their rest, however brief. Before I head back to the small glade that I call home, I ask the Woods one final request. 

“You have helped me so much, I am aware. But I must know, does this child have a name? Have you heard anything?” I ask the Woods. It ponders this for a minute, and informs me that it does, in fact, know. 

The child in question is nestled against me, and has grasped hold of a sundew tentacle that protrudes from my flesh. I tilt my head to press a soft whisper to his forehead.

“Abyss of Early Dawn, I am confident that you will do amazing things.”