Triticum’s aura didn’t have a color, but it had several long arms with waggling fingers.
When Prifma stared for too long, those fingers would snap at him. If he really pushed it, one of the arms would rear back and prepare to slap him into the next dimension. Two arms would go for his throat. Three arms would hold his head still and pluck out every single eye he had to his name. Four eyes would grab his limbs and p u l l.
None of these things had ever happened to Prifma. The threats alone were enough to make him flinch and break his concentration.
The next time he caught Triticum’s eye, he’d be smirking.
But Prifma was the God of Vision. He couldn’t help but look.
Triticum had been an enigma for longer than anyone could remember, but somehow he and Prifma had come to an agreement. Triticum would tend to his rolling fields of crops in the daytime. And, at night, he’d bring the best specimens to Prifma, and Prifma would make dinner for the both of them.
It was a pleasant arrangement. Triticum had recently sworn off meat—and the statement alone was mind-boggling—but he had no idea how to prepare any of the vegetables he spent his time cultivating.
Prifma was just happy for the company. With every meal shared, they became more familiar.
Eventually, Prifma could even touch him from behind, not that he would be stupid enough to do that. He barely had the gall to ask about Triticum’s past, but something still bothered him.
Triticum usually wore a tattered shirt and skirt, and a sedge-hat filled with holes. Several strips of dull orange fabric trailed from the rim of that hat, and they seemed like they would be cumbersome for a farmer. They often trailed on the ground and tangled with Triticum’s long hair.
The next time they have dinner, Prifma reaches across the table and grabs one of them, letting it run between his fingers.
“What are these?”
Triticum looks at him like he’s stupid, but he usually looked at Prifma like that.
“You’ve never seen bindings before?”
“You can bind demons?”
Triticum smirks and sets his fork down.
“The demons’ best kept secret.”
It certainly was. Prifma had some tricks up his sleeves, but he wouldn’t consider himself the war-mongering type. And demon extermination was the most pointless war there was. You gathered hundreds of gods, billions of mortals, then battled a single demon for eons. The demon would shrug off the damage and continue to do what they always did, and the cycle would repeat.
Binding would be an amazing boon. But…Triticum was bound, and he didn’t seem any weaker. Maybe binding wasn’t that great after all.
“Oh, binding is amazing.” Triticum says. “If you knew how to do it, you’d have some leverage against the other gods.”
Prifma didn’t really care about the other gods.
Triticum tosses some hair and bindings over his shoulder and continues.
“I’ll teach you.”
“You’ll teach me?”
Triticum picks at his teeth with his pinky nail.
“Sure. I owe you for all the dinners. And I think you’d have an easy time if you focused on your colors.”
Triticum was still a terrifying entity to come across, but at least he was an honorable one.
The gods had forced Prifma out of the pantheon, so he had divorced himself from both god and mortal alike.
In the early days, the mortals seemed like they didn’t get the memo. Whenever they passed by Lake Lacus in their travels, they left offerings for Prifma like they would for any god.
Prifma didn’t take them. He found the practice foolish and, in his case, useless. He hardly expected to receive payment for sight and color.
Eventually, they stopped.
Prifma was relieved. He never thought to question it.
The other gods only waited 200 years to fall into decadence.
Prifma spent kalpas staring at the colors on Lake Lacus’s surface. The gods spent kalpas greasing the wheels of their society with the blood of the mortals.
He had no idea how they undid such intense conditioning, but the pendulum swung violently the other way. The mortals dragged the gods from the heavens and ate them. In doing so, they became gods themselves.
One would have expected the mortals to repeat the gods’ mistakes, but the pendulum stayed where it was. They remember their roots. They remembered the god who was abused. They remembered the god who had his eye taken. They remembered the god who was exiled for imperfections beyond his control. They remembered Prifma, the god who took no offerings.
And so, while still gnawing on the bones of the old gods, they went east to Lacus.
Prifma’s stomach churned when he saw them gathered on the shores. He understood what they had destroyed with their hands.
He did the best he could for them. He emptied out the granaries that he and Triticum worked so hard to fill. He helped them establish the city of Domum around the lake.
But the churning in his stomach didn’t fade.
He knew it wouldn’t.
In a gracious gesture, the wolves had chosen a sheep to lead them. But Prifma was still a sheep, and they were still wolves.
“You’re pretty impressive for a curse demon,” Prifma pants.
The curse demon in question doesn’t respond. He’s lying crumpled in a heap of his own shape-shifted weapons, his eyes glassy and unfocused.
Prifma’s punches had that effect. Even if he missed, the shock wave could neutralize an opponent completely.
But not this one. This opponent would be fine.
Curse demons were usually weak. They could make you stumble over your own foot or spill your drink.
This curse demon was not like that. He was born when the flesh was ripped from the old gods’ bones. There were a lot of old gods, and each one was infinitely more powerful than the average mortal.
He’d be up soon, Prifma was sure of it. He’d go back to leveling the new city if Prifma didn’t do something.
But it wasn’t like he was doing well either. The demon had fired off a shot. Several shots. Several missiles. Prifma could barely feel his leg, and he definitely couldn’t feel his arm. He held himself together until he could confirm the hit. And now that he had confirmed it?
Prifma drops like a sack of potatoes, leaning up against the wall of what used to be a house. He knows what he will see when he looks over, but he is not prepared for the sight of red. His muscle and the bone underneath are exposed, but what scares him above all is the blood dripping through his fingers and onto the ground—gushing from the wounds of the old gods—coating the teeth of the god-eaters as they sit on Lacus’s shores—staining their fingers as they keep eating god-flesh—smearing on Prifma’s dark skin as they grab him, make him promise to do better with red-tinted tongues and iron-soaked breath.
There is no better color for binding this demon. It’s the only one he can settle on. And Triticum screaming “BIND HIM, BIND HIM, FOR FUCK’S SAKE, PRIFMA, BIND HIM!” sets his ears ringing.
There’s not much room for deliberation, but Prifma still wants better things for the curse demon, especially if he is to be bound. As he recites the chant Triticum taught him, as the red drains from his blood, he settles on the name ‘Instrumenta’, in hopes that he will help others rather than harm.
Or at least, that’s what he thinks before he passes out.
Triticum insists they should travel west and seek guidance from Iustitia.
Prifma finds this request odd.
Triticum was extremely self-sufficient. He only tolerated Prifma because he got free meals out of it. Tolerated Instrumenta because he could repair his demonic tool. Tolerated the god-eaters because they could help in the fields.
But Triticum seems desperate to see Iustitia.
Once they find him at the crossroads, the connection between them is obvious.
Triticum handles Iustitia like he’s made of glass. He cups his face like it could shatter at any moment, carefully rubs his thumb beneath Iustitia’s bottom lip before chastely pressing their lips together.
The contact doesn’t stop there. Tiny pecks on the cheek and neck and fingers, locked pinkies and arms, clasped hands, plucking at each other’s clothes— making barely-needed adjustments, playing with hair and tugging on each other’s earlobes.
And that’s just when Prifma’s looking directly at them.
For once, the arms of Triticum’s aura don’t threaten him under scrutiny. Instead, they’re wrapped around Iustitia’s soft, golden aura, soothing and patting it like it’s a dozing cat. He waits until they’re both distracted before he binds them, drawing the orange from Triticum’s old bindings and the yellow from Iustitia’s gaudy gown.
It was Prifma’s first time binding two demons simultaneously. But he figures they’d like the idea of being bound as twins.
Iustitia stares down at his new body, confused, but delighted by the change.
Triticum looks over to where Prifma is sitting by the campfire and nods once in approval.
Just after Prifma was exiled, he fancied himself a world traveler. He’d go see all there was to see and become worldly like the other gods weren’t.
He only ever went to one place, the Crocodylia Gardens, but he thoroughly enjoyed the experience.
To the other gods, it was nothing special. Just a big, placid lake filled with dragons. But how could Prifma, the God of Color, not be delighted by the radiance of their color-shifting scales, the simple elegance of their head dresses, the gleam of their eyes floating on the lake’s surface at sunset?
Crocodylia Gardens had long dried up, and the dragons had migrated to better climes.
But the old gods had gotten the memo.
Beneath the old capital, hidden in the half-submerged vault, was the first dragon Prifma had seen in a long time.
He hadn’t planned to come down here. In fact, he was completely lost and separated from the other three demons, but just seeing a dragon made it all worth it.
The dragon had no headdress, just a simple seal on his snout that read ‘Divitiae’. His scales were a deep emerald green that color-shifted into a rich amethyst with gold flecks every time the dragon glided through the water.
When Prifma saw those scales he gasped, he applauded, he cheered.
It was a bit over the top. He was prepared to chastise himself, even though he was alone, but the dragon crawls out of the water and taps his nose against Prifma’s leg. Prifma caves immediately, dropping to his knees and giving the dragon all the pets he can physically deliver.
“Oh, you’re a sweetie, aren’t you? I bet the old gods just left you down here, didn’t they? Didn’t even thank you for all this work you’re doing before they died?”
Dragons, being large alligators, didn’t really emote, but they did blink knowingly.
“Well,” Prifma continues, “I don’t want to separate you from your treasure, but me and some other demons are starting a new pantheon, and we’d be happy to have you.”
Prifma gets to his feet and dusts off his dress.
Before he can say anything else, the dragon shimmies back into the underground lake, leaving nothing but its eyes visible.
Prifma is extremely disappointed, crushed even, but the feeling is short-lived.
It rises out of the water a moment later, elegantly breaking the surface without a sound. Its thick body twirls gracefully as it floats up into the air, undulating and contorting in the high ceiling of the vault.
This was the elusive dragon dance, though it wasn’t much of a “dance”. Dragons had some psychic ability. They could lift themselves at least, then twist and turn gracefully in mid-air. Prifma was probably the first to ever witness a real dragon dance, and he could die right then with no regrets.
Then the ceiling caves in.
Instrumenta drops down from above, brandishing a divan he must have scavenged from the wreckage of the god-palaces.
He slams it into Divitiae’s head, right in the middle of this most sacred moment.
The sound of the impact resonates throughout the vaults. Divitiae drops like a stone and slams back into the water. Prifma stares open-mouthed.
Instrumenta starts to say something, but Triticum beats him to it.
“PRIFMAAAAA!”
Triticum taught him how to bind, and he expected Prifma to do so at every opportunity.
With a sigh, Prifma draws the green from Divitiae’s scales and hopes that he’ll be alright.
It had been ages since Prifma had proper tea with someone, and he had ruined it.
Yes, he did throw one of his famous punches at the birds outside. He hadn’t intended to cause any real damage. The forest had been flattened, but he knew the birds would be fine.
Their auras were extremely distinct. They looked like the pudgy songbirds he had in his garden back at Lacus, but in their auras, floating above their heads, were crowns and chains. Apocalypse-class demons.
Prifma figured the punch would be a good distraction. And it was.
While the birds were blinded by the light, they managed to rush into Artem’s porcelain stronghold.
It was a victory, until Triticum put his sickle against Prifma’s neck. He was bound twice, but if Iustitia was in danger, then he might as well not be bound at all.
Prifma had provoked the demons somehow. His punishment was to determine if Artem was one of their victims.
He found Artem easily enough. The demon was healthy and happy and tending to several pudgy songbirds in their cages. The same songbirds that were just in the forest outside.
And so the story had come full circle.
“Taking care of apocalypse demons seems like difficult work,” Prifma says, politely making conversation.
“They’re pretty low-maintenance actually,” Artem says coolly. “Probably because they respect my age and wisdom.”
Prifma was sure they did. Even the enigmatic Triticum arrived well after Artem’s time. Everyone knew better than to fuck with him, even if he wasn’t a particularly violent demon.
And yet, Prifma punched his birds.
The tea is cold—Artem made it that way so Prifma would suffer—but he still takes a long, judgmental sip.
“Well, I’m sure you came here for a reason.” Artem smiles coldly.
Prifma tries to stay positive.
“I’m sure you heard about the the gods and the mortals and the revolting—”
“The what?”
Prifma blinks and furrows his brows. “My apologies. The gods mistreated the mortals, and the mortals ate them. I figured you’d notice since you used to have a settlement here.”
Artem abandons his tea and goes to look out the window.
Prifma knows that the view is all ruins now, and, while he can’t see his expression, he can see that Artem’s hands are shaking.
“When did this happen?”
“The revolt?”
“The mistreatment!”
Prifma shrugs. “I don’t have an exact date.”
“I…started taking care of the birds about 200 years ago.”
Prifma scoffs.
“It was well before then. I can’t believe you didn’t notice.”
Artem takes a shuddering breath, then turns back to him. His eyes are wide and filled with tears.
“I…I might have been…in the midst of some music practice.”
Prifma shouldn’t laugh at that. He really shouldn’t laugh at that. He sips his tea, and then he snorts and spits it back into the cup, coughing his lungs out.
“I thought the noise had driven them away!” Artem shouts, stomping his foot. “It’s happened before. I didn’t think anything had happened to them.”
Prifma beckons for Artem to come closer. Artem slumps into his lap, and Prifma wraps his arms around his small body.
“I understand. When the mortals stopped leaving offerings, I didn’t think twice either, but they haven’t held it against me. Why don’t you come back with us and apologize properly? I’m sure they’ll listen.”
Artem sniffles. “Can I bring the birds?”
Prifma grimaces at all the demon-filled cages in Artem’s atelier.
“S-sure. If they promise to behave.”
Prifma binds Artem with the blue from his empty porcelain tea cup.
Prifma was rather excited about the presence of the demonic tree in their midst.
It had completely disrupted this city’s operations, which was bad. And it had grown so quickly that it had torn through several dimensions, which was bad. And it would probably tear through several more, including this one, which was bad.
And yet, Prifma looked positively jovial.
Triticum and the others took turns explaining what a demon tree was and why they didn’t want one tearing a hole in their city, and Prifma listened to each one with a big smile on his face. The whole project seemed like a lost cause.
They give the patriarch one last judgmental look, then they form a private huddle to discuss the best way to cut down the tree. They all haven’t even gotten a chance to speak before Prifma pokes his head in.
“Why don’t you let me handle it?” he says, with that same strange smile.
It’s a baffling statement. They’re not even entirely sure that Prifma knows what’s going on. Even if he did, he was usually adamant about the demons taking control of the new pantheon.
“It’s not like I can make it worse, right?”
None of them know enough about demon trees to dispute this. They begrudgingly decide to give their doddering patriarch a chance.
Prifma, smiling, steps up to the tree and runs his hand over the rough bark. He stays there for a moment. The demons hope he’s reconsidering. He is not.
Prifma turns back to them and the crowd of god-eaters and gestures with both arms for everyone to step back. The god-eaters are more obedient. They always were. The demons humor him, but they roll their eyes the whole way.
Prifma wastes a lot of time taking off his coat and putting up his dukes, bouncing back and forth on his heels.
Triticum in particular can’t stand all the buildup, but he would’ve missed the moment of impact without it. It’s so quick he misses it anyway, and everything about what happens next is so familiar that he feels stupid for not putting everything together earlier.
The roar of Prifma’s fist tearing through the air makes Triticum’s head ring. It doesn’t fade either. A series of successive booms rattle through the tree, up to its highest branches and down to its roots.
At the same time, the air feels like its on fire, burning his nostrils and mouth and lungs with every breath he takes. His skin wants to boil right off his muscles. He was sure if he was any lesser being it would.
But most damning is the light. Triticum feels like he’s gone blind. Everything around him is white. No shadows, no forms, no Iustitia standing next to him. Just the ringing in his head and the boiling of his skin.
It all fades eventually.
Everyone seems just as disoriented as Triticum, but it’s clear that Prifma made good on his promise.
The tree is gone.
Prifma stands in front of the hole it left behind, shaking the splinters from his hand and peering down into the dimension below. Triticum feels like he’s going to regret this, but he joins Prifma by the edge and peers down into the hole alongside him. It’s clear all the way down. Not a root in sight.
Triticum never thought he’d be disturbed by someone else’s success. He lifts his head, locking eyes with a still smiling Prifma.
“G-good work.”
What else is he supposed to say at this moment?
Iustitia fucked up.
It wasn’t the first time. But this was such a flagrant violation of security that it called his ability to serve as the next patriarch into question.
Before Prifma destroyed the demon tree, Iustitia had found one of its fruits floating on the surface of the lake. Rather than destroying it, he kept it, even after it grew stubby legs and a cute little face. Especially because it grew stubby legs and had a cute little face.
There wasn’t a protocol for this.
Iustitia thought it would stay cute forever, or maybe that it would do as fruit does and rot. It did neither.
Prifma wasn’t mad. Far from it.
“Sit.”
The demon fruit drops to his knees on the white stone of the Palatium.
“Shake.”
Prifma holds out a hand. The demon fruit seems confused by the custom, but it holds out its hand as well. Prifma takes it and shakes it once eagerly.
“Roll over.”
The demon fruit flops to its side on the floor and rolls over.
“Excellent. Now, go to the Sanctarium and organize the offerings.”
The demon fruit gets to his feet and heads for the door. Iustitia blocks his path.
“I don’t see how this is helpful,” Iustitia hisses.
“It’s very helpful.” Prifma takes a delicate sip of tea. “It shows that he’s obedient. He’d make a nice pet.”
“Pet?!” Iustitia spits. “Look at his aura!”
Prifma was looking. It was chaotic, undefinable. Prifma never thought he would experience eyestrain.
“Here, boy.”
The demon fruit turns and walks back to Prifma. Prifma gives him a big smile, then reaches up under his newly-developed hair and scritches behind his ear. The demon fruit immediately sags into his lap, practically melting as Prifma uses both hands to scritch both ears.
Iustitia steps closer, biting his thumbnail as he watches the scene in front of him.
“I don’t think—”
“Here’s how I see it,” Prifma says. “I like when people enjoy all the colors in existence. You like when people act justly. Triticum likes when people cultivate crops. Instrumenta likes when people develop new tools. Artem likes when people manifest their creativity through art. Divitiae likes when people are healthy and happy in their homes. This demon like to be treated like a dog. We know he is more capable than that, but he enjoys it. So, what do you suppose we do?”
Iustitia thinks for a moment.
“You think that treating him like an animal is the best way to minimize harm…”
“It’s not nearly that complex.”
Prifma grabs one of Iustitia’s hands and guides it beneath the demon fruit’s hair. He gives Prifma a nervous glance, but he starts laying the scritchies on, and the demon fruit turns his attention to him.
‘Deliciae’ seems like an appropriate name. His colors are taken from the pink of Prifma’s seat cushion and the slight translucence of the demon fruit’s discarded peel.
Prifma leans back in his seat and sighs.
Five children and a dog (and several birds) were not part of the future he had envisioned for himself, but Prifma couldn’t be more satisfied.