Bellum is only pretending to sleep, waiting to open his eyes as long as he possibly can. He can feel the sunshine beating down on him through the crude window of his ramshackle mud hut, and he can hear his fellow mortals gathering outside, discussing the events of last night.
he doesn't want to hear it he doesn't want to hear it he doesn't want to hear it
But he doesn't have a choice in the matter. He's the new leader of the New Mortals, the last few who had survived after the unjust massacre of the gods. The five leaders who came before Bellum all died under "mysterious circumstances", but that is a euphemism that's as blatant as the fact that they are being systematically hunted down.
No doubt whatever destroyed the pantheon they all worshiped with such devotion had now set its sights on them, like it can't allow any form of life to go unscathed.
Bellum doesn't want to imagine what sort of creature it is. Perhaps it’s some apocalypse demon that's hell-bent on following its namesake, or maybe its a weaker entity that finally has a chance to move up the food chain now that the New Mortals are so weak.
Whatever it is, the New Mortals aren't in a state to fight back. They have nothing but the rags they wear on their bodies and the mud under their feet. Sometimes, if they are lucky, there are plants growing by the riverside they can use to nourish themselves. Thank goodness they came from the good mortal stock—they're hardy enough to survive a bit of privation until they can get on their feet again.
Or, at least, they would be, if not for this.
Bellum doesn't like being hunted, but he doesn't like neglecting his responsibilities either, even if those responsibilities are tiresome. He slowly gets up and leaves his hut, trudging over to where the remaining members of the village are gathered.
He knows what they're going to say before they even say it. They have one remaining ally, and they need to consult him—“The Great Blue One”—before things get even worse.
Bellum doesn't know why they bother. The Blue One has done nothing for them so far— he always offers up a small smile and a list of things he might consider doing before shooing them off, and the disappearances continue anyway.
Going to see him was nothing but a waste of time. They should be devising traps or setting up nightly watches. Or, they could be, if they had any tools or manpower to spare.
Bellum bites his tongue and grabs some bitter plants so he can at least eat something on his way to see the Blue One.
The sun is on its way down to the horizon when Bellum finally makes his way to the giant building at the far side of what they called “Death Street”. The name pisses Bellum off for some reason, reminding him of capitulation and betrayal.
The building is empty, and the only two people inside—the Green One and the Yellow One—don’t even look up as he enters. Bellum has no quarrel with either of them, but he does take issue with the way they ignore him, until the Green One finally rolls his eyes and says:
“Artem’s out back.”
Bellum does not thank them, just heads back out the way he came and circles around the giant building to its shadier side. The Blue One—Artem, they called him, the name is dimly familiar—is there, surrounded by empty jars filled with clean paintbrushes and carving tools. He stands before a wooden water basin with his back to Bellum, diligently washing something as if he isn’t aware that’s he’s exposing a large weak spot.
The Great Blue One looks as simple as the people he claims to lead. His hair is sectioned off into two big braids that hang down in front of him, leaving the smooth nape of his neck exposed and showing off the blue and white panel sewn onto the back of his kalasiris. His blue is a richer blue than the blue the New Mortal’s wear. It makes Bellum feel…weak.
The panel on the Blue One’s back displays a grand feast, foods that exist and foods that never could, all delicately stitched in white and blue. The panel itself is small, but it sucks Bellum in, trapping him in a maze of food he longs to taste, to have to tasted, to be able to taste. He wants to snap Artem’s little twig body in half for sending him down a path he can never explore, but the other New Mortals insist that they need him.
“Blue One,” Bellum says by way of greeting, his voice rolling like thunder.
Artem yelps like the underfed whelp he is and turns around surprised. Bellum’s eyes widen.
Something slick and bright and red soaks the front of Artem’s dress, stains his hands so red they’ll never be washed clean.
“Wh…What is that?” Bellum says. He hates the way his voice cracks.
Artem glances down at himself then smiles innocently up at Bellum. “Oh, just some red paint. My babies spilled a jar on me this morning.”
As if on cue, several song birds appear, flying in from all around the city, perching on all the empty paint jars and on the window sills and the edge of the wooden basin. Bellum feels like a mountain just slammed down on his head, he knows there’s something very wrong with those birds, but he can’t leave. He must plead for the New Mortals.
Artem turns back to the sink and the birds there move aside so he can work. “I take it another ‘mortal’ died last night.”
Bellum doesn’t like the way he says ‘mortal’ with such derision. Even though Artem is only a quarter of his size, he knows like he can’t say anything out of line with the birds around.
“Yes. The Orange One—“
“I know, I know,” Artem says, so tired of this farce he doesn’t bother to let Bellum finish. “I’ll go speak with him.”
Bellum doesn’t know why he bothers. Artem looked like he could barely lift one of these birds, what could he possibly say to the Orange One?
“Anything else?” Artem asks, glancing back at him.
Bellum keeps his mouth shut.
They find another body the next morning. This one is left unceremoniously in the middle of the village.
Bellum has had enough. He’s had enough of relying on the Blue One. He’s had enough of watching his people die. He’s had enough of not being able to retaliate.
The idea of “taking watch” is a relatively new one. The other New Mortals give him quizzical looks when he refuses to move from his perch by the fire, even after they’ve finished eating their horribly burnt water reeds. They watch him from the shelter of their homes for as a long as they’re able, curious to see if he’ll ever get up from the his spot by the fire.
They fall asleep long before he does.
While the idea of taking a watch comes naturally to Bellum, in startling, brilliant clarity, he is unused to the process for reasons he can’t quite put into words. As clear as the idea is, it’s almost like this is his first time doing it. He is just as tired as the other New Mortals, he aches for the comfort of his own clay floors and other comforts still—
But the idea of some unseen foe thinning out their ranks fills him with a rage so incandescent that he couldn’t sleep even if he wanted to. Still, his body tries. The warmth of the fire coaxes his eyelids to droop down…
Someone screams.
Bellum sits up, his crude club—a thick tree branch he found on his way back from the city—at the ready. His head whips around as he desperately tries to determine the source—
Again, a sharp screech pierces the night air. He can’t imagine how everyone in the village could possibly sleep through this, but he can imagine them all staying in bed just to lessen their chances of being murdered next. Perhaps in their minds, Bellum had already offered himself up as the next sacrifice.
Bellum gets to his feet and slams his club into his calloused palm. As he passes through the village, he peeks into all the houses and does a quick headcount. No one should be missing except, perhaps, himself.
At the last house, he pokes his club through the window and prods the head of the New Mortal pretending to sleep there.
“Bellum,” Mens grumbles. “Whatever this is, you count me out of it.”
“I know, I know,” Bellum says, voice softer than even he thought was capable. “I’m just passing my duties onto you.”
Mens sits up at that. “And just what is that supposed to—“
Another shriek splits the air. They both gasp. Mens dives back into his bed, but Bellum continues to listen. It sounds slick, for lack of a better word. There’s something too artificial about it, like it’s being made instead of torn out of someone’s throat.
Bellum’s assessment is correct. Another shriek comes, but, after a moment, it melts like butter into the somber tones of—
“A violin?” Mens whispers, slowly sitting up again.
No one is there to hear his conclusion. Bellum has already rushed off into the dense forest surrounding their isolated village.
Who else would be playing the violin at this time of night but the Blue One. Artem even smiles as Bellum turns the corner.
Bellum’s face is stony as he faces exactly the villain he expected to face. His grip tightens on his club. Adrenaline rushes through his body as he prepares himself for a fight—
But he can’t help but think that it’s a lost cause. Artem looks so calm as he plays his violin, just as harmless as ever. But Bellum knows better than to confuse docility for weakness.
He waits patiently for Artem to finish, or, at least, he tries. The tension inside him works itself up to a fever pitch—He is surprised when the song stops so abruptly.
Artem sighs and sets down his bow with a pout that’s nothing short of petulant.
“No use playing for someone who won’t appreciate it,” he says with a huff. “Even savage beasts love the sound of music, Bellum.”
Bellum straightens up, feeling the futility of the action before it’s even done. What use was there in trying to loom over someone who was already so small? “I’m no beast.”
“That’s not the counterargument you think it is,” Artem says, putting his violin in its case and shutting it with a decisive click.
“…Am I allowed to ask why you’re doing this?”
“No, because I think it’s extremely cliche for a demon to explain his motives in such meticulous detail.”
Bellum…didn’t really know what a cliche was.
Artem sighs and rolls his eyes, looking like his actual, ancient age for only a fraction of a second.
“I also think the answer is extremely obvious. I am an old demon, Bellum, but I’m not ready to shuffle off this mortal coil just yet. I am hungry, and I have my pride. A wolf that kills cows in the pasture is still a hunter, no matter how fat and slow the cows are.”
“You think I’m a cow?”
“Bellum, I think you’re worse than a cow. Do you even remember who you used to be?” Artem asks, voice rising. “You used to be a GOD, a real one. Do you even remember the campaigns you led against me? Riling up the whole world against one little demon, getting closer and closer to victory with each battle? Do you remember how glorious you looked on the battlefield, splattered with gore and laughing as you tried to tear my head clean off my shoulders? I remember all of it! Fondly even!”
Bellum blinks, and cocks his head to the side. He was never…a god, he was always just one of the mortals, wasn’t he?
“Is that what you think? You’re less than that even. What mortal lives like this? You were so spoiled and pampered that you can’t even fucking take care of yourselves! You sleep in piles of mud because you’re so stupid you can’t figure out how to fire bricks. You burn yourselves half to death every night because you haven’t even learned how to start a fire properly. You wander around with your ribs showing through your skin because the idea of planting seeds is too far beyond your understanding. You live like animals in the woods because you are nothing without a scaffolding of mortals to take every single responsibility out of your hands and worship every breath you take. I’m not killing your friends, Bellum, I’m putting them down.”
Bellum raises his club—ready to bash the Blue One’s head in and end his ranting—but Artem is quicker.
He feels something slide against his throat, then he hits the ground with a thud. Everything is hazy, fading, but Artem’s tiny feet are hot on his chest as he stand on top of him, brandishing the Orange One’s gleaming sickle with a savage, sharp-toothed grin.
“I think this should cover my tracks quite nicely, no?”
Mens already knows that Bellum is dead. He was sure something like that would happen when he heard Bellum wander off into the woods, but he wasn’t ready to feel him disappear off his telepathic map. Here one second, gone the next.
He knows its morning because he can hear the villagers gathering outside Bellum’s hut, curious about his strange behavior the night before. He knows that Bellum is counting on him to take up the mantle of leader and guide them to the future they all deserve.
Without leaving his hut, he can count the heads of all the people moving in the village and, with their numbers so little as they are, it’s immediately clear that there is one extra person.
Mens is not stupid enough to think that it’s Bellum, returned from the dead. This head moves in a different path from the others, away from Bellum’s vacant hut to the doorstep of Mens’s.
He trembles and sits up, knowing that any attempts to resist the inevitable would only be a waste of time for everyone involved. He keeps his eyes screwed shut, but everyone know the most distinct feature of the Blue One was his entrancing, melodic voice.
“Good morning, Mens!”
He sounds so excited to see him, but there’s no way he doesn’t know exactly why everyone’s gathered around Bellum’s hut, he must know—
“So sorry about your loss. Let’s hope that’ll finally be enough to sate the Orange One’s appetite.”
Mens isn’t stupid enough to buy that attempt at blatant misdirection. But, of course, Artem knows that.