Chained god.

Have you heard about a chained god?

Sure you have. If you haven’t, let me tell you how you make one.

Take a spectacular specimen of a human being. Let him die a glorious, magnificent death. Allow him into the gates of Sky. Bow before the gods and goddesses. Pats on backs and gold chalices are a must. Maybe some golden chains, but not the kind that chain a god. Give him a wish and grant it. Poof. A god is born. Created. Destined. Choose your word because it doesn’t matter.

But the real point of becoming a god, as we all know it, is to rule. I asked for one thing. One tiny thing. “Where do I rule?”

You would’ve thought I bombed Sky. Murdered a goddess. Stole the sun. I mean, that’s a list of actual things that other gods did and guess what? They’re not chained, I’ll tell you what.

So the chained part – ask to rule.

“No,” Khorsheed said. “You were created, not born. You are not worthy of ruling.” He flicked a speck off his shoulder after he said that. You know what the fleck was? A galaxy. A burning hot sun he didn’t care to have on his skin anymore. He destroyed it – just like that. Poof, gone.

“Hows ‘bout,” I said, “I look after something?” My fingernails, golden, needed a buff against my tunic. “God of death could always use a hand, right?”

Khorsheed’s skin swirled. It does that when he’s pissed. Before he answered, the most beautiful goddess in the entire, entire, entire world said, “God, capital G. Not god,” she eyed me up and down, “lowercase g.”

And with that, her beauty swept away. It didn’t matter her hair was made of pink nebulae and her eyes, the deepest cerulean. Didn’t matter.

Rap, rappity, rap. Sometimes, a god needs a rhythm to think to. What best then tapping my ol' fingies on the arm of my throne? And, you know what? The throne in the Grand Hall is made of a god’s tooth. Guess whose?

My artist, my Grief Room artist, the best I’ve ever had bows before me.

“Hohnair Mand,” I say, “did you finish the last portrait yet?”

“Well,” Hohnair Mand spins his paintbrush between his fingers, “I need to finish a few details.”

Rap, rap, rap, rappity, rappity, rappity, rap –

“I need it done now,” I say. “Today.”

He leaves the room and I? I do too. No one leaves before me. Eh, I’d correct him. Tell him, your King leaves first, but truthfully? The kid reminds me of my self, long before I turned into a god. Also, I need him. My Retire Room is where I go. The villagers think it must be something special. It’s just my bed and a couch. Yes, yes a god does love a couch. But these people? They think they live in a little village on top of a mountain. I’m their King and they’re the villagers. It’s great. Not god-level great but if I was still in the human realm, this would be living high on the hog, as they say.

But I’m not in the human realm. Not even human. I’m chained. Ah, yes. How did I get chained? I asked for too much, maybe. Nebulae said a demi-god, which she called me, has no business trekking through Sky, hunting down her people. She’s no sweetheart – don’t let her fool you. She knew what I was up to. Collecting magic. Wealth. Ideas and worlds. Was going to grow into the most powerful god Sky had ever seen but no. Nah. Nope. That didn’t happen.

A trial. A boring trial is what gods and goddesses do in Sky. Boo. Boring. They laughed at my sentence, a sentence I thought was my dream come true. Khorsheed announced, “You, demi-god of Earth and Sky, you will be sentenced to a life in the underworld.”

“Wow, thank you,” I said. “That’s exactly what I wanted –“

Next thing I knew, Khorsheed pinched me between his fingers and shrunk me. Everything went black. Turns out, they encased me in stone and did indeed, cast me to the underworld. Souls landed on me, made it down the mountain I am, and went back up to the human realm. The Old World these villagers call it. What Idiots.

I remember, a little drop of light one day. One little soul stayed on this mountain. And then another and another. And one of ‘em died here. Yes, that’s possible in the underworld. Where’s it take you? Not sure. Don’t care. But that dead soul fed me. One soul, one meal. One at a time. That’s how this chained god, relaxing on my couch, staring out the window to these souls wondering around, thinking they’re still alive on earth – that’s how I escaped my encasement.

The mountain of my body is here, right below us. Below this cozy couch. But my soul is right here, right on top of it. Human souls aren’t as strong as god souls but as long as my Hohnair Mand paints these dead souls in the Grief Room, it magnifies them. Feeds me and let me tell you what, I’m weak.

Another Sac Day is coming soon. Well, thirty days isn’t coming fast enough but it’ll be here soon.

Want to hear how the last Sac Day went? It was one of my favorites. Finally wiped out a lineage of people who were bent on discovering the truth about this place. The truth about their mountain –

Oh, wait. Mail from Nebulae. She’s my guardian, unfortunately. The messages appear on the walls in the Retire Room. It reads –

Jonas,

I've been watching you. You’re growing but so far Zeerzam, God of the underworld, has not noticed this. Keep your souls happy and we shall see each other soon.

With so much love my god,

Nebulae

Alright, maybe I should confess. She and I really got a thing. A duo. Duet, if you will. She loves me and I love her and though I’m an inmate in some cruel game of gods, her and I are going to rule all the places the gods touch. She’ll take over up there in Sky and I’ll take over the underworld. But until then, secret love notes on my wall suffice to keep my hopes up.

“Sac Day in thirty, baby,” I say, plastering over her letter just in case one of these idiots decides to explore the Mainstay. "Thirty days."