Hi, I'm Skull Bearer. I write fanfiction mostly, and I love Micheal Moorcock's 'Elric' series ever since I picked up a paperback copy of 'The Vanishing Tower' in a charity shop.
I also think that Elric really, really didn't deserve the hand that fate deal him.
When Gods Die
When Gods die, their is no mourning.
None throw flowers to grace their star-forged coffins.
No followers gather to watch the funeral train.
No tears are shed over their eon-worn bodies.
When God die they are forgotten.
When Gods are forgotten they die.
Those of Law take death with dignity, standing proud to the end as their pedestral of followers grows thin and finally collapses, letting them fall forever through the void unto death.
Those of Chaos fight to the end, commanding the few they have left to spread the word, keep them alive. They scream and wail as their voices grow thin in the ears of their followers, finally ending as they too fade to nothingness and death.
When Gods die, their possessions are lost.
Their crown returns to to the stars that shaped it.
Their scepter to the sun that forged it.
Their robes to the moon that wove it.
Their power to the minds that gave it.
When Gods die, their souls are lost.
The soul, made up of the thousand collected souls of those who died in that God's name. They shatter into a billion fragments, one for each mortal who gave their life.
Ashes to ashes, dust to dust, soul to soul.
Shards of soul, shining dust in the air of the void, falling...falling back into the wheel of fate, falling back into the cycle of birth and rebirth. Rising up, falling down, soul over soul, God over God.
Over and over again.
When Gods die, their final cry echos in the minds of all mortals, a clarion call to those who know that even the damned have another chance to get it right.
Hear now the scream as one falls, broken and lost into the emptiness of the limbo he had consigned millions to.
Hear now the cry of the powerful now fallen, turned away from and forgotten.
Hear now the cry of the lord of Chaos, stealer of souls, as he falls, recalled only in the dusty pages of works of fiction, never in prayer, never in word, never even in curse.
Hear now the cry of Stormbringer.
The cry ringing in the ears of a newborn child, soul recycled and reborn.
A frail child held in the arms of proud parents.
A child surrounded by the bustle of a birthing ward.
A child with whisp-white hair, pale skin and bright, smiling scarlet eyes.
Good luck to you, my White Wolf.