The dishonored god

He waited. He was still as a great willow: his limbs gently swaying as branches in the faint suggestion of wind. So he wasn't really still, but he tried to be. That was all he had done in this life, tried. Tried to be a better son. Tried to be a better god. And now, he tried to be still, but even that he couldn't muster.

The shadows chittered. They were small and long whips of inky darkness. Like snakes they coiled around him, welcoming him into their domain. There was a warmth to them. A warmth that Obsidian had never known before. A god was not supposed to like shadows. Obsidian dipped his neck low to the ground, his labored breath the only sound that could be heard in the Void. He fixated on it, focusing his eyes and his mind on the darkness. It was a warped sound, an awful, heavy sound. It was his pain. The pain of an abandoned god. The pain of a rejected god. And the pain of a dishonored son.

The shadows did not reject his pain. They drank up his tears, they coaxed his jarring breath. They gave lift to his wings and showed him his new realm.

A god doesn't indulge in shadows. Obsidian whispered to himself as the Void unraveled beneath him. A god is a being of light. That was his father's grating voice now.

Obsidian slowed. He finally stilled. He supposed he wasn't a god then, not anymore.