In the beginning, they say, there was nothing.

Perhaps this is in fact a truth. Too many theologies suggest that light came from darkness, or land from water, or solid from the void, to discount the notion entirely. Still, such a notion creates more questions than it resolves. If there was nothing, from whence came the water? Did God call Him, Her, or It self into existence, and how did it manage this feat? Or, if such a being was already present in the darkness and the void, how it can be said that there was nothing? Is God not something?

Fortunately, this is not the story of that beginning. Not in itself, at least, though we must make reference to it; for it does have its role to play.

At any rate, land had long since been called from the water, and man shaped from clay and tears, and woman drawn from man. Thank you for getting that thorn out of my side, Creator, Man said; to which the Creator replied, No problem.

The idea that there was but one Creator and one set of Creations was a terrible but deliberate oversight. In those days, when the world was well-established yet still fresh, there were many gods and many races of men. Even among the humans, there were many lines, and none could be traced back to a single point of origin.

In truth, it was not so different then from now - in a way, we are closer to those times than we have been in many an eon. Children were born, grew up, and had children of their own. There were wars, of course - as there have always been - and their bases were the same: Land, women, religion. Often, when the wars ended, the conquered would be assimilated into the culture that had proven victorious - and, over time, that culture would itself fall beneath another. And so it went.

Then came Getu.

Getu, the Great God. Getu, the One God.

Getu had been at the beginning, and just as his brethren, had shaped something from his share of the nothing and set his children upon it. He was a prideful and jealous being, though, and as he watched the other nations flourish, grew consumed with wrath; for he felt that he was due the attention and glory given the gods of those lands. Were his creations not the greatest? Were they not made in his own image? Was his portion of the planet not fruitful and green, and did not animals of all colours and sizes graze upon it? Surely, the heathens of the deserts and the scrub must recognize his power!

But they did not, for they had their own gods, and their gods had power as well.

Getu summoned his followers, and as they gathered around him, spoke thusly:

I am Getu. I am the Great One, and the Only One. Those who claim to be the gods of these foreign lands are naught but demons; liars and manipulators who seek to cover the world in darkness and return it to the void. You must rise up, my children, and smite them, lest you be pulled down as well.

Getu's children heard his words, and believing them blindly, strode out through the gates of the garden and struck down the enemies of their god. Men, women, and mewling babes; all were slaughtered without mercy. Those who managed to escape the massacre fled, but the armies of Getu pursued them endlessly, driving them to the very ends of the earth. They cried out to their Creators, begging intercession and salvation, but their Creators did not respond. At last, with nowhere left to run, they abandoned their ties to the solid world and sought sanctuary in the mists that bordered the void. There, they were able to see what was not visible through mortal eyes: Their gods had not answered their pleas because their gods were no more. As Getu's children had waged war on earth, so had his host in heaven hurled themselves en masse at those who had once been his kin. Power succumbed to number, and the Many were first forced from the Holy Sky, then cut down on the barren lands below.

Broken and bloody, the once-beautiful bodies of the Many Gods became little more than litter blighting the world now ruled solely by Getu, who washed the stains of his war away via a great flood. When the waters receded, only his chosen creations remained upon the land.

As millennia came and went, the true story of Getu's ascension was lost - not only to time, but to deception. Those who had witnessed the events for themselves soon died, and history became warped by its passage from one mouth to another. Getu himself set down an alternate version of the tale; told not by his own tongue, but by the hands of those few who were privileged to hear him whisper directly into their ears.

In the beginning, Getu said, there was only me.

And so it went.

Magic, too, was lost to the mortal host - with no gods to call on to provide the power, and the beings who had been most fully of it hiding in the borderlands between one world and the next, it - and they - faded to legend, and were nearly forgotten. Over the course of the years, the braver of the beings in the mist ventured out to seek the tombs of their gods; the places where the flood-washed bodies had come to rest. During these expeditions, they were occasionally glimpsed by man, and myth and folklore would spring up anew. Eventually, though, the furor would die down, and life would go on much as it had since Getu had taken over.

So long did it go on that even Getu tired of it. Descending to earth, he covered a mortal woman and produced a son; and that son, in time, became the focal point of the affection and worship previously allotted solely to Getu. More tolerant than his father, the world became a safer place for the old ways, and the mist-children began to cross the border more often and more blatantly than ever before; sharing their secrets with those who would listen.

Getu's wrath was renewed, and one day, Getu came again - save that this time, he purged the world not of those who failed to honour him, but those whose devotion was the fiercest. Swept into the heavens, they watched as Getu and his host scoured the earth; tearing land asunder and churning the seas. It was a time of terror and misery, of fire and storms, of death and great destruction.

Once the Great One was satisfied that his power was known, he took his son, his host, and those granted salvation by his own hand, and sealed them up in a new world; leaving this one to heathen mortals and the children of the old gods. Lost and unguided, they wept; and in the wake of tears, spent long hours debating what could be done.

Many a sacred rite was performed, but the old gods could not be revived. At last, one who had been cast from the priesthood of Getu for his lustful sins asked, What of transubstantiation?

Transubstantiation? said the mist-children. What is this?

Under the guidance of the Kheiros, the son of Getu, the priest replied, we took his body and blood into ourselves, and so became as he. What if we perfomed such an act with the old gods?

The mist-children considered this, and at last agreed that it might well work. The old gods might not be renewed, but new gods would be born. Who, though, would be the new gods? How could such an honour be decided?

I want it, said one. I was the first-created. It is my birthright!

You will misuse it! cried another. I know you! You are a trickster and a thief! Let someone whose hands are clean of blood have it!

Even the mortal races laid claim to the right of godhood, accusing the mist-children of harboring demons and monsters. At last, each who thought he deserved it more than the next seized a piece of his god and pulled, tearing the bodies asunder. Some devoured their share immediately, and as the powers of the old gods took hold, wreaked a swift and terrible vengence on those who had opposed them. Others crept away to feast in solitude. A few, seeing what effect the flesh of gods had on those who fed upon it, bore away what they could of the remaining bodies and scattered them over the earth once more. This is not a power man should have, they said, be he mortal or man of the mists. It is too late to prevent some gods from rising, but perhaps we can see that no others perform the rite.

Yet, in the end, the world did not become the scene of endless carnage some had prophesized. The new gods briefly warred, then drifted off to find lands and followers. Their followers, too, warred, but that in itself was nothing new - it had, after all, been occurring since solid divorced the void. Nations rose and fell; and in them, children were born, grew up, and had children of their own. Creatures of magic roamed freely as they had in the days before Getu, and as millennia came and went, some even forgot there had been a Getu at all. The world was as it had been in the beginning. The only difference was that man now knew he could become a god. Even those who had not managed to receive enough of a deity's body to earn a place among the pantheon had gleaned from their acts some powers, and others soon learned that by killing these individuals and partaking of the bodies, they could gain those powers for themselves. The greatest transfer of ability came through feasting upon the heart, but lesser traits could be earned from other types of flesh. The rite was a distasteful and at times even dangerous one, for there were bloodlines that could twist their bearer into a creature of pure darkness; but for some, the rewards far outweighed the costs.

And so, the world has gone on since then. Getu has not returned, though the scars left in his wake remain. Torn from their ancient masses and surrounded by the Great Seas, the island continents drift; endlessly, aimlessly, and stained with the blood of fallen gods.

Asunder - The World of Déchiré

Text © 1999-Present, Scarlet Seraph.