Long ago, few things displeased the gods more than the absence of fear. Sweet fear. Addictive as any treat, maybe too much of it had finally broken the spell and the gods had grown complacent. The wavering effect had slipped past them. Erosion in the power of fear had grown exponential and before they knew it, the fear had faded to a mere whisp of anxiety.
Perhaps laziness played a roll. Interventions had waned. No longer did they change the direction of the rise and set of the sun. No longer did cosmic cataclysms fulfill prophesies. Battlefields no longer swayed under heavenly influence. No more answered prayers, consequential to the decrease in the practice. Why ask for mercy from those for whom you have no fear?
But do the gods care? Why would they even bat an eye? For with immortality comes the loss of novelty, the loss of desire. The gods have no need of worship or worshipers. The gods lie dormant because they have exhausted their love for infinity. They have lost their taste for fear.
Chrysalis, a growing collection of very short fiction.
That Night Filled Mountain
episodes post daily. Paperback editions are available.
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Unless noted, all pics credited to Skitz O'Fuel.