Chapter Text
His steps are giddy with the dance of life. His voice refrains from singing, because he knows he is being watched. This is Bohan, a god of life. Moros, a first born god born seconds after the beginning, hides in shadows, soothing the hurt, seething with the unjust, and claiming all that lacks eternity, for eternity. His escape is a hopeless one. But still, he watches with awe and envy towards the living. This is Moros, a god of death.
Bohan and Moros were first born deities. Whether Bodhi or creation rose first, it cannot be said, but Moros the fated death rose after.
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Bohan, a first born god, walks among gardens and crosses gentle waters, every step he takes sprouts young greens and vibrant flowers. As he lifted his hand, a tree bursted from the ground, stretching its fresh leaves to the sun. Life flourished, and Bohan stepped to the tune.
“I know you're there,” Bohan casted a small smile at a presence, so light the shadows barely contorted to hint of someone's form.
“Why don’t you come out?” Bohan suggested.
“I don’t wish to ruin what you have created,” came the shadows reply.
“Fated End, I have long since learned to create things that can withstand your touch.”
Slowly, the air separated itself, and a figure clad in blacks stepped out. Feathers lined the neck of a cloak, making him appear bigger than he really was, and simple patterns that lined the edges of his clothes. He walked to the shade of the tree, perhaps finding comfort in its shadow or its singularity.
“So, Death,” a playful smile alighted on Bohan's face, “What brings you to my realm? An omen of sorts?” He stopped a bit closer to where Moros the Death had seated himself beneath the tree.
“Don’t,” Moros replied.
Bohan halted. “I see.”
The ground around Moros had turned decayed, the grass wilted and brown. “It seems even nature fears you,” Bohan said with a sympathetic smile. “Do not worry though, I am quite capable of being in your presence.” Bohan folded his arms, observing the scene in front of him.
Moros noted, “Like this tree?”
Bohan couldn’t quite tell if the other was being sarcastic or not. “But, that tree is dead.”
Moros looked up, seeing the once healthy wood stripped of its vitality. A breeze carried away the leaves' ashes. Death looked at Life with a blank face, not having the heart to hold contempt for his lie.
“You invited me.”
“And you were spying on me.”
After a beat of silence, Death stood up. The raven feathers that trimmed his clocked shifted hues in the light. “Forgive me. I merely wondered and wanted to ask what your plans for this realm were.”
Bohan could tell Moros was itching to leave, but decided to keep him there for a moment longer. “Well, I was thinking of adding a waterfall over there, and introducing some animals to this place.
Death's eyebrows furrowed. “Where you go, I go.”
“Of course. And everywhere you are, I follow. Don’t feel bad for the critters, I know you take good care of them.” Even as Bohan said this, he felt a slight stab of bitterness. “It's a small price for the joy of living,” he added, more to himself.
“Hm.”
Bohan felt a touch of defensiveness, “What, what are you humming about?”
“I was just thinking they’ll have a joyful life indeed, residing in this domain you’ve scratched into existence.”
Bohan breathed in deeply, “You’re too kind. I do what I can against decay. And yet-” Bohan paused, “I do enjoy your company.”
“Your juxtaposes continue to befuddle me.” Moros noted, not unkindly. “Its been good to see you.”
Bohan smiled, knowing this was Death's cue for his departure.
“Come back soon, alright? You needn’t wait months. But perhaps you could announce your arrival next time,” he teased.
Moros hummed in acknowledgment. With no sure agreement he tore a rift into the air and left, the last traces of him being this cloak as it followed into the void behind him.
After a moment, Bohan began to hum a tune again, as he shared the energy of his abundant essence into his surroundings. The place where Moros stood filled with poppies, and the decay soothed over, fresh sprouts healing the ground at Bohans attention. Bohan continued his stroll,
leaving behind cheerful dandelions, clovers, and a hollow tree.
It had been many moons since Bohan had seen the elusive death god. Bohan slowly came to the realization that if he wished to see him again, he would have to visit Moros himself. He stared into space while standing in one of his many gardens. A vain hope appeared in his mind. Maybe Moros would attend the upcoming council meeting. Perhaps not. He huffed. Despite Moros having a high seat in the council, he rarely attended. Such insolence only served to uphold his lofty detached image.
Bohan scoffed and shook himself out of his thoughts. Moros and him may be connected by their roles as life and death, but it did not excuse his behavior. Bodhi dipped a bucket into the water. Excuse who's behavior? His and my own. My own idealization of him and his disrespect. Bohan tossed the water out over the top of the plants, stilling the droplets fall to gently splash over the leaves. He then tossed the bucket into the grass. Simple tools conserved energy and kept him humble, but Bohan had energy to spare. With a fluid twist of his wrist, the waters rose out of the fount and sprayed over the remaining flowerbeds. He had made a choice.
Moros wanders the earth and his realm. He stooped to lift an elderly man, the tired soul too weak to fight for his pride. Moros let his sympathy wash over the man. At long last, the soul didn't have to keep up his image of strength. Death would bear his final and finest moments. The man's youth returned, accompanied by a wise smile. Glad was the day when a soul was willing to pass.
As the glow of the man's spirit slipped into the beyond, Moros turned and was met with a floating envelope. He plucked it from the air. On the seal bore the god of life's symbol, a tree with a fish woven in the branches. Moros broke the seal. The letter read: Highly esteemed god of death,
If I may be so familiar, Moros,
I, Bohan, would like to personally invite you to attend the upcoming council meeting. Your simple presence enhances the quality of our gatherings. I believe it is due to you having a way of bringing promptness and clarity.
-God of Life, Bohan.
Moros stared at the letter, face passive. Without much thought, he tossed the paper into the wind. On second thought, before the letter had time to land, he turned it to ash. On third thought, he wished he kept the letter. What an odd being Bohan was.
Moros finds himself back and Bohans realm, suddenly uncertain. Was he going to ask for a copy of the letter? It was a trivial letter, not of great importance. What did it matter?
“Do you plan on brooding in the corner the entire day?” The lively god asks.
Moros flinches, knowing he's been caught. He materializes out of the shadows, turning the plants in near proximity brittle and brown. "I apologize for my intrusion," Moros speaks.
Bohan glances briefly at the dead plants."Oh, don't worry about it. Just remember to knock next time," he chirps.
A ghost of a smile passed over his face. "On the metaphorical door?"
"Of course. It's generally good practice to announce your presence instead of watching in corners."
Moros doesn't miss a beat, "I am deeply sorry. My intentions are my own, but I can assure you they were not ill, only misguided. I will take my leave."
“Come back and I’ll consider you forgiven.”
Moros’ face twitches. “Farewell.”
“Farewell. Oh, but do promise me one thing.”
Moros paused, his finger lingering in the air where he intended to draw a rift. He looked back in silent question.
“Visit me within the season. I’ll call it even between us.”
Death nods curtly. Bohan watches as Moros steps into the space between the sky and disappears.
Bohan let out a low whistle after Moros’ departure. Every god had a similar method of travel, but he thought few had the same factor of grandiose. It caused him an itch to travel and flaunt his own skills.
Another moon passed. Bohan walks into the great halls, and through the tall columns that pave the entrance to the round building. Inside the innermost room are seats that circle a small center platform. Few gods were on the counsel, but the large room is uncrowded but full; a testament to the self importance and numbers the gods possess. Bohan holds his head high and seats himself on the top row. The seats were assigned by role or title, not by name. This prevents the most conflicts, but easily starts new ones. How petty some of Bohans colleagues were, bickering over who got the highest seat. Small but polite chatter gently fills the space.
The council meeting begins, and the chatter fades into formal exchanges of power and influence. Topics of creation and destruction dominate the conversation, but Bohan’s curiosity causes his mind to wander, as it always does when Moros lingers in his thoughts. He smiles to himself, looking around at the other gods in attendance, each caught up in their own fleeting dramas. He was hardly different in a sense. It seemed the Death god would not be appearing.
Bohan leans forward, resting his chin in his palm, lost in thought. But then, as if summoned by his very musings, the air shifts again. A cold draft sweeps through the room. The gods pause mid-conversation, looking around, sensing something different. The tall doors to the council room creak open, and there Moros stands. He wears the same unchanging attire. Raven feathers around the top of a cloak, large beaded necklaces, thai pants, and slight frown. The room falls silent. Even the usual bickering gods turn their heads in surprise. Moros stands in the doorway for a moment. He doesn’t need to say a word to hold the room’s attention.
Moros walks through the room, not bothering to hurry, despite being slightly late. He sits without ceremony, claiming his place at the rings. The contrast between their positions in the room could not be more stark: Bohan, bright and lively, always pushing against the borders of life’s boundaries, and Moros, calm, reserved, and unyielding as the inevitable force of death.
Moros, ever silent, only offers him a brief nod before the council proceedings resume.
Bohan meets his gaze across the room, his smile slipping just slightly. At one point, Bohan leans back in his seat. Moros’ presence alone was enough to keep some gods from speaking as freely as they usually would, their words more measured under his quiet scrutiny. Perhaps Bohan could afford to relax.
His gaze flicks to Moros once more, and this time, Moros meets it fully. There is no amusement in his expression, only the same steady gaze that always seems to strip things down to their barest truth.
Moros speaks rarely. When he does, his words are clear and weighted.
And the weight is often heavy, and dismissive. They are words that point out the futility of arguing over such minor and inconsequential topics. The others listen, carefully hiding their reactions, but Bohan clenches his jaw. There’s no room for the gods of life in this dialogue. It’s all about the inevitability of endings, and the words hit Bohan like an unspoken accusation.
How can one god represent life if there is no room for hope, for growth? he wonders.
Bohan’s voice is light but sharp as he speaks, directed entirely at Moros. “You speak of pointlessness, but does it not strike you as pointless, Moros? Sitting here, speaking of endings as though there’s nothing more to be done?” The room grows quiet at his challenge, but Moros remains unfazed.
Moros’s response comes slowly, measured, as though he’s considering each word carefully before allowing it to leave his lips. “All things end, and life forgets. Somethings are not worth spending time on.” he says, his voice as calm as ever, devoid of the emotion Bohan’s words have stirred. The room seems to grow colder with each syllable, the weight of death in his tone undeniable. “You know this, Bohan, as well as anyone.” His eyes lock with Bohan’s, deep and unyielding. "What you create is beautiful, yes. But it will wither."
“So you’d have us do nothing then?” His words come out sharper than intended, a challenge echoing through the space. “Just stand idly by and watch everything crumble, knowing that nothing lasts?” He knows Moros is the god of death, that his very existence demands endings, but Bohan can’t stop himself from pushing.
Moros leans slightly forward, the faintest glimmer of something in his gaze. “I offer balance,” he says softly, his words cutting through the air with quiet authority. “Without death, life would mean nothing. It is my duty to ensure that life’s fleeting beauty does not become the curse of eternity.” He pauses, his eyes narrowing ever so slightly. “You give them life, Bohan, but you forget that it is through death that their lives have meaning. Without endings, there can be no beginnings.”
Bohan’s chest tightens, “You have your balance, Moros,” he says, his voice low and controlled. “But I won’t give up on life’s potential, no matter how inevitable death might be.” There’s no more challenge in his voice, only the quiet determination that has defined his existence for eons.
The council proceedings continue, but the other gods seem hesitant, unsure of how to proceed after such an exchange. Moros remains unmoved, his expression as passive as ever. No one had gained anything today, but the conversation was far from over. Bohan suddenly worries Moros would grow tired of it. Thankfully, Moros does not leave early. The meeting eventually concludes, gods dispersing in groups or alone, their voices rising again as they step away from the formalities of council etiquette. Moros moves to leave without a word, but Bohan is faster, catching up just as Moros steps through one of the great archways leading out.
Bohan walks over to him as he stands. “You came.”
Moros nods. “I did. I admire your perseverance. Someone is needed with a level head.”
Bohan nods back, curtly. “I expect further conversation.”
Moros almost seems amused. “I do not owe you explanations. You already know them.”
“Then as payment, for trespassing.”
Moros stiffens slightly. “I see. The season has not yet ended.”
Bohan feels a touch of satisfaction. At least the god remembered Bohans request.