My time will come.
Salas knew it better than anyone. Once a true immortal; elevated into their ranks by the will of the divine. . . only to be cast down into the shadows. But as wretched as morality was, it was not without its benefits. Building up his power in secret for over a millennium, soon he would reclaim what he had lost so long ago. The immortals turned their noses at him, so sure he would never rise from the shadows. A single man against the heavens, alone forevermore, he would never trust again. Trust had led to his crippling, trust had led to betrayal, trust had led him to here, a barren wasteland: miles of dark, arid marsh beneath an ashen-colored sky.
With his accumulated varya, he could take the immortals by surprise. And then cripple them as they did to him. No, that would never work. He needed to be discreet. But scheming and tricks would not work against immortals, neither would brute force. A gnawing question ate at him, was the immortals aware of his plots and machinations? He certainly would have taken no notice of a mortal prisoner during his time as an immortal. . . but Salas was a unique case; he was the only immortal to be stripped of his divinity.
Mired in his thoughts, Salas did not notice air tearing in two behind him. A figure cloaked in white stepped out. The figure in white slid up beside Salas, his facial features masked by a varya-weaving. Resisting the urge to call upon his reserves of varya, Salas turned and bowed, his jaw clenched. An emissary, Salas thought, allowing a sardonic smile to slip through his emotionless mask. In his glory days, the emissary would be the one bowing and scraping, not the other way around.
"Salas," the emissary said. "The One Cast Down." Salas heard no mockery nor intent to insult behind the emissary's voice. He said it as a matter of fact. Salas, the One Cast Down.
"What does the Pantheon require of me?" Salas inquired.
The white-robed man drew his chin up. "Salas, the One Cast Down, you are absolved of all crimes and hereby exiled to the mortal realms," he proclaimed. "As a final act of mercy, the pathetic amount of varya you have gathered will be allowed to remain in your possession."
Eyes wide, Salas stared into the varya-masked face of the emissary. He began to giggle. Soon those giggles erupted into raucous laughter, tears snaking down his sunken cheeks. What a fool he had been! A fool to think one could ever rebel against immortals. He should've known better; he had been one himself.
Salas grinned. "I was careful, so, so, so very careful," he muttered. "How did they know? No, a silly question. If they knew, why did they not stop me? No, another silly question. Why release me to the mortal realm? I don't understand."
"There is much you do not yet understand," the emissary said coldly. "And there will be things you never will understand; however, know this, you are free for a reason."
"Reason? Yes. . . reason," Salas whispered, scratching at his scalp. "Always a reason."
The emissary waved his hand, and a blinding pillar of pure-white varya erupted from the ground beside Salas, who was sent scrambling back, his hands held out in front of him as if to ward away the light.
"Divine varya," Salas hissed.
"What you have lost may be regained," the emissary said softly.
Salas perked his head. "What I have lost. . . may be regained?" Salas asked, his gaze growing distant. "What I have lost. . . may be regained?" he asked once more. He dropped to his knees and began to crawl towards the emissary. "What I have lost may be regained!
"What must I do?" Salas sputtered, groveling at the emissary's boots.
With a disgusted snarl, the emissary kicked his hands away. "The mortal realms have languished in peace far too long. It is time for war to be waged once more, for blades to be sharpened and arrows to be fletched," the emissary said. "A war that will burn away all that stands, leaving nothing but the ashes. And from those ashes, heroes must rise for what is to come."
Salas nodded eagerly. "Yes, yes," he said. "Heroes I can forge, war I can wage, the flames of war shall burn the world away."
"Go," the emissary commanded, a slender finger pointed towards the pillar of light. "Bring doom upon all the worlds."
Salas rose to his feet, trembling from an indescribable emotion. He glanced back at the emissary, who waved him on, then at the pillar. Finally, he stepped foot in the pillar, the light consuming him.
Salas glimpsed his life. What he had been, and what he would become. A god, a warrior, a king, and a husband and father. Divine varya coursed through his veins, wisps of light leaking from his eyes and mouth. He looked up, and then he was elsewhere.
. . .
He stood on a beaten path, the moon peering down on the earth at full face. Grasslands surrounded him, the rolling hills stretching out as far as the eye could see. Threads of varya forming around his lonely figure, he scanned the grasslands for any sign of life. There. Twenty miles from his position was a small farmhouse.
Salas smiled; the divine's own luck was with him today.
Taking a deep breath of the fresh air, he slowly exhaled. What I have lost may be regained. And with that thought echoing his mind, he took his first step into the mortal realms.