The Tower of Glass

It stood, deep in the desert, where men would be foolish to wander, formed from the land itself. It cut as deep into the earth as it stretched into the sky, transparent and rough hewn and cruel. It’s construction was a cruelty, its purpose remained so. It was the home of the dead, whose stories waited again to be written. It was not imagined alongside of Agora but after it, in haste. A solution to a problem, chains and manacles wrapped forcibly across all of the world. Now it loomed in the backs of the minds of all, a grim foreboding for mortals, a secret shame for the Gods.

Hesh stood outside, thick cloak doing little to shield his skin from the wind whipped sand, his waterskin empty, his hope all but diminished. He looked up at the bodies, limitless, frozen, stuck in their tiny rooms. The bodies looked back at him, at least the ones lucky enough to be waiting above the surface. The door opened of its own accord, the air cooled as he made his way inside. His steps echoed on the clear glass floor, the pit stretched out beneath him filling him with vertigo. He walked past a soldier with an axe buried in his skull, the soldier gave him a friendly nod. A woman, old enough to be his great grandmother became young and beautiful in an instant. He walked past a baby, who gave him the same friendly nod as the soldier.

In the center of the tower, the glass gave way imperceptibly to air. Hesh stepped out into it without realizing. His stomach lept near out his throat as he fell. His arms swung wildly, but before he had time to lose his balance the floor rose up to meet him. It carried him upwards into the sky. This was good. It was here that he would find Oteph, or as they called him in his village, the Unmaker. He had come to ask for his favor. If he was denied… He his shaking fingers clenched the knife tucked in the folds of the thick fabric wrapped around him, no better shield from the cold air than it had been from the sand.

Hesh frowned down at the brown water in front of him. “Did you make it right?” He asked.

“Yes! It’s supposed to look like that.” Tetiana’s young eyes gleamed with anticipation, proud of what she had learned. He took a wary sip.

“Is it supposed to crunch?” Hesh asked with a frown. Her face fell. Hesh was a good man and a better father, and the burden of each meant that he would always feel the weight of his mistakes more than the lift of his successes. He had meant it as a joke, and yet he’d destroyed the pride of someone just learning to make her way in the world. He took notice of all the things she had gotten right. The temperature was perfect, warming the soul, without burning the mouth. It smelled aromatic and earthy and rich. It tasted smooth and just a bit sweet. It set his body quiverring in a way that made him feel as though he could till a whole field by himself.

“Come here, Teti,” he said, and he told her all those things, kindling the almost extinguished flame within her. He could see it burning, but not as bright. He cursed himself, silently, so she would not hear, and sent her outside to play. Then he chewed the rest of his coffee. It’s really not half bad. He thought.

He watched her through the window, as she crawled beneath the beanpoles. She still looked sad. At two points she looked back toward the house and bit her finger, wondering if she should come back inside. Go, girl. Be brave. Have an adventure. Be young while you are young. He thought. She saw a honeybee and her eyes grew wide. She watched it buzz and float, her face inches from it, her mouth wide. Hesh smiled and turned away.

The house shook. The plaster cracked. A loud moaning sound filled the air. Hesh looked out the window. The beanpoles were gone. Teti was gone. The bee remained, hovering in the air, as confused as he was. He ran outside. A ravine as deep as the crust of the earth had opened up, two steps from his door. Above him, Theorin, God of light, son of the father, hovered in the air, nursing his jaw, with a smile.

“Come on, you can his harder than that.” Theorin said, his voice echoed and warped the air. He flew off, back toward whichever God he was fighting.

Hesh looked down at the boiling lake far beneath him, and back up to the ruin where his had town used to be. The bee buzzed faintly. There was no other sound.

The glass platform slowed and came to a stop. Hesh, who had crouched down to steady himself against it, built up the courage to stand. Oteph waited down the hall, his face half bathed in shadow. What little was known of the Gods was mostly myth and hearsay. Hesh knew this. Stories grew in scale every time they were told again. Bards in search of a free meal and a bed to sleep on knew well that tales of the Gods oft bought both, and so those they did not have, they created. The world was old and the Gods were older still, but all who spoke of Oteph spoke of him as kind. He ruled over the domain of death, and gave lost souls new purpose. It was a tireless job, and he had done it for as long as Agora itself had memory.

Hesh clenched his hand around the hilt of the knife and stepped forward. His footsteps rang like bellstrokes against the glass floor. Oteph watched him approach with silent and careful regard. He did not know at first who this man was or what his purpose was for coming. Many passed through the Tower, and even more mourned their loss. Their tragedies weighed on him in aggregate, but in isolation they were a blur. This was an easy enough problem to solve and by the time Hesh was close enough for a conversation, the whole of his life had been laid out before Oteph: his hardship, his goodness, his love.

“Bring her back.” Hesh said, and Oteph mourned for him, but said nothing.

“Bring her back.” Hesh repeated, voice quaking.

“I cannot.” Oteph said, and the truth and the humility of his words stopped Hesh in his tracks.

“But you are a God.” Hesh said, eyes wet with tears.

Oteph cried with him. “I know. There are some things even Gods cannot do. I’m sorry.”

“But you are the Unmaker.” Hesh said, “This is what you do.”

Oteph could hear in the protestation that Hesh already felt the truth of his words. His defeat filled the room with sorrow.

Oteph approached and laid a weary hand on the man’s hunched shoulder. Hesh drew the knife. It glinted in the refracted light of the desert sun. He glared toward Oteph, his face a mask of pain and fury. Oteph raised an eyebrow. “What do you intend to do with that?” He asked. There are some things that Gods cannot do, but not many. A knife was not a meaningful threat, but the grief and logic are not the closest of sisters, and despite his power, Oteph still didn’t much care for the feeling of being stabbed. Hesh’s hands shook. “Please. Bring her back to me.” He mouthed again. Oteph shook his head, feeling more tired than he had in the last thousand years.

Hesh jammed the knife into his own throat. Blood spurted from the wound and he let out a pained gurgle. He fell to his knees as the vertigo from the sudden loss overwhelmed him. His sand-drenched coat turned dark red as it soaked up the liquid. He stared up at Oteph. “Then bring me back… to her.” Hesh said, before he lost consciousness. Oteph watched the life fade from Hesh’s eyes. That, my friend, I can do. He thought.

Ota frowned down at the brown water in front of her. “Did you make it right?” She asked.

“Yes! It’s supposed to look like that.” Bo’s young eyes gleamed with anticipation, proud of what he had learned. She took a wary sip.

“Is it supposed to crunch?” Ota asked with a frown. Bo’s face fell.