A deer wanders quietly in a church in France.
“What is this place?” said Aabyryk.
“A church,” I answered.
“A temple? To what gods? To the Mother? To the Cousin Wind? To Sister Rain? There used to be so many of us, we ran through the skies, butting antlers with the stars themselves. We were full of glory, the power broke through us like rays of silver in a morning frost. One night, I argued with Earth over who was the strongest and kicked a great clod off him. That’s how the Moon was born. She was never an old god like us. We laughed at her, we howled.”
“We rarely manifest now. We sleep and we dream.”
I nodded at her, hoping to look understanding, sympathetic.
She snorted and stared at me, “I do not need your pity, fool. We will rise again. When this shiny world of trinkets you have made collapses, when you are back to the ashes and ruin you love so much…. you will worship us again. We will taste your children’s blood as sacrifice again.”