There's something to be said about basking in the destruction of a god. To see the immortal fall is to get a taste of it for yourself, a taste that will linger on your tongue and coat each word you speak. Until time loses itself.
Yang has never seen a god fall, but she has seen empires that believed themselves to be eternal crumble like ash, littering the Earth with their ruin. Such foolish souls. The more they resist their own fates, the tighter they seem to seal it.
She has seen the evolution of every creature, big and small. How they adapt to this world, so simple and young. The birth of jungles that man has yet to step foot in. Lost worlds reclaimed by nature, knitting over a forgotten past with their vines. The rise of each empire and how they destroy themselves before she can even blink- it's a cycle, as most things are.
Time seems to slip away so easily.
.
Yang's job in all of this is quite simple. To observe. Never act, never interfere. Resisting the urge to do something- anything- never gets easier, only grows familiar; just another thing to watch over.
It gets quite monotonous after a few million years. Until Blake.
.
In the slums, a woman stands incorporeal, ghost-like. Shoulders hunched like the air itself is weighing her down, smoke suffocates the sky above and her eyes harbour a weight a soul so young should never have known. As she wraps her arms around herself, it's clear she's trying to hold herself intact. Whole.
As time floats by, the overwhelming passion inside her makes itself known. It stays strong, despite it all. It blinds her to many things
At 23, Blake goes to her first protest, streets bustling with noise and it's the first time Yang has seen her look truly free. Midnight-black hair whips wildly around her in the wind, matching the determined glare in her eyes. As Yang watches on from a nearby rooftop, she reminisces on the many rebellions she has bore witness to in her time. They all sort of blur in her mind now, indistinguishable. Though none of them had Blake before. And Blake intrigues her in a way she hasn't been for eons.
How she wields purpose like a sword, teeth bared at the world. There is meaning behind every action she takes, there is care behind every word. Blake knows exactly who she is and what matters to her. All she does is act, defying everything she was told to be, doing everything that Yang is forbidden from. It is freeing to witness.
At 24, Blake meets a masked man with promises of revolution and justice. He is passionate for all the wrong things, but charm can disguise a lot. Yang knows how these things end and for once she can't bear to watch.
.
In the blink of an eye, Blake is 27. Blake is 27, a soul so young yet so beaten down. It is not right nor just and yet it happens anyway.
Yang has seen love in every form it can take. She has seen it and what Blake has is not love. It is cruel. This false love is one that has too many attached to its cold frame. Too many bodies painted black and blue, apologies uttered with a silver tongue. It is the wolf in sheep's clothing, the dastardly deception of it all.
.
One night as midnight strikes, the world holds its breath. An overstuffed bag hidden away is now on the back of a dead woman walking. Her footsteps are the only sound in the otherwise silent street as she slips away into the crisp air of the night.
But it never ends there, does it?
He follows her. Waits until the world blinks. Yang can't bear to watch, but this time she can't look away. Her chest aches.
.
It is not right nor just. Yet it happens anyway.
.
With wheezing breaths, Blake crumples against the brick wall, clutching the wound in her stomach, hands stained crimson. Her panicked gaze darts around the alley. Skin paling, body shaking. She doesn't even try to scream for help.
Yang has seen an infinity of life and death, a far-away concept that will stay forever unknown to her. Maybe it feels a little like this, watching helplessly as an inevitable creeps closer with a crooked grin. Death is less than a memory, but as the life withers away from Blake's eyes, she swears she can feel it crawling up her throat, prickling up her back. Whispering of sealed fates.
For the first time, a mortal's eyes lock onto Yang's own. Golden.
Hesitantly, she walks to her side, kneeling down. Their eyes stay locked, clinging to each other like an anchor. None of this is right. Blake’s grief wraps around her neck, a lifetime fading away from her. Yang can't bear to watch.
And she won't. Not this time.
No. You're not dying here, not now. Not like this.
Her voice breaks, clutching Blake's trembling hand, I- I won't let you.
Blood drips from her mouth.
.
In the blink of an eye, Yang stands in the hands of a weeping God. Skin made of black holes and dead stars. Hair that coils through time, never-ending. Her eyes contain everything and nothing, a paradox within the incomprehensible. God cries a river of silent tears.
You know you mustn't interfere with mortal lives.
God sounds alive. Her humanity is overwhelming, an uncanny valley.
I know.
Oh, my child,
her brow furrows, You know what this means for you, don't you?
I do.
Her lips quirk up into an awkward smile, Never liked being an observer much anyway.
God is brimming with a supernova of love as she plants a kiss to her temple.
Very well, then.
.
Yang wakes and feels as if the entire world has shrunk down around her, clinging to her now feeble form. All she feels is rot. With each breath she takes, she can feel the decay of her flesh. The smell of it taints the air.
(Beside her, Blake sits slumped against the alley wall, eyes closed.)
Lifetimes are running away. Forever is unfathomable. Her right arm is gone and Death's shadow lurks around the corner, waiting.
(Her soft breaths fill the air. Alive.)
This inevitable sees her for the first time. Yang knows, she knows what this means. The immortal has fallen, a price has been paid.
Mortality.
25 August 2025