Gods To Wisps

Three thousand years ago, the Heavenly Realm banished three unruly gods out of its sacred expanse.

Legend has it that those unruly gods waged endless wars, apathetic to the cavalries they commanded, and thoughtlessly wreaked havoc over petty squabbles—causing their clans' copious casualties. Having no more of their shenanigans, the Heavenly Emperor, himself, banished all three of them to the Mortal Realm. Heralding their fall, the skies exploded in a thunderous roar, daunting the creatures across realms as lightning jagged scars across the firmament. The Heavenly Emperor decreed the three provocateurs to repent for a thousand years. Not as mortals or gods, but as wisps. Useless, forlorn, mere whispers of the wind—wisps.

Immediately after banishment, the three wisps split the map, spitting wispy lights to one another, cursing, and vowing never to cross paths again, or at least until the end of their sentences.

A thousand years passed, however, and the three wisps maintained their useless forms. The designated pardon from the Heaven Realm never came. Perhaps their repentance fell short within the divine criteria, so the heavens dismissed their amnesty. Unsurprising—given they weren't close to repenting during those good centuries.

Lucius, the unruliest of the three, squandered his first millennium wandering around the Mortal Realm before descending to the Spirit Realm. His initial plan to vent his "misfortune" towards mortals was uprooted during an attempt to frighten a young mortal on a chilly autumn night, during the Feast of Wraiths. Outside the small shack deep in the woods, the small girl sat alone on a rattan chair, her parent's attention focused on preparing for dinner. Unvigilant, alone, and weak—she embodied the perfect victim.

Lucius flicked in excitement. With his wispy body, he zoomed through the young girl's hand, brushing past her inky pigtails, intending to smack the candy apple off her grasp. But upon gazing back, Lucius realized he had passed through those small fingers like a soft wind! Her small fingers remained tightly wound around the candy apple.

Like a squeeze of lemon to an already sour mood, a flagrant chuckle came from a short distance. It conjured Lucius' attention. Hovering by the eaves of that small shack, a spirit akin to him in form watched in amusement. Fortunately, the only witness to his botched cruelty was a mere wisp. But Lucius asserted this spirit was once a mortal that had passed—and he was once a god, banished yet bound to reascend. Both were wisps, but they were not in the same league.

A lowly spirit dare berate me?! Preposterous! Aggravated, a reddish glow erupted from Lucius' golden core.

Yet, the lowly spirit approached willfully, undeterred by his glare. Had Lucius been in his immortal form, his glare would have terrified an entire army of immortals to its knees. Sadly, in his pathetic form, what he evoked from other wisps was sympathy, not fear.

As the spirit droned close enough to brush winds with Lucius, a friendly glow emanated from its faint core. "Ahoy! I see ya just died, eh, mate?" It spun around Lucius, keenly inspecting the novice wisp. It had wandered as a spirit for a century but had never met a wisp with a golden core. This wisp must have saved a country before its death! It thought. Keen interest apparent in its beeline movement. "Aya! Yer a special one, aren't ya? Ya look strong, but if ya want to do things here, eh, ya need practice. I know a guy. He can teach ya!"

Lucius humphed. No way in the nastiest crevice of the Demon Realm would he seek help from this insolent spirit.

Naturally, wisps can recognize expressions from their fellow wisps. Taking notice of the disinterest in Lucius' smug expression, the insolent spirit sprung into action. It conjured a burst of energy, and its core doubled in size. With a quick zoom, it flew toward the poor girl and successfully thwacked the candy apple off her hands. The apple rolled on the dirt with a scroooooch before coming to a stop.

Impressed, Lucius reverted his gaze back to the insolent spirit that now beamed with pride. "Amazing, eh? Watchu think? Wanna come with me, ah?" Lucius nodded fervidly, tossing his godly pride on the hard ground. Thus, the insolent spirit led the way, two wisps zooming past the moon's full beam, leaving a poor, candy-less girl in a pool of her own tears, her pitiful wails chorused with the grievances of vengeful spirits on that eve of the Feast of Wraiths.

Caelum, the naughtiest of the bunch, took his time to gossip among the mortals, observing mundane tasks, and especially enjoying activities performed on closed doors. To 'learn more', he put his invisibility into good use. Once, a nobleman, all dressed in white, pristine and gentlemanly in nature, visited a common bookstore. He brought home with him several books, all scholarly but one. Caelum had waited some time for someone to take that one book off the shelves—his keen sense told him its story was a masterpiece, and he followed the scholar home.

On the streets, the scholar posed as a gentleman, and greeted everyone he knew with courtesy. But once he'd slid the doors of his chambers shut, his true colors premiered. Caelum hovered on the gentleman's shoulder. Sweaty-palmed, the scholar flipped the book open, his eyes immediately enraptured by the colorful acts depicted in the book. Caelum buzzed in agreement. This book was indeed interesting. It was worth the wait, and Caelum applauded the scholar for his good choice. They both learned a lot on that read.

Riven, the innocent one caught in the strife, spent his years lounging around areas rich in spiritual essence. He meditated in caves to maintain a peaceful mind, frolicked in springs to nourish his spirit, and flew with the butterflies to boost plant growth in fields of herbs and flowers—metamorphosing his punishment into a heavenly granted vacation. He enjoyed his time alone in paradise. Without the two troublemakers who had been pestering him his entire life, life had never been better.

Weren't those two he'd rather not name the cause of his downfall?

Unlike Caelum and Lucius, who both dabbled in the burgundies of war, Riven excelled in medicine. If not the best, he was one of the greatest doctors in the Heavenly Realm, a prodigy at birth. Whenever the two cunts fought over who was stronger and mightier, several thousands of immortals ended up wounded. Riven, in his forte, was too good at his job, healing all their wounds with godly speed. One minute, the wounded immortals were bleeding and barely breathing, and the next, they were as good as new—capable of fighting and being wounded again.

"Good lord, can you..." A soldier housed between life and death once struggled to get a few words out of his busted lips, his foot already set into the underworld, "not heal me today?"

Riven was stoic. How dare a half-dead patient demand death from a doctor? He stilled his face, and with a bitter voice, replied. "Tomorrow you'll be dead." With swift hands, Riven shoved a brown pill past the soldier's lips, pressing it deep against his throat to ensure he swallowed. "Your wounds are too insignificant to tarnish my reputation."

Riven was a perfectionist of a doctor—if not a lunatic. No one had ever died under his care, and he had no intention of breaking that record. This immortal's injuries were hardly worth concern: just a gash across his chest, the length of an arm, a stab wound deep enough to pierce his guts, and a bludgeoned skull. Nothing extraordinary. To Riven, patching him up was routine.

The torturous cycle went on. Caelum and Lucius would clash; Riven would handle the casualties, and the casualties, all-healed but with no time to rest, will be called on to war again. He was simply too good at his job. But he was blameless. The fault lay with the unruly gods who waged endless wars; he was merely doing his duty. Their banishment, he believed, was nothing more than his well-earned vacation.

Thus, all three fell short on repentance.

When the third millennium dawned, a millennium before they condemned their pardon's lost cause, the three fallen gods turned wisps flickered. They uncontrollably shifted—back and forth—between their wispy and immortal forms. Confused, they gazed at their limbs flickering on and off like the flames in an oil lamp buffeted by rapid winds. A bright light exploded from a distance, nabbing their attention amidst all. The ghosts had no reaction; the humans noticed nothing, and neither did the butterflies show signs of disturbance. Taking it as a sign exclusive only to them, the wisps flew a thousand miles within a second, converging at the same spot they descended from—Mount Haula.

Mount Haula boasted a summit thousands of meters above ground; shrouded by an ocean of clouds, far too high, too magnificent for mortals to glimpse at. Lush gardens of green shrubs and century-old trees crept at its sides, painting a scenery of abundance in nature's bounty. At least, that was the Mount Haula from three thousand years ago—as the wisps committed to their memories.

Now, like mortals, the wisps couldn't get a clear glimpse of its peak because of a phenomenon unknown to them. A ball of light encrusted Mount Haula, smothering its territory like a bright halo. Too massive it could blind everyone within a thousand miles. Not only was this light blinding, it also brought forth a potent force that repelled the wisps from flying closer.

Unable to move forward, the wisps waited for the light to die down, their hypothetical hearts pounding on their hypothetical chests. Once the light had died down, they approached. Panic came over them as no other sign appeared. There was no messenger. They expected to meet Flaura, the Heavenly Realm's head of the Ministry of Secretariat, to welcome all of them back with a soft smile. But there were no signs of Flaura.

For, who knew how long, they scoured the mountain's entirety for signs, momentarily taking notice of several mansions and villas that now perched at its ridges.

Still no Flaura. Nothing.

On the verge of despair, a streak of light gleamed from a luxurious chateau, catching the wisps' divided attention. Riven spearheaded the descent, and as the light died down, they came face-to-face with a young mortal, its eyes looking up to them with torrid attention.

This attention struck the wisps aghast. For millennia, mortals dismissed them as whispers of the wind. Ephemeral like a ticking clock—sound for a second, bygone on the next tick.

But this boy stared, curiosity swirling in the depths of his ashen eyes. "Who are you?" the boy asked with an unwavering gaze, his tone firm and gallant.

The wisps held each other's gaze with bewilderment, shivers creeping up the spines they'd lost thousands of years back

A mortal spoke to them… and he spoke not in mortal tongue.

He addressed them in the ancient language of gods.