Erased - Written in Colors - Chapter 10.2
Enjoy a story of goddess falling for someone who is out of reach until their paths cross again. All she ever wanted is to help and defy the puppeteer behind it all just to meet an end... But what is death for a goddess if another start?
Music choice from this part: Wolf Totem - The Hu
Or open a full playlist that I was listening to on Spotify - here
Warnings: bad humor, mentions of death, violence, a bit of Raf myths (I am not sure if all of them got in or not)
A lot of expo and background in this one as we are storming to the end~
Of course, he didn’t fully believe her. What a fool he would be if he did. A goddess? That was highly unlikely. The concentration of gods in a square meter of Linkon was getting out of hand.
One part of him wanted it to be true. To not be alone. To have someone that maybe, just maybe, understood how it feels to be what he was.
That, and she had no right to be so cute; that had to be illegal. Like a lost sea bunny. That was exactly it.
The details she shared were laughable on a good day. They drove him mad when he actually tried to find something — anything — about the goddess matching the description or details she knew. He was in for a long swim.
He found it, and he almost squeezed Thomas like an eel, overjoyed when he got him a copy of an old book he was looking for. Some of the snippets he found were not telling him much, but they held promise. Forgotten tales of gods — it was a compilation of stories gathered from books that by now, were most likely dust or completely gone.
By the end of the day he made zero progress with his painting and went through a large portion of the book. He was losing hope. Maybe trusting a collector with their “expertise” had been a waste of time.
‘miss writer, how 2 speak 2 a book so it tells you secrets???’ He needed a break — he was turning into some kind of underwater book slug or something.
‘Pfff. What kind of book?’
‘copy of old grumpy book’
‘A copy? Then I cannot help. Copies are stubborn. Sorry, good luck!’
‘waaaaaaiiiitt… dun leave me alone with that scary thing that is silently judging meee’
‘It was nice knowing you, by morning you will be copied into the book’
‘im too glorious to fit into 1 book’ he huffed she was not helping ‘i will buy you lunch’
‘Close your eyes, bend the book and shuffle until it sounds right. Don’t look, just listen. If that doesn’t help, I still want that lunch.’
How cheeky. And what a stupid answer — how can you find something in a book without looking at it? He scribbled where he was in case it didn’t work. He closed the book and shuffled. He stopped almost at the end and had to put the book down for a moment. Well, damn, he owed her that lunch and dinner.
He knew it was this page, he knew it was her. How? The symbol she had on every book she published was there. She once called it her symbol with no real explanation. He didn’t believe in coincidences like this.
After the autumn equinox, it is believed — based on the stone inscriptions in one of fallen buildings — that there was a period of time when the harvest gods were set aside. ‘Tis was in favor of a goddess who was closely reminiscent of what we know now as Fates. In our cultural circle, The Fates were more often portrayed as sisters, spinning the threads of mortal lives. Yet, in their belief system the goddess was a scribe, more than a weaver, and she was a singular being. That is therefore a reason why the goddess became the patron of everything related to the process of writing, be those secret writings or those of historical value.
The goddess later on was linked similarly to the chaos. The reason remains unclear as to why, or when this linkage was created. Some speculated that the chaos was an attribute closely tied to the endless probabilities within human life.
L. Bathory, in her Goddesses of the East, mentioned (y/n) as a goddess who did not traverse the mortal realm. As a writer of fates, she herself is bound to one — hers was a fate of seclusion. Only those gods willing to venture to her realm were ever in contact with her, and those mentioned are few and far between.
Similarly, humans, as they could not make offerings in the usual way, often turned to water as a means of passage. Sacred cenotes served often as portals used for paying respect to the goddess. These naturally occurring basins of water were used as pilgrimage sites for those seeking to pay their respects.
What is most curious about that time period, when the cults were at their height, is that the offerings noted, nor the stories compiled during the excavations, show any sacrifices of animals or flowers. Only a few accounts speak of sacrificing illuminated texts. Later on, people started including in those offerings seashells, pearls or seaweed braids; yet there is no clear indication of why those were offered.
L. Bathory, in another work, As Above, So Below, ties the goddess to the oracles. These seers, in a trance-induced state, were able to reach the goddess and bring back the fates of humankind. Yet, under these conditions, the fates were not absolute; they were fluid, subject to change.
He leaned on the side of his bathtub, rereading the passage — too short for his liking — over and over, wondering how much of it is pure imagination and lies of landlubbers, and what is truly her tale. Was she chained, like he was, for different reasons, but chains are chains. He was startled by the sound of his phone.
This dream was too much. Too much pain in a memory one would love to bury forever, somewhere far away.
It was your hands, stained with blood that shouldn’t have been drawn. It was you, looking through the water at lives that were changed because you caved in. Why did you do it?
You were scared. Of course you were. Astra could be one to be feared. And his eyes landed on you. You could make it happen — become a tool to achieve what he wants. Make whoever he wanted disappear. And you could see it all from the seclusion of your little drifting prison. It really turned into one: a cage for a scribe with the power of chaos — the destruction, creation, and everything in between.
You should have declined, burn the scrolls, but it was too late. He took them all to his library, and you couldn’t get there. Now… now you were watching his tragedy unfold, lifetime after lifetime, and it broke you.
All the shells crushed, all the writing brushes broken.
“Here I thought the goddess of ‘fates’ doesn’t get affected by the ruthlessness of life.”
“It’s a bit too late for that. I might have already used the scroll with your name on it, for writing how it ends.”
“You seem pale, (y/n).” He was mocking you, playing on the fact he had gotten his hands on what should have been yours from the start. He made it your prison.
It was an unfair fight from the start. You knew it, but you still had to take your chances — chances he already stacked against your odds.
“That was sad. Who would know that all you need is a piece of paper to end a god?“ He didn’t spare you another glance when he left.
You had just enough strength to reach the chaos pool. Ink mixed with blood left your last inscription.
You woke up feeling like you were suffocating. Stumbling your way to the balcony, you opened the door to let cold air in. Reliving your death was not something you wanted to do in any lifetime. At least now you know how it felt — to remember a painful memory.
You felt your heart was beating too fast, your mind racing even faster.
It was instinctive. You only focused on it when you heard his voice.
“Miss Writer, what a scandalous hour to call. Did the full moon spark a bit–”
“Sorry,” you said, head resting on your knees. Your voice must have been broken in all the wrong ways. You curled up, sitting near the open door, eyes closed, trying to calm yourself so desperately.
There was a moment of silence, followed by a sound of water. You can do it. Just focus on what you hear.
“(y/n)? You ok?” he was concerned, alarmed.
“Yeah… just need… grounding. I shouldn’t have called you–” you tried weakly, not making any real move to hang up the call.
“Hey, it’s alright. I’m always up for a late-night talk. Rambling, grounding?”
“Hmmm. I will see what I can do. But if you snooze on me, I’ll be offended, you hear me?” There it was — the lightness, the forced one — but it was still comforting.
“Do you think octopuses would make good painters? I think I’m in need of vacation, but Thomas is dumping so much work on me… Eight hands would speed those silly requests.”
“Would you…“ you started, and he didn’t rush you when your words needed a moment “How’s their color theory?”
“Oh, not you too (y/n).” There was a pained grunt. You were in for a long lecture on why color theory is less important than the emotions one paints. You didn’t mind.
