"We were gods." (From ironbloodedprussian)
"Once, perhaps." How the people would look at the world with eyes full of wonder, of infinite possibilities. How they walked among the shadows, eluding death and famine, how fragile human life is in comparison to the immortal. Times have changed, they've grown used to scars and strife. Children turning against their empires, turning into something that could no longer be contained. They stood at the precipice of greatness and eternity - but metal rusts and crowns turn to dust in the hands that once cradled. Bastards they are, unnatural and always watching.
They shouldn't exist. People see but do not observe, the power they hold is vast but so fleeting. They speak their names like old friends, their legends are but the faith in their people - looking for advice and comfort they could never provide. Keira sees herself in many, the children who fought to keep their innocence, the naivety, looking through rose coloured glasses and holding onto the hands of people who would do no harm. Life is cruel, theirs sacrificed to keep the stories alive. They are replaceable, for what is mortal flesh for except to become a stepping stone for a story greater than they could ever comprehend?
They're spoiled. Times have changed, the growth of technology and the advancements they can barely afford to keep up with. Every day, they lose pieces of themselves so that the many can thrive. So they can continue a cycle that is infinite, just as them.
"We were gods. Now we're just old tales they share as a warning."
