The God of the Cave

Part I: The God in The Cave

Bælfyr entered the cave just before dusk. Outside, the wind ran thin over barren stones; inside, the air seemed to hold its breath. He was tired-his limbs heavy after the long trek, his mind dull from hunger. Yet he went on, deeper, into the throat of the earth. There, a god waited. He knew it as surely as he knew the feel of a blade’s edge. He had sought truth in the sound of the waves and rills of the brooks, and remembered the god’s promise.

He carried no torch. He remembered the cave as it was before, when the world was simpler, and trusted memory to guide him. Back then he had been a teller of tales, a weaver of worlds that never were. His own name held fire and shifting shapes in its syllables. He made stories; he lived on their heat, and carried them into the beds of his village’s young women. But as years passed and blood replaced words, he forgot how to shape dreams into power. Instead, he fought and fled and fed, until all that remained was a hollow ache. Now, at last, he sought the god again. He wanted something true, real, present.

He moved further in, his eyes adjusting, every step carefully placed. Darkness pressed around him, a weight that lived in silence. Then came the voice-low at first, a murmur, so soft it might have been the scrape of stone, the flight of a bat, or a trick of his own mind.

“Bælfyr," it said. “You are finally here."

He paused. It was madness to speak to shadows, but he had come this far. “I am," he said quietly, his voice echoing in the silence. “I gave you what you asked for. You promised truth. Show me."

“I speak only truth," the voice answered, calm and deep, much like Bælfyr’s own. “I always have. You doubted me because you could not understand. Those who took my words as written described nothing, cried ‘liar’ as they wept. Yet never have I lied."

Bælfyr’s jaw clenched. The god had promised him iron swords that never broke, but they shattered in battle. It had promised healing waters, but they turned to mud, creating worse wounds and ugly scars. It had promised him love, and he found only emptiness in Aelwyn’s eyes now. Yet the voice called these failures misunderstandings, never falsehoods. Bælfyr knew better. Still, he had returned, hope scalding in his chest.

“I have learned your ways," he said. “I will not be fooled."

The god laughed-a rustle of air, a stream babbling in the distance, a quiet mockery. “I dwell in darkness and light. I see all. I hold all destinies in my palms. Trust me once more, Bælfyr. You shall receive what I promise."

“Why should I believe you?"

“Because you have nothing else," the voice said gently. “Outside, your people are scattered, weak. Your blade is dull. Your meat is worms. Your lover spurns you, with passion that feels of duty. Your songs lack melody and power over those who listen. You wander in the waste on roads that lead nowhere. But I offer you life without end, prosperity overflowing. I am here, and I will give you everything."

Bælfyr could not see the source of the voice. The cave swallowed sight. He reached out to feel the rock walls, cold and damp and oily. It grounded him, and he fought the urge to spit at the darkness. “I know you lie. You have always lied. Yet I have come, because I demand what you have promised. I gave you truths. Show me. Give me a sign. Fulfill the covenant we made."

“Step forward," said the god. “There is holy ground here. I will reveal myself only to the brave."

Bælfyr narrowed his eyes in the darkness and moved carefully. His boots scraped over stone that felt like scabs. He wondered if he walked in circles - the voice seemed to come from everywhere at once. “Holy ground? What is that? Where is it? I can see nothing."

“Your eyes cannot help you here," said the voice, just behind him now. “It is I who shall guide you. Your life’s coin was spent in trust. Remember that. A few steps more."

Bælfyr’s heart hammered. He remembered his stories-tales told around fires, of spirits that offered boons and gave curses. He had once shaped such lies himself. But now he stood in that world, uncertain when certainty was life and truth. “You offer me life and light? Love? Is it the truth this time?"

“Yes, life that never fades. Lands. Laughter. A full belly and a long line of strong children who will remember your name. Passion to light up the night, enough to burn your loins. Songs to be sung in halls long after your bones turn to dust-except they never will. Your bones will remain strong and never break. That is what awaits. All I ask is your trust and your belief."

Bælfyr knew longing. He had lost too many battles, buried too many friends. The world outside the cave was cruel. Here, at least, was a promise of something else. He should refuse. He knew better. He remembered better. Yet the voice pulled him on. He took a step forward, then another. The ground was uneven, but the voice guided him left, then right, then forward again.

Soon the air changed. It grew colder, thinner. He imagined the cave opening into a vast hollow, a place where one wrong step would send him tumbling into a chasm. He tried to listen for dripping water, scurrying animals, something real and tangible. He heard nothing but the voice.

“Further," it said. “Just a hand’s breadth now. Then you will see me. I am here. I have always been here, waiting. All will be revealed.."

Bælfyr hesitated. “You say you are here. But where is here?"

“Here is where all lies become truth," said the voice, “and all truths reveal themselves as mere words. Step forward. One more step, and the darkness will end. You will see me."

He wanted to believe. He wanted the voice to keep its promise this time. His mind screamed that this was a trap, that no god who lied ever spoke truth at the last. But he was weary. The world had worn him down, and he desired hope more than honesty. He placed one foot forward, feeling nothing beneath it.

He froze. “There is no ground."

“Trust me," said the voice, smooth and warm. “It is there. I said I would show you eternity. Do you doubt now, at the final moment?"

Bælfyr’s throat tightened. He had come too far, and to retreat now meant stepping back into a life that offered him nothing. If he fell, would it be worse than living as he had? He steadied himself. “Show me eternity," he said, forcing his foot down.

There was a brief instant-an impossible instant-when he felt supported by something. Then it vanished. He plunged into empty air. The wind rushed by, ripping at his clothes. There was no cry-what was there to say?

As he fell, the voice called out gently, “I give you life neverending, Bælfyr. Prosperity without measure. Look, can you not see it?"

When at last he hit bottom, there was no witness. His bones shattered and he uttered no cry. The cave swallowed him, flesh and blood, dreams and despair, leaving no sign that he ever lived. The voice did not laugh, did not weep, did not speak again, but only waited.

Part II: Aelwyn’s Myth

Aelwyn had waited for Bælfyr’s return long after the wind had scattered the ashes of his footprints. She waited in the small clearing where their hut stood, now a ring of half-dead grasses and dry stones. There had been dreams here once-his dreams, which she took as hers. Now the earth lay barren, and she stood alone, wondering if she should feel his loss.

He was surely gone. He chased a promise she never understood, left her and never came back. She thought of him like a boy: always restless, always searching. She had admired his hunger, his consuming desires. He told stories that made others believe in heroes and glory. She had wanted that world, as others had.

In time, his fables soured. She saw him grasp for shape in shadows, crave things no-one could give. He wanted glory, majesty, a world that could never be, dragons limning him in crowning fire, giants bowing in obeisance. He wanted laughter without end, halls that would ring with his name. All she could give him was her home, her body. Her life.

When he had last left her, she waited by the threshold of their home. She watched him vanish into the wood and hoped he would return with the peace he sought. But days passed, and nights. Weeks. Months. The hearth, and her heart, grew cold. She whispered his name to the emptiness, listening for an echo, a footstep, a laugh. Nothing answered.

Without him, she had no shape. Who was she, without his reflection? She had made herself a vessel, and with no source, she was empty. She had believed that enduring his hungers would save him, might help calm his restless spirit. She excused his excesses, seeing the maelstrom in his soul, the desire that lacked a suitable expression. She told herself it would pass someday, willing herself blind to his failings and her own despair.

The world outside was empty of the heroes she’d imagined. There were no miracles, no secret powers. She tried to hold onto what she knew: she tended her small fires at night, careful and slow, as if Bælfyr might step from the shadows at any moment. She cooked thin broths, though she had no appetite. She sang half-remembered songs because she could not stand the silence.

She imagined him finding his glory, becoming his dream. She imagined him walking into the light, all of the accolades, all of the triumphs, and found she could not hear the cheers of the throngs she imagined. Instead, the silence seemed absolute. She called his name under her breath, with no answer.

With each passing day, she shrank. Her meals grew smaller, as if to punish herself for failing him. She spent hours sitting on a low stone, staring at the empty horizon. She considered seeking comfort among the few who remained near, but what could they give her? They could not fill the gaping void inside. She had shaped herself around Bælfyr’s dreams. Now that he was gone, she had no form of her own.

Time made her old. Her hair thinned and grey strands took root. Her hands trembled, her skin brittle and her nails cracked. She no longer cared. She thought: Perhaps he never loved me. Perhaps I was merely a place for him to rest before he wandered again. Perhaps I was never meant to find my own truth. Perhaps there is no truth.

Still, she waited. She lingered at the edge of that emptiness as the world turned. She told herself that he was somewhere better, laughing, strong and whole. He must be feeding on delights unknown to mortals. She pictured him tall and proud, children clinging to his knees, lovers begging for his glance, songs sung about his deeds. If it was all a lie, at least it warmed her for a moment, like a drop of honey in bitter tea.

But as seasons wore on, even that lie lost its flavor. She grew silent. Those around her left, or died. She had no one to talk to. Her limbs became thin sticks. She would wake shivering, unsure if it was dawn or dusk. It did not matter. She had nothing to say, nothing to do, no reason to move. She had nothing.

In her final days, she understood: She had built her life on his hunger, and thus starved her own soul. She had knelt before a phantom throne, hoping to gain worth through his triumph. Now, without him, she was not nothing: she was less than nothing.

In the end, she could not rise from her rough bed of reeds. She watched the dust dance in a beam of sunlight, shining for others. She touched her own hollow belly. There would be no children, no songs, no future. She was a husk, her dreams dried and cracked and fey. She thought of being more like Bælfyr once more - into silence.

No one came looking for her. No one asked after her name. She faded, like a whisper in an empty hall. Her last thoughts of Bælfyr were cold, stone, blank, and she could not remember his smile, or his eyes. At the last, she could not remember her own. So ended Aelwyn: a shadow cast by another’s hunger, vanishing without trace, a silence that swallowed its own voice.