The God’s Choice

The Livyatan civilization emerged from a contest, one of two brothers—identical twins—equal in all traits.  Beauty, athleticism, intellect, and luck blessed them both, and all people came to love them.  The brothers, however, grew discontent in their equality, their arrogance unwilling to see each other eye-to-eye. They pursued any contest to prove their superiority over the other, be it of wit, skill, or accomplishment.  No matter the challenge, all ended in draws.

The priests tell of an ancient sea god who took interest in their rivalry. One day, the brothers came upon the god’s cove as they bickered over their next feat. The god revealed itself from its waters and posed them a challenge, one to end their squabbles.  The first to swim to the other shore would be crowned ruler of a new nation, a prosperous land of fertile fields and fertile women.

The men eagerly entered the contest, diving into the god’s waters.  The priests do not speak of the details of the race, only that it was close.  As the god promised, one brother won, becoming the First King of Livyata. It is said the other brother, ashamed of his loss, cast himself into exile.

The Livyatans commemorate the centuries-old birth of their society with a week of celebration. They gather at the fabled cove, bringing with them the fruits of the year’s harvest.  Each family erects a tent, and a singular rope connect them all, representing the sea god who brought together their people.  The current king welcomes the festivities, offering his wealth to his nation.  Carts spill forth with fresh produce, smoked meats, and flowers.  Wine flows like water, drowning all pain until the people know not from where they came or where they will be.

From sunrise to well past sundown, the nation celebrates. On the final day of their festivities, they arrange a coming-of-age ceremony, an event for all boys who had reached 14 years of age. All citizens would serve as audience to the rite of passage, an act to recall the original race between the brothers.  The boys would swim across the cove, and those who reached the other side would rejoin the community as men.

Fifty-four boys gathered at the banks this year.  Some stretched; others spoke amongst themselves.  Anticipation coursed through them.  Each had prepared for this event since they could tread water, conditioning their bodies for the long swim ahead of them.  Their teacher instructed them to stand shoulder-to-shoulder along the cove. Their muscles tensed, waiting for the signal.

Across the cove, the previous year’s challengers sat under a canopy of gold and red.  They lounged on royal carpets, picking at sweet breads. The royal harem had doted on them for six days, and the boys had tired of luxury.  Disinterest weighed on their eyelids.

Ripples broke the reflective surface of the water.  An attendant to the priests called out, signaling that the Failed had prepared themselves.  Just as the previous year’s winners stood center in the celebrations, those who had not crossed the cove became the challenge for this year’s cohort.  These “Failed” surfaced for moments—piercing blue eyes under mats of dark hair—before plunging below.  The Livyatan rite of passage was not a contest but a show of strength and determination.  The Failed served to hold back those who lacked both.

The audience trailed into silence as the king appeared from his pavilion.  He held his right hand toward the cove and swung it before him.  A horn blared, reverberating across the water.  The challengers raced from the shore, wading in until the water reached their hips and they could swim. The audience roared, deafening the low rumble from the cove.

The Failed swarmed the challengers.  From below the surface, they clutched at legs and arms.  One challenger dropped into the water before emerging again, his arms batting around him as he choked and shouted.  Three other boys approached, latching onto their comrade and kicking at the Failed’s face until he let go. The boys dragged their peer forward until he regained his pace. 

The rest of the challengers split into teams of four, following similar strategies to repel the Failed.  The boys shouted directions to each other, pointing out the locations of their would-be interlopers.  They had planned this system for months.  Unlike previous years, this cohort intended to win with as many as possible.

The crowd along the bank turned to each other and laughed, pointing at the formations.  To them, this change was a welcome delight, and they crowed to one another.  The priests took notice. 

The boys pushed forward.  The water swelled and rolled, rising into waves along the shore.  A dark pit formed within the center of the water, and a serpentine shadow slithered from its heart.  The Failed doubled their efforts, forming into packs of their own. 

One of the challengers looked upon the shadow below him and yelped.  Water spilled into his mouth, and he gasped and flailed, allowing a Failed to secure both his legs.  The other team members converged to protect their friend, but as they did so, so did the other Failed.  One boy was tackled from behind.  Another was wrestled below, sinking with the weight of the Failed.  The other two were dragged away by their legs. 

The other teams called to one another, and the challengers joined into one mass.  Their pace quickened, arms wind-milling along the surface.  The crowd continued to cheer, and the cove matched their intensity, a deep growl spreading across the beach.  The priests felt the land and rose from their seats, shuffling to the king. 

The huddle was effective. The Failed clamored for the fringes of the group, but as the weak swimmers were identified, the challengers pushed them toward the center to be guarded.  With this strategy, the children had closed the gap to the shore, leaving a few hundred feet. The shadow—several hundred feet longer—wrapped around itself, curling toward the center void. The boys paled and gritted their teeth, their muscles strained with exertion.  The shore seemed so close, and they had only lost two others.

A muffled roar thundered beneath them, roughening the waters and shaking the tents along the shore.  The cheering turned to gasps, and when the roar returned, the people broke into a confused frenzy.  The priests ran along the beach, gesturing and yelling at the citizens.  A few boys watched the commotion as the crowd dispersed into a blur of colors.  The rest focused on matching the rhythm of their neighbors.  They could not afford to lose their focus. 

As such, they did not notice the first rock.  It rose high before falling into the middle of the formation.  A swimmer had resurfaced for air as the stone connected with his right eye, shattering the socket with an echoing crack.  His body went limp.  Before his cohort could react, the child was pulled into the water.

It was not enough.

A torrent of rocks arced from the shore, their shadows sending pockmarks upon the water. The audience had fallen into a screaming horde, scrambling along the beach for more stones.  All of them—king, priest, peasant, man, woman, child—frantically pelted rocks at the boys. 

The boys—stirred into a panic—broke formation and struggled to evade the stone rain.  Water erupted around them with each miss.  Blood mixed with the spray when the projectiles hit their targets.  Skulls caved in, and the children sank into the depths.  Some struggled forward with one arm, the other shoulder smashed by a stone.  They did not have the strength to fend off the Failed and were pulled away.  Below the surface, the serpent twisted and seized.

The first child thrashed onto the shore, and the rest clawed out of the water behind him.  Twenty stumbled from the cove, breathless, bloodied, and crying. From the crowd, parents, siblings, and friends rushed them, dropping their rocks as they embraced the boys.  They wept together.

The Failed dipped below the water, pulling the few remaining challengers and bodies with them.  The priests, with stones held in limp hands, looked on the water, their faces creased with worry.

The cove trembled.  The people held still, and the waves grew more violent.  The sea god erupted from the center of the water.  It towered above the people, its eel-like head held a hundred feet above them.  Thin bristled teeth clashed along the length of its mouth, and the black slits of its yellowed eyes observed the people.  Its hiss pierced through the air.  A rolling din of moans met the hiss, deafening the land.

Centuries of failed souls screamed from the skin of the god, forming its rotting, pale hide. They strained to escape, but their flesh had long since fused with the monster’s body.  They had grown wrinkled and transparent, becoming little more than a film molding of their past selves.  The oldest of the souls had melded with the beast’s body, leaving only eyeless sockets and an imprint of a mouth, still wailing from its prison. 

Tendrils curled out from the god’s body, dipping into the water.  As these retracted into the creature’s flesh, a new din grew from the shore as families cried out the names of their loved ones.  The newly Failed ascended from the water, held by their puppet captors.  The fortunate had not yet risen from their death; the others jerked against their restraints and cried for their mothers.  They shrieked as their skin connected with the god’s, melting together as they became fresh scales on the rotting carcass.  

The god bellowed, and the people cowered, falling back into a silence.  It held itself before them, holding their collective gaze.  The people knew not what had happened.  They knew only that they had almost failed.  They could not fathom what would have happened if they had.  Their ears rang as the god’s writhing body engulfed the land with screams of suffering. 

The people fell prostrate before their god, and it was satisfied.

*

Livyatan legend does not recount how the sea god threatened eternal servitude if the twins tied.  The priests do not recall the one brother’s sacrifice.  The annual sacrifices that followed are not included in the Livyatan creation narrative.

Cows do not tell tales of their slaughterer. They chew their cud, sleep, and procreate.  Neither Livyatans nor cows recognize servitude in their prosperity. 

Neither creature does much of anything, really.