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Roshambo; lonely god of Justice, Destruction, and sometimes Victory, sat on the edge of the End Portal, contemplating the fall.
He had just removed the world’s End and was feeling the aftermath.
Hello, little one, the Universe greeted, almost curiously.
As the God of Destruction, he had to be unflinchingly fair in judgment. He had to destroy to allow for new creation. That was how the balance was upheld.
Change was inevitable, and destruction brought upon by oneself.
Roshambo did not try to fight the cycle anymore. He had tried once, working with Mapicc and Zam to petrify spawn in obsidian in the hopes that it would be given a chance to be eternal and never-wasting.
He became deathly sick afterwards, grass decaying and moss shriveling under his bare feet, leaving him too weak to get up as he shivered weakly on the bedrock roof of the nether; the only substance Roshambo trusted himself not to rot. The earth had fought back nonetheless. The obsidian melted away; through his gloves and eating away at the structures underneath.
The dragon was not yet dead, and Roshambo could not bring himself to do more. He punished himself by merely sitting there; so close to victory and rest.
“Go fish,” Roshambo said to the darkness.
People of the Overworld had used the idiom enough that it had caught on where he had been raised; in some other End.
It had long lost its original meaning, but had come to mean wasting time worrying over things that could’ve been spent doing more useful things.
Roshambo was pretty sure there were better things to do than sitting on the bowl of the End portal with legs dangling above the void and moping about his life.
He would probably look sad if he was able to see his own face.
He looked different to everyone he knew, and to those who didn’t; he looked different every time, in the same way one’s own destruction was unique to oneself.
Mapicc had said he looked like a Wanderer, like a traveler with cloaks, accessories, and stories from around the world. He mentioned lilac eyes and purple scales creeping up his arms and a trader’s coat. He mentioned a burn scalding its way from his neck to his chest.
Leowook had said he looked ghostly, with his eyes completely inverted in colour; scleras black, irises grey, and pupils white, skin pale like alabaster. He also described him as being freakishly tall with a fletching scar marring his anchor point on his cheekbone.
Poafa said he looked like a child, with eyes like gold and hair like coal ores. He said Ro reminded him of a canary in a coal mine.
Roshambo never had the heart to tell them that the faces he donned were all faces of people he had ruined. He could only hope he never got to wear any of their faces.
He often had nightmares about a stranger bumping into him on the street and telling him his red eyes were beautiful. Ro would always reach up towards his face and realise in horror that he recognised the face structure; the tiny cut through one of his eyebrows, the scab trailing the jawbone.
He would see ‘himself’ with ‘his’ ungloved right hand on Mapicc’s and turning away with tears in ‘his’ eyes.
Mapicc would always look confused, even though the damage was already done, even as ‘Ro’ ran away in shame.
Hearts could be stolen and returned, but hearts had been broken, and they could not be unbroken.
He’d wake up gasping for air, screaming with his bedsheets rotting away, then reforming to keep the balance.
And then a wave of relief would wash over him. It was only a tiny and brief disturbance to the balance. He would not be punished.
The whole obsidian fiasco had scarred him bad.
When he had been a new god who had travelled the journey to drink the void, he had taken his everlasting vow to forever uphold his duties to keep the balance until it caught up to him. Gods were immortal, not unkillable after all.
He sometimes wished he had not taken the vow. Power corrupted and absolute power corrupted absolutely, and he struggled not to fall accursed.
When Ro looked in the mirror, he saw different things all the time. Sometimes he saw a songbird. Sometimes he saw a red, red carnation. Sometimes he saw a city burning to the ground. Sometimes he saw a miner choking to death in the depths of the mines.
Maybe that was a testament to how little Roshambo knew himself.
The Universe greets The One Who Tares, the Universe said.
Roshambo, lonely god of Justice, Destruction, and sometimes Victory sat on the edge of the End Portal, contemplating the fall.
He was too high up, and he could not fathom it at all.
He let the void swirl around his feet languidly; let the Universe taunt him.
Why the struggle? Why the strain? Why go against the grain? Nothing changes anyhow.
Ro remembered Mapicc once asking him if Gods and men alike knew of him.
“No, I don’t think they know.”
“Isn’t it cruel that they should never know of their own destruction?”
“I am not cruel,” Ro replied, choosing each word like fresh fruit at the market, rolling each one in his mouth to test the impact, “I am nature.”
Roshambo outstretched one of his hands, flexing the muscles like a soldier after a fight with wounds just bandaged; antsy to get back to battle.
His name was the name of a children’s game of three-way balance. He had been Destruction for too long for him to remember his own name.
Roshambo.
Rock paper scissors.
Stone paper shears.
He curled his fingers into a fist.
Rock.
The Rock stood for stability and for paths resistant to change; countered easily by the paper.
He uncurled his fingers, straightening them till he could feel the muscles burning.
Paper.
Paper stood for destruction; for paths soon to be reborn and for the endless facets of possibilities soon to rise out of the ashes, combated by the scissors.
He recurled his ring and little fingers so they touched his gloved palm and spread his pointer and middle fingers.
Scissors.
The Scissors stood for positive change, for what people could do together as one and for paths veering away from ruin, though weak to the stubbornness of men and unwillingness to change.
Ro had destroyed many a city; dousing them in fire or infecting them with a cow plague followed by famine. He always tried to give them time. Time to reflect and time to change; time that they never utilised at all. They merely sat on their thrones in a haze; as if welded to their seats, unmoving even as flame engulfed them and their possessions.
Why make trouble? Why make scenes? Why swim upstream, the Universe sing-songed to him, nothing changes anyhow.
Roshambo tugged the gloves off of his hands. The only thing left that could be destroyed by his touch alone would be the dragon; and it was too far away.
No matter who he appeared as, people always mentioned his gloves with bloodred stitches. It seemed to be the only thing constant throughout his outfits.
Sometimes, he would walk the ruins and rubble of the places he’d brought to the ground. Sometimes, he would spot the specific stone with his handprint on it.
He’d press his hand into the imprint, remembering the feel of barehand melting print into stone.
And then scenes would flood his brain; of tidal waves destroying homes and of children becoming orphans in a flash.
The first time he had Withered so much, he’d cried and mourned his nature and way.
The Universe laughed at him.
If you cry for every mortal you crush, you’ll drown the world. Who would need you then?
Roshambo, lonely god of Justice, Destruction, and sometimes Victory sat on the edge of the End Portal, contemplating the fall.
He wasn’t feeling very godsdamned victorious.
He looked into the void, and wondered if he could resist its calls.
The void commonly broke the minds of the weak and twisted those of the strong. Given how he could be so many people at once, Ro often avoided looking into the void.
But now?
He found himself ready to take the risk.
He was a god of Deserved Destruction, and Roshambo was pretty sure he deserved it heavily for what he did on a daily basis.
He hoped to somehow and someday hear a young shoot tell its friends that the old gods had drowned in their own misery and that there were new ones over the horizon that never ended.
In some glorious yet horrible future with beautiful people and even more beautiful creation, Roshambo hoped to not be a part of it.
It ain't—it ain't—it ain't no use, the Universe snickered, you're bound—you're bound—you're bound to lose.
Roshambo touched his hand to his cheek.
Roshambo, lonely god of Justice, Destruction, and sometimes Victory sat on the edge of the End Portal.
He contemplated the fall no longer.
All at once, he was falling, and he was the Fall. He was no longer too high to fathom it all.
The Universe welcomes The One Who Tares with open arms. Take as you wish. Give as you please. Be loving. Be just. Be merciful. Be cruel. Be a Player. Be yourself.
Roshambo, lonely god of Justice, Destruction, and sometimes Victory, Fell and regretted nothing and everything at the same time; not until it was too late.
What's done—what's done—what's done is done, the Universe chanted, that's the way the river runs.
The gloves lay innocently on the End Portal.
Mapicc found, and despaired.