In a dark cave not far from the oldest village of the oldest country, twelve women stood around a small altar. They had been handpicked with care, handpicked from the mere two hundred faithful that had survived the Great Sundering of the world, for a purpose that only one simple shaman knew.

The shaman Arach stood in the middle of the women he had so carefully selected, leading them all silently in prayer. Arach was the last of his kind, dedicates who served the gods with equal devotion, never choosing one out of the many. It was a hard life, for it was so easy to lean one way or the other, to serve the Healer more than the Hunter, the Teacher over the Warrior. There were those who followed the teachings of a single god, like healers, but only those who found a balance among them all were shamans. Only shamans could be trusted to educate children in all subjects, and advise chiefs without bias.

Except that there was no chief for Arach to advise. He had been slaughtered in the uprising.

Arach managed to keep his composure but it was hard not to shudder. His village had been of relatively good size, his clan and chief well respected among the alliance. There were a dozen or so shamans like him who lived in the village, who tended the needy and kept the ways of the divine.

He knew not when or why the rebellion had started, but he did know that when the usurpers had finished with the chief, they turned on their gods. The screams of the brothers and sisters of his temple as they were murdered in their home still haunted Arach in his dreams. Sometimes he still wept for them. He knew that the gods would not fault him for his tears.

Nor would they fault him for his transgression now. The ritual called for him to be pray to his gods, to lead the chosen in prayer, but in his heart, Arach was thinking of the Sundering. The rebellion had not just been among his own clan; it had spread among many. No clan had been free of it, and no chiefs had survived. All this, the gods had allowed, until the slaughter of the shamans began.

Then came the Sundering.

Arach could not believe that the wrath of the gods had been so deep that they would leave only two hundred souls behind on their sacred earth. Had there been so little faithful? He could not believe it to be so.

And yet, two hundred were all that made their way back to the oldest clan-set. Two hundred including Arach, who had been devastated to realize that he was the only shaman left. These were all that were left behind to rebuild. The future of the human race.

The key lay in the ritual. The Sundering had been devastating, utter destruction, but not un-foretold. The shamans had known for some time that the gods would become angry enough to correct the mortals they had created and watched over. Arach had never thought it would come to pass in his lifetime, but although he had been taken off guard, he was prepared.

Soft candlelight bathed Arach’s face as he struggled to bring his mind back to the task at hand. He could see it although his eyes were closed, a wash of faint light that just barely chased the dark away. This was his calling, unexpected as it was. He must not fail.

He opened his eyes and looked about him at the chosen twelve. They knelt obediently, faithfully, all about him. One for each god. One for each of the bloodlines that must tie the divine to the mortal. He could almost envy them for the power they held. Women were vessels, made to hold and to keep and to nurture. It was true that men were strong and dominant, but women were built to protect and endure.

But Arach did not envy them. These women would have to gather all of their feminine strength and endurance for the life for which they had been chosen. It would be a hard life, set and unavoidable. A difficult path. Honorable and worthwhile, but difficult.

He resisted the urge to turn his head, to look into the eyes of the lone woman who broke the concentration of the group, just as he had. No one had to tell him who the eyes that looked at him now belonged to; it was Kendra. His Kendra.

A wave of grief washed over him. This was not the life he would have picked for his sister, Kendra, but he had had no choice. He had activated the ritual, had been given the sight to see the ones needed to complete it, and walked among the survivors of his clan. As they greeted him, he looked upon their faces, and in eleven of the women he saw and heard the blessing of the divine. He had never expected the twelfth to be Kendra. He never expected for the gods to take the only family he had left from him.

Arach could not be angry with his gods for their choice. Kendra was exceptional, a jewel among stones. He could not fault them for wanting her, but it made him sad. So sad that he could not look upon her again, afraid to see the look in her eyes.

Silently, Arach turned to the altar, reaching for a small clay bottle that sat in the middle. He took in a deep breath as his fingers closed around the neck, trying not to make a sound. The stopper made a small scraping sound as he pulled it free, but other than that, all was quiet.

He carried the bottle to the nearest woman in the circle, standing before her and offering it to her. She raised her face and hands, and obediently took a small sip of the holy liquid within. Arach took the bottle back from her, and went to the next woman, offering it to her as well.

And so it went, eleven times until Arach was left with only one more woman. His sister lifted her face, and he almost burst into tears. There was no anger there, and he realized that she understood; either she was eager and faithful, or she knew that he was only an instrument and not in control of her fate. She was resigned. The look on her face had only benign anticipation in it.

He offered her the bottle, unable to look into her eyes; Arach was not sure if he ever would be able to again. She drank, returned the bottle, and bowed her head back towards the floor. He suppressed a sigh and went back to the altar.

The shaman raised his hands, gesturing for the twelve to raise theirs as well, and began to chant the holy words that had been passed down for generations since the Sundering had been prophesized. Words that would activate the elixir that he had just administered and bend the ears of the gods. They would come in three days time, and a new age of man would begin.

When he was done, he gave the sign of blessing, and was rewarded by the loudest clap of thunder he had ever heard in his life.

One of the twelve yelped and put her hands to her face. Arach himself was so startled that he dropped the bottle on the altar, turning to look outside through the distant mouth of the cave. Rain began to fall, and Arach’s mind was taken back to the Sundering for a few moments until he realized that the rain was soft and quiet. A sign of life, not one of death.

He turned back and caught the eyes of his sister again. Kendra looked puzzled, but not frightened, and after a moment of pause, gave him the tiniest of nods. He nodded back, and she stood, going to the woman who had cried out when the thunder had first sounded and offering her comfort. The other women began to rise, and soon they left the cave, huddled together as they made their way through the rain.

Arach was left alone in the cave, watching them until their figures were no longer visible. He turned back to the altar and the bottle he had dropped, picking the latter up. It was cracked but it had served its purpose. Arach had been given the knowledge of the ritual and the elixir, but not how to make more, so there was no need to save the bottle.

A small drop of elixir seeped out of the crack and onto Arach’s hand, right in between his thumb and forefinger. He looked at the altar and found a few drops more, glowing a honey color in the candlelight. Without thinking, he stuck his hand into his mouth, barely registering the sweet taste, and went to find something with which to clean the small mess up.

More thunder rolled overhead, softer and less imposing than before.

---

Three days passed, and Arach found himself incurably restless. His stomach had been gnawing at him since the ritual and he found it hard to keep anything down. He was worried about his sister and the other eleven. He knew what would happen next, but he was not sure if they fully comprehended themselves. He should have done a better job at explaining, should have made sure they had understood. It would not have changed anything-- they were Chosen-- but he should have done it anyway.

He stood at the window of his small hut, looking out over the distance to the village. Shamans like him always lived apart from the villages they catered to, and so did Arach. All was quiet, even the rain, which had come and gone in the three days time since he’d last been to the cave. Rain this time of year was a sign of fertility, and most of the village was energized by it.

Arach should have been happy for them. The rain not only affected the people, but also their livestock, and soon there would be a period where swollen female bellies were more common than flat ones. Kids and lambs would start appearing in the few herds that had managed to survive, and babes would grow up alongside puppies next to their parent’s hearths.

Yet, all Arach could think about was those twelve women. Their lives would never be like the ones of the other women in the village.He should not feel so guilty. The ritual served the same purpose as the rain; a tool for rebuilding and recovering, but it had its price. Hopefully, that price would not be too high.

His stomach clenched again, uncomfortably empty. Tomorrow or the next day, he would probably be able to eat properly again. He knew that Kendra would visit him and tell him that all was well, that she forgave him, that it was not such a hardship as he had feared. He prayed that it might be so.

The hair on the back of his neck began to prickle. Goosebumps rose on the bare skin of his arms, and he felt his breathing grow shallow. The air felt suddenly very heavy in his little hut but he felt almost pinned to the window, as if he couldn’t bring himself to let go of the pane and escape.

He felt more goosebumps rise up along the contour of his spine. Someone or something was in his hut with him. His instincts were telling him to turn and look, but his body was frozen in place. He felt eyes looking him over, heard soft breath just behind his head, behind one ear then the other, and he suddenly got the feeling that he was being inspected.

Not what I had expected. Then again, the unexpected is not unfitting of me.

None of the words had been spoken out loud, and yet Arach had heard them as if they were. He could not describe the voice he heard speaking them; it was both dark and light, harsh and soft. Just when he thought he remembered it one way, his own thoughts contradicted him.

Unexpected, but not unpleasing.

His body shuddered as the voice spoke again, both purring and shouting in his mind, and Arach felt his hands clench the wood beneath his fingers. He bit back a moan. His body had grown warm, the heat centering itself between his legs and up his back, facing where He was standing behind him.

That voice could only belong to a god. Only the voice of a god could be so incomprehensible, so beyond Arach’s understanding.

Close your eyes…

Arach obeyed and felt hands touch him, sliding their way almost instantly under his shirt. A part of him wished that he had not removed his tunic earlier, not made himself so accessible, but a bigger part was screaming for more as the hands glided over his skin.

The shaman was not one to refuse anyone from his bed, be they man or woman, but for a moment he wondered if he should. This was a god, and he was unworthy! Why was He here and not with one of the others?

His body broke out of its trance, making to turn around to the god behind him, but those hands suddenly gripped his biceps, keeping him in place.

Do not open your eyes! Do not look upon me! You of all people should know better than that!

The words were harsh and commanding, but the mouth that had descended on Arach’s neck was soft and sensual. He felt the god press Himself all up along Arach’s back, and he knew that His body couldn’t be anything but perfect. He wanted to turn, wanted to run his hands all over it, to kiss and lick every inch, worship--

Why? Why him? Why not--

His chin was gripped, his face turned, and then he was kissed. His body responded, back arching, his phallus hardening, but he kept his eyes obediently shut. To look upon a god was death. A mortal could not stand the sight of a god in His true glory.

His lips were parted and he moaned as the god’s tongue slipped into his mouth. The kiss was deep and mind altering, and Arach was instantly addicted. In the back of his mind, he knew he’d never want anyone else again; he’d always crave this, what he could not have.

But worst of all, Arach tasted the elixir on the god’s tongue, and suddenly he realized why the god was here.

This too was prophesized. Why do you think a shaman-woman was supposed to perform the ritual?

He’d had no choice! He was the only one left! The kiss broke and he was left gasping-- the god’s mouth was back on his neck, sucking and biting, His hands exploring his torso, back, and hips.

No, I am not unpleased.

This time the voice was saturated with raw sexuality and want, and Arach felt his own hands move; one touched and followed the line of one of the arms that held him, goading it on. The other found a grip in the god’s hair, the silky stands slipping through his unworthy fingers. Any uncertainty that might have plagued him for being so forward was banished by the soft groan that issued from the god’s throat.

A stupid, stupid mistake! He’d tasted the elixir when the bottle had broken and leaked it onto his hand! Stupid!

Who do you think caused the bottle to be broken?

It shouldn’t have affected him! He was male!

That means nothing to me…

Arach felt the god pull away and almost cried out in protest, but then his shirt was impatiently pulled up over his head, cutting him off. The other side of his neck was instantly attacked, his body yanked back against His, and the skin on skin contact of the god’s chest and his back made him painfully aware of his arousal.

And emptiness. He was feeling so empty!

His breathing grew harder, his skin hotter. Need passed through him, and it made his arms and chest ache. The god’s hands explored his chest again, one pausing the tease a nipple, the other dipping to explore his navel briefly before lowering even further.

Not one of the twelve gods. This was not one of the twelve gods that were meant to visit the twelve chosen. There was only one god that this could be.

The only one who can mold you to suit His purpose, the voice agreed.

But Arach’s mind had suddenly stopped being able to form coherent thoughts. His whole world was nothing but the heat and pleasure radiating outward from the hands and mouth touching his body. His pants were tugged off his hips, and then they were gone, pooling around his ankles and leaving him completely exposed.

He felt himself being pulled away from the window and deeper into the hut, his mouth captured again. He kissed the god back eagerly, no longer able to protest or fight the urges his body was giving him.

The rain outside began to fall a little harder, and thunder rolled overhead, drowning out all that took place on the ground below.

---

Author’s note: This is an experiment of sorts. It’s inspired by old creation myths that we humans used to tell a long time ago.

There will be more to this, I promise.

I know there isn’t dialogue, but there isn’t really supposed to be any. Don’t worry, everything will be explained in due time ^^