#anyway if I get any details wrong I blame the Spanish ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

[re-mortal]

All was quiet in the dead lands of Kaluwalhatian as the old gods shifted from ancient slumber, rising to dust off their skin of dry earth and grass, and shake off stubborn dirt from cloth, feather, bone and metal. The sky above the sky rumbled with the clanging of armor and impending death knells as on high prepared for a massacre, yet no weapon whispered with malice in their hands as they marched wearily to the primordial creator at the edge of what was once his royal paradise.

Bathala sat on a crumbling cliff overlooking a vast rice field with all the crops bowed to howling winds from armies of unseen wings. His clay-caked hands softly stroked a tigmamanukin perched on his knee as he wondered how it had all come to this.

"It seems the old foreigner wants to try anew again," Amanikable remarked, tapping the blunt of his hunting spear on the ground, his voice dry from centuries of unuse, "What do we do?"

Bathala took a deep breath in, stirring the winds of Kaluwalhatian, and blew out, life blooming into the plants and animals of his court one more time. "What do we do?" he echoed pensively in his unknowable voice, "We are not war gods, nor do we have any army to put before the forces coming down to meet them, and most of the anitos that fight are gone. So what do we do…"

Bathala sighed and let the tigmamanukin fly to a nearby branch as he stood and dusted his clothes. When he turned to address the other gods, his was not a hopeful smile. "If we do not fight," he began, his hands working the last pieces of pliable clay on his palms, "the descendants of our people will die, and we will watch and die with them."

There was already no hope in their eyes, not even in the twinkling stars of Tala's, but his words made it all too real. Men looked away and glared in frustration, women closed their eyes and sighed in resignation, and no one offered opposition. They knew it already. This was the end.

Bathala cupped his hands together and breathed a plume of fire. "Or we fight," he continued, opening his hands to reveal in his palm a brand new human, "and though we may die, we would have died knowing we gave them even the smallest chance to continue living." In the blink of an eye, the new human disappeared and the tigmamanukin flew down into the earth with a small cry.

In the continuing silence, Bathala watched as one-by-one they took to weapons with heavy hearts and wet eyes, mourning that he should ask any of them to take up arms. "So this is the last stand of an old pantheon," he thought as he called for a spear of earth, water, air and fire. It felt out of place in his still clay-caked hands. "Death either way."

He hoped that other ancient pantheons of the lands now called the Philippines had thought to do as they did. At least then they would die together with familiar faces.

As the sky above the sky opened and the first call of God's second apocalypse blew from a golden horn, Bathala wept when it was answered by hundreds of ringing war gongs and the roars of immortal beasts.

The Christian god decides to send an army of angels to purge the earth so humanity can start clean but the pagan gods come to the aid of humans