#hoooly shit . Ooos . wrote a goddamn short story up in here this ai t a drablle

[morphlingunderscore]

hey I can send you morituro with the bridge again :) Please don't queue this one your URL is long

morituro - of someone who is next or destined to die

The Bridge, being what they were, had been privy to the highs and lows of civilization. All gods had, they are sure, but their case is not so... Complete. Often, the two do not even notice the time passing, until called upon- simply existing in the End, watching its people flutter about, change, spread out. It embarrasses the louder half, the brighter half, that sometimes they forget the other dimensions exist.

And yet, they do see snippets.

Many mundane- a farmer offering a portion of his harvest in exchange for an equal weight of shadowberries, which he had seen in an herbology book and become quite curious about. A girl attempting to barter loose coin for a mostly harmless weapon to beat her little brother senseless with for sticking gum in her hair. A piglin requesting safe passage from his conquests to his home, where another piglin and two young piglets await him.

these, the bridge enjoys. small things, quiet trades. a gift from a friend, not a trade from a god. it lifts their spirits so they are not so lonely.

Some, quite enthralling. A whole village coming together, pooling trinkets with emotional sentiment to trade for a single wither rose, needed to cure one of their own, a small boy that had been cursed cruelly to rot in his bed. A battalion offering the head of slain beast that could bring them many riches, in exchange for the head of a hated enemy.

THESE, THE BRIDGE ENJOYS. IT ROBS THEM OF THEIR BOREDOM. IT BOILS INKY BLOOD IN THEIR VEINS. IT MAKES GODHOOD FEEL RIGHT, FEEL TRUE. IT EXCITES.

And some, too... Horrible. They need not describe the lengths humanity and its brethren will go when desperate- they experience the results more often than not. And yet everytime they are offered an infant, a child, a hated outcast, a necessary sacrifice-- they find themselves appalled that they could be so disrespected, so misunderstood.

A life is intangible. A life holds infinite value, and yet none. A life can be snuffed out, and the world will keep turning. A life can be snuffed out, and many worlds fall.

Somehow, though, they find themselves... Surprised.

A desperate plea for medicine. A family, a village rotting from the inside out. Their elder, half-dead on his feet, and yet standing, staring them down. Arms held wide. Faces stricken around him, but not him.

This, this happens much less frequently.

"Hardly a fair exchange," the old man laughs, and then coughs, rot expelled from his lungs. He doesn't have long. They can see the path before him, and it is very short. "And yet you- cough- you accepted it." He stares at them, eyes sunken and yet bright. He is smiling. "My son said you wouldn't."

"why did he believe we would deny such a request?" the bridge wonders, quiet confusion.

"WHY DID YOU BELIEVE WE WOULD ACCEPT?" THE BRIDGE sneers, loud condescension.

The old man laughs again, weaker still. His breathing is labored, heart hammering faintly in his chest. That he had stood for their appraisal was a miracle. That, or perhaps it was the final nail in his coffin. "I was a priest, you know. Not like all them new-age types, who spend more money on gilded chandeliers than comfortable pews." He stops to breathe, pale, arms struggling to hold his weight. The Bridge does not hesitate to adjust their embrace, shifting to brace his back, letting his tired arms rest.

If anything, it makes his smile grow wider. More knowing.

"So many believe you're neutral in the face of conflict. That whoever offers the highest bid's gonna win the war--"

"THEY ARE CORRECT."

"Hush, no they ain't," he admonishes, amused when their quieter side swats their louder counterpart in retaliation for interrupting. "You're a god, sure, but gods come from people, and people come from gods. If y'all were so simple, none of us down there be so damn complicated."

"that has merit," the bridge concedes, before adding liltingly, "though you may create a schism with that talk."

The old man grins, teeth dark with old blood. Too tired to laugh.

"Yeah, yeah. I say the more the merrier," he dismisses easily. "Point is, I knew it'd work because you hate sacrifices."

"We Do Not Hate," The Bridge retorts in unison.

"You got opinions up in there, no need to deny it to a... To a dead man." Winded, now. His voice grows thick. "Y'hate em. But I'm not a sacrifice, am I?"

"NO."

"you came willingly."

"YOU ARE A GIFT."

"and we, to you."

The old man's grin softens into a smile. It's small and vulnerable on his pale, gaunt face. He looks so terribly kind.

"See?" He rasps, and then coughs. It exhausts him greatly, until he's barely able to hold his head up to watch them. His path is a scant few millimeters, edging like lace. Silhouetting him in gold.

"Tell Sammy... I was right. ...'nd that it's okay th't he was wrong."

"Of Course," they promise solemnly, offering two twin, terrible smiles of their own. "Safe travels lead you to distant shores, old friend. Be seeing you."

"Be..."

But he is already gone.

Time sticks, and stays, and hardens to stone.

The Bridge has seen the highs and lows of civilization.

It would be easier if they did not.