Xil’dan looked down at his wilted hydrangeas in disgust. Six hundred years, and he had not yet learned the trick of keeping plants alive. Surely it wasn’t that difficult a task. Mortals did it all the time. But try as he might, he could not seem to make his garden flourish. Plants he cared for withered, shrubs he pruned turned black, and even his simple lawn contained more dirt and weeds than grass.

​

But to be fair, he admitted, he was not the God of Gardening.

​

The god turned from his failed horticultural attempts and headed back inside the house, stooping down to scoop up today’s paper from the driveway as he went. The world had changed much in the centuries since he had last been worshipped; new cultures flourished, and all were well worth watching. New wars were waged with weapons that astonished even him. So even if his name was now forgotten by the people of this place, it was at least interesting to watch them learn and grow through the ages.

​

Sitting down at the table, he unfolded the paper and flipped to the business section. Mankind’s obsession with wealth had not changed a whit since he “retired”; new inventions like the stock market and electronic trading fascinated him, and he enjoyed reading about them even if their secret machinations were a mystery. He suspected that, given his immortal lifespan, he could use these tools to amass a fortune if he truly felt inclined. But the prospect seemed more trouble than it was worth.

​

He was not, after all, the God of Wealth.

​

And so Xil’dan took his ease, sipping his morning coffee and catching up on all the happenings in the ever-changing world. Nationalism had been growing in recent years, and many countries seemed poised on the brink of—

 

“Xil’dan fyrgh kre… kretch’al,” said a faltering voice.

​

Xil’dan froze with his cup raised to his lips. “Impossible,” he breathed. No one had spoken his invocation in earnest in a dozen lifetimes. And even then, the last person had bungled the pronunciation so badly that—

 

“Xil’dan fyrgh kretch’al, on’ket forn… rot?” tried the voice again.

​

The god lurched up from his table. The coffee fell forgotten to the floor. No, this was not some idle reading of an ancient scroll. Someone was actually attempting to summon him. Someone who truly believed that he existed, and actively desired his aid. It was a small faith—he could barely feel it when the voice echoed in his head—but it was real. How could this be?

​

“Xil’dan fyrgh kretch’al, on’ket forn WROTH!” said the voice.

​

Xil’dan blinked, and he was there.

​

He appeared in a jumbled study, packed with books and artifacts from a dozen civilizations. Whoever owned these was clearly a world-traveler, or at least a collector of the rarest sort. In the center of the hardwood floor was an enormous oaken desk, similarly covered in books and various pilfered curiosities. And behind the desk, still clutching the copper disk engraved with Xil’dan’s prayer, was…

​

A child.

​

The god frowned. It was a human boy, no more than eight or nine. He wore an ill-fitting black suit and tie, and his cheeks were wet with tears. His eyes were as wide as any human’s eyes could hope to be, and his face was pale as he stared over the desk at who he’d summoned.

​

Xil’dan raised an eyebrow. “What is your name, child?” he asked.

​

The boy started, but stood his ground. Brave, then. He gulped. “T… Tommy,” he said. “Are you… Xil’dan?”

​

The god nodded slowly. Something was very wrong here. “Yes,” he said at last. “And you have summoned me? You seek my aid?”

​

The boy stammered. “I…” he looked at the closed study door, then back to the tall figure before him. “I want you to bring my uncle back.” He gripped the copper disk tightly in his tiny hands, as if to force his wish into the metal itself. “Please,” he pleaded, his voice desperate now. “Please bring him back?”

​

Xil’dan examined his would-be petitioner. The tears. The black suit. What was going on here?

​

…Ah.

​

“Your uncle is dead, isn’t he?” asked the god. “This was his office. He is the one who owned the disk.”

​

The boy nodded. “Yes,” he whimpered. “He taught me how to read the writing. He taught me all sorts of things.” His fear forgotten, the words poured out. “He was an adventurer, like I want to be. He goes all over the world, and… and he brings back amazing things, and he always takes time to show me and teach me and please just bring him back. Please, I’ll give you anything I have. Please.”

​

Xil’dan sighed. What a waste. The first real summoning since the fall of the For’gyl Ziggurat, and it was all for nothing. A child’s misplaced hope.

​

“I am sorry, boy,” he said sadly. “But I am not the God of Death. I cannot help your uncle now.”

​

Tommy’s face fell, and he lowered the copper disk to his side. “I thought…” he said hopelessly, “I thought you could save him.” He sniffled, and fresh tears began to creep down his face.

​

“Do not weep for him, little one” said Xil’dan, not unkindly. “Death is a natural part of life. You will miss him, and for that pain you may grieve. But if it was your uncle’s time, then his passing was no tragedy. Even the best of us must face the final gate eventually.”

​

The boy’s face whipped up, twisting into a fierce grimace. “It was not his time!” he hissed.

​

The god frowned, surprised by the heat in that small voice. “Oh?” he asked. “He was not old? Infirm?”

​

Tommy shook his head. “I heard my parents talking,” he muttered. “They said he was walking in a ‘bad part of town.’ They said some men came and…” His eyes teared up again, and he sniffed angrily, looking down at his feet.

​

Xil’dan stood very still, studying the child in front of him. There was something here. He could sense it faintly, like a distant and forgotten door, long abandoned in the labyrinth of his soul. An ancient stirring that the god had all but put aside. He made his way around the desk and knelt down in front of Tommy, gently lifting the boy’s chin with a curled finger.

​

“Child,” he asked quietly, “how exactly did your uncle die?”

​

The boy glared up at the god, his face still splotchy-red and lined with tears. There was sadness there, yes. But also anger. A newfound fury at a world that he'd thought he understood. A world that was suddenly, unexpectedly, unfair.

“They killed him,” he whispered. “They killed him, and they didn’t even know him. They just wanted his money.”

​

Xil’dan gazed carefully into the child’s eyes, weighing the truth of his words. Then, slowly, he nodded in agreement. “I was wrong, then,” he said finally. “I do believe that I can help you after all.”

​

And for the first time in nearly six hundred years, the God of Vengeance smiled.