Eons had passed since the last time they had woken. Millennia of fitful sleep, dreaming of those that needed the gift they could provide. Yet few came even close to what it took to wake them from their slumber. None could muster the desperation, the pain and hopelessness needed for a prayer to reach a deity as ancient as they were.

Only few had ever come before them beseeching their aid, even in times when its name had still been spoken, had been breathed from shaking, salty lips. A mother tearing through her own flesh to keep a starving infant fed, a healer sobbing at their own helplessness as their loved ones slowly suffocated in writhing agony, an old man with tired bones, unable to move as fast as was necessary to stand before the young children as the sword swung down.

Only in the most desperate of times had they ever selected a priest. With the gift they bestowed it had been no wonder that they had slipped into oblivion soon. So when they felt the burn of acid, the heat of flames clawing at one’s skin, the agony of cold biting through one’s flesh, the feeling of absolute desperation and helplessness, they reveled in it and welcomed the pain. For the pain meant they were needed.

The figure that had called to them, had reached out with such desperation to an entity so long forgotten, was tiny. Yet it burned with such agony that it might have been desperation itself. Wretched screams tore free from its small form, echoing through the empty silence of the battlefield as it knelt over a mountain of ash and shackled bones. It watched helplessly as the coarse dust of what once were creatures of its own kind slipped through its fingers and scattered with the freezing wind, violent sobs and gags shaking the tiny frame. No vomit came, the stomach had been empty from weeks on the run.

The sob that left its mouth was spoken in a language the deity had never heard before, yet it understood the meaning.

“Sisters-“

They watched in awe as the small one wretched and choked on stomach acid. It was such a young soul, yet one with such compassion that others had not learned in a thousand life times. Perhaps it was its innocence that had enabled the small creature to wake them. Their awe grew once more as from cracked lips spilled words in a language they knew, a language as old as themselves. The uttered healing spell was simple, weak, just strong enough to heal a scrape or cut. Yet the young witch spoke it over and over again, as if it could raise its sisters from the dead if only spoken often enough. Time and time again it screamed in pain as more and more of its little magic was exhausted. They felt with it as the excruciating pain of magic overuse stabbed into its head, as its stomach burned with acid, as its voice grew hoarse and raw from its screams. And soon they decided the frail little form had suffered enough. They embraced its tiny frame, covered it with their essence and soothed its mind and body. Searching through its mind they found the words they needed. Their voice warped and twisted as they echoed their words into the child’s thoughts:

“I feel with you young one. I feel your pain and your regret. Your prayer reached me and your desperation woke me.”

They saw through the little soul’s eyes as it had trembled in its hiding spot, as it had prayed for one of its sisters to return, as it had tried to shut out the screams of terror and anguish, the roaring of fire and the cheering of men watching and reveling in it. It felt the small one’s fear as it had sat paralyzed until there was silence, heard its roaring thoughts screaming at itself to get up and help, to do something, anything- felt its world shatter as it finally crawled out of the barrel that had hid it so well, felt its mind break as it saw the burnt remains of those that had raised it, loved it, cared for it and taught it their language- the language of magic and ancient deities, hid it away and fought to keep it safe, even as it meant certain death for them.

“I assure you, nothing you could have done then would have been able to save your sisters. But you did the best you could. And I can help you help them.”

They felt the confusion swirling in its storm of thoughts and continued, a sadness reverberating in their voice.

“My gift is not kind, young one. It is not a blessing, it will cause you pain, it will kill you. But through me you will gain the strength to act, to save, to sacrifice for others when you could not before. I can teach you the words, the prayer to raise them, to exchange your life for theirs. My gift is self-sacrifice. Become my priestess, young witch, and I shall give you the power to save them.”

They felt the young one think for a second, remembering the warmth of the other women’s love, the joy it felt as they smiled at it, combed its hair, healed its scrapes and little wounds and taught it the very same spell. The feeling of having lost the most precious thing it would ever know broke the deity’s heart once more, just as it had broken their heart to feel the pain of all the others they had blessed over the millennia of their existence.

As they felt the young soul reach a decision, they warned:

“Before you decide, I believe you should know that your sisters would have not wanted this, they did this of their own accord, out of love and the desire to protect you. You would go against their will. Will you still agree?”

They felt the answer before they heard it, the young one whispering their consent through cracked lips. And with that, the deity chose the witch as their priestess, beginning to whisper the ancient words of the spell into its head. It was a spell which surpassed the young one’s capabilities by far, it would drain its life force and allow the deity to fulfill its prayer- It’s life for the lives of its sisters. As it cast the spell, the deity wrapped itself around the young soul to guard it against the pain of the ritual, it had suffered enough. Soon, their first priestess in millennia began to writhe under what little pain they couldn’t keep from it, still, it must have felt unbearable to such a frail creature. The witch’s skin began to blacken, its body smoking and then slowly crumbling to dust as one last tear rolled down its cheek.

The final syllable was uttered and the small creature dissolved completely, leaving behind only a skull of pure diamond, a sign of the immense burden the deity’s gift had been to their priests in life.

As one by one bones reformed from splinters and bodies rose from ashes, muscle and hair regrew, mouths gasped for air and eyes opened, the first distraught screams rung out over the burnt grounds and soon a dozen new prayers were uttered to the deity. And a dozen new priests were chosen.