The Pilgrims

Trigger warning: (Death, slavery, murder)

Once upon a time, there were two little pilgrims. They were born on opposite ends of the world, to opposite families, yet with identical bodies and minds.

The little pilgrim of the East was born alone and into absurd poverty. For much of his life's beginning, he did not live, but merely survive. The kingdom of his birth was ruled by blasphemers, the greedy, and the conquering, the suffering of its people legendary to all across the world. It was so far from the light of the gods that it basked in eternal twilight, and the stars shone upon it not with beauty, but scorn.

The pilgrim of the West was born into a kingdom of enlightenment, surrounded by a beloved family who were believers in the gods. This kingdom never need fear reproach for its actions nor sickness in its bones, for it was so close to the Gods that abundance flowed naturally as water from a spring. They were ruled by the fair, and just, and powerful, and all desires were met for those that fell within its light.

One day, the little pilgrim of the East decided to go on a journey.

One day, the little pilgrim of the West decided to go on a journey.

"I will travel to the Gods and ask for their power, to save my people from their suffering, and uplift the weak."

"I will travel far, far away from these people, to seek meaning beyond the Gods."

So the two pilgrims, armed with their upbringings, set out to travel the world.

The little Pilgrim of the East traveled to the dark swamps, where ghosts languished in the murky depths below, the sand surrounding their home blasted with apocalyptic heat. "Help us! Save us! They cried from below. "The Gods have abandoned us to the dark, though we are sinners, no creature deserves this!" The little pilgrim, empathy watered by the seeds of blood and loss, promised them that he would deliver them from their prison.

The little pilgrim of the West traveled through the mountains, where grand festivals were born over verdant rivers, the sunlight liquid gold upon the skin. "Are we not the most content of all the Gods children? Are we not blessed?" The little pilgrim, mind hardened from years of rigor and critique, looked down from their perch and saw only the corpses of fish and sinners left to wash away, westward to the swamps. "Surely there is better than this?" He thought, and continued on.

The little pilgrim from the East traveled down the roads of his fore-bearers, paved by bone and misery. All around him were the slaves sent to maintain the paths for all of time, yoked to its dark purpose. "There is nothing but the road, the Gods have forsaken us." They spoke in songs and dirges as they lay the bricks and bridges. The little pilgrim denied them, and promised that he would petition the Gods to deliver them from their torment. Then he continued on.

The little pilgrim from the West came upon the grand canyons of silver, and the great plateaus of gold. Here, artisans and craftsmen built wonders beyond human thought, great works that endured and vanished in equal measures. The joy of their faces lit the world like fire, the filigree and ceramic and metal and paint exploding into a tableau of beauty. "Truly, there is no better joy than creation!" They exclaimed as they directed their workers to build. The little pilgrim saw only the gaping earth and pits of chattel where the artisans threw away the unwanted and broken, the hanged bodies of the dissenting. "Surely there is better than this?" He thought, and continued on.

Midway through their journey, the two pilgrims were destined to meet. An old wise woman told the Western pilgrim that there was a mirror in the great jungles that could show a man's soul in perfect clarity, and an old foolish man told the Eastern that there was a mirror in in the great acropolis that could show him the qualities of the Gods. Both journeyed long and grueling paths in the great forest, until the temple revealed itself at the center. There, the two met on opposing sides, nothing between them but air. Both saw it only as the fabled mirror.

"Are they truly so cruel?" Thought the Eastern pilgrim at its sight.

"Am I truly so foolish?" Thought the Western.

They walked to opposite ends, never looking back, and journeyed on.

The Western Pilgrim found the roads of suffering and traveled down them, the slaves mistaking them for their counterpart. "Have you word from the Gods? Has our suffering ended?"

The Western pilgrim blinked, "If your suffering is to end, you must stop building the road."

"But the road is all there is!" They wailed in return. But the Western pilgrim was already leaving, shaking his head at their foolishness.

Soon enough, the slaves finally heeded the words of the pilgrim and their slain elders memory, and rebelled. Their suffering morphed, from slavery to slaughter, and chaos reigned as the roads were swallowed by a quiet, beautiful wood.

The Eastern Pilgrim came upon the kingdom of the artisans, but with no labor to support their craft, they crumbled, their works rusted and molding, their bellies empty. "The Gods have betrayed us!" They wailed to the air, the light curdling against their skin. The Eastern pilgrim promised them that he would find the Gods and deliver their power back to the artisans, and journeyed on.

The Western Pilgrim came upon the boiling swamps, the ghosts as well mistaking him as the other. "Have the Gods come to save us!? Are we forgiven? Are we released?"

The pilgrim looked about, then said, "I see no chains upon you, but I know there is great bodies of water towards the west, there you will perhaps find freedom."

The ghosts, outraged by the little pilgrim's words shouted back as he left, "Curse you! For there is only darkness in the water below, and we will surely suffer!"

But the ghosts indeed sank below the waves and swam west, the bogs and corpses spilling back upon the shores of their killers, the foul heat bringing sickness and fear to the mountains and rivers. There, far below, they found quietude and merciful rest at the ocean floor.

The Eastern pilgrim arrived in the mountainous kingdoms, only to find plague, pollution and rot. The people feast upon one another, the great bounties of their past now spoiling the very ground they walked. Ghosts indicted those that dared to take more from the earth, and the streets were silent as all feared their accusations. "The Gods have betrayed us! How could this be so?" They whispered from behind closed doors and rotting teeth. The little pilgrim from the East promised them that he would tell the Gods of this tragedy, and that the land would be cleansed. He journeyed on.

They arrived at each other's homeland.

In the East, a great miracle began. The people of the West could no longer take from the East as their lands spoiled with curses, and the wicked rulers could only cower and shrink away as more and more people grew in strength against them. The endless twilight and scornful stars grew in number and strength, filling the once rotted kingdom with light and hope, the mistakes of the present forgivable, and the hope of tomorrow bright. The western pilgrim at once realized what his journey was meant to do. So he began to climb the mountain to the farthest East, to reach its snow-capped summit.

In the West, a great tragedy ensued. The kingdom once of light and justice watched as the great poisons befouled them. A miasma filled the air and blocked the light of the gods, and left them to starve in agony. Their endless sins could not be forgiven in the darkness, and great monsters prowled and stole away the innocent with ease. They cursed the names of their protectors and forsook the gods, hatred replacing devotion. The little Pilgrim, unsure of what to do at such madness, resolved that he would see his journey end, and began to climb the mountain of the Gods.

There at the summit, they met properly. The western pilgrim was elated, while the eastern was confused. "Where!? Where are the gods!?" He cried out.

The doppelganger looked at him properly, eyes full of understanding. "They are gone, or perhaps they were never here to begin with. Look there!" He pointed, and the other looked up to behold the sun. "Their light is no radiance, no aura. It is the light that shines down for all people, of all nations. It is by our will that it shines, and by our hubris that it is lost."

The other pilgrim became angered by this. "No! The Gods, they will bring salvation! I have promised many much, they must be here! I have traveled far, and seen only suffering, only evil at the hands of men! The gods are above us, beyond our petty evil, they are our guiding light!"

"I too have traveled far. There was no difference in those with or without the light of god, all suffered or caused suffering. The light does not guide, it merely is." With this, the Western pilgrim stood and faced the weeping Eastern. "I will go to my homeland, and tell them the truth. Their sins do not need forgiveness, but action. Will you help me guide them back to the light, to hope?"

At this, the eastern pilgrim balked. Then, he raged. His hatred for this man, who shared his face and voice and spoke of such absurd heresy, could not be forgiven. He reached over and fought with him, dragging him to the ground and strangling him. The Eastern had never seen the lands of light before their fall, he had seen only darkness, and it was to this darkness that he would deliver this monster, this dark shadow that challenged his beliefs.

The deed finished, the eastern pilgrim descended the mountain to discover his homeland saved. He hailed it as the miracle he had awaited, delivered by the sacrifice of the devil atop the mountain.

There, he ruled as a prophet, delivering the wisdom of the gods to all who listened, telling them of retribution and faith's majesty. The western lands rotted into chaos and wickedness; the promises of salvation forgotten, while great empires were born in the east.

The corpse upon the summit was silent. And one day, the Eastern pilgrim's corpse joined it, his royal tomb placed above the remains, to forever block the light of truth from touching it.

The End.