The Falling God is falling, was falling, will always be falling. That is the constant.
The only change is in how they do it: sometimes they allow themself to plunge headfirst, envisioning what it’d be like if they ever reached the ground and their head cracked open, spilling divine golden blood across the—What? Gravel? Pavement?
What it’d be like if shards of their blessed bones scattered across asphalt, concrete, stone. If falling would at last end.
Other times the Falling God splays themself out like a starfish, and as they cascade through clouds they can almost pretend they’re skydiving, falling with a purpose, instead of just falling.
Mostly, though, they coil themself into a fetal position, because that’s more aerodynamic, and even on an immortal being wind chafe can be awful. They fall, and sometimes they change how they do it, but they always fall.
As they fall, they pass the Rising God. The Rising God is rising, was rising, will always be rising. That, too, is the constant. If both of them are amenable, they’ll chat as they fall and rise toward each other. They’ve concluded their descents and ascents revolve around a sphere, and they’ve wondered if there are any Lateral Gods doing—What? Running? Walking? Striding? Existing, in a way that isn’t Falling and isn’t Rising.
However, once the Rising God pointed out that mathematically, if everyone’s planes of movement are consistent, then eventually they’ll encounter another God, and they have not. It’s foolish, therefore, to believe, to hope, for other Gods.
The Falling God hasn’t spoken to the Rising God since.
Instead, Falling tries out new methods of amusement. Rather than changing only their position as they fall, they change their form. First, a rock. It’s annoyingly boring, being a rock, and presents some risk to the birds.
Next, a neon-blue feather. This is annoying in a different way, for apparently air resistance has minimal effect on Gods meant to be falling. The Falling God continues to fall at the same velocity as in their natural form. Which also presents some risk to the birds.
Just as they’re about to change themself back to their typical form, with head and arms and legs, the Rising God rises and, for the barest moment, brushes their fingertips against the downy barbs at the base of the Falling God.
A frisson of delight rolls through the feather. Falling has no eyes but still locks gazes with Rising’s void-suffused pupils, and Falling marvels at finding a likeness in the nothingness, the meaningless, of being eternally Falling and eternally Rising with no other purpose than these.
The Rising God yanks their hand back. “Sorry,” they say, “I just…”
But the connection is broken, for Rising is rising above Falling, and Falling is falling below Rising.
Falling shifts their form back to normal, but still feels the ghost of fingertips on the softest part of their self.
On the next revolution, when Falling first sees Rising below them, they muster their bravery to call out the question that’s been bugging them off and on for centuries, they think, but that they’d never believed would be answered. “Hey, Rising,” Falling says, “what would you want to rise to, if you could stop rising?”
By the time Rising answers, they are only a few god-lengths below Falling. “I don’t know. I keep thinking mountain peaks and skyscrapers, but they’re all pretty…”
“Pedestrian,” Falling says, and they both go silent because pedestrian reminds them of the Lateral Gods that do not exist.
Pedestrian, meaningless, like their own inexorable movement upward and downward, ever and always, unchanging.
Except on the next revolution, the Rising God is a neon-blue albatross. As they pass each other, the Falling God smiles in recognition, and in their divine chest a spark burns.
As if by unspoken mutual agreement, the next revolution sees both the Falling God and the Rising God back to their typical forms.
“Do you want to stop rising?” the Falling God asks. Their immortal heart that doesn’t actually need to pump golden blood in order to survive is, nevertheless, pounding.
The Rising God doesn’t answer until the revolution after, when they are again many god-lengths below the Falling God’s feet. “I don’t see how I can.”
“Do you trust me?” Falling asks, and Rising hesitates so long that Falling thinks they won’t get an answer till the next rotation, and maybe not even then.
But Rising nods when they’re one god-length below Falling, and it’s enough for Falling. As they fall past Rising and Rising rises past them, Falling throws out their arms, crashes into Rising, and enfolds them tightly in an embrace with arms and legs both, so that as one still falls and the other rises, they reach at last:
Stasis.
Arms wrapped around each other, the Gods—who are no longer Falling nor Rising—bleed color into each other, a neon-blue so bright it’s hard to tell where one God stops and the other begins.
And the God Who No Longer Falls thinks: perhaps pedestrian is a good way to be.
© 2024 Amanda Helms
