The Burden

I am, unfortunately, a god.

Percival let the words imprint directly into the stone, then commanded the winds to scatter away the smoke created in the wake of his words. He stared at them, though not in the way mortals do. He had no form, yet his awareness was greater than it had ever been. He needed not eyes to see, but how he yearned for them.

He wished he could shut it off, but his awareness was too great. Even now, he could feel the presence of his beloved, just as he could feel everyone. There was no corner of the world he did not watch. He was the sentinel of the people. Such was his curse.

She stood there, his beloved, tending to her garden. It was said a god was supposed to perceive beauty equally in all things, but no flower in that garden could rival her beauty. Percival longed to feel the warmth of her embrace, the softness of her hair, the melody of her heartbeat. In obtaining godhood, he could save the world, but not himself.

Percival could make the rain fall as easily and instinctively as one might tilt their head. He spun the world on its axis as if it were a plaything rolled in the hands of an idle god. The winds were his breath, controlling such forces through mere subconscious thought. The knowledge he possessed would bring even the greatest scholars to madness. His power dwarfed kings. His natural structures made even the most beautiful churches look like amateur works of art. And he would give it up for one more kiss from the one he loved.

A god was supposed to love and care for their people, though he found himself indifferent. He was omniscient, time a mere arbitrary bookmark in a grander novel all of which he knew by heart. Would they know he watched over them? Would they know what he gave up? All he could do was watch. Watch as his beloved grew old and died. He experienced time as an endless loop, repeating over and over, watching her die each time. And he would do it until the end of time, for the only other option was to forget her. That, he would never do.