Everyday Sacrifice
A story about a man and a god playing dice
There is a room in a house upon a hill. Therein, a man plays dice with a god, his knuckles white as he rattles ivory cubes in a cup. Each die is made from the bones of a leviathan. The cup was bought yesterday from Costco.
Clack.
The man rams the cup into the table, looking up at the god. He feels luck in his hands and smiles. Removing the container, his faith is rewarded by a straight—one through six—lining up in a half-circle.
He waves his hand, inviting the god to take their chance, daring the being to dance to the tune of chance and fortune, concepts the god so abhors.
It is a ritual, of sorts. One played out by the rattle of a cup and the bones of ancient beasts made into playthings. The god moves not, but sees through the trickery of man. The table, a limit. The cup, a fabrication. The dice, a dream.
For the being to play, they must adhere to rules, and gods are rulebreakers.
Instead of a game of chance, the god plays dice with prophecy, placing in the mind of the man a desire to win, a need to challenge the god and thereby prove his superiority. He will rattle the cup a thousand-thousand times to win once, raising his arms in triumph in his last moment before death.
And the god will carry him out of his mortal form into the world beyond. Or into nothing. The god has not decided yet.
The man struggles, his desire to deny prophecy warring with his newfound and old desire to win. Biting his lip, he grabs the dice again, rattling the cup, making another attempt at swaying the being before him.
Clack.
He places the cup neatly this time, then scrapes it across the table, marking the line between himself and the immortal beyond. Each die carries the weight of centuries, and they leave marks in the table—six long scratches across the surface.
Though he is convinced of his victory, the man keeps his face in control, weighing the pros and cons of keeping the dice concealed. Without the certainty, he can hope—once he lifts the cup, truth will be laid bare.
Fingers latched onto the table, he removes the cup with a flourish. A mess of twos and threes, no system, no rhyme. Still, the man’s chest expands, his eyes light up in the dark. He hammers the table, and the dice revolt. They fight their own form, refusing to lay still, reshaped into fractal mirrors of man playing against a man playing against—
What is a god to do, when men replace infinity with themselves?
The god leans back, uncertain though not unsure. The being knows what must be done, but the path is unclear. Perhaps taking a seat at the table was a trap the god let slip. A limit, an opening, an uneven field—one that made the god come into being.
There is naught to do but play this mortal’s game, so the god leans forward and flickers the oldest of flames. If prophecy will not dissuade, then what of the certainty of the fade? Obscurity, inconsequence, eternal nothingness—this the god offers to the mirrors below. See the enormity of things that are, watch the longevity of what may be, and despair at your presence, mortal, or rather: the lack thereof.
What say you now, O Man on a Hill? Will you play the game against yourself when nothing is at stake?
The man sees the move and whips the fractals off the table, placing them back in the cup bought only yesterday. Cheap plastics, with the recognizable color of a picnic in spring. Perhaps it was chance, or perhaps it was purpose, bringing him to pay for the last of a staple. It sat on the shelf, all alone, a bearer of liquids that could be warm or be cold.
So the man mixes fractals of bone, washing it down with the blood of his own—a drink of delicate taste that might induce even a god to a sip. He puts onto the cup its lid, shaking it in between taunting lips.
Clack.
The rattle is now a wet staccato, playing a percussion salute to finitude. It is done; ambrosia from a mortal. Could there be a greater gift, a stronger play, in the game of dice of which they are made?
The god laughs, as the liquid comes to a rest. The being sweeps up the container and eyes its promise to satiate, knowing it is a lie that only a broken man would play. What need have gods of drink or food, when all of destiny is their meal?
The man sulks, arms crossed. He knows the drink will hold worth. He gestures at the god, promising it’s good.
The god takes a sniff, and lets out a cry. For man has always been a creature of lies. If not the limit of games, or the trouble of ego—the offering of essence has always been their last rebuke.
The essence of things that have been. The essence of things to come. The essence of prophecy deconstructed by myth. The essence of nothingness replaced with resolve to overcome.
The god cries tears of fear and their hand shakes. They want to drink. Such a sweet taste of man’s initiative.
The man smiles with his eyes. He knows he has the being caught in the trap of limits and rot.
Clack.
A last dry rattle of a god returning the cup, its plastic crinkling in their grip. The cup may be empty, and the god brought low, or it may yet be full and divinity has overcome—made mortal through mortal games.