my book - prologue

i've been working on a book for a few months now and keep running out of motivation. i thought sharing it with y'all chapter by chapter might help

PROLOGUE

The trees were whipped aside as the god ran, trunks turning as if to avert their gaze from the desperate spectacle. Whorls of pollen and insects flew past,  floating to the ground in spirals. The deity’s elegant hand was clenched tightly around an object- a branch of mistletoe, fashioned into a crude dart. Miniature streams of red ran down their fingers where the sprig’s sharp point had lain embedded in the boy’s throat mere hours ago. 

The god’s footsteps were near soundless, their feet seeming to barely skim the carpet of decaying plants that shielded the forest floor. The scattered shafts of first light began to seep in through the canopy, casting a glow on the path upon which the god ran. 

Despite the darkness of the early morning, the illumination was not welcomed by the immortal- far from it. They protected their eyes with a hand from the sharp rays that were steadily growing larger as the morning wore on. The few beams that dared to fall upon the god’s visage were rewarded with a hiss of pain.

Suddenly, the god stopped- falling still and, somehow, more silent than they had been before.  Not a sound was made, and yet something hinted that they were not alone. A sword was pulled from the folds of their tunic, the edge wicked-looking and glowing golden in the semidarkness. 

“Lævateinn,” a voice commented from behind the god. “A blade fit for one such as yourself.” 

The god gave no indication they had heard, other than to raise the sword a fraction of an inch. 

“I suppose you’re wondering how it is that I found you.” The god noted that the speaker’s voice was tinged with pride- something almost obscene, considering the prior events. 

The sun fully emerged from behind the trees, falling into the god’s face, their eyes shielded only by a few strands of flaxen hair. Still, the god did not move.

“It was only a matter of blood,” the god’s companion continued, seemingly unperturbed by the lack of response. “I would be able to find my son anywhere.”

The god looked down at the dart still clutched in their hand. Its steady drip-drip-dripping of red now landing on the ground in a steadily growing pool. The presence allowed for a moment to pass, perhaps drinking in the god’s supposed shock.

Finally the god turned, letting the bloody dart fall from their grasp. They smiled, the scarred edges of their lips twisting back in what could be interpreted as an expression of pain- if not for the glint in their eyes revealing the opposite.

“I always underestimate what a good hunter you are, blodbror,” the god remarked, their voice saturated with a musical quality that both repulsed and captivated storytellers for centuries past and to come.

The god stepped backwards. Perceiving this as a sign of defeat, the god’s companion surged forward, swinging forth a weapon of his own- a silvery spear sliding so smoothly from his sheath it was clear it had been drawn hundreds of times before.

The spear cleaved the air where the god had been moments before, with such force that even the strongest warrior would be thrown off balance by yards. As it was, there wasn’t more than the slightest hint of surprise. The god, now barely resting above the forest compost, sent their sword flying towards their opponent, who was forced to parry with his own weapon. 

The god looked back at the sun, which had started its ascent in the sky, and closed their eyes. 

“But not good enough.”