Son: If I ruled the world...

He considered the cathedral from where he stood on the turret. It was going up quickly -- the glistening, sweating bodies of slaves worked furiously to pile stones specially carved by the finest masons in the world. The statues and detailed story-pictures were created to explain the stories of this strange God to the masses. He could hear the single bell set up on wooden stilts calling the "flock" to the steps of the building for services, under the watchful eyes of the white robed priest with a booming voice and the oglden symbol of his sacrificed Lord around his neck. The cathedral would be a masterpiece -- perfect and glorious and filled with a spectrum of light.

It disgusted him.

That man's flock was his people. The mass's unified voice, singing hymns, was a challenge to his own power. His thoughts were tinged with jealousy -- it usually took more than a bell to get people to listen to him -- but mostly he was angry.

His father, the King of Earth and Heaven before him, the man who had conquered the known world, had converted on his death bed and ordered the cathedral built. As for the Empire, he had decreed that it would be left to the eldest son who converted with him and then would swear them to continue the building process.

Five sons had converted, but he was the only one to swear to the cathedral. While the other brothers debated the point, he took the opportunity and signed the order. The Lord Proector, chief minister of the Empire, was there, consecrated the succession, and his father had died.

Five minutes later, as Lord-to-be, he ordered the death of his brothers, cast out the priest, and converted back to his native gods. They had always served him well. The cathedral, meanwhile, was harder to get rid of. Flesh cuts easily, and blood is definitive, but stone was more difficult to pull down.

He cursed his father for the oath, and cursed more the order had been signed by him, that he had not waited the few minutes before his father had passed on.

He pushed his palms together and pulled them apart, feeling the glow of the fire ball he had formed there. He wished that he could simply throw it down and destroy the building, but it would be too obvious. It was weaker than ever, now. It may not have the same force. This new God forbade the use of magic. As people stopped using it, the power was dying.

It was just fading away.

I rule the world, and this religion is becoming a problem. And, that afternoon, it would go away. He extinguished the flame, turned on his heel and went back inside as rain clouds gathered.

----

He woke up to the expected boom.

His afternoon nap had been peppered with dreams of blood, of the aftermath of war, of bodies piled high until they blocked out the sun. And every last one of them wore a white robe.

The boom was a planned explosion by specialized assassins for the built environment. A signle lightning bolt during the storm -- magically arranged -- had struck a second spell that had exploded. He smile as he thought of addressing the crowd. This must be a sign that the gods of our forefathers are angry, he would say, we must repent! The use of this new God's own language was genius and a special touch he had planned to move them. The flock would be his, again.

He dressed alone, waving off servants. He wanted to do this slowly, the whole time humming one of their tunes. This would be his day.

His entourage left the castle to inspect the destruction, the rain softening in the early vening. Everything was dark, as the clouds still blocked out the dim light. His ministers were gossiping and begging for plans around him, a muting and umbrella spell covering all of them as they walked.

He hummed, ignoring them, and practically skipped up the hill to the sight of the now destroyed cathedral.

Clink. The sound started a few blocks away from the site. Clink. The sound of metal hitting stone rang through the streets sharply; he winced, knowing the sound and marking it as the same tone that kept him awake at night. Clink. "Sounds like they are rebuilding," one of the ministers said, and the Lord of Earth and Heaven noted that that man would have to die. Clink. His heart sank and his pace quickened, and he was no longer humming but could hear the music still in his ears.

He knew what to expect when he turned the courner. Thousands of people stood around the base of the steps at the flattened church, holding candles and singing hymns. At the front, the priest was leading them all. Slaves were picking up stones and moving them. They were rebuilding, and the crowd was growing by the minute. All singing.

For a moment, he was at a loss, but he knew what had to be done. To rule the world, you had to adapt, and he felt himself moving through the shocked crowd, which parted as he stepped forward. Every instinct screamed KILL KILL towards each of the startled faces, and he wanted to bury a knife in the heart of the bastard priest.

Which is why even he was surprised when he alighted the broken stairs, singing with the crowd, to embrace the white frocked pretender at what was once the doorway.

"If I ruled the world, truly," he whispered in the man's hear, "you would be dead."

"Ah," the priest shot back, "but you can't without the people's hearts -- my people's hearts." He pulled away and turned towards the crowd, his voice booming over the song, "Your Lord is converting back! He, too, has seen the good that is our God, even in this dark hour!"

A cheer went up as the Lord of Heaven and Earth dropped to one knee and he signaled his ministers to do the same.

The toothy grin of the bastard priest looked down. "And now, you are my puppet. I rule the world."