The rules of the competition were simple.They fought to the death. None could intervene. They would not destroy any of the property within the cathedral, and they would stay on the ptform where Life and Death would perform their ceremony afterwards. Anything besides that goes. Homer could not surrender. War could not surrender. There were no breaks. Only lifeblood was to be taken, and the victor would be decred as so.

  But they were both given time to prepare. War had to talk down the few priests brave enough to try and stop this from happening, after all- it wouldn’t take long, for men of cloth often feared the bde that could shear their cotton habits. But it was enough for Homer to sharpen his bde once more, to get his holy oils from a willing priest of Life, and to chat with Maia and Aymanah a little. The two had come over to his ‘corner’ of the ptform.

  “And you were warning me about not having a pn and how I’d be making a scene…” Maia huffs, but Homer just ughs it off and reaches his hand out under the hood to ruffle her hair a little, and then dragging down to gently brush his thumb on her cheek before retracting it.

  “Now, this is different. I instructed you to not make a scene. I didn’t make a scene either. War is the one who called me out, little ss… Would you have been quiet if Death turned to the crowd and announced that she would be ciming her beloved now?”

  Maia had nothing to say to that. Aymanah idly scratches their talons on the floor, and Homer tuts.

  “You ought to not do that with gods present. You’re going to get cursed, little bird.”

  “Any gods that take my friends from me aren’t worth my respect.”

  “Haahaahahaha! That’s my little bird! But you’re truly terrible people to have at my side of the ring, you two. Not even a single ounce of belief, not even a single ounce of respect… Who’s to say we don’t see a god sin here today? Maybe they will slip and fall right into my sword.”

  War likely couldn’t die. War was eternal. Were their body to dissipate, they’d just reform elsewhere at some other hotspot of conflict, another guise lost. There’s been the occasional report over the years of War falling in combat- many argue on purpose- and then appearing again shortly after. So this would all be pointless if he won. But he wasn’t going to fight just to lose either; this was his way of working out the frustrations in his blood.

  “... Although I better die here. If I live, I’m going to find those lily-livered pansies I considered my friends and I’ll kill them all.”

  None had dared to show up at the ceremony either! Hrah! All they did was pray! And here he thought they were his friends! Who hears of such a compelling tale as his own and chooses to try and pray for a peaceful resolution? And who ever expects the best from War? What sort of desperation drives one to-

  “... Haaargh, fuck.”

  A desperation to save a friend.He can’t bring himself to be too angry. Maybe he’d be in their pce, doing something stupid out of desperation- were it his son or wife doing this sort of stupid shit instead. He’s still going to beat the living daylights out of them if he makes it out of this.

  He knows he won't. Maybe they knew it too.

  “War’s almost finished, Homer.”Maia is leaning over, looking him in the eye underneath the hood. She’s been shedding tears. Even this girl, the one most understanding of his goals, can’t let him go without making it painful and awkward. It's almost like people in this bsted world care for him.

  “Aye. Well, any st words? Maybe you could do that thing you did with the boar, eh? Bless my bde with the power to sy a god in one stroke?”

  Maia gives him a furrowed brow, and Homer can only sigh and shake his head.

  “I’m sorry, ss. It was a good journey. I had fun. I felt fulfilled protecting you and Aymanah, and letting the both of you see the world. But we knew how this was going to end. Don’t cry. Just watch and witness. I’d like for someone to remember me as more than a vainglorious fool.”

  Eyes turn to Aymanah next, and he just grins. Aymanah returns a far less wicked smile, a forced one, but they at least try.

  “Be good, little bird.”

  And so he rises, long sb of metal that he calls a longsword hefted over his shoulder. War approaches from the opposite end, form in constant flux until they settle on a form quite simir in size and heft to his own- like a mirror.

  “You shall not be the first nor st of my kin who has let that boiling in their blood turn them to kinsying madness, boy. What do you strive for, then? Do you wish to become a god yourself? Do you seek prestige? Has your reason fled you, and you only seek to kill the strongest being in the room?”

  Homer shakes his head and smiles, to himself, to the world, and in the face of that very same boiling trying to turn him into an animal.

  “No. I just want to be free.”

  War ponders on the answer for a moment, and then raises their sword. A simir sb of metal, melding to match the dimensions of Homer’s own. War was going be testing his mettle at every level, both against him and as him. Would Homer be able to contend with someone copying him? And how would he do when War grew bored and unleashed their full power?

  “Then free you shall be.”

  There is no roaring from the crowd, no announcers; the two just know that the battle has started. This is a hiriously uneven match, and everyone present knows; the moment War grows bored, Homer is dead. But that isn’t to say that the match is unwinnable.

  The two circle each other.Homer’s muscles twitch. The blood boils. He’s been holding back his rage and anger for so long. At times the valve shifts, and he lets some out, but he always closes it soon after. The moment he lets himself go in this ring he’s going to turn into a rabid animal, someone who can kill even the gods, and that is his one chance at victory-

  why is he even thinking of victory?He came here to lose.

  Homer charges suddenly and swings, and War counters with a swing of their own, twin bdes crashing together with a terrifying, hollow cng that spends sparks flying. His arms hurt just from the impact, and there’s a disgusting scraping cng as his bde bounces down to the floor and back up from there for another upswing, which is swiftly parried. The force he’s using could tear a regur man in half, yet War is meeting him blow for blow.

  Beating him blow for blow, actually, as he already feels himself get pushed to the back foot, towards the edge of the ptform- Death’s section of it to be specific. He can parry and block and redirect, but he cannot stop the force behind the strikes. When he doesn’t step back he slides or stumbles, grunting and groaning.

  What could he do?!Eyes dart about. The crowds are watching intently. The priests seem to have managed to convince them that this is all part of a greater pn, or perhaps the nobles, merchants and other people of import present simply think the change in programming is *fun.* After all these are the same people who visit the colosseum to watch the sands run red.

  The gods are watching. Life seems invested and amused; why wouldn’t he be, fighting to survive was one of his tenets. Homer was doing him a great honor, and even if he failed, he would be fondly remembered… For what good that would do. And Death seemed displeased. He couldn’t tell if it was due to this peacock-like show from War, or if she was just annoyed that this crusty old man was using his death throes to keep her from her beloved.

  Cng! Cng! CLANG!

  He’s almost at the edge. War is toying with him wearing his own guise, each strike a mockery.“You could do this!”“I can do it!”“You are a failure!”“Your blood boils for nothing!”No words are spoken, but each spark and each metallic twang in the air whispers these truths right into Homer’s ear. He could do this if he found the strength. But what does he have? War’s very existence- very core- is this. To fight. To take. To rend. And to humiliate.

  What does Homer even have, besides a deepseated desire to not fight, to not take, to not rend, and to not humiliate?

  If he looks behind him for answers, he’s finished. He can’t look to Maia and Aymanah for meaning. Who is he to rely on these young sprouts, these young people full of potential? Why must he take them for granted? They ought to be relying on him if anything. He cannot find purpose from their friendship, for their friendship should be a well of purpose for them.

  Maybe he just has to die.

  Eyes nailed at War, something flickers behind. He has time to breathe; his enemy has taken a pause in their relentless advance, clearly toying with him. Tempting him. But Homer makes the greatest mistake one could make while fighting the god of conflict and ignores them, looking behind; in the distance… His eyesight isn’t what it used to be, but the crowds outside have pushed through the door a little in the confusion caused by their battle.

  It's blurry, but the closer they get, the clearer it becomes. The light outside is beaming in, and… he can see them.

  He can see Bertha and Reinhardt. And he can tell that Bertha and Reinhardt see him. They can see that he’s going to die. How did- Nobody- did his damn cadre of comrades tell them too? That couldn’t be right. Foolish as they were, they’d know he would sughter them all if they did… So how did Bertha and Reinhardt know to show up? The ceremony was universal, yes, but it was not mandatory, and they’d skipped for years due to War’s presence.

  Had they just moved on? Had they started attending since Homer left? The world moved on without him, he realizes, yet-

  Cng!

  That strike he parries. He redirects the blow and pushes forward.

  Cng!

  That one doesn’t even hit him; he rolls and the bde strikes against the ptform, and he dodges the corrective sweep by keeping the roll going. He’s over at Life’s corner now, back turned towards his wife and son. Looking at them is distracting, and knowing that they’re looking at him empowers him.

  “... Oh? Have you found your fire, kin of War?”

  Their voice rings in his ears. He-He wants to talk to them, now that they’re here. And to do that, he has to survive this fight. He can always fight War next year, or the next.

  Or he can die trying to talk to them one st time. That’d be good too.

  “Could say so, you bastard-!”

  The burning is here. But this time he lets it take control. He’s found a good reason to be angry, a good reason to boil. His muscles bulge, smoke billows from every breath, and he feels his hair stand on pricks and needles, like he’s suddenly hyperaware of even the stray breeze.

  “Come on! Kill me, or I'll kill you!”

  War cocks their head before ughing, taking on a form much smaller, about half of Homer’s height. Androgynous, sleek, armed with that same greatsword- wielding it with no difficulty at all!

  “Good! Let us begin the battle in earnest!”