The st time he fought like this, he’d killed fifteen men on his own. That was the worst of it; blood boiling so hot he didn’t even break a sweat, ripping soldiers apart with his greatsword like they were fresh wheat under the scythe during harvesting season. Hell, he’d supposedly killed one of the men with his bare hands. He recalls little of how that battle had ended. That’s when he’d recognized that his lineage from War was a problem he needed to somehow solve. To take a life like so, without any respect… Was he better than an animal?

  Yet sparks fly and the ptform cracks as he swings down an overhead smash that War dodges by leaping back, using his sword as a stepping stool to bounce off of for a kick that resonates right against his jaw. Homer stumbles but corrects right away, grabbing that extended leg and throwing them down against the floor. War just ughs and kicks their other leg right into his chin multiple times until he has to let go. Damn god is going to dislocate it-!

  This smaller form they’ve taken is slippery and harder to hit. For every blow he nds, they nd three. For every big miss they make, he misses thrice. They’ve optimized themself for this, yet they still clearly toy with him. If he nded one good hit, he could probably kill them- for all good that did. They’d pop back up sooner rather than ter.

  But this was a far more banced bout than what it was before. He’s burning the candle at both ends, but he is nding those hits. He’s wounded them, even if they don’t show it. And he’s not attained anything too critical. Arms bleed from stray cuts, and his jaw hurts like hell, but neither has nded any bout-defining blows. One could be fooled into thinking he had a chance.

  Even he’s being fooled. War can't die in a way that matters, not by a mortal’s hand, but this was to the death. War dying once would end the bout, even if he had to face the consequences ter. He could buy himself time. He could fix things. Gods, he can feel the sunlight from the open cathedral doors bathe his back in warmth. He could do it.

  His weapon is the greatest obstacle. While the sb of metal he calls a greatsword could cleave War in twain where he to just nd that one good hit, it just doesn’t seem possible; War is too fast and agile. Grazes, sure, but a full hit- impossible. If he was fighting with a lighter weapon, or even one with more flexibility like a morning star, he might’ve had a better chance. And he can’t abandon his weapon either… There’s no alternatives.

  While his reach is better even when unarmed due to how long his limbs are in comparison to his opponent, bareknuckle brawling can’t kill War. Do gods even breathe? Could he choke the bastard? Likely not.

  And he could feel himself fading out of the battle high second by second. Maybe fifteen more minutes of this sort of full throttle before his heart gives out and he buckles and coughs up blood or some other dramatic bullshit like that; he’s too old to be fighting a god, much less War. There’s a terrible screech of metal as he draws his longsword across the floor, sending a shower of sparks forwards to push War back. He charges forth with his shoulder and manages to barge against them, pushing them even further back to the edge of the ptform.

  But all they do is ugh.That’s the worst part.Whenever he makes advances, whenever he feels like he might be pushing them on the back foot a little, all that rat bastard of a god does is cackle.

  And it's in a multitude of voices. So many people find joy in war. Kings who cim territory, soldiers who ugh out of despair, joyful ughter from those who survived and came home, the ughter of the evil who relish in the carnage… And he can hear his own ughter in there too. He ughed like that while on the field, when he was younger… And he ughed like that when the war had ended, when he was older, with his friends-

  War is no ughing matter.Pisses him off.

  “You are no godsyer, kin of mine, but you are good fun! Keep going! You’ve time still! I can tell your blood can pump harder! We’re here at the cusp of Life and Death and yet you do not try your hardest! Come, come! Fight! FIGHT! FIGHT! DO BATTLE WITH ME, OR DIE!”

  As does the goading. That’s what War wants. To piss him off, to make him sloppy; and it works. He knows what they’re doing and it still works. His swings become more and more furious, like he’s rending reality itself as his bde swings through the air. Each harsh blow is dodged or parried or rolled through, and he grows more frustrated with each miss. And more frustration means more swings; and he’s too deep in the battle high to stop.

  Homer feels like he’s observing himself from a vantage point up in the sky, unable to control his muscles. Pure instinct controls his body, leaving his intellect to fume and overanalyze each mistake. He’s observing his surroundings too. The crowd is eerily quiet. The priests have been chanting prayers in their corner, and Maia and Aymanah are- well, it’s just Aymanah now… Maia has gone somewhere- ah, there, over at the corner where Death is.

  Good girl.She’s taking her chance now, then. The two do seem to be discussing something rather intently, ignoring him… Or no, they’re gncing at him on the occasion. Is she trying to negotiate in his favor? That cannot be. He shouldn’t get distracted either.

  But he did get distracted, and he pays for it dearly. A sluggish overhead swing whiffs entirely and leaves him open for attack. That’s when War strikes, bored of their show-off bout. Like a parent finally deciding enough is enough and lifting their child up by the waist to put them in time out after a little py argument. That massive greatsword of theirs strikes down and easily disarms him, sending his trusted partner gliding across the ptform.

  He and that sword had a history. He’s sad to see it go, but he has to risk everything to retrieve it.. Another swing he barely dodges, a second grazes his arm, and the third cuts clean across his chest. Not deep, but he yells in pain and falls on his back leg, one arm instinctively running across the wound. Lots of blood. He’d need to get this patch up within the hour or it’d become a problem.

  He’ll be lucky if he has two minutes.

  Homer has no more time to muse about his wound. Another blow he barely dodges, pushing past to try and recover his sword anyway. Turning his back to War is a mistake, and he pays for it by having the greatsword ssh at his leg. That one sinks into the flesh and tears away at it, bde grinding against bone. He howls like a dog as he colpses onto a knee.

  Still he throws himself forwards, sliding across the ptform. His hand’s on the handle of the sword… Just in time to feel War’s greatsword impale right through his back. Up, close to the shoulder, thrusting down and through until he hears the ‘tink’ of the tip touching the ptform underneath him. That’s it, then. This won’t kill him, but he’s pinned down- a pted boot at his back- and the bde twists. It grinds down. He could be cut in half right now.

  “That was a good bit of sport. For an older mortal, you gave me a fun dance. I would’ve spared you if you nded a good hit. I can sense that something in this fight made you want to live, kin of my boiling blood.”

  Another twist of the bde. Flesh tears, muscles rend. It hurts so much. He can’t even see anyone from there, facing towards a wall. He can’t roll over to try and see his family or Maia before he’s killed. Just the dull, dull grey wall of the cathedral. War didn’t even have the good sense to let him die seeing a beautiful stained gss window.

  “But you’ve disappointed me. In your lust for life, you failed to see that the only way to win a war is by sacrifice. And what have you sacrificed to get here? Nothing of import. Wars are not won off of wishes or ideals.”

  Another twist.

  “This will be a good reminder of that to the people watching as well, so your life will still find meaning… This ceremony is a face. Life and Death are naturally opposing forces, yet year by year you mortals cajole them into coming together to perform some miracle. The living should fear death, and the death should scorn the living.”

  The bde is viciously yanked out of his body with a torrent of blood spraying and then raining down upon him. Warm. Life is so warm. But it’s also starting to get cold. His vision flickers, feeling the bde’s tip pressed against his lower back now. One hard thrust and his heart will be torn asunder, and the battle is ended.

  “Victory is mine. I present this sacrifice to the twin deities to show them that on this day of rebirth, some simply cannot be returned;”

  flesh is penetrated. slow, torturous. this is what war is. hell. hell. hell. hell. hell. hell. the crowd is getting louder again. some shout. some beg for mercy for the loser. some call for the blood of the loser. it’s all so distant now.

  “haaaaaaaah…”

  a raspy exhale, feeling the blood that’s pooled underneath him reach his mouth.

  “... I’m so, so sorry, my friends- my family- I…”

  The bells are so loud.… The bells?No, those are footsteps, those are running footsteps, tamping away right as the bde is being thrust down. His back arches, he yells, but it’s not out of pain;

  “Do not-!”

  But his warning falls to deaf ears. War is too focused on their victory to look behind them; why would the god of war ever fear a mortal? And so, Maia crashes right against their back, both hands outstretched, and she yells out the words he was so afraid of;

  “Just die already!”

  The fallout escapes him. War’s bde thrust right as Maia pushed them, scraping his insides and tearing flesh to a point where he passes out, left to bleed out on the floor as a loud, necrotic boom shakes the very foundations of the cathedral, and another howl echoes; this one an amalgam of the death throes of all the unfortunate souls whose lives were cimed during heated conflicts stoked by War themself.

  Something unheard of is happening to a god right as Homer passes on to unconsciousness, and perhaps to Death-

  and it was all done by the one beloved by death itself.