“You cannot be seriously letting this happen.”

  “And what am I to do about it? War would make a scene. A big and bloody one.”

  “You are the god of Death, can’t you just… Snap him away, or- I don’t know, do something?! He’s going to die!”

  “And I’d thought he came here to do just that.”

  Maia’s hands have found themselves under her hood, digging into her hair and ruffling there in frustration. This is not the kind of discussion she wanted to have with Death while here, but the cnging of steel as swords csh is driving her insane-! Homer, you fool! Homer, you old idiot! Homer,you- you!

  But this was what he said he was here to do. So why here, at the eleventh hour, did she try to bargain with Death to save him? She knows this matter isn’t hers to meddle in. But watching him fight, Maia just got this deep sense that deep down, Homer still thought he deserved to live. Or maybe to put it another way, looking at the way he fought, and looking at the way War fought, this wouldn’t be the kind of good death that she could condone as a follower of Death herself.

  “I’m not looking forward to how they will gloat, though. I’ve never witnessed it myself, but I’ve heard from Life… When War takes pce in something ritualistic like this, they turn into a showman. War is always a game to them, even if they treat it like the most serious game in the world.”

  Maia’s hands droop to her sides, and she can do nothing but stare at the fancy marble floor. Does she just have to wait, then? Stand here, twiddle her thumbs, wait for Homer to be gutted like a fish and get turned into some circus act by a god so high up their own fumes they- gah! She was getting angry! She could feel *her* blood boil the exact same way Homer always talked about his own affliction!

  Those drooped hands slowly tighten into fists, nails scraping against her palms. Anger. The divine- the divine- the-… gaaah. She wishes they would just die and disappear. The world had no need for war. It kept itching at the back of her head to a point where even Death is gncing down at her, head tilted in clear concern.

  “Maia…?”

  “It’s not fair.”

  “War rarely is.”

  “That doesn’t mean I can’t compin about it-! If we never bemoaned things we can’t do anything about, humanity would fall silent!”

  That, at least, makes Death ugh a little. A sweet little ugh that doesn’t fit the situation. It is both salt and balm for her wounds. Salt because it makes her realize for all of her good sides, Death is still a divinity; she is above all of this, and she will likely forget what happened here to Homer within a week. That’s not even a blink of an eye for a god.

  And balm because it does recenter her and make her calm down a little. She has to consider her options; Homer was on the back foot, sword gone, she could see the blood- what could she do?! She can’t run in, can she? No, she cannot, the rules said that no help would be given to either side, and the battle would end when one y dead-!

  And that one would be Homer, bde stabbed into his back with a loud howl that makes Maia whimper and lift her hands to cover her ears again, fists still balled up there. Hate. Hate. Hate. She hasn’t hated anyone or anything this much in her entire quiet life before. But she hates War. She despises them. She wishes they had never been brought into this world, she just wishes they would die already-!

  That balm spread by Death’s ugh dissipates instantly, and her hand on Maia’s shoulder does not reapply it. She’s too angry.

  “I can sense it pulsing within you, Maia. Take a deep breath. You need to control the gifts my love has given you.”

  Back then it’d been incidental, something she had no clue about. But this time she knows. This time she feels it. There’s this throbbing pulse coming from her fists that pounds in her head, and makes her grey skin tingle with the cold of the grave and the embrace of the dirt where she wishes to put War.

  But that’d be ridiculous, wouldn’t it? Surely she couldn’t-… but what if she did?It’s such a stupid idea. Definitely would get her in so much trouble. And Death clearly does not approve. The energies within her fre, and Death’s touch on her shoulder travels up underneath her hood to stroke her cheek.

  She’s watched people die. She watched her parents wither away. She was there when Homer killed those harpies to defend them from their sudden assault. She killed that boar with her own two hands and the blessing of her beloved. But she has never, ever, ever, seen someone get brutally executed like this; for no other purpose besides the sadistic joy of another. Death is a sweet thing not to be mocked and turned into a- a-

  It fres again. Her head pounds as there’s another, final stab. Homer goes limp. There’s blood. Her head pounds again.

  War is decring victory. The battle is over. The rules binding this battle are over. Which means that the rules preventing her from doing something about all of this are done and dusted. She can’t control it. She’s been a good girl this whole trip. She’s done her prayers, she’s loved her god, she’s helped her friends, she’s done her tasks;

  She just can’t take it anymore!She wants War to die!She needs them to die!

  “Do not-!”

  Death’s warning falls on deaf ears as she rushes ahead. This is such a stupid idea. But she wants to do it. She could still save Homer, right? He could just be dying instead of- but that’d break the rules and- gah! No! There was no logic to this! There was no justification! She just wanted them to-!

  “Just die already!”

  Her usually meek- now given gusto by anger- voice rings out through the entire cathedral. Priests look on in horror, the ypeople gasp, and Life and Death both observe with inscrutable expressions as her palms connect with the god of War. The final thrust into Homer’s back coincides with the loudest sound she's ever heard, the origin point coming right from the tip of her fingers. The grey skin became necrotic, and she could swear she saw raw bone for a bit-

  And then the boom finally reaches a crescendo, and everything around her goes bck. All she can hear is that cascade of screams, the wail of children and the death throes of warriors and the quiet sobbing of the elders.

  And she kills all of them, one by one, as the cascade becomes a quartet, the quartet a duo, the duo a solo performance… And then silence.

  This time there is no pocket dimension of darkness. Eventually- shortly, even, in just a few seconds that stretch for an eternity within her mind- her eyes open to the light of the cathedral. War is writhing on the ground, soundlessly screaming, their form constantly shifting between tall, wide, short, thin, old, young, threatening, meek… And then eventually, form by form, they start to fade away, finally flipping onto their side to stare at her.

  “I… Will… Remember- this- you… God- syer…”

  And then War is gone. Not through a glorious battle, but the emotional aftermath of one. For is that not befitting one such as they? Where battles and glory do not matter, brought forth by the tearful anger of one who had lost a loved one to war? Turned to dust, blown into the wind.

  Until only silence remains.

  Life and Death both slowly approach from their ends of the ptform, quiet. Maia trembles as she breathes, looking at her hands. Back to being grey and skinny, but not literal bone. What was that? Did she imagine it? Or did she shed her skin to deploy the raw, pure power of Death? She has no answers. She’s probably going to be hoisted and burned on a stake now, for killing a god.

  Death and Life both grasp her arms and lift them. There’s more silence. And eventually, someone cheers. Someone from the crowd of peasantry peering in. And then more. And more. Eventually the nobility also cheers, clearly confused- and the cheers force the priesthood to also nod approvingly. Maia doesn’t register most of it, though.

  All she can do is stare at Homer’s corpse close to her feet. Is this what he wanted? Is he satisfied in the cycle? Will he be reborn as someone good and righteous, with a good and righteous life? This old, sweet man had done everything in the world for her, and all she could do was cim revenge.

  “The godsyer!”

  “The godsyer!”

  Life and Death both decre at the same time, with a certain reverence. Had she killed a god? War was likely not permanently dead. As she’d been told, War had been sin on battlefields before and had then reformed ter. But this had been a humiliating defeat, the pure power of Death stabbed into their back in a cowardly sneak attack.

  They said they would remember.And they would definitely gather their dues.

  … Well, that was besides the point now.

  “The day of rebirth will continue as pnned!” Life’s voice booms.

  “With this ceremonial showcase, we have been pleased.” Death’s voice looms.

  That’d make sense. Py it off. Make the masses and even the nobles believe it. That way Maia won’t get stoned to death on the streets. This was all mere mummery, or something akin to those lines. Her gaze constantly draws to Homer.

  The poor man, he-

  “Hueergh-”

  …?

  “Blurth-”

  A sudden, loud hacking of blood across the floor. The man has two gaping holes through his back and his chest has been sliced, yet he coughs blood and even very, very weakly pushes himself to y on his side instead, watching the trio- gods and woman- with hazy eyes.

  “What the hell hahpunud…”

  Maia’s already rushing to his side, wrapping her arms around an arm and wailing openly. His flesh feels so cold.

  “... don’t feel like it’s boilin’ so hard anymore… hahahah…”

  How the man was alive didn’t concern Maia, just the fact that he was, and that he was fading fast. The gods were clearly a little annoyed- Death genuinely, Life not so seriously- at their ceremony being postponed a little more, but the priests hurried over to drag Homer off the ptform to receive medical attention. Maia decides to trust the oversight of this to Aymanah, who fps along with a worried look on their face.

  The looks the priests had been giving her while tending to Homer made her too suspicious of them; now that she’d shown off her connection to Death in the middle of this holy event, they’d likely wish to probe into her more the moment she wasn’t within Death’s direct line of sight. Thankfully, she’d likely be within her sights for the rest of her life after this-

  with Death’s insistence she was given a seat of honor at one of the front pews. She just had to hope that Theodora would not suffer due to being the one to bring her and the rest of them with her; but such thoughts vanished as the ceremony started.

  The end was near.