It was rare for this particur presence to bless her halls. Their visits were rare and often not friendly. Heavy steps echoed the moment they had entered, armor cnking and a greatsword slowly dragging against the floor. These theatrics tired her, but all she could do was sit and wait, drumming her fingers on the armrest of her throne. Shadows stood by her side, prim and proper like always.

  And then they slowly started to come into view. Death saw the fmes burning on them before the figure themselves appeared, cloaked in it.

  War had come to the pace of Death.

  Gods usually had consistent forms. They were affected by the perception of mortals, but could at least adjust somewhat. Their clothes were not spun from literal wool but rather from the very magic that held the gods together, and they could express themselves in ways that at least aligned with the mortal’s views of them. But War was different. War truly cared for nothing else but the conflict that they could stoke, the souls they could direct to anger and to combat,

  so they had no set form.Each step made the armor mold and warp. War was within the heart of each and every mortal that lived, or so War argued. Everyone wanted to hurt someone or something at least once in their lives. Strife was the most basic human emotion, the necessity to fight and to struggle for some goal, be it selfish or selfless. And thus War could be everyone and everything.

  One blink of the eye War was tall, imposing, wide as a barn door and as strong as an ox. Another and War was the size of a child, dragging their weapon with them like they’d lost everything and were going to wreck the same pain upon the world. Another and they were old and haggard, left behind by war and burning with the desire for more.

  And then they were standing in front of her, and they were a faceless husk of armor, fire oozing from the cracks of their armor. Burning. Boiling. Everyone close to War described their very heart as pumping with burning hot blood that seared their veins and muscles and made their tempers incredibly difficult to control. Even those who found some form of peace burned from the inside until they died.

  “Death,” their voice rumbles, a cacophony of men, women, of all races ages and kinds as one, shouting for war- mixed into this voice of eternity. “you look well. I suppose finding love truly helps with one’s complexion.”

  Who had talked? Life? It had to be Life. War did not care for gossip, but gods finding love among mortals was always a matter of enough import that even War listened. She doesn’t let the annoyance show on her expression, merely batting a hand in the air.

  “And you look as amorphous as always, War. What brings you to my halls? You belong on a field of battle or in the company of generals. The dead have already paid the toll of your conquests.”

  The ughter that echoes is horrifying. The ughter of men watching their enemies die, the ughter of women knowing their husbands have returned from war, the ughter of children hearing stories of victory, the ughter of the elderly counting their coin from their profits during war. All slurred into one horrifying trumpet of victory.

  “I can’t say hello? We’ll all be gathering together soon. I thought it fitting to make my presence known. I rarely announce myself, after all. There are far too many conflicts to partake in. But the world is at rare peace. I suppose sughtering half the popution of a country over the vast wide sea made everyone’s tempers cool.”

  Death drops to sit, a pile of weapons manifesting on the floor to prop them a seat. They y their greatsword on their p, drawing out a whetstone to start sharpening it. The sound is obnoxious and unpleasant.

  “I’ve already visited Life too. Why not the sibling? Life wasn’t happy to see me, but when is he ever? Always so fuzzy about the lives of his followers being wasted, but one of his lovers happens to be a descendant of mine, so he ought to extend some form of olive branch to me…” shhhkt, shhkt. Each stroke of the whetstone makes sparks fly from the bde.

  “Many are destined to die from battle. Yet I do not show favoritism to the kind of passing that you bring. Death is impartial. If you are trying to gather favor with me with your visit, you’re wasting your time.”

  Diplomacy was a part of war too. Death knew this. There was none who thirsted more for a war in the heavens than War themselves, constantly jockeying for influence among the many gods to try and elicit a war that’d end all wars. Yet they are always brought to a halt- yet each time they reach closer. Some gods agree. Some gods want war.

  Arts, while a peaceful soul, thinks that a war among the gods would inspire the mortals she so loves to create artworks that’d rival even her own. Comedy, bored of the world, thinking all jokes have already been made, would find the idea of a war in the heavens funny.Harvest, young son of Life, thought that such death and destruction would flood the fields with blood and create an age of bountiful harvests that would st forever.

  Gods cannot die permanently. War between them is like pyfighting; certainly they can wither and disappear for a moment before reforming, for they were upheld by the sheer belief and want of the mortals that worshipped them. Yet such war would be destructive to the very followers; for their battles would not only be fought in the heavens, but also on the very ground that their followers tread.

  Such could never pass.

  “I’ve come to understand that you and Life both are unshakeable monoliths, and the other Gods respect you as one must a sire…” War tilts their head. “... For now. Give it more time. More years. More chances for resentment to grow, a wedge to form. More and more minor gods grow interested in the idea. Their reasons do not matter. Only War does.”

  Shadows bristles where they stand, but Death bats her hand in the air and calms them down in one stroke. “No fighting in the halls.”

  War barks a loud ughter and continues to sharpen their sword, form amorphous and almost taunting in how weak it looks now. Like they’re begging for a fight. They always are. Not taking the bait merely deys the inevitable.

  “We’re going to be together again soon at that silly mortal ceremony. You must find it as foolish as I, no? What is dead ought to stay dead, brought down by my bde or the consequences of my actions. And you control the very flow. Is pleasing some high-and-mighty mortals worth the degradation of your very integrity as the autarch of Death?”

  This was not a new line of conversation. She can recall them asking this every so often. Years between the spaces, yet they always did. She’d always have the same answer. But War was patient. War knew sieges took years. Maybe one day she’d answer differently, show malice, show annoyance at this ritual, and that would be when they struck and changed the course of history by finally convincing one of the siblings to take arms against the other.

  “Life from death, death from life. Unnatural as rebirth may seem, it is also a part of the cycle. This is the same answer I’ve given to you for hundreds of years, War. And I shall keep giving it for hundreds more. As much as I am not fond of such rge gatherings, I understand that gods still have the occasional obligations to their followers.”

  War seemed content with this answer. Not because they liked it, but because they knew it was the one she would give. They rise from their seat, bde sharpened.

  “Your subservience to mortals disappoints me, but I’ve learned that oceans carve cliffs over time, not in an instant. You’ll come to see eventually what it feels like to not be bound to the whims of those who already kiss the ground you walk on. I would’ve hoped that one as feared by them as you would see the truth sooner than your brother.”

  War’s retionship with their followers was as antagonistic as one might expect. They knew they could only exist thanks to mortals, but the necessity for strife was the most human fw of all. Their ember would crackle like a bzing fme as long as even one human wanted to strike another; and thus, they found their flock very dispensable. That was the nature of war. Humans die. No-one bats an eye when a whole ptoon sughters itself upon a shieldwall.

  “And fighting stupid pyfights with you would do what? Make them fear me less? Good try, War, but you ought to hone your attempts for another ten or so years before you try again.”

  War throws their arms up in a little ‘what can you do’ gesture before turning on their heel, cape of blood-red dragging across the floor as the *thunk, thunk* of their chipped, metallic boots begins to echo down the halls.

  “I’ll see you soon, Death.”

  “I’ll rue the day like I always have, War.”

  And then they strike their greatsword through the air in a single, strong ssh that burns a hole into the very fabric of dimensions themselves, a blood-red sky and the sound of battle raging from the other end of this dimensional rift welcoming their overlord to yet another font of human suffering. They step in, and the searing scar in time and space cauterizes itself closed, leaving only the haunting echoes of death and suffering.

  “Uncouth brute. No respect for anyone but their own bloody self…” Shadows finally mutters. Death can tell that her spawn has been tense; their gaseous form focused and sharp, suddenly rexed and back to flowing through the halls with a soundless exhale. “Keep your wits about you during the ceremony. I wouldn’t put it past them to try something.”

  There’s been attempts by War to shake up the situation, as it were. None traceable to them directly, of course, but when the colosseum just happens to have a gdiator uprising due to so and so work conditions, one’s eyes do often trace to the god they worship and the god that stokes their violent fme.

  “It’ll be a matter for mortals to solve and not I.”

  “Of course, my sire.”

  Death zily turned her pure white moonlit eyes to Shadows.“You’ve done as I told in regards to Maia, I hope?”

  “I’ve retracted my presence for the most part. I left a small sliver to keep an eye on things, as you requested, but I have not intervened since the time I helped her. May I ask why…? Would it not be better for my protection to extend even to this st, safest leg of her journey?”

  Another shake of Death’s head.

  “... I believe she will feel more rewarded if she survives these upcoming final trials without the help of you and I. And I will admit, seeing her struggle by herself- with only the aid of her own wits and her friends- does make me feel… Excited.”

  Shadows is so, so lucky that their face cannot form expressions, swirling mist pinly staring at their sire before they just cough into a fist and nod.

  “I see. I’ll go attend to some business, then…”

  Shadows sinks into the floor and slides away, leaving Death on her throne. War’s intrusion was a disturbance, but… her eyes close, and she smiles to herself.

  “The final leg is here, Maia. Let’s see what you can do, my love.”