The God was not paying attention to the Hero. He was lost in a sea of anger and fire, Seeking to prove to mortals that their lives meant nothing after what they did. Through the destruction the hero pondered....
Do you [[defy->Defy]] your creator or [[spill->Spill]] blood in his name?Spill.
There was little to question. There was a golden crown and a golden hilt. The mighty sword of justice was unsheathed was brought down to slice at evil.
The Hero saw the determination of their God and sent a prayer before taking a step forward and plunging into battle. The Hero used their sword to punish the wicked with the blessing embued in its fine blade. A merciful death bestowed.
As the Hero slashed at the sinners they could feel the spray of blood on their cheek like kisses delivered right from the mouth of their creator.
This was all for their God. And the more devoted the hero felt, the more the anger of a higher being fueled a rage inside them.
Screaming, cries for help, blades clanking against armor rang through the land of flesh and bone. Sometimes the hero wondered if they might die in service to their god. Would that be [[honorable->Honor]] or [[cowardly->Cowardice]]?There was a golden crown and a golden hilt. The mighty sword of justice unsheathed was brought down to slice at evil. The Hero knew that the blood spilled was an act of unjust rage. For the first time the Hero questioned the divinity of their creator. What then was the point of faithfully serving an entity they could no longer believe was righteous?
In the face of mud and blood strewn across the land there was only a cold wind behind the Hero’s back. They shed their faith and faced the sky screaming curses. The golden king no longer deserved loyalty.
Cities burned and innocents died. Those who still believed fought for nothing. The Hero took their sword and ran into the blazing world before them. Frantically searching for those they could save from the eager hands of death.
God saw the Hero and their actions and the betrayal stung. Once again God felt alone, how could his most loyal servant forsaken him, leave him to fight all by himself?
Such terrible acts unpunished God felt once again the loss of a lover and the loss of a friend. Humans, mere mortals, had plucked the chrysanthemums from his hands. Who was God meant to love, when they’d taken everything from him?
The Hero, who God thought would be [[faithful->Honor.]], was apparently no better than [[filth->Cowardice.]]. The Hero found that if they may die in the service of their God that they may have lived a plentiful life, an honorable life. If there was ever a day, a time and a chance to do their job, to pass divine judgement it was then. Gods could make mistakes, the Hero knew this. The Hero saw the bloodshed and felt righteous. What fault did The Hero have?
It was humanity who raised an evil being, allowing hatred to flourish in them.
A criminal is the result of a criminal society.
Only those who stood by their savior could see that it was necessary. They knew it was Justice. The Hero knew it too.
Turned to fire and blood the land was filled with the dying screams of all mortals dealing with the reckoning. They laid in the rubble and fled from the embers of hate.
In turn the Goddess watched disappointed. Her heart felt for the innocents. Disappointment in her counterpart and pity for the foolish Hero.
She knew that rage had turned God into a being with a soul and a heart. A heart that could break so easily. In his anger, he fed The Hero with falsehoods unknowingly The Hero became an unjust weapon for destruction. The Hero could no longer be considered a hero.
Devotion can only do the victor of many so many favors. In this case it was none.
From a distance The Hero heard the cries of a child seeking refuge. This moment brought a sense of clarity to The Hero in a wave of guilt. What had they done?
The Hero was stunned, what a wretched thing to do. Filth. That is what they were. The Hero did not budge from where they stood and the cries continued. Their grip on the sword tightened. The right thing to do was to save the child. Right?
There was little to question about it. What could a child have done to deserve -
The silence was loud.
The cries stopped.
The Hero wept.
The Hero did not stop, fearing their own death. They knew it was an act of selfishness. There is no real winning. The Hero had committed, they’d failed too many of their own to righteously turn away the role they had chosen. There was blood everywhere. Their God was no better than them, but they weren’t any better than God either. The Hero was a coward, their devotion based on fear and privilege. Justice was only a fleeting thought, relevant only when they knew it meant punishment for another and not them. The Hero had never been a Hero.
The Hero soon died and was forgotten. Petty in his ways, blinded by the thirst of revenge, God sent a golden arrow to strike the Hero.
The Hero ran, ignorant of death at their heels. They faced monsters and humans alike. They pulled aching and grieving bodies from the collapsing homes, they sought to find shelter from the very evil that had once created the world.
When the arrow struck the Hero smiled. It was alright, it was time to go.
In their final moments the Hero was alone. They saw those they saved flee from their side, the Hero was grateful they did. The Hero knew they did not need a medal or a gracious death to know they had died honorably.
There was no light, just an arrow and precise aim. There was a blight of pain as they landed in the mud. Under the dark grey sky the hero could smell the iron on the ground. Slowly they closed their eyes.
The Hero awakened to gold when they saw the face of the Goddess.
She smiled sadly and placed a hand on the Hero’s forehead.
Comforted by a loving hand the Hero asked for his God to be forgiven. In his final moments the Hero had felt God's pain in their chest. A pain so grave and cold, it was the feeling of dying and stillness. And what could a God possibly understand about death? Petty in his ways, blinded by the thirst of revenge, God sent a golden arrow to strike the Hero.
The Hero ran, ignorant of death at their heels. They faced monsters and humans alike. They pulled aching and grieving bodies from the collapsing homes, they sought to find shelter from the very evil that had once created the world.
Then the Hero saw the arrow aimed directly at their chest. In a moment of panic, in the face of certain death, for they knew the arrow was holy and would not miss, they begged for a second chance from the tyrant.
The Hero sank to their knees, an arrow flying past their cheek leaving a burning sensation on their face. Behind them the Hero heard the anguish in another man’s voice. God had spared one but not all.
The Hero gripped their sword tightly and then flung into battle. The will of their God was their own. It was time for the wretched to suffer and they would instill justice however their God saw fit. The truth was, The Hero was a coward. A coward who feared death, a coward who only fought with blessings, knowing they would not die.
The Hero had betrayed their God and their people alike. The Hero did not deserve to be called a Hero. Double-click this passage to edit it.Double-click this passage to edit it.Double-click this passage to edit it.Double-click this passage to edit it.Double-click this passage to edit it.Double-click this passage to edit it.