Faithbreaker

I am a god of people. Of little lies, little hopes, little stories. Middren has not been kind to me, but its people have. A godkiller has helped me, a child has saved me, a knight has cared for me

But there was another shrine at the back of the room, where the throne had once been. There, the dais had been lowered, and there was no throne, no deer, no rays of sun. There were still some who worshipped Arren the Sunbringer, Fireheart, but Lessa was determined he be remembered as only a king, stacker of Lesscia and Blenraden, burner of his people, not the winner of their war. For he had not won it. In the space where his throne had been, a small but grand shrine had been raised. Its walls were panelled in etched brass, showing green leaves, patterns and feathers, and its totem was white marble, beautifully carved: a hare with a stag’s horns and a bird’s wings. His eyes had been set with amber, his fur detailed so meticulously it looked as if he might spring up and move at any moment. Offerings had already been draped on his antlers, pooled in the bowls before him. Libations, incense, sweets and wine. Inara’s offerings were different. They were written notes on long thick pages. Inked stories of what he had been, what they had done together. She had one tucked in her pocket, ready to read aloud. His history, and hers. It was a greater shrine than he had ever dreamed, etched at its base with his name: Skediceth. God of hope and telling tales.

It’s all pretend, power. It’s make-believe and storytelling. Some people just made better stories.

Many will not reach out a hand unless you put a coin in it first. Like people, like gods.

I have frailty in me, and cruelty too. I live in pain because pain is what the world gave me, and I am powerful with it.

And “prosthesis” is not a dirty word.

There’s no easy answer to a question of right or wrong: they’re not two sides of a coin you toss. What’s important is the question.

Everyone dies!’ she yelled. ‘People and gods, lions and sheep. Storms pass, winds howl, the sun sets, and the night grows dark. We all go to dust and nothing. Everybody dies.

I don’t want to lose you.” “Gods are never lost if there is someone who still believes in them.

What if he comes for me? For us?’ ‘My girl,’ said Skedi, and tipped his antlers forward, resting them against her brow. ‘I would fight the world for you.

For only love was greater than pain.

I want to be my mother’s daughter, not my father’s mistake.

Better a fool’s hope than no hope at all.

We make the future, we tell our own story, or we die trying.

Flame was flame, and burning was its nature. It was in her nature to feel fear, and let it go.

Elo shook his head. ‘You chose to lose me, Sunbringer,’ he said, flinging the name like the insult he intended and turning for the door. ‘You cannot wish me back.

It took a killer of gods to remind me what it was like to be alive.

Well, she knew she’d never die of old age. She never thought she’d die trying to save a stupid noble either, but it wasn’t so surprising that she’d die trying to save a beautiful woman.

All that matters is that after all this, after every mistake, every god, every death – all that matters is that there is something left of us. Some song, some tale, some hope. My heart, my blood, my life for hope!

Not all belief is shouting, singing and wounding. My belief is my life, my blood, and my heart.

This couldn’t be faith. This bloody, frightening, appalling thing. This thing that washed decks with blood and killed good women who missed their home.

My place is here. Only a coward abandons the mess they made.

War had caught them both between two worlds: flame and a future, a king and chaos. God and human.

She thought she was facing a quiet archivist, a wheelchair-using smith and a noble’s girl, but she was wrong; she had chosen to come for two brawling survivors of the Blenraden gutter, a god, and his powerful protector.

I fear losing Inara’s faith. I fear fading. I fear death. What can I do?” “She has lost a lot, our girl. But we’re the few who sill have her trust. I’ll give her honesty; you give her love. She’ll need both.

To safest haven Through heartfelt lies, To brighten hopes, And bless our skies.

For the first time in her life, the godkiller wept for the death of a god.

Heat consumed him. He was a god of white lies, a god of hope and a god of tales. And he had already lived longer than he deserved, with the love of a girl who had chosen him. I love you, he said. And then he flew into the flame.

We could have changed the world,” Elo whispered to him. “You and I.” The world will change without us, said Hestra. She brightened in his chest, one last moment, and then she went out. The god was gone, and Arren died in Elo’s arms.