Chapter Text
The god of death had been abandoned long ago.
He was once thought of as being the best of the Old Gods, the ones that had been around before the concept of divinity even existed. He never punished those who cursed his name for taking their loved ones, never retaliated against people who openly proclaimed their hatred of him, never demanded offerings.
Death was kind, even in the cruelest of places. He stayed by the dying to offer them peace when no one else would and helped them move on from the living. Death did not discriminate. Whether you died a warrior with your weapon in hand, fell sick and withered in your own bed, or simply gave up, he would be there to wipe your tears and hold your hand.
No one agreed on how he reached his godhood. Some said he was a hero and fought off an entire army to save a village, and others said he had simply always been there for as long as humans have been alive.
As humanity grew, so did he. Even as the number of people he had to look after multiplied, he never wavered. Death was always there, never stealing people away but instead helping them when all other avenues failed. People did not need to fear Death, for they knew his embrace was a comfort when the pain became too much.
Then the wars started. And Death changed.
When the first king declared war on another burgeoning kingdom, he prayed for the god’s help. The other kingdom was strong and had forced his hand; he did not want the bloodshed, but the king could not watch his people suffer. Hearing his plight, the god agreed.
Every battle fought was done so in honor of Death. The soldiers offered him the blood they had spilt and in return, he shielded them.
And then the opposing king made the same plea, accusing the other king of the very same misdeeds. Having heard both, the god switched sides and more blood was spilt.
After that, everyone had conflicting descriptions of what transpired, but they all agreed on one thing. Death had changed. He was no longer kind. He had been blinded by the power that he received from the blood soaked battlefields and demanded more of it.
In fear of his power, offerings became sacrifices. When war came too close to their homes, priests tried everything they could. And, when nothing worked, they became desperate. Altars lost the candles and food that had once sat upon them, and in their place were daggers and ties.
It worked for a time. Elders tried to tell the young, innocent women that were picked that it was an honor. That they should be proud and even thankful that it was their blood that was chosen to be spilt. That their vivisection was the greatest reverence and would lead to their village prospering.
But it too stopped working. Whispers circulated that the burned village had chosen the wrong sacrifice, that the woman hadn’t been pure. When that failed, priests told the people that they had not shed enough blood.
They did everything, but war came to them anyway.
After an entire kingdom had been decimated by Death’s indifference, his followers turned. They gave up trying to win his favor and instead cursed his name and dared him to strike them down. Just like every god before, he had a taste of power and let it corrupt him.
His statues were crumbled, his temples were demolished, and his altars abandoned. For a time, people called him a monster, something that never should have reached divinity. They called him the harbinger of doom and destruction, a deity intent on spilling as much blood as humanity had to offer.
It became an exile-worthy offense to even mutter his name out of fear of summoning his wrath. Within a handful of generations, his name was forgotten entirely and his places of worship reclaimed by nature. His story didn’t even survive enough to be a cautionary tale, and the once great god of death was abandoned.
So maybe Ghost shouldn’t have left that apple on the random altar he found in the woods.
He didn’t know who it belonged to and gave up on the gods before he could even aim a bow, but impulsivity overcame him and he decided to share his breakfast with a slab of stone and illegible name plate. He’d never seen an abandoned altar in the middle of nowhere and figured that placing down an apple wouldn’t be the worst decision in the world.
Well.
He snuck out of the army’s camp and rode around until he found a library, curious about who he just left an offering to. The librarian had no idea what he was talking about so he just looked for the dustiest books they had and went with that.
It took a lot of skimming mind-numbing words, but when he finally found a lead, he cringed at the idea of what he just gave an offering to. He had more time to kill and didn’t feel like sitting with the idea that he’d just awoken some super powerful, super evil god, so he kept reading.
Eventually, he found (albeit very few,) very different accounts.
They claimed that Death never accepted any blood offerings and refused to help either side in the war. That Death was not the bloodthirsty warmonger generals wanted him to be, even going as far as to claim that he faded on his own will.
These stories claimed that Death never changed from the kind soul everyone knew from before and was devastated to see so many deplorable deeds taken up in his name.
Ghost was never one to give anyone the benefit of the doubt, but the god’s story felt familiar. As moronic as it was to feel sympathy for a deity, he knew what it was like to be labeled a monster regardless of action and intent.
Also he didn’t want to blindly follow accounts from priests who tortured young women to death in the name of a god. Like most sane people.
So that night, he left another offering, from one bloodthirsty monster to another, and shared his dinner with a forgotten god. His dinner alone already wasn’t much but he spared what he could and muttered a quiet prayer, mostly asking the god to please not be evil.
There wasn’t any fanfare over the offering being accepted. It was there one moment, he turned and sat down, and then it was gone. That was it. Nothing else. Ghost grumbled something about not needing a thanks before eating his dinner.
After that, he continued offering up random bits of food and pilfered pieces of jewelry the general wouldn’t notice missing to the deity almost every morning. He didn’t care much about the god not receiving an offering, but he liked the routine it gave him.
When they would stop somewhere, even if for just a night or two, he always searched the area for overgrown shrines belonging to the god. Once he began actively seeking them out, he realized that they were everywhere.
Damn near every notable landscape was a ruin of what was once a commemoration for the god. Clearings in trees with stone circles on the ground, shallow caves with a pedestal holding forgotten gifts, eye-catching rocks that turned into statues when you paid attention — all for a deity that had been forsaken and forgotten.
On the rare occasion he is unable to find one, he creates one. It was never really anything more than a table he’d cleared off, but the offerings were still accepted so he took it as a sign of approval.
Before, he always ate his meals on the edge of camp, as far away from everyone as he could get while still being in camp. Now, it was the same routine but a little less alone. To call some old ass god a friend was far too much of a stretch, especially since half of the time it felt more like trying to feed a skittish stray dog, but he enjoyed the tenuous companionship.
They never spoke and Ghost wasn’t even sure that the god of death was the one accepting the offerings, but it was nice to sit down and eat with someone who had yet to call him a monster… Even if it was a little depressing to realize his standards were that low.
Of course, nothing stays happy forever.
When the battle they had been marching towards finally arrived, they were awoken early. Apparently, no one thought to inform the soldiers that they were heading out at the ass crack of dawn. So, in the midst of donning his armor, the only offering Ghost was able to provide was a few dandelions he found right outside his tent.
A grand and generous offer, truly.
But it led to him learning that the forgotten god likes flowers. Normally, the god liked to be dramatic and only accepted the offering when Ghost turned away and wasn’t looking, but not that morning. They were taken immediately, with a weird fuzzy feeling he’d heard fools that still believed in the gods describe several times.
He did not like it; It felt like someone aerated his fucking veins.
Still, he had more pressing concerns and it was not long before he had the familiar weight of his halberd in hand, awaiting the general’s command. And after that, it was even less time before he was wondering if that would be the last offering the god received.
As far as last dying thoughts go, it was pretty stupid for that to have been what his mind stuck on, but most last thoughts were. The irony of dying within a few weeks of learning of the old, forgotten god of death was not lost on him.
He had been raising his arms to strike when the arrow nestled between plates of his armor, the motion revealing a weak point among them. He was dying far too slowly for it to have hit anything vital, but he was still dying nonetheless. If anyone noticed him go down, they did not care enough to help after the battle was unfortunately won.
It was a foolish way to go, but foolishness was a constant for his entire life, so it made sense that it stuck around in death too. The smoke cleared, the injured men were hurried to the medical tents, the general began planning their next attack, and Ghost lay there, dying and forgotten in an open field.
He was a weapon, a monster, an animal — nothing human. Nothing to be saved. Even if he had been dragged off, he’s not sure he would have been helped. He was a little glad he’d been left. He’d much rather have the last thing he sees be a cloudy blue sky than some canvas tent or disgusted and disappointed faces.
His death was something he’d been looking forward to for longer than he would like to admit, but when it finally came, he wondered who would give the god his offerings in the morning. It left him almost remorseful, but there was no point in regrets.
The world was fading away, everything got quiet, and he felt peace. Perhaps he would be seeing the god soon.
…
He did not expect nor want to wake up, and yet he was staring at the canopy of leaves above him and wondering why Hell looked so nice.
When the pounding in his head went away, he sat up slowly, first rolling onto his side and reeling from the pain. When he was able to push himself up into a seated position, he realized that Hell not only looked lovely, but incredibly familiar as well.
It was a forest. Wasn’t Hell supposed to be on fire?
Once his vision stopped swirling, he saw that he wasn’t in the afterlife at all, but instead had been lying on an offering table in the middle of nowhere. Still barely comprehending what was going on, he scrambled off the table. Just because he’d reawaken a potentially evil, doomsday-causing god just for the hell of it doesn’t mean he’s entirely stupid.
He still remembers stories that the elders would use to scare him and the other kids — about how anything on the offering table was an offering that could be taken. It was mostly to get kids to stop climbing over statues and altars, but he had taken enough risks.
Uninterested in becoming a human sacrifice, he fell to the grass with a pained groan and tried to remember what happened. Everything felt far away and muddied, but he knew for certain he was supposed to be dead. The shrine he had woken on gave some indication of what must’ve happened, though the why of it all was still a mystery.
Would the god of death betray his own domain just for the sake of keeping him alive?
Lifting his tunic and finding a golden scar on what should have been a fatal injury, he found that yes, yes they would. The pain made it take a good few minutes to stand and he distantly wondered how much power the god had. He’d heard of deities saving their favorite (or in this case, only) follower from the brink of death, but never heard mention of the pain.
He supposed that the god must still be too weak to have done such magic fuckery without repercussions and that the full-body agony must be at least one of those repercussions. As he sat pondering the power level of the being, he went to run his hand through his hair but stopped, feeling something that wasn’t there before.
A flower, tucked behind his ear. One he picked that morning.
The god of death saved his life and put a dandelion behind his ear.
He stared at it for a while uncomprehendingly. He decided that uncomprehended was likely the best way to leave that clusterfuck and looked around. Just as he first thought, it was a forest, and one he did not recognize at that.
Maybe the god hadn’t saved him. Maybe the god wanted to watch him blindly stumble around until he starved.
Ghost spun in a circle, picked a direction, and started stumbling off. He had no idea where he was going, but he was going somewhere and that was good enough for him. The pain did not lessen as time passed, intensifying with every stuttered step.
He doesn’t remember much of what happened, just that he had been painfully limping around and then suddenly was in front of the entrance to camp. He should have been scared, but he was tired and in pain. He didn’t question it. The sun was setting, he was in pain, tired, hungry, and in pain.
Did he mention he was in pain?
He found his tent and slept.
Everything was blurry for a while. He supposed almost dying could make one’s mind a little fuzzy, but he was ready for the non-stop migraine to go away, near death experiences be damned.
Waylaid by his duties and own requirements of rest, he finally snuck out with the little dinner he had been given. He traced what few steps he remembered taking to find the shrine he’d been laid upon. His theory about the god having a hand in his swift return to camp was further evidenced by the fact that it took him over an hour of trekking through the forest to find the spot.
Part of him was a lot more scared than he’d like to admit, having no idea what the god would want in return for the miracle they’d performed. He really did not want to be indebted to yet another person, much less a god.
By the time he found it, night sunk the forest into pitch black shadows. The summer sun had long since fallen behind the horizon, but the shrine had an unearthly glow around it that let him see a little more.
He set down his offerings and really hoped it was enough to not incur the wrath of an angry god that felt like they were owed more than they received. His dinner — consisting of a bread roll, cheese, and salted meat, a true feast — along with some jewelry he was able to filch and more flowers was far from what any god would expect in return for such a miracle, but it was all he had.
He took a stuttering step back and bowed his head. He may be a prideful bastard but he’d consider the day a victory if he lived long enough to feel embarrassed. The same weird tingly feeling struck again and he looked up to find… not what he expected.
The flowers and jewelry were gone, but the plate had more food on it.
“What the fuck?”
Ghost was normally slightly more eloquent than that, but there was nothing else he could think of to summarize his thoughts. He looked around like someone could be out there pranking him and eventually turned to the sky.
Staring up like the god of death was hiding behind a cloud to watch him, Ghost asked an empty forest, “Does this mean the offering is rejected?”
The trees and clouds had no answer. Looking up made his dizziness worse and he had to grab the offering table to steady himself. When he looked back down, both to gather himself and quell his wobbling, he found that the plate had been moved closer to him.
“What the fuck?”
Now actually paying attention and not lost in his own confusion, he noticed that the food was all stuff he’d offered over the course of the last few weeks. It wasn’t much — while that night he was giving up all of his food in hope of satisfying whatever silent demands the god had, he normally only gave small bits and pieces — but the range of the items ensured the plate was overfilled and everything was on the brink of falling.
Still not quite grasping the situation, he slowly grabbed the plate, waiting to see if he’d be struck by lightning. However, no murderous rain clouds spontaneously appeared as it left the altar.
Was this meant to be a gift? For him? Why would a god continue to give more and more while receiving almost nothing in return? He took a moment to sit down, definitely out of caution and not pain, trying to figure out if it was what the deity wanted him to do.
Tentatively, he grabbed a piece of bread and slowly began eating but exhaustion slowed his efforts. Chewing felt more like a chore that he had to get done than anything else. His hands were shaking as well — they had been ever since he woke up. It had gotten better over the few days he had been out of commission, but he still struggled with picking up and holding onto small items.
It all seemed a small price to pay considering he should’ve died in that field. He had tried to think it through (multiple times, actually), but he couldn’t brute force his way to being at peace with how close he’d been to finally facing his judgment. It didn’t help that he was wrestling with the knowledge that he owed yet another person his life.
As he ate, he stared up at the altar and wondered how a god whose favorite offerings were flowers had gotten such an awful reputation. Lost in thought, he was pulled back to the present when the apple almost rolled off the plate. He caught it, moving to set it in his lap instead, but noticed something that made him freeze.
Someone was there.
He was alone in the clearing, but someone was there. He could feel it; There was no extra life in the wooded shadows, but he felt the eyes burning holes in him and the imperious presence brought the clearing to a standstill. It seemed the god was no longer simply watching him from the heavens.
He was still frozen, staring at his food, holding an apple like an idiot. The wind stopped, the leaves were no longer rustling, and the fauna had gone silent. He moved slowly, as if resetting himself to a more relaxed position. Irrational fear took over his mind and he couldn’t bring himself to look up.
Knowing he was making a mistake, Ghost asked the trees, “Do you want more food?” It was rather redundant to ask, given that he was actively eating the food that he had and had no extras on him, but perhaps the god was hungry for something other than questionable cheese and stale bread.
No.
The answer materialized from nothing. He didn’t hear it, didn’t read it — it didn’t feel like it was some telepathic/psychic bullshit either. It just… was. And Ghost thought the feeling of an accepted offering was bad.
He felt like he needed to shake hundreds of baby spiders off of him, like they were crawling under his skin and burrowing into his bone marrow. To say Ghost didn’t like it was an understatement and a half.
Barely resisting the urge to shiver, Ghost fortified himself to feel it again as he asked, “What do… Do you have a favorite flower?” He chickened out at the last second, not able to bring himself to ask what the god wanted from him directly, too scared of the answer.
Whichever you give me.
And as soon as it arrived, it was gone. The burden of Death’s presence was lifted and the cicadas and frogs began their choir once more. He could hear an owl from far away, leaves rustling, the crackling of some nocturnal animal returning to its usual habits…
Life carried on, but Ghost felt trapped. ‘Whichever you give me,’ the god had said.
“What,” Ghost mumbled to himself, now truly alone in the forest, “In the fuck does that mean?”