To kill a god: A very short story

Brsssh

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I wrote this down as it randomly popped into my head at 1 am.
I didn't really intend to
write a book so its VERY short, but
I think I conveyed the message I intended.


His lungs burned. He could taste the smoke and ash in his mouth. His ears still rung from the screams.
The battle was over. The final battle was over. A god was dead. It had been bloodier than he had expected
when he set out. Gods did not bleed. Men bled. Gods did not weep for the dead. Men wept. A long road
had lead him here. A road paved with blood and ash. A road paved with regret and doubt. What if he was
wrong? When he had joined the zealots, he envisioned glory. To the titan on the battlefield. To pierce its
flesh with his blade and watch it fall. For his name to be remembered for all of time. Godslayer. He imagined
the look of terror in its followers eyes as they saw the truth. But that is not how gods die. Of those imaginings,
he knew only the last. He knew that look of terror well. Yes, armies met on battlefields, at least in the early
days of the war. The titan joined the battle as well, towering into the sky, its physical form 60 yards high at
least. A sword in its hand made of light, as if smelted from the sun itself. He watched scores of men fall to
the creature without even a strike to its flesh- if what it had could be called flesh. He saw the terror in their
eyes as well. He saw that terror in his nightmares. He saw it in his own eyes. But that was not his duty. He
could taste the smoke. His ears rung. He looked to the embers of the fire. A charred paper blew from the
pile, any writing on it now illegible. He couldn’t look to the other pile. He knew what lay there. He could
smell the corpses. They did not fight. There was no glory here. It was not the grave of Valiant soldiers. It was
not the corpse of a god. There was a mound of rotting flesh. Of elderly men. Of children. Of priests and
students. No, you did not kill a god with sword, nor spears. Not with cavalry charges nor with archers’ volleys.
You kill a god with the blood of the devout. With the death of all who believe of it. Of all who know of it. With
the destruction of all record, of all knowledge of it. You did not kill a god with swords or
horses or bows.
You killed a god with burned books, and slaughtered holy men. He could see the terror in their eyes as they
knew their god had drawn its last. As they felt its power fade. As they died, so did their
god. He could taste
the smoke. His ears rung.

This was how you killed a god.
 

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