The battle ended not with a bang but a whimper; no glorious triumph or mad retreat but a long, slow dying as exhausted soldiers fell until the few still on their feet all were on the same side.

Not the protagonist’s side.

Desperately they tried to will themselves back up to their feet, tried to force numb fingers to close around the sword that lay in the mud beside them. But their body was done, helpless as the tired enemy soldiers picked their way closer and closer, methodically stripping bodies of any small valuables and finishing off any wounded still alive.

The protagonist prayed frantically to any god they thought might hear them. The god of war. The god of peace. The god from any temple and roadside shrine they could ever remember visiting. They wracked their brain. Dead. They’d have to pretend to be dead. They could do that. They were half there already, just slow their breathing and don’t catch anyone’s…

They turned their head and saw the god of war looking straight at them.

Like everyone else on the battlefield the god was spattered with blood, from her cropped hair to her armored boots. She could have been any soldier from any nation - except for the terrible red joy in her eyes as she beheld the devastation wrought.

“Hello, little sacrifice,” she said without moving her lips. She pointed, and as if puppeted, one of the enemy soldiers started to turn their head -

A clean boot crunched down next to the protagonist’s head. Then another, stepping carefully over them to place themselves between the god and the protagonist. The protagonist looked up at a figure straight out of their childhood.

The god of war stopped.

“Are you serious?” she sneered.

The god of the protagonist’s childhood village shrine shrugged, strumming his fingers thoughtfully over the lute in his hands. Unlike the murals, the statues, he was not dressed in fine court robes but in simple traveler clothes, his hair pulled back into a plain knot. But just as the protagonist remembered, he seemed impossibly tall. Impossibly beautiful.

“Spare this one,” the god asked, stilling those long clever hands on the strings. “Please. This one is mine.”

The god of war laughed. “You think you can challenge me, godling? Me? Here? At the height of my strength? Flee back to whatever muddy temple you escaped from and maybe I’ll let you survive, you jumped up deity of bad chords and tasteless lyrics.”

“Oh, I’m no god of anything so prevalent,” the protagonist’s god murmured humbly. “And I’m not here to challenge you, great one. Say rather, we’re here to bargain. After all, this one has something that can benefit you.”

The god shot the protagonist a look. The protagonist knew this line from the stories of their childhood.

“A song!” they blurted. “A - an epic about what happened here, about you, to make all who hear it shout and weep and… and honor your name.”

The god of war… paused. Tilted their head.

“A fitting tribute to your potency,” their god chimed in, the melody from their lute drifting into a martial fanfare. “From a god-touched bard. Surely that makes them worth more alive than dead.”

A shout went up from the other side of the field. Someone was up and swords were swinging. The god of war waved an impatient hand, already disappearing towards the fight. “Fine. But I expect my song. I’ll hold you responsible, godling. I don’t forget!”

She was gone and the god of the protagonist’s childhood turned to look down at them. “Well,” he said, reaching out a hand to pull the protagonist up. “I hope you can actually write music.”

“Seems like a priority to learn,” the protagonist said fervently, and their god of trickery and bargains laughed and hauled them away.