He could have been a god of so many things, when he finally shrugged off the tyranny of mortal flesh and a mortal world. He could have been a god of journalism, of poetry, even of fishing and bucolic afternoons in the golden country sun. He could have been a god of peace, if he had to be a god at all.
That he is none of those things is the reason that he hates us so.
He gave us the warnings, both blunt and coached in pretty metaphor: he told us where these roads would lead, mapped and charted out their dangers, made it as exquisitely clear as he knew how that we had little enough time to save ourselves. He told us that when the enemy came before us, they would do so dressed as brothers, and offering pretty slogans that went down easily, coated as they were with sugar, but that would turn to poison pills in our throats, once it was too late to spit them back.
War is peace. Wisdom is ignorance. Freedom is slavery. Lies, all lies, and he told us as much; he was very clear, very precise and plain, and his reward is divinity and distortion, his words turned into praises of the exact thing he protested against, into weapons raised against the things he most believed.
For some of those who ascend to godhood upon their deaths, small divinity is a blessing, a last reward from a universe which treated them as it treats all living things: with casual, unconcerned unfairness, just one more piece of an eternity as yet unfolding, in need of nothing beyond the bare necessities. It is a reward for everything they have suffered.
For Brother Blair, it is a punishment he’s still not entirely sure what he did to earn, but would give almost anything to take back.
Artist Lee Moyer (13th Age, Cursed Court) and author Seanan McGuire (Middlegame, Every Heart a Doorway) have joined forces to bring you icons and stories of the small deities who manage our modern world, from the God of Social Distancing to the God of Finding a Parking Space.
Join in each week on Monday, Wednesday, and Friday for a guide to the many tiny divinities: