The Most Boring God

Zane Joly

             I stood before the steps of the Grand Temple. I took deep breaths. In. Out. This is what I’d prepared for my entire life. At birth my irises were the same color white as the eye around them, marking me as a Champion, a servant to the gods. And here I was, on my twentieth birthday, ready to choose which god I would receive the blessing of.

            Or I was ready in theory. In actuality, I had no idea who I was going to pick. Maybe Phoenix, goddess of flame and rebirth? She was a popular new god, only formed in the last century. Or I could choose Domele, goddess of peace, family, and home, one of the old gods. The blessings she offered seemed useful, like bringing feelings of peace, conjuring meals and blankets, etcetera.

            Gathering my courage, I walked up the steps.

            Priests were waiting inside. “Hey,” I said, weakly, “I’m a new Champion. I have come to select my god.”

            The high priest of the temple turned towards me, and for some reason he looked sad. “I am sorry,” was all he said.

            “About what?” I responded nervously.

            He sighed and said, “I’m afraid that the only remaining Champion of the god Zentos died a few hours ago. All gods must have at least one Champion on the mortal plane to anchor them. Tradition dictates the next unclaimed Champion that arrives must serve the god with none, regardless of personal choice.”

            It took a few moments for his words to sink in. I wouldn’t get to choose. I had spent my whole life wondering whom I would serve and what blessings they would grant me, but it didn’t matter.

 My mind raced. Who was Zentos? I had studied every god, so it should have come easily. After a couple seconds I remembered. Zentos the god of labor, the god of work, the god of humility, and the god of survival and self-preservation. He was the most boring god, known as Zentos The Servant.

            “No...” was all I could say. Priests gently led me to one of the altars in the corner of the temple. It was a stone slab with ants carved along the bottom of it, the border made of various tools. In the center was a circle carved into the stone about six inches in diameter with the emblem of Zentos in the center: two thick gloved hands crossed over each other in fists. I slowly laid my hand on the symbol, forever dooming myself to this fate.

            There was a sudden burst of light and I was no longer in the temple. I seemed to be inside a log cabin of some sort. Sitting in a big chair by the fireplace was a man. He was large and muscled, wearing a simple tunic and pants, along with a pair of big brown boots and two thick gloves. A sunhat also rested on his lap, which he was squeezing nervously.

            I presumed this was Zentos. Every Champion had a vision of their god when they chose. The first words that came out of his divine mouth were, “Look, I’m not any happier with the situation than you are.”

            I groaned and hit my head against a wall. I couldn’t believe this loser was my god. “Why did I get stuck with the most boring god?”

            “It’s okay. God of humility. Not at all insulted.”

            I turned around to face him. “I mean, why do you even exist?”

            He frowned a little at that and responded, “Let me put it this way. There are the rich people, there are the scientists and doctors, there are the other Champions and the generals and the politicians. There are the educators and the master artists and the famous actors. And then there’s everyone else. People who get by in life not because of exceptional talent or natural skill, but because of hard work and determination and grit. Those people need a god to help them, so they made me. I am one of the oldest gods and I am powerful, in my own way. For millennia, laborers and enslaved peoples have sung my hyms while they worked. Even farmers and sailors, who have other gods that help them, also pray to me. I am the god of those who make society work. And had you made that particular comment to any other god, they would have smited you into a puddle.”

            “Sorry,” I said, “but what blessings do you actually offer? Do I get like, the strength of ten men?”

            “Why would you need that?” Zentos asked, seeming confused, “I can give you the strength of two and a half men. That’s very useful. I can make you better at staying alive. I can make you better at blending into crowds.”

I barely managed to restrain myself from leaping forward and choking him.

            He could clearly see the disappointment on my face, so he said, “Look, I don’t ask much. You don’t have to give me offerings. I’m not even requesting you worship me. All I need for you to do is stay alive. And, actually, about that, my last champion was killed by assassins, so… maybe watch out for that.”

            “WHAT?” I yelled, but there was another flash of light and I was sitting before the altar again.

            One of the priests gave me a hand mirror. I looked into it. When a champion chooses a god, their irises change color, depending on the god. Usually the colors are interesting, like a different one for each iris, or purple, or golden. But as I looked in the mirror, my irises slowly filled with ordinary brown. No one who looked at me would be able to guess I was a Champion. I sighed. Boring eyes for the boring champion of a boring god.

            I was in my small room at the inn. It wasn’t great, but it was all I could afford. I collapsed on my bed, trying to forget the entire day. But of course, it was a while before I slept. The days disappointing events kept on playing over and over in my head. Then I remembered what Zentos had said about the assassins, and that kept me up for another few hours.

            I thought I would get up late because it took so long to sleep. But it seemed like I had just drifted off when a voice in my head screamed WAKE UP.

            Because of some instinct I didn’t understand, I rolled left, right off my bed. I blinked my eyes blearily. It was barely sun up. Then I turned around and noticed there was a knife in my mattress, where I had been a few seconds ago. I also noticed the three figures in black cloaks in my room.

            One of the assassins grabbed the knife and swung it at me. With speed I didn’t know I had, I ducked under it. One of them stabbed a sword at me and I jumped out of the way. A second later I dodged a crossbow bolt.

            “What’s going on?” I said, alarmed.

            Assassins are trying to kill you. The only reason you're still alive is because of one of my blessings: The Step of Survival. I am a god of self-preservation.

            “Any other blessings that might help? Like maybe a weapon?” Those same thick gloves formed around my hands. “Not very helpful!” I yelled. It later occurred to me that to the assassins it would look like I was yelling at the empty air, but I didn’t much care about their opinions.

            Well, they’re my signature. But I’m sure I can give you something that is both a worker's tool and a useful weapon. I’d give you a scythe, but that’s the death goddess' thing and I don’t want to have to argue with her about it. It’s a whole thing. How about…

            One of the assassins leaped forward with a knife in her hand. A pitchfork formed in my hands and speared through her side. She dropped her knife and yelled, collapsing on the ground.

            There was a clear path to the door and I dashed away, dodging another crossbow bolt. I jumped down the stairs and ran around tables with a few people sitting at them. The assassins followed.

            I burst out into the street. There was the early morning commute of people going to their jobs across the town. My gloves and pitchfork dissolved into brown mist. I tried to run as fast as I could, but some force stopped me. I found myself walking along the street, matching the pace of those around me.

            Patience. You have to blend in.

            The cloaked figures burst out into the street, looking around wildly, but none of them saw me. They turned and ran into a nearby alley. I couldn’t believe it. The stupid, boring gifts of my god had actually saved my life. Several times.

            I headed to the only place I could think of: The temple of Zentos. The priests somehow recognized me and escorted me to a room in the back.

            What do we do now?

            “Now, we track down those assassins.”

            Really?

            “Yeah,” I said, forming the pitchfork in my hands, “Someone’s got to show them that nobody messes with my god.”