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Edér was raised a good, if not always pious, Eothasian. He observed the important days, sent a quick prayer to him whenever applicable, and wondered, on the odd occasion, if his god loved them as much as they loved him.
The doubts and questions grew like weeds during the Saint’s War. There’s no way Waidwen could be Eothas — he was too casually cruel, too much of a fighter to be possessed by the god of hope and redemption. In a way even as he fought against him, Edér was still fighting for Eothas. Taking arms in the vain hope of clearing the name of his god.
He’d be the first to say it was a fool’s task. Waidwen fell and Eothas died; children lost their souls and Eothasian lost their lives. Edér saved no one and cleared nothing.
Still, he persisted. He worshiped, quietly, out of habit rather than true belief but no less genuine for it. Prayed for forgiveness, mercy, redemption, for a spark of light in these dark times, even as the tree at the heart of Gilded Vale was weighed down by bodies and he could feel his luck and time running out.
There are days when he liked to believe the Watcher was Eothas’ way of answering him. He kept praying then, asking for absolution, for something that would make the war and all the sacrifices done in Eothas’ name worth it.
Now, faced with a giant arda statue glowing pyre-bright, he thinks he regrets it. This is what he asked for, in a twisted, horrible way, and even though he knows he’s not to blame for it he still feels responsible for ever wishing for it.
He still believes, though. Decades of his life spent worshiping Eothas aren’t quite so easy to leave behind. Part of him is still foolish enough to hold on to the idea that he might still, despite everything, be working for the good of the world. Part of him still hopes that this time, he won’t have to be on the side of those who bring his god down.
Even in hope there’s still a place for doubt. There’s always been.
“Do you think Eothas hates us for what we’ve done to him?” He asks Renard one evening, offhandedly, pretending to care less than he really does. “For the war, the bomb, all of it?”
“He doesn’t.”
Renard speaks with an assurance Edér envies, and the kind of sincerity usually found in born Eothasians. The Watcher has grown disillusioned with the gods since Berath chained him to her service, so it’s odd to find him to be openly supportive of one of them.
Then again, Eothas is hardly like any other god.
Edér can’t help but doubt. “Kinda feels like he does though, what with the path of death and destruction he’s making.”
“He doesn’t,” Renard repeats, shaking his head. The corner of his mouth turns down in a thoughtful frown. “I can feel him, you know. When we’re close. He’s so… kind.”
He says it like it both surprises and irritates him, which Edér finds a little rich from the guy whose primary goal in life is to forcefully help the people around them.
A sigh. He turns to Edér, eyes softening slightly.
“He’s a good god to follow.”
“You lookin’ for a career change, Watcher? Don’t think Berath will appreciate that.”
“No, for you, I mean. He’s a good god. I think you’re right to still believe in him.”
Edér always forgets Renard is more perceptive than he lets on. He scoffs. “I’d hardly call it belief. I doubt all the time.”
“That’s what makes you a good believer, too.” It’s painfully sincere, which Renard doesn’t do anymore, so he adds, “Look at me! I keep telling them they’re wrong and I hate them, and I’m still their favorite.”
They chuckle. Edér feels a little lighter for it.
In the far off distance, Eothas glows like the morning star. For the first time in their journey through the Deadfire, he’s more of a guiding light than a target.