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“I think I’m becoming a god,” says Kristen, one Tuesday during lunch.
There is a moment of silence as everyone digests what she has just said. It’s not everyday your friend brings up their gradual deification.
Fig speaks first. “I pledge myself to you,” she says, a sentence that falls out of her mouth so easily it surprises even her. She adopts her trademark wicked grin immediately, passing it off as something to break the ice.
It succeeds, and soon the Bad Kids are pestering Kristen about how it worked, what did Cassandra think of it, could she smite people for them, et cetera. Kristen laughs along with the rest, but Fig can’t quite bring herself to join in. She’s too busy turning the thought over and over in her head.
Kristen is becoming a god.
It plays in the back of her mind through the conversation. Kristen, the poster child for a crisis of faith, only just starting to make progress with the Church of Doubt, that Kristen is becoming a god.
Kristen explains, in a speech Fig only partly listens to, that the cult she’s building up has become popular. Like, really popular. It turns out there are a lot of people who find solace in the idea of a deity of doubt to guide them, especially in a world where at any moment you can be swept up in an invasion or a plot or a world-ending threat of some kind. But the people worshipping the cult have been worshipping not just Cassandra, but Kristen too.
“Might have something to do with the whole ‘undying’ shtick,” mutters Kristen.
“So, are you a god?” Adaine asks.
“Not yet, I think?” Kristen says, “It hasn’t got to that point yet. A bit more worship like this and…”
Gorgug asks, “Will you, like ascend into the sky when it happens?”
Kristen shrugs. Apparently godhood is a tricky subject to find answers about.
It isn’t a problem. Not immediately, anyway. Things stay as they are for a bit. Kristen glows a bit more than usual, maybe hovers off the ground slightly, spends more time with Cassandra than before, and Fig tries not to think about it. She really does. She tries not to think about how her friend, her president, is becoming a deity. A god. Fig ignores it.
Fig is lying in her bed, and failing at her resolution. Kristen’s going to be a god, she thinks. Kristen’s turning into a god.
She thinks about how quickly she pledged herself to God-Kristen. As soon as she understood, the pledge flowed out of her mouth. Not even a conscious decision. It seemed obvious, really. She has been Kristen’s German shepherd, her head of security, her loyal friend. Fig remembers once even considering if Kristen was her god during junior year. She was certainly the thing Fig was most dedicated to that year.
And now, this is almost the logical next step. Now Fig can prove her loyalty again, committing to the next step on Kristen’s journey.
It’s an insane thing to think. But she has always been dedicated to Kristen. She pretty much worships the girl already.
That night, in her evening prayers to Ankarna, she slips a little something in for Kristen.
Kristen has definitely changed. Hovering is the default now, and she doesn’t seem to be burning spell slots half the time. Looking at her sideways, sometimes Fig thinks she can see right through her, like a soft, twilight-coloured mirror.
Kristen says she’s been trying to stop it. She’s told people she isn’t supposed to be worshipped, but it seems to only encourage them. Cassandra seems very calm about the whole thing, like one of the most important people in Fig’s life isn’t currently having their very nature transformed. That’s gods for you.
There’s something different in Kristen’s manner too. It’s the way she looks when she thinks no one’s looking at her. Fig can see a sort of distance in those eyes, like she’s withdrawn from the world around her. The look makes Fig’s heart break.
She tries to keep Kristen grounded, joking with her and giving her casual touches whenever possible, talking to her about all sorts of inane things and hoping, just hoping, it’ll keep Kristen here.
Is she selfish? Is it wrong of her to deny Kristen this transcendence? She doesn’t even know if Kristen really wants it. She doesn’t know how to bring it up. Maybe if she does Kristen will say ‘yes’, and Fig’s world will fall out from under her.
Fig is lying in her bed again. She’s thinking about Ankarna, not Kristen. Ankarna, her actual deity, the one she’s actually supposed to be praying to every night. And she has been. She has just also been praying to Kristen. Just a bit at first, but more and more. It’s weird, she thinks, praying to someone to beg them to not become a god.
Ankarna has been doing very well recently. She’s popular with private investigators (Riz, mostly atheist apart from some goblin traditional ceremonies, has a little shrine to her in his office), and a lot of people have taken her up in prayer alongside Ruvina or Cassandra. Maybe she doesn’t need Fig.
But of course she does. Fig is her champion, she can’t just abandon the god she helped save.
She wonders if she can pray to them both. It’s not like she worships them the same, her prayers are always very different. She gives strength to Ankarna, promises to fight for justice, and peppers in a few compliments about how nice her goddess is looking. She venerates Ankarna, she worships Ankarna. But she loves Kristen. Obviously, she loves Ankarna too, but not in the way she loves Kristen. She worships Ankarna but she’s devoted to Kristen.
Her prayers to Kristen are usually quiet, reserved things, like if she’s quiet enough the prayers won’t push Kristen further towards godhood. Little prayers of adoration, more a feeling than a clear thought. There’s a kind of comfort in sending out a prayer to Kristen. Kristen knows her, she understands her. Gods are distant things, but when she prays to Kristen it feels comforting. Not the warm righteousness of Ankarna but a cosy, calming feeling. A little like Cassandra, but with a special Kristen-y quality. Like when Kristen throws an arm around her and kisses her (platonically, always platonically) on the cheek. It feels like being loved.
Fig pushes off her bed and kneels down on the rug. Her movements are well practiced; she has done them so many times before. She prays to Ankarna: for justice, for strength, for the hope things will be right. Then she prays to Kristen. She cannot quite remember what she thinks, but she never needs to put it into firm words for Kristen. She can just open her mind and feel that reassurance, that love. Fig finishes her prayers and rises.
As she does, out of her window she can hear a soft, ethereal singing. She looks out the window and sees, in the chapel, a powerful glow of twilight, one that fills the windows and pulses with a divine light.
Fig realises what it means. And she cries.
Aguefort calls them in to his office tomorrow. He has that glint in his eye, overjoyed at a result he seems to have seen coming. Fig does not share his joy.
“Well firstly I must congratulate you, Ms Applebees. Is it still Kristen Applebees? If you’ve chosen a god name, I do hope it’s better than Porter.”
“I think- still Kristen. For now.”
Kristen- or what was Kristen- floats before the principal’s desk. She is translucent, like Cassandra, still dressed in her regular clothes as ever, but they ripple like a cool breeze. She is unusually quiet. Her face is still Kristen’s. Fig wonders for how much longer.
“Excellent,” continues Aguefort, “then, Kristen, I heartily congratulate you on your ascension to godhood. I know of few clerics who have, and certainly none of your age. I am pleased to tell you that regarding your cleric grade, ascension counts for maximum marks! You’ve truly completed your adventuring education with flying colours.”
His expression turns a little graver. “Now, I am sorry to say, but as you are now a god, you can no longer attend the Aguefort Adventuring Academy.”
The Bad Kids lurch from their seats, various exclamations of shock, outrage, and confusion.
“Quiet down! Of course, this must be very shocking for all of you, but fear not! Kristen’s overwhelming success will transfer some credit towards each of you as well, and this will naturally be taken into consideration with your remaining exams and adventures, don’t worry.”
Fig isn’t worrying about that. She doesn’t care about that right now, she cares about how her friend is turning into a god and what Aguefort is going to do about it.
He turns to Kristen. “If you would like a reference I’d be happy to write on up for whichever divine plane you plan to operate. Not often we get a divine alumnus!”
He says nothing else Fig cares to hear. He doesn’t seem to get it, doesn’t understand what this means for the Bad Kids, what it means for Fig.
Kristen starts to be busy, spending all her time in the chapel. God stuff. She can’t explain it and when she tries to, Fig just feels like the rift between them becomes ever more gaping. Kristen is slipping away and Fig can’t do anything about it.
The rest of the Bad Kids are going through it too. Riz has shut himself in his office. Gorgug has been listening to his sad playlist and staring out of the window. Adaine has been obsessively going over anything she can find about godhood. Fabian has started taking long rides on the Hangman that take him only he knows where. Fig herself has been doing a lot of lying in her bed, and praying.
Her prayers are more like pleas now. She begs for Kristen not to leave them, not to leave her. She knows these prayers can’t reverse what has happened. Kristen is a god now, and she’s got to leave them. That she has stayed so long is just trying to keep up the pretence of normality. But things are not normal. Fig doesn’t think they ever will be again.
Kristen leaves, eventually. Fig knew it was going to happen. She just hoped that if she ignored it then it would never come to pass.
Mordred Manor is quiet on that day. Everyone is in their rooms, subdued and pensive, all minds turned to Kristen. Fig herself is strumming at her bass, vainly trying to create some sort of melody. It is as out of joint as everything else. Fig might make a song out of an idea like that, but her head is full of thoughts of a gap-toothed smile fading into a twilight void.
She hears the singing again. It is sad; as angelic as it was last time, but with a mournful tone, a final, sorrowful coda. She rushes downstairs, to the chapel, and sees the glowing light, just like it was before. The light is soft, and purple, and Kristen’s. It is undeniably, implacably divine, no matter how hard Fig prays and begs and professes her devotion. The light reaches a crescendo, then fades.
She knows what it means. And she cries.
They have a quest. It’s different, without Kristen. It feels like there’s an empty space in the group. It feels like there’s an empty space inside of Fig.
They refused the offer of a new cleric for their party. It felt wrong. And they’re all strong enough to keep themselves up in a fight.
Still, some of the jokes don’t land without Kristen there. Their conversations seem to peter out without a chaotic presence to throw them on a wild tangent. Fig herself feels it most strongly when she’s lying awake in her tent. Before, Kristen’s cool skin was next to her, grounding her, soothing her. Sometimes, in the night, Fig’s hand would reach out and meet Kristen’s, and they would lie there entwined, together. It was small and it was quiet, but it felt like nothing in the world could harm her, like she had some indescribable certainty that things would be okay. It felt like being loved.
Now Fig reaches for a hand that isn’t there and it makes her heart ache.
It isn’t just the incompleteness of their party that makes Fig feel like she’s missing a limb. She keeps turning to make a comment, or crack a joke, or deliver a cheeky wink, and the recipient is no longer there. Fig will say the wildest things, things that only one person would ever get, and waits for a response from the person she knows is gone. She feels empty without that gap-toothed smile there, without those bright eyes, that brilliant ginger mess of hair.
Only when she is praying does she feel complete. When she prays, she can almost feel Kristen’s arms wrapping around her, the glow of her presence. It feels like being loved.
Fig can’t sleep. She gets up, slips out of the tent while Adaine trances. They’ve set up camp in a sheltered clearing in a forest, on the way to an evil wizard’s tower or dragon’s lair or something. Fig wasn’t really paying attention to the briefing.
Fig stands at the edge of the clearing, smoking a blunt and thinking about Kristen. It seems to happen a lot when she’s alone. Her mind seems to automatically default to the thought of Kristen Applebees, grin wide and eyes full of mischief. Then the image contorts, and Fig sees a divine face, one that looks like Kristen but is so un-human, so impersonal, that Fig cannot reconcile the idea that they are the same person. Kristen’s not gone, just changed. Different. It still feels like loss, a wound that aches in Fig’s chest and stubbornly refuses to close.
But Kristen has changed before. She changed her deity over and over, changed her style, changed her running bits. Kristen is the Saint of Doubt- or maybe the God of Doubt now- and change is in her nature. Fig stayed a constant companion through all of it. Why should she change that now?
She loves Kristen, god or not. And if loving Kristen means divine devotion, Fig will pray and pray. She will do whatever it takes to keep showing her love to the new Kristen. Kristen always said that the Church of Doubt was about acknowledging the uncertainty and being ready for it, accepting the change and carrying on. Fig can do that. She can do it all for Kristen.
She takes a drag of her blunt, then as she exhales she closes her eyes and sends a prayer to Kristen. Nothing long, nothing complicated, just eight words.
I meant it. I pledge myself to you.
When she opens her eyes, a figure floats before her, made of curling purple smoke. Disembodied, spectral, radiating with divinity, but Fig knows.
Kristen smiles, that same wide grin.
“Hey girlie.”
Warmth blooms in Fig’s chest, and it feels like being loved.