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He had never had much patience for religion. What was it, really, but superstition with money?
Perhaps there had never been any lines. Perhaps the whole idea of lines was a consolatory fairy tale it had suited him to believe.
It was growing dark, the sky bruised with stormy colours.
The Saviour had definitely tended against killing, and she heard priests talk about murder like it was really the worst, but when she finally read the scriptures herself, she found God couldn’t go a page without smiting the shit out of someone. Then dead people might be a tragedy but dead elves are a punchline. No quicker shortcut to heaven than up a mountain of elf-skulls. You could be the most terrible bastard in the world but go on a crusade and fill a cart with pointy-eared corpses you came out a hero, fresh as daisies.
That crinkly ribbon of the world where land and sea meet, and fight, and fuck, and grind each other into new shapes like ill-matched lovers in an endless stormy romance neither can ever escape. The thought of that style of romance set off a bit of a tickle, in fact.
