He is so, so tired. Never before has He been this tired. The souls cajole Him onward but He does not move. They comfort Him, coddle Him, promise, promise all will be well, just one more thing to do. For His followers. When that does not rouse Him they turn angry, fighting inside Him, demanding more, demanding never to be still.

He cannot please them.

They see it, they see that He is done, He is useless to them. They spite Him, retract their love and fill Him with their hate. His selfishness has killed the world, they say. The taste of loathing is left in His mouth as they leave Him, abandoning Him like a shirt that is warn through and torn, never really that good to begin with.

The new God dies. Not with a bang, but in silence. There's wetness on his cheeks.