Once upon a time, there was a god. They were a very beautiful god, which was adequate, given their being the god of beauty.
The god's whole body was beautiful. Beauty, an impossibly subjective concept, would lose all its relativity when faced with them. They were absolutely, unambiguously, objectively beautiful. And they really wanted to stay that way.
"Because it's nice, you know? Maybe you don't, not everyone is beautiful. Not like me anyway."
Scientists and philosophers alike still struggle to find the person who asked. Anyway. The god of beauty really wanted to stay the way they were. And they only feared one thing. Now, hold on.
What is the one thing someone keen on maintaining a certain status quo could be afraid of? There's no point in pretending that to be a difficult query. The answer, obviously, is change.
So, logically, the one thing the god of beauty didn't want to happen was change. The mentioning of that right now is a very clever thing called foreshadowing, too much of which can ruin a story and make its outcome predictable and boring. Let us all ignore that and go on anyway.
There are many gods of beauty. There are many gods, just by themselves. As many as people make, actually. This particular god of beauty was specifically fond of their glorious mane.
Hair softer and more delicate than a quicksilver sword. Glistening with a thousand colours, an undulating ocean of rainbows. Thin and thick at the same time, self-braiding, straightening, and curling at will.
To keep it that way, the god of beauty resorted to a trusty combination of shampoo and conditioner. And a templeful of servants.
Their (the servants') day was usually spent combing the god's mane with paper. In the shape of combs. Paper combs.
You see, the god's hair was so delicate it could be brushed with warm air if they wished so. But why have so many servants if you can outsource labour to the sun and wind?
Well, it's simple. All gods derive both their existence and power from the belief of their followers. Likewise, the god of—
A knock destroyed the ever-present quietude of the servants' working hours. Someone was at the door.
The god of beauty put down their mirror and would've presented a face of disgust. But didn't. It wouldn't be pretty. They glared at one of the servants instead. With their eyes, oh, those eyes, like a thousand galaxies—
We're getting off track.
The glared-at servant recovered from the god's eyes' spell and strolled towards the door. Beyond it, he saw a tiny man in a straw hat. Maybe not pixie-tiny, but he sure wasn't tall.
The servant glared at the intruder. "What do you want?" He demanded, towering over the little man.
The intruder smiled. Shadows obscured the rest of his face.
"I have an offering." He said.
"Offerings are left at the foot of the mountain, get lost man." The servant began closing the door.
"I have," the intruder interrupted, "climbed on my knees to get here. To deliver a gift to the god."
The servant sighed. This was so below his pay grade...
"What's it then?" he asked.
With a giggle, the intruder replied. "An offer!"
The servant blinked.
"You came here to deliver a gift to the god, and that gift is an offer."
"More like a deal, actually," the intruder specified.
"Two for the price of one. Shampoo and conditioner."
"We have both of those. If that's all, you won't mind my calling the guards to execute you, right?"
But the god of beauty was hooked. See, it never would've worked if the shampoo and conditioner were given away freely. That would stink of a plot against the deity. This was a much better way to kill them.
"How much for them?" the god spoke, with a voice smooth like a million mountain streams all conjoining into a slow, wide river snaking across a lowland.
"A single hair of yours, your divinity." The intruder gave a look of superiority to the servant.
"Pay the man," they said, plucking out a hair and handing it to the servant. They then picked up the mirror once more.
And so, the intruder was payed and allowed to leave without being executed. An inhuman example of mercy and goodwill.
The next day, after washing the god's hair with the newly acquired substances, a comb broke. Then another. And so on.
One by one, all of the paper combs broke as the god's hair was no more smooth, now knotted and tangled. Metal, wooden, even stone combs were implemented. To no avail.
The god of beauty was no longer beautiful. At least their hair wasn't. They got very, very angry. They vandalised their own temple, killed some of the servants, and started a war against the other gods. But even in a celestial conflict such as this one, the ones truly suffering the consequences were the simple people of the world below. The ones who actually fought the gods' wars.
One day, a hero arrived. An incredibly tall man, significantly (you'll see why) taller than any of the god's servants, and almost rivalling the deities themselves in the matter of vertical growth. He bore a disproportionately short sword, and wore a ceremonial helmet upon his head. The hero said he would defeat the former god of beauty, and restore peace and balance.
He didn't back out. He came up the mountain, reached the ruined temple, and — standing among the debris — he challenged the god to a duel.
Mind you, there are a lot of gods. They're all gods of different things, at which they exceed when compared to one another. But they still put any puny human to shame when it comes to any kind of contest. The god of gluttony could easily outrun the fastest sprinter, and the god of sitting around all day being pretty could easily slay the mightiest swordsman.
Having heard the challenge, the god showed themselves. Hair like a curtain draped over their head, tangled to an impossible level. Hair so black it could swallow the sun and still be hungry.
They (both) drew their swords. Curved, single-edged sabres to be wielded with both hands.
The god struck first. And took the hero's head off. Then the hero struck their ankle.
With a loud clang the god hacked the hero's head off. Again. Then he struck them in the other ankle.
The god got mad. They've decapitated him twice, how was that man still standing? No time for that, biology wasn't the most important thing at the moment.
The god struck six more times. Six more times did the clang occur. Six more times was the hero cut. Six more times he returned the blow.
The final one, a rightly pommel to the god's face, knocked them over the mountain's edge, and sent them into the lake below. And so, the god sank.
The intruder took off his helmet and sighed. That had been a tough one. Two more blows and he'd have been toast. Headless toast.
The hero-intruder sheathed his blade. He didn't bother picking up the other helmets. There were some pieces that needed moving. There were even more that needed knocking over.
