The birth and death of one little god.

This is the story of a nameless god of an all but forgotten village.
This little village had a little field by a little river.
They found little seeds in a little clearing in the big forest.
They planted their little seeds in their little field.
The little seeds, in the little field, with a little water, grew big.
First sprouted vines that grew long and strong.
From the vines grew wide leaves and fragrant flowers.
After the flowers, fruit - large and hard-rinded, but nourishing within.
The village celebrated, and the thought came to one to return a single piece of the harvest to where they had found the seeds, in thanks.
They took it upon them-self to do so, explaining their actions upon their return.
The village elders asked them their rationale and all they could say was “If we honor the land and the vine’s sacrifice, it may indulge us with a greater harvest in the future.”
This made sense to them, and so it became a part of their culture.
And it worked.
Each year, the single largest fruit harvested was returned to that same place of origin.
And each year, the harvest was larger than the last.
The duty of carrying it became an honor, and a challenge, as the fruits’ size increased.
An artist, in a moment of inspiration, used a small amount of their blood to paint a simple face upon the fruit to be sacrificed. Despite the gory color and the jaggedly crooked smile, it felt undeniably cheerful, and so this, too was adopted by the culture.
The decorated fruit was displayed upon a stump, and, as the people observed its gradual decay and disintegration, they began to associate it with their own mortality and the inevitable passing of all things. They began to light candles atop it during their harvest festival, and sing and dance. At some point the innovation to carve the face into the fruit, remove the soft innards, and place the candles within was made. The light of these flames was believed to guide souls to their next life. 
As the religion developed, so too did the god, until the believers decided to make it official. They built a shrine to give it a home, and resolved to, at the next harvest festival, bestow upon it a name and title along with the traditional sacrifice.
But disaster struck. The village was annihilated by A war they never even knew about. The warring people they never knew used their fields as a battleground, their houses as barracks, and their bodies as practice dummies.
Some villagers died cursing their god for failing to protect them. Others died cursing the invaders. A few died cursing themselves. One died hoping their god would survive without a name. But they all died.
Their god did not know war. It barely knew thought. But it knew feeling. And it knew death. Even bereft of any living followers, it did the duty it had never asked for, and guided the souls of the fallen onward. It knew not where, it only lit the way.
One villager, however, would not go.
That villager said “You whose vines became our rope, whose leaves became our roof, whose fruit became our flesh, I entreat you, endure, and remember.”
“I AM… SPENT.”
“Let my essence be your fuel, then. Let your light be the memory of my people.”
“…”
“Alone, we both are dead. Together, something may endure.”
“VERY WELL.”