It had been many years since he'd been home. Since he'd sat down with his brother in the evenings.

But yet he walked.

So long ago was the past. So much pain it held.

And so he walked, and walked, and walked into the sunset.

He was a farmer at heart. He had loved his crops, more than he loved his brother, more than he loved his god. He loved his wheat, and his barley, and his orchard, they were all he cared for. Not anymore.

His brother was dead, and so were his crops, everything near and dear to him, gone in the blink of the eyes.

Now he roamed the paths of the world searching for a new home, or companions to aid him in his new calling, he was not sure.

He slowly became a living legend, a passing rumor. Of a man who survived a god's wrath. And now he was going to kill that god.

Traversing the world in search of the god did not tire the man. The deeper and deeper he got to the cracks of the realm, the more he felt the god's presence. Storms ruptured the heavens. The earth was overcome with plagues and floods, but the man walked on defying the god's command to stop. Welding the sword of his brother, he plunged into the habitats of the god's faithful followers, pillaging their homes, murdering their women, and sowing discord among the men.

One night the god awoke to the knock of the man, standing before his Vahalla in the mysterious peaks. The god quaked at the naked blade and fierce gaze of the man. Heat burst through the chambers. Unbearable fury. His home was full of havoc. Grabbing his trident, he dashed to the tower.

The man pushed his way through the city, cloaked in oblivion. Through the rising rooftops, he beheld the god's home. A place no man had touched, where death and mourning had never sung. A home never broken.