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.

The awakening fragrance of the past to where he more belonged than the present that seemingly suppressed his modern being, kept nagging him to return. When your past calls you back, you were good to her. The past follows you with all she ever shared with you and all that you ever shared with her. That's a good thing. Everyone's past is a friend that clung so close all the time, or a tone of bricks that pinned you down after you had bestowed all your trust and mostly hope in her, for the future. Wandering about majestically on the land he may have some day, but all the shackles of the past knew him and wanted him back, like Autumn loves her yellows and Spring, her lush. Maybe that's the plumage that a place like home bears, or should, with or without the gods.

The gods don't just show up, they do so if invited!

On and on, the powerful invisible strings and threads of the past trailed his steps and strides, sometimes leading him to where he didn't, really, want to be. For such is the power of the past. Or is it a tornado unleashed by the gods? The only power that the past doesn't have is to overtake. She'll eternally be behind us. To the lost brother -gone for a not-so-adventurous death trip, he sent memories, for he either wanted his company again or a god who stood there with him in his bro's most remembered attire: anything pale and faded as his headgear for their home in a desert. He wanted the gods to be good and make a path so smooth back to the past, so that he is reunited with lost bro: windy rural roads, humble hamlets, whispering winds and the most gigantic of all needs; that gods are sometimes give -luck. All the good luck that he was now so utterly bereft of. A good home, or something like it where he could share with his most sought-after gods of the past and the now.

But, wait. What with the gods?

They adeptly pace back and forth, swing up and down, turning the pages in reverse and forwards, reaching unto that past and peeking into the future. Are they going to be his best company when they possess all his files and records of both all his holy secrets and crooked ways. Huh! He has a way around the gods -just maybe, to get them play in his favour so that he leads them and orders them and not the other way round and that is what shall pave him the way as he go about his long, windy path on a spree of hunting in the night for the invisible gods.