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.

There's a saying among men, "Man plans, God laughs." But not all gods had a good sense of humor.

He certainly didn't care one way or another, but the miles stretched out before him like an endless loop of pavement that just kept coming, mile after mile, like a sick hamster wheel made just for him.

Still, he walked, wondering what his brother might say when he stepped onto his own land again. He knew by now his parents would both be gone and that the farm he once treasured would have passed to his brother. He still longed to feel the clay under his feet.

Anger didn't boil under his skin any longer. He'd resigned himself to it long ago. Now it sat like lead in his belly, hard and determined, just like him.

It didn't matter how much time it took to complete his revenge. If he had to become a wraith to see it done, that's what he'd do.

So on he walked, hoping that he wouldn't pass another sunset before he could look on his family home and finally breathe a sigh of relief.

He kept in stride, each step leading him to his destination.

This was it. Walk, until he could no longer feel his legs, until his feet blistered and bled. If he was unable to reach the stand of towering fir trees on time, all of this would be for nothing.

He was careful to control his breathing, counting as he inhaled. Exhaled. Inhaled again. Exhaled, watching the fog of his breath linger in the air before it dissolved into nothing. The temperature was falling, the sun lowering on the horizon with haste.

The trees were becoming clearer, even as the yellow-grey of twilight descended on him. Soon. After dark, he just might make it, after all.

The God was somewhere in there, its form drifting and changing as quickly as the wind's direction. And he would be the one to track it, to plunge the daggar at his hip deep into its chest.