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 man with no name walked down an empty dirt path, his overalls stained with dust and his hair matted. There was nobody behind him, in front of him, or even next to him. He was alone, having nothing or nobody to claim his own. Everything he had ever known had been lost–his home, his only family, and everything that made him who he was. No Name was a proud farmer, he took pride in everything he planted and produced. But, things like that always come to an end.

Everything he once knew and loved was gone–his healthy crops now trampled and diseases, his home rotted and collapsing, and all that remained of his brother was a headstone hidden in the tainted wheat fields. No Name couldn't fix any of this, nor could he find a cause or even a way to save anything that was affected. He could only look at the horizon abroad, and beg for the forgiveness of any sin that might have cursed him.

As he travelled down the dirt road, No Name saw nothing ahead of him. In his eyes, everything was nothing. The faces and names of people he saw, the words on signs, anything that showed a sign of life. Blurry memories passed through No Name's head–he couldn't remember the names of those he loved, nor even their faces. It agitated him trying to remember his brother, but the curse seemingly would not let him. No Name soon realized the sun was setting, and the clear thought of shelter crossed his mind. He walked faster, his eyes glued to the horizon. A steeple appeared over the hill, surrounded by a vast field of corn.

Great. No Name thought. How funny, you trickster God. Truly.

No Name walked up the stairs of the church, walking straight into the sanctuary. It was a small one, with only several rows of old wooden pews lined on either side. Red carpet lined the floors, and an old, rustic altar lay at the front. A large golden sickle hung above it, and No Name could only stare in awe, and a bit of disbelief. This was a church to the local god of the land–a god who's story had been told for centuries. A god who had never shown himself to his people, but was always able to keep them alive with fertile fields. Of course, except for No Name.

No Name held his hands into fists. Tears formed in his eyes, and he began to yell. "You who I call upon, why have you forsaken me?!"

No answer. The man stood in silence, his eyes still upon the golden sickle.

"Damn it," No Name grumbled. "What a pathetic joke. Everyone looks to you for guidance, and you answer them. But why wont you answer me? You leave me with nothing!"

Once again, no answer. No Name grew annoyed. He angrily walked up to the sickle, ripping it from it's holster. The sharpness of the metal caused blood to seep onto it, but No Name didn't react. Anger was the only thing he felt, and only anger he would feel. He raised the sickle in the air, looking at his blurry reflection.

"I'm going to make you pay for what you've done to me."

No Name wanted this god to pay. He was at fault; for his brother and his fields. The god of fertility had forsaken only him, apparently.

But to kill a god is no small task. And to kill a god was said to be rash. No man should slay those who stand above him. But No Name's anger, his rage, his sadness and sorrow, his weeping and gnashing of teeth, had escaped No Name's body, and taken body manifest.

"Listen, wee farmer," No Name's Anger said. "You can't kill a god, but we can."

No Name looked at his Anger, standing in front of him. He considered It's words, and their weight. No Name couldn't, but Anger can?

"What do you mean?" The unnamed farmer asked.

"Exactly how it sounds! We'll slay the god of fertility, at your command." His Anger said, beginning to turn into Hate. "All it takes is one word. One thought."

No Name stared at his Hate, and his Hate stared back. The farmer considered Hate. It was ugly and vile, malign in intent. Yet it offered the farmer respite from his loss and his sorrow.

Looking into Hate's eyes, a dull, rusty color, like a new bike's chain that had been left in the rain. Or a car that was abandoned, corrupting each passing second.

No Name reached out his shaking hand. He shook Hate's hand, and made the deal. To kill a god, achieving vengeance for his brother and fields.

His Hate, his Anger, took the sickle from his bleeding hand. And was off, to finish the deal.

But everything has its price.

And killing a god is no small task.