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.

As twilight gave way to the carpet of darkness that unfurled across the sky, he trundled on, weary, longing to finally reach his goal and end his righteous fury.

He knew he was drawing close. He could feel that with every step he took, the pulsating energy of the unholy God grew stronger, nearer. He stumbled to his knees and struggled back up, mud caking his faded trousers. He knew in his heart of hearts that he could not comprehend this God's power, that he wouldn't last a second against this inconceivable titan. But for his brother's sake, he needed to try.

The trees were barren and charred in the valley he found himself in, and he knew that he had reached its dwelling. The ground was cracked and arid, even though it had rained the day before. He held the side of the small canyon for support, then started as it crumbled to a fine dust under the light pressure.

As the sun tore through the thin veil that night had formed, he staggered into a clearing and finally beheld the God, this inconceivable form of swirling shapes and dimensions that his brain could not possibly hope to comprehend. He stood, frozen, for there was nothing else he could do, nothing he could say that could help his mind comprehend this eldritch horror. He craned his head and looked in pure undiluted dread up-

And through the mass of faces that twisted throughout its entire body, with a gaze that chilled the marrow, a pair of beady eyes met his.

That man—or beast, whatever hellish thing had emerged from the night—pinned him with a stare that would have shattered the stoutest heart. He stood rooted to the earth, fixed as though some eldritch power had commanded him to remain, straining to wrench his eyes away from the two crimson embers glowing in the cleft of the canyon wall.

He had walked darker paths before. In the War of Independence he had faced horrors far worse Spain’s desolate hills with musket on shoulder and death close at hand, and lived to speak of it. Yet in that instant he would sooner have faced a full company of French grenadiers than endure that gaze, which seemed to burrow through all he loved—his memories, his hopes, and at last his immortal soul.

Flight occurred to him, dimly, though his limbs refused the order. Then another thought surfaced, slow but steady: the flintlock pistol beneath his cloak, carried for such lawless roads. He drew in a shallow breath and summoned what remained of his courage. His hand slid inside the wool, found cold steel and worn wood, and with surprising swiftness he brought the weapon to bear.

The eyes did not retreat. They glimmered brighter, narrowing, as though the creature were smiling in the dark inviting him to act.

Fear curdled into rage.

He squeezed the trigger.

The pistol’s report cracked through the clearing like thunder, echoing off stone and scrub. Smoke stung his nostrils. When it drifted away, the gap in the canyon yawned empty.

The red eyes were gone, swallowed by the night.

Only silence remained.