Chapter 1: Epilogue
The prelude played on.
A chorus of life, the same as any other mortal.
Mara bore her first son; Yama in a simple home surrounded by stars that shone so brightly in the winter sky that the candle which lay in the living room where she rested was unnecessary. Stars which shone in celebration or which trembled in fear at the birth of such a healthy, strong boy.
Unto none came two; years later the birth of his younger brother, who he loved more than anything; and yet, the stars shone only as brightly, as usual, that spring night. Perhaps it was then that Mara realized that her husband, who she had married months after Yama's birth held no power compared to her first love, and she began to fear that even she lacked the power to raise his child.
The child of a God.
As the two brothers grew older, Mara grew weaker but she knew that even as the children stood by her bedside; they were not ready to know the truth when she had told the other village people her story they had laughed or brandished. Even her husband, who had loved her since childhood could never believe it. So in her dying breath, she only held Yama's hand, and with more love than he could ever know, she asked him to keep a promise.
"Never forget your human heart, it must hurt sometimes and brandish the deepest scars, but it is that pain which creates hope, and hope is all we have in this life."
He rolled aside towards the edge of the thinning mattress, perhaps before the conflicts began the bed and breakfast had been armed and ready for guests. Now it lay dormant, praying on mercenaries and nomads who traveled the main road, he held out his hands tanned and calloused, with jagged fingernails and dirt even after a good bath. He looked at each finger, they were indeed his hands, and they looked the same as they had for two hundred years, with perhaps the exception of more blisters which recovered quickly enough that only slight marks remained from his training hours ago. His dreams were always similar. He would speak to his mother or brother but when they turned there would only be a blur, what remained of his memory of them.
"Time is a cruel thing," He murmured. And it was true that he hated them for forgetting their faces, the exact shade of their eyes, or the shape of their nose. He had loved them so much, his mother for such a short time. But his brother and he had trained together, lived together, and they had become warriors together. But even a dagger to Yama's heart had not killed him, but an arrow. No, he had no time to dwell on those memories. He wished that time would take them too.
The smell of food writhed itself into the room, he lit the oil lantern to his side. But burnished himself, he had only needed to open the heavy curtains around the room, small thin windows at the top of each wall: an economic solution for such a cold and barren place, any larger and they would have needed glass to block out the never-ending rain and snow.
He stood and stretched. Changing into more travel-friendly clothes and light armor. He carried no weapon and he hadn't needed to for decades. Not only because his hands were a better weapon than most modern blades, but because in his brother's death he had awoken something in himself that was more deadly than any mortal could imagine.
People sat on stools, they wrapped themselves in heavy furs coats and tall boots, and the soup bowls before them let off steam as thick as the clouds which plagued their land, it stank of rodent meat.
He grabbed himself a bowel and went to eat it outside, the benches and patio were luckily covered, but most preferred to avoid the cold wind. He preferred solitude, he was actually a friendly person and had gathered an amount of friendship and comradery with his brothers in arms that even in his rebellious youth, he was still given the respect of a leader. But after dreams of a home and family that seemed to have been in a completely different world, he could not stomach the thought of trivial conversations.
He looked at the snow and rock, which lay so sharp and tall that even the frost rolled off, it was barren land. The space between two countries had been teetering between warring states for millennia. It was a religious conflict driven by belief and disbelief in the gods. He was cursed to believe in them.
That was a fact he chose to nurture only in his spare time and not in casual conversation.
Most of them had chosen to forget what began the war. That it had been a demigod who refused the call to eternity that had begun the conflict. That some mortals stood by his side and defended his freedom like it was their own and others revered the gods too greatly to disobey them. A hundred years later it had turned into a war for authority mortal freedom or ethereal rule. So martyrs on both sides lay down their lives for their ideals, he had fought behind them for a time. He had collected their matted blood on his hands.
Now he had grown tired of fighting. He lacks the hysterics and the naivety to think that he alone could bring an end to the conflict which had grown so out of his hands. He could give up his soul and live as an immortal soldier for gods to which he lent no praise, but that was a fate worse than death.
So he remained between the two countries, stuck in the mountainous hellscape that neither sought to claim. Neutral ground, if only for its lack of desirability. Somedays he wondered if it was a waste to move between these human villages helping them build or hunt to survive the harsh conditions, but like him, they were fleeing a war in which they had never asked to be embroiled.
Next to him, a hooded man sat, staring at the vast mountains. Neither of them spoke. He let down his hood to reveal a scarred face with dark skin.
"I could help you."
"I don't need any help, thank you." Yama often offered aid in the same way to travelers he came across lending them coins or a strong hand.
"No, Yama, I could help you save this world."
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