A memory of warmth

The sun god drifted into slumber, as he often does, ushering in the moon with a hearty yawn. And he dreamt, as he often does, about places he’d never been. The depths of the ocean, the golden mines of the southern mount, the underworld.

He’d heard mortals whisper of the dullest greys and the faintest sounds that permeated its endless halls. A home with but a single door that locks behind you. Where the heroes of old dined in silence and defeated deities paid their impossible penalties. Where neither frown nor smile persuaded phantom lips to do anything but sing voicelessly in breathless song.

There’s nothing new, he thought, up here, but down there, down where no man nor god had gone willingly, lived only the strange and the novel. A sea of endless answers for such a curious being. And so, that night, the god did not sleep. Instead, he gave a decrepit ferryman an old coin and ventured through swamp and fog, past three-headed beasts and disembodied howls. And when muddy waters gave way to colorless infinity, he stepped into the great unknown with great enthusiasm.

The dead were everywhere.

And nowhere.

He was utterly alone when his mind was blank, but should he conjure the name of a particular soul, they would appear in his sight. Not close enough to touch, but close enough to see the dissatisfaction on their faces.

“Hello,” the sun god would warmly greet, but their eyes would fixate on the nothingness behind him. As if he himself were a phantom, counting down the days of forever, struggling to remember how rays of sunshine felt upon his face. Perhaps he could shed some light. Be a beacon of hope in a hopeless realm.

But try as he might, he failed to illuminate. The dullness was too sharp, the vague was too firm, and he seemed to be perpetually behind a heightless cloud. He attempted to sleep, but his eyes never grew heavy, and his limbs never grew weary. And try as he might, there was no thought strong enough to summon the ferryman, no road long enough to lead him back from whence he came.

He thought of Phylas, who, in days too ancient to recall, stole a piece of him and brought fire to his mortal brethren. And there he was, walking slowly from the deserted to the desolate with pointless determination, the old medal around his neck void of its former brilliance.

“Old friend,” the sun god pried, “can you point me to the way out?”

Laughter surrounded him, quiet cackles orbiting his shineless mane.

“The hubris,” a familiar voice said. “Some fly too close to you, nephew, but who is there to tame your wings?” The god of death placed a cold hand on his curious neck. “The world above is now as the world below. All because of you.”

The sun god drifted into the shadows, voicelessly cautioning the needlessly discontent.

Longing for the eternity he left behind.

Forever.