Prompt# 220- Melancholy - Dreams of Tomorrow - Tekia - Original

[tekia.livejournal.com]

Title: Dreams of Tomorrow
Fandom: Original
Prompt: Melancholy
Warnings: none
Rating: PG 13
Summary: Kendar has the soul of a god inside him, a god wanting to break free.
Kendar had always felt a need to do something crazy.
He never did, though. He was too polite and kind of a soul to do anything that would cause his parents trouble. They, after all, had given him so much.
They were an old couple that had no children of their own, and had taken him in when he had appeared in the town’s midst, clutched tightly to a dead warrior’s chest. They hadn’t had much, but they made up for it with love and he was thankful for that every moment of his life. So, he never did anything crazy, even when there was a pressure in his chest that just wanted to burst free and claw its way out of his body.
He learned to farm the land that his father’s grandfather’s father claimed and readied himself to take it over once his elderly father passed on. His mother taught him to cook and tend to sewing and many things that other young men his age refused to learn. He didn’t complain and he learned it all willingly. This was his life and he was grateful for it, even when his dreams told him there was a whole world out there waiting for him to discover it all.
Sometimes he could taste the adventures that waited for him. Thick and heavy on his tongue, he sat in the pub and listened as travelers spoke of the great cities of magic and power. As they spoke of the Emperor and his minions. As they spoke of the gods actions on the earth, and on Tharôn, their planet’s sister. The planet of magic and war and fire and destinies.
He would sit and listen and desire so much more and then go home when the traveler’s settled down to sleep before moving on in the morning. He would wake with the chickens and set about his chores to keep his family in home.
It is always terrible when a child dies before its parents, but not uncommon in their world. Illness and war, infection and stupidity and need of knowledge all left its mark in the world, but Kendar never thought that he would succumb to a disease. He was brought low by a cough that forced blood from his lungs and clogged his throat. His mother poured over him, feeding him foul medicines and flavorful broths while his father preyed to the gods for his saving. He had survived the death of the warrior that brought him to their town, only to be done in by illness so quickly after arriving.
Twenty years after his arrival in the town, Kendar left on a sick bed, never once having lifted a sword, nor seen anything beyond the next town over. He passed away, holding his mother’s frail hand, surrounded by a silence so steeped in melancholy none had dared to visit the house in days, lease the illness travel by the sad air alone.
The day after his death, his father and a few neighbor boys took his body out to the spring to be washed and prepped, then taken out to the deep forest and laid atop a pyre. His mother and a few forlorn maidens had gathered flowers and ferns to decorate the pyre and were waiting the arrival of the body.
A small torch was tossed into the pyre and, to the amazement of all, the pyre instantly took. Within seconds the whole of the wooden structure was aflame and engulfed. Kendar’s mother sobbed violently as she watched and his father murmured his wonderment at the gods’ actions.
This was no natural fire, he knew, and soon they all knew as they watched the bottom of the pyre slowly dye out as the flames moved to centralize over Kendar’s body.
The whole of the town had turned out to watch the passing on of their mysterious child and a few foreigners had arrived, their eyes wide with conviction. They recognized the sight and words spilled from their lips, capturing the attention of the natives.
Then a name passed over their lips and spread like the fire as it leapt into Kendar’s mouth, acting like his breath, entering his lungs and caressing his lips. The body didn’t move, but the eyes under the lids were rapidly moving as if in a terrible dream.
Then it was over. The flames were gone and the body with it.
The human boy was no more and the pyre was left as it had been before the torch had been put to it. The flowers hadn’t been singed, and the air was crisp with late morning dew.
Kendar’s mother fell to her knees, held about the shoulders by her mate as a kind soul stepped forward and knelt before her. The man was Tharônian and had a little magic to his touch. He smiled gently at the old couple and spoke,
“Worry not for your child, for he has a great path before him.”
“The gods took him,” the old man said, but the magician shook his head.
“No god could force him, for he is no human. Your son is one of the great ones, one that controls fire and death.”
The old woman frowned through her tears. “There is no such god in all the world.”
“There is such a god on Tharôn.” The gathered people stood in silence, all wanting to learn of the god that had been born as a human. When the man didn’t speak, the people slowly began to understand.
Finally, the old man gave a start. Wide-eyed, he clutched desperately at his mate’s shoulder. His mouth opened and closed wordlessly a moment before he found his voice. “The warrior who brought him to us. She spoke his name to us before she died. She said he was- he was the last of his kind. She named him Kendar.”
The Tharônian smiled greatly. “Yes. Kendar. Soul of Dar. God of death, fire and visions.”
A gasp and thrill went through the gathered peoples as the name passed over them. As one, they clasped their hands and murmured prayers of joy.
Dar, the great god of Tharôn had returned.