Chapter Text
The Gods had long abandoned Feofan, and yet he still found it within himself to cry out their names, yearning for mercy as if they were benevolent enough to understand what it meant. Those gods atop their grandiose and sacred mountains had left him to suffer the plight of an eternal toil, over and over again for their own amusement. And still, he mustered prayers on his tongue like bile, pleading for an ounce of consolation for his endless devotion. He'd prayed under his breath with each second of his pilgrimage; until his voice was raw and hoarse. He'd prayed until his throat cried raw and red. He'd prayed until his voiced was nothing but a hollow breath, broken and worn like the soles of his weary feet that wept with every step.
He long stopped counting how many times he'd watched the sun rise and the moon set on his treacherous climb up the mountain, only leaving him two thoughts to break the breaths between supplications. Anger and piety.
What a vain attempt at salvation
All his life he'd cursed out the Gods, for what little they'd given him. Even now, he wonders if the reason they have yet to absolve him was for his lack of sincerity. They'd cursed him for sins he'd committed long ago, and yet he continued as the doubt lingering in his bones grew bolder.
It was sure to have been centuries since his eternal punishment began. He'd been young and brave. Perhaps too brave for a man with nothing but his pride to shield him. There were far too many reasons to resent the Gods, and none courageous enough to call out to them so directly for their careless nature. Without so much as an offering of goodwill, he sullied their names with harsh curses and truths they were too prideful to bear.
The Gods were quick to deal his punishment and reject Feofan's condemnation of their permissive rule. They had done nothing but ignore his prayers for his mother's health and father's return from battle, all those years ago; but he supposed retribution was far more amusing than tending to the pleas of an innocent child.
For his insolence he was forced to climb an eternal mountain, plagued by monstrous beasts, and precarious cliffs, with no rest. He was destined to climb day and night until he came to understand his imprudence.
This endeavor was truly fruitless
Every step beyond torturous, his bare feet clung to the edge of the mountainside, painting a war to follow in his path, lining the cliff in bloodied, wet, footprints. Feofan's raw calves burned like unbridled flames up his stern muscles, which looked much the same as the soles of his feet, whipped and ablated by rocks and thorns.
Perhaps falling off the mountain was the only escape
His hand reached for a jutted edge of the wall, heaving himself over the stony ledge. His body yearned for relief even if laying out for a moment of reprieve would cost more than it was worth. The heaving breaths he inhaled did little for his sore lungs that were crying in the midst of the thin mountain air. He couldn't recall when he'd broken through the clouds, but now with his vision glazed over by haze, he could not make out how much longer he'd have to climb before the Gods would strike him down once more.
Soon, the traitorous ideas festering at the back of his mind began to grow louder, causing him to lose track of which line of the prayer he'd been mouthing. He attempted to start over, the passages slipping from his tongue again and again like rain slicked stones. The verses tumbled from his lips, jumbled and crude.
He'd lost the rhythm and could not find his place. A sharp curse murmured from his lips, earning him a harsh bolt of fire across his back. He swore again, louder for this time the Gods would know it was no mere accident.
Feofan voice trembled as he screamed up to the skies for all the pantheon to feel his rage. "You Gods… are senseless beasts. Do you still find sick pleasure in my torment? Have you no shame? Damn your temples and priests and all your foolish followers! Damn you all."
The sky churned with anger, smattering the clouds with raging torrential flames. Thunder pounded like a drum, cracking at his ears till hot blood dripped down. Scalding rain descended across his skin, flogging him like flaming charcoal, burning welts into his back.
Rage like he'd never felt before came soaring over him, melting away the pain into nothing but fuel for the endless anger he'd exchanged for piety. Curses flew from his lips as the torment surged across his body. The brightness of a thousand suns came down swift like an arrow, lighting his very nerves aflame with white hot, searing agony. It rippled across Feofan, spanning the length of his body over and over until nothing but his soul was left to bear the aftermath of such insurmountable attacks.
The peace which settled across his form had never felt so well deserved. Like water to the thirsty and salve to the wounded. His journey would end as it began, and Feofan had never felt so righteous.
For the first time he allowed himself to think of something other than prayers or vengeance as the wind swept him across the endless sky. Death was silent yet gentle, the pain which had ravaged him before lingered no longer, only leaving behind a cold breeze to carry his soul higher to some unknown place where the dead lingered. Although the air was cool, it was not nearly as chilling as the air atop the mountain. It was light and crisp, the scent of pine and fresh rain roused his senses of memories he'd long brushed aside.
His mother had held him like this, when he was still yet a babe; just as death did now. Back then, she still had the will to hold him, cradle him in her arms and whisper his name. He could no longer recall her face, only that he knew she was beautiful despite the blurred recollection of her black hair, and vague features. Knowing what little he remembered of her, she surely named him believing he would achieve greatness under the gaze of the Gods.