Work Text:
Do not stand
By my grave, and weep.
I am not there,
I do not sleep—
I am the thousand winds that blow
I am the diamond glints in snow
I am the sunlight on ripened grain,
I am the gentle, autumn rain.
As you awake with morning’s hush,
I am the swift, up-flinging rush
Of quiet birds in circling flight,
I am the day transcending night.
Do not stand
By my grave, and cry—
I am not there,
I did not die.
Mydeimos the undying, they had called him, once. In lands with eternal sunlight, with marble pillars and billowing fabrics, with arenas and glorious fights. With golden baths and heroes strewn across the lands, far and wide.
He had ruled, once.
Fearless.
Strong.
A born King, a born warrior.
He had been crowned in blood, his people cheering as he had ascended the throne, claiming what was rightfully his by birthright.
He had ascended into godhood, then.
The bearer of Strife, one of the three calamities, yet his rule had not been cruel, his commands not unkind.
He had become what his people needed most, what the Eternal Land at that time had sought after.
His immortal body defied death itself, cheated Thanatos after having danced with his claws for so many years prior, emerging victorious out of the realm every time.
And yet,
He had fallen.
Legends and history books tell different tales of the Undying King’s demise, whispers of another warrior curling over the pages in black ink, like a death sentence.
Like it had been, back then.
Despite everything, Castrum Kremnos had stood tall, weathered through the loss of their King, and endured .
On the other side of the Eternal Land, the warrior had stood.
He knew it had to be done, they both did, when it had happened. The King had spoken of the dawn, then, told him to stand tall and proud, to be strong for every soul relying on him to achieve the impossible.
And he had.
A dawn had taken ahold of the sky, false light giving way to something more natural, something real . Then, it had given way to dusk, and then to night, mother Moon shining her gaze upon the lands for the first time in eternities, stars twinkling in the night sky like the tears did on his cheeks, unending, like rivers, flowing and flowing and flowing .
Time had stood still as his fingers ran through the strands of wheat, golden, even under the night sky, gently rustling in the wind like a melody of homecoming, like nostalgia and everything he once yearned to protect, when he didn’t know how much more it’d cost him, cost everyone.
The wind rustled his hair, pulled at his cape, gently coaxing him to move onwards, to stay strong, and yet it felt like a harder task than it had been to deliver a new dawn upon the lands.
With a deep breath, he breathed in its flow, learned the rhythm and moved forward.
Like the tide, the wind ebbed every once and again, though it still raged - deep within his soul.
Castrum Kremnos looked different than it did back then, under the glorious rule of the Undying King, he had realized, after his feet had taken him back to where everything began and ended, where he had paid a far bigger price than he could’ve ever imagined as a boy. When hands held sickles instead of swords. Wore tunics instead of armor. Cut wheat instead of flesh.
No more fights rang out in the colosseum.
No more glorious battles for honor were held.
Instead, it was now home to something more honorable, more glorious than any battle in Kremnos, past, presence and future alike.
Carved out of the whitest of marble, a statue stood, depicting a warrior and a King alike.
Regal attire adorned his frame, wrapping around him like a second skin, gauntlets carved out to the finest of detail, hair like a lion's mane billowing out behind him, just like the cape he had worn, once.
In his hand, the head of the tyrant king, of a father that had never been one at all, of a blasphemer who dared shackle their god out of cowardice and fear.
The pedestal and floor was adorned with flowers and weapons alike, pomegranates - ripe and red - strewn in between. Gold coins had been thrown, twinkling in the dim light from the braziers in the arena, and it looked befitting of a King’s statue.
A monument to keep their beloved God alive, even if his body was not, not anymore.
The warrior stood for a long time, gaze fixed on the face that seemed to erode from his mind, day by day. On the hair that had once felt soft between his fingers, the golden necklace that had been cool to the touch. The eyes that always glanced at him with so many different emotions, yet never cruel, not even in his last moments.
Not when he had ran his blade through his back.
And yet, time moved on, and he had to as well.
And so, he did.
Yet, every year, on the same day as he had brought forward the dawn, he came to visit, never once missing the date.
Sometimes, he had brought gifts.
Other times, he had brought tales.
Very rarely, he’d run into someone he had once known, observed their gaze turning into something nostalgic, something regretful.
And yet, they could never burn as bright as the regrets he carried with himself on his shoulders, so heavy that not even the strongest of winds could ease the strain.
The more years passed, the more different the faces became that he’d sometimes see.
At first, it had only been him. Then, the other Gods had slowly woken from their slumber, regained their strength to venture forth through this new world they had sought.
One by one, the lands had reclaimed their Titans, order slowly restoring itself and cities celebrating the return of their rightful rulers.
And yet, in Castrum Kremnos, the throne remained empty.
Years upon years upon years passed, until marble pillars crumbled and had been restored. Until a new colosseum had been built, smaller and less grand compared to the first gift bestowed upon the Kremnoans by their beloved King.
Until tales and stories of their God became folklores, histories written down in the books and melodies sung by children and adults alike.
At some point, the warrior had lost count.
Of how many he had stood by the statue, year after year, and wept.
Of how many tales he had whispered into the night with a broken voice and choked off sobs.
Of how many apologies had fallen from his lips, heart breaking over and over again - from guilt and loss and love and despair all at once.
Of how many times he had seen his fellow Gods smile at him with something pitying, something sad and something that looked too much like longing.
And yet, once more, he had found himself rooted to the same spot, on the same date, with the same heaviness in his heart - and yet-
And yet-
He was not alone.
By the foot of the statue, he stood.
Tall. Strong. Regal and so beautiful that he didn’t know how he could forget.
Winds rushing through his hair, robes billowing behind him, skin glowing radiant underneath the night sky, red markings shining like the crystals he had sat atop, once.
And when he turned around, all the warrior could see was liquid gold .
“You’re back.” he had whispered out, unbelieving, scared that if he spoke any louder, the man would disappear - that, perhaps, this had been but an illusion created from heartbreak and yearning.
And yet-
“I’m home, Deliverer.”