Legend tells of a hunter named Rotion.  One day, while sitting hidden in a thicket, eyes peeled for passing game, he spotted an interesting scene beneath an oak about a mile away.  It was a young couple, entwined in golden embrace and propped up against the trunk.

            Now, Rotion’s senses were as crisp as a harvest, and it was with these that he listened to the girl’s shoulders as they grated against the bark, breathed her faded peppermint charm, and glimpsed her eyes, their corners each dotted with the last twinkles of dying stars.  She was artwork, and sure as the cow’s cream curdles, Rotion saw this, and oh, dearies, how he longed for her.

            Every bit, bosom and bone looked bridled and beautiful.  Her heart was thick with scars from days long past, and it was only now thinking to heal.  There was a gallant naïveté in her posture that kept her distinguished and tender even in her somewhat…undignified position.  And Rotion felt a tickling numbness in his stomach and chest, the kind one feels after two mugs of rum and a headstand.

            So you can only imagine how he felt when he recognized her partner as the Sun God, himself!  His muscles thrived and gleamed and even his kneecaps seemed elitist!

Here was the one responsible for wielding light upon the whole of the world every day until the skies failed, who had done so since the mountains birthed from the ocean!  Here was the one whose stone temples gleamed with gold and torch pillars!  Here was the one with—quite feasibly—the greatest tan ever to be tinged!  And if Rotion were to concentrate all the things he felt striking in this Life into one accumulation, then the Sun God would be groping upon it right now.

Just as well.  Rotion was a decent—he glanced at his empty spoils sack—mediocre hunter.  His eyes were dull, his toes were rough, and his house was small.  He was many things, but competition to a Sun God, he was not.

Truth be told, he didn’t count himself as much of a viable option for the girl, either.  She deserved one that could somehow be as magnificent as she, and if anyone could come close, she was with him now.

But what is a “should” when stood next to a “could”?  Not much, in the eyes of a lover.  Not much, in the eyes of Rotion.  His spoils sack would not remain empty much longer.

 

The Sun God returned through the thicket to the girl.

“Back so soon, my lord?” she asked, subconsciously glowing heaven from below.

“Indeed,” said the Sun God.  “I’ve stalked us some good meat for our supper, my dearest.”

“‘My dearest’?” She looked confused.

He paused.  “Have I misspoken?”

“…no, my lord.”

“Good.”  He knelt down beside her and pressed his nose against her cheek.  “Only the finest for my finest,” he whispered.

Then he took her in his arms and they held each other once more, and for a brief moment—longer than a heartbeat but shorter than a sneeze—she could swear she felt an odd trail of marks down his back, as if it had been cut open and sewn shut.  But such thoughts are grotesque; he shifted his position, they continued, and later they ate a grand meal until their bellies were big and bolstered, and they fell asleep, entwined, beneath an empty gray sky.

Little more can be said about this day, save for the fact that it began a rather strange period where the Sun God became suddenly inept at wielding his light, but he regained his former ability within a month or two and no one made much of a fuss, save for a few rather disappointed farmers.

 

I told this story in a foreign land some years back, and when I finished, a young boy came to me and said that it was funny that his Sun God had a name, but mine only had a title.  I told him that I find it funny, too.

Very funny, indeed.