Mōden and Indrá sat across one another. Both stared down at empty plates.

"How was dinner?" said Mōden, rising.

"Yummy!" Indrá patted his stomach and watched his father take the silverware to the sink. A spurt of water led to scrubs and clatters.

"Are you ready to tell me what happened?" said Mōden.

"Can't!" said Indrá.

All but the thrum of water ceased. "And why not?"

"My chest pangs when I try."

"Does it hurt?"

"Yeah ..."

"I see." Mōden stepped to his desk. He returned to Indrá bearing a copper-rimmed lens. "Mind if I check?"

"Nope." Indrá turned away from the table and faced his father. "All yours!"

Mōden leaned close and held the lens above Indrá's chest. Light blue rays ambled and loped like an aurora's caress. A sharp inhale.

"Did you find something?" said Indrá.

"I—Yes. Here, take a look," said Mōden. His ring flashed and an oval mirror blinked to his grip.

Indrá fell still. Knolls of squirming red etched in azure scripts had stolen his breath, his soul. They were like Cants but Cants did not move as they did and shone red and not blue. "What are they?"

Mōden's hands shook as he lowered the lens and mirror. "These are Ischrö, Cants inscribed in the blood of God."

Gasp!—"God exists?"

"He did ... once." Mōden chuckled, hoarse. "How else would His blood end up as ink in your chest?"

Indrá quieted for a while. "If God is dead, who killed God?"

You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story.

Mōden pulled Indrá from his chair and started toward the stairway. "That depends on who you ask. The Church will say none can slay God and He yet lives. The State will decline to answer. Sorcerers tell a tale of their ancestors' greatest feat. Most admit they don't know or launch into theories."

They'd crested the stairs and veered to a pair of sleeping bags.

"What about you, Dad?" said Indrá, yawning.

"I quote the Philosopher, who says, 'Nobody but Himself killed God. Imagine a life where the whisper of a billion prayers haunted you without stop. You dream of silence and grant them and hope they are satisfied. They are not. They want more. You have no more to give but you still dream. So, for once, you take. My brother told me that story. I didn't understand the last line until I did and wish I never had to.'"

"Oh. I feel bad for the Philosopher." Indrá's snuggled in his sleeping bag.

"Not the brother?"

"Nope," said Indrá, his voice fading. "God got his dream, didn't He? It's the Philosopher who ended up sad and lonely."

"I suppose that's true. Good night, Indrá."

"Nigh—" A yawn tapered into steady breathing.

=====

Indrá lay flat on his back. His eyes were open yet blind to the world. His mind was awake yet empty of thought.

Wood groaned. Taps pattered nearer, nearer. Dust that'd lingered in the sunlight was caught in a draft.

"Good morning!" said Mōden, mirthful. His shadow drowned Indrá in an embrace. "C'mon, let's go!" He bent and unzipped the sleeping bag so Indrá lay bare to the cold. "You have three seconds until I carry you downstairs. One, two—"

Indrá's head lolled to its side. "Hello. Everything hurts. Would you kindly put me out of my misery?"

"Sure!" Mōden crouched and threw Indrá over his shoulder. "Breakfast is the butcher of all misery, my knapsack son."

"Oh."

They thumped down to the workshop. Mōden laid Indrá on a chair and then made for the pantry.

"Father?" said Indrá.

"Yes?"

"What was that green liquid?"

"An elixir given to me by a dear friend."

"Do you have any more?"

"I do not."

Silence loomed until it was broken by the crack of eggs that soon hissed in a pan as Mōden stirred, stirred.

"I'm sorry for wasting your friend's gift," said Indrá, soft and plaintive. "I ... should've been stronger."

"No need to worry!" Mōden shook the pan and strode over with a plate of toast. A buttery warmth swept Indrá. It moved him little, for its carrier's doting smile was without compare. "Strength is weakness torn down and built anew. I am your father, Indrá. Building you up is my greatest wish." The plate clacked to the table. Eggs layered the toast, gilded and airy. "My friend's gift granted my greatest wish. That is not a waste."

Indrá lifted his food though his movements were languid. "Thank you," he whispered. He sought his father's gaze. "Can you thank your friend for me too?"

"Of course."

=====

Mōden repressed a sigh.

Medira, he thought, your boy asked me to thank you for the elixir. I wanted to tell him but ... I don't know. I couldn't do it, not today. I will, soon. I promise.

Across the room, he found Indrá staring down at a blank page. Quill and ink sat untouched at his side.

When he's ready.