The Source of Sunshine

"Describe again to me what blue looks like."

Ruelin heard Prista sighing. "You always ask me that," she admonished. She gave his hand a quick squeeze. "Watch your step here. There's a sharp rock underfoot."

Ruelin prodded with his staff. "I just don't understand how it can be cold. You always say that blue is cold. And wet! Yet if that is the sky, how can the sun, which is hot, swim in it?"

Prista giggled. "Oh Ruelin, my love. I don't even know how to respond to that. Keep asking me impossible questions and I'll lead you over a cliff."

Ruelin swung his face upwards, feeling the sunshine on his face. He tried to imagine the celestial orb, round and blistering, adrift without ropes or wires in this medium called a sky. Prista had stated that no clouds lazed today, the sky barren except for the sun. It amazed Ruelin that the sky possessed the ability to change, filling with clouds and rain or even nothing at all.

Ruelin wiped the sweat from his brow. "Is the altar here?"

"Yes," she responded. He heard pages turned. "Just as the book said it would. The altar is weathered and partially eroded, but the ancient glyphs match what's written."

He exhaled a deep breath. "Lead me over there."

Prista hesitated. "It's not too late to go back."

Ruelin heard the desperation in her voice. Harsher than he intended, he replied, "I can't go back. If I do, I'll never be able to live afterwards, always wondering, always speculating. Now take me over there." A hoarse whisper escaped him. "Please."

He heard Prista approach. Her gentled fingers grabbed his arm and escorted him a few steps forward. She took his hand and guided his fingers downward. He felt a hard, smooth stone slab, blistering from the sun's heat. He leaned over and kissed her tenderly. "Give me the lyre," he requested. He heard her unstrap the legendary instrument from her back. She placed it in his hands and he felt the smooth, beautiful wood, its comfortable weight recalling past performances.

He smiled. "It's time. Let me begin." He began to pray. The words burbled out, entreating. In the back of his mind, he imagined the sun, the mysterious sphere that managed to warm the world. He pleaded, almost demanded, the gift of sight from the mercurial god. He heard a faint buzzing as his praying reached a crescendo. "He hears me!" thought Ruelin. "He is listening!"

Quaking with fervor, he grabbed in one hand the ancient lyre, perfect and irreplaceable. In the other hand, he clutched the ax, raising it high above his head. The sounds of the concerts he had played sang through his memory. Snarling, he brought the weapon down. He heard the unmistakable crunch of wood smashed asunder, the twang of the metal strings. He swung down twice more.

He felt his heart snap as he pushed aside regret. He dropped the ax. It clattered on the stone next to him. He continued his supplications, the buzzing subdued but still present.

"Hear me, hear me!" he begged. His mind became focused. He willed his eyes to work. "I've given up my livelihood! You must listen to me!"

Almost imperceptibly, the droning sound changed from a steady hum to something akin to a pulse. The noise became sharper and comprehension finally dawned. "He's laughing at me," rasped Ruelin. "It wasn't enough." He slammed his fist on the mountaintop. "It's not fair!" he screamed. "How can you do this to me?"

Enraged, he rose to his knees and threw his staff. He swept the broken offering from the altar. His hand found the ax lying next to him. He rained blows down upon the sacrificial stone, the sharp strikes echoing in the air.

"Ruelin, my love, it's alright," said Prista behind him, her voice filled with tears. She placed her hands on his shoulders.

"Not enough," he croaked one last time. He rose, turned, and swung the ax in an arc.

Without thought. Savage. Soulless.

A sickening noise as the ax connected with flesh and bone. Ruelin heard her collapse. He let the tool fall from his numb fingers.

He stood frozen, unable to fathom. He felt surreal and detached.

Then the world appeared before him, chaotic, overwhelming, a barrage of color and new sensation. Nothing made sense. Still burdened with emotional shock, he lurched forward and tripped.

He searched around him, closed his eyes to shut out the noise of color, and found what he stumbled over. His fingers ran over the warm body of Prista. His lower lip trembled, the taboo act finally reaching through his consciousness. He cradled her, kneeling beside her, as he released his lamentation, a long sorrowful cry. The sounds of his wailing grew softer and he realized in horror the price afterward.

The world of sound and music departed. The god demanded it.

His heartbeat, rapid and thunderous, the last thing he heard until that, too, faded, dead to his ears.

He opened his eyes heavenward. In the midst of his grieving, he found the sky to be less chaotic, just one color. "I see blue, Prista," he said, unable to hear his own voice. "I see it."

His eyes found one thing in the azure expanse, brilliant and small. He stared at it in awe. "It's so beautiful," he whispered. He gazed upon the source of sunshine, ignoring the pain, until his eyesight began to darken, the tears running down his face.

The light became smaller…

…smaller…

…until it reached a pinprick. Then darkness once again.

He picked up his Prista in his arms and felt her warmth. He carried her as he walked forward, blind and deaf. "I'm sorry, Prista," he said. He took one step after another until he reached the precipice. Stone gave way to endless sky.

He tumbled forth with his sun held tightly to his chest, into oblivion, into exoneration.

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