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The temple of the Heir of Breath is busy and bustling around you, as it always is. You come often - perhaps too often. The staff who guard the entrance all know you by name, and greet you warmly every day - they think you are extremely devout, and respect you enormously. You appreciate their respect, but you rarely converse with them for long. You arrive at the temple early in the mornings, when the sun and the moon are together in the pale blue sky and the light is weak, and you don't leave until the sun is red and slowly slides behind the horizon.
The temple is never silent, except at the crack of dawn, at the call of prayer, and at dusk. At all other times, the air is filled with the chatter of excited visitors, awed by the works of art depicting the Gods. Tour guides give impersonal, shortened summaries of the stories and legends that the walls are painted with, and their tour groups don't listen, too busy gazing at the stunning temple to listen. One woman in one such group is staring at a mural of the Seer of Light, a curious expression upon her face. She frowns, and asks a question.
"Do they seem too real to you?" she asks. "Too human?"
Your heart stops in your chest, and a tiny piece of hope rises that maybe, she is like you. Maybe she knows, too. The tour guide is shaking his head.
You shake your head with him; it would be impossible for her to know like you do.
"Of course not. They're Gods and legends. They're larger than life." the tour guide says. Over time and countless retellings of the same stories, snipped down to the basics and stripped of their essence, he has stopped believing. It makes you sad.
"They were kids I once knew," you mumble.
But nobody hears you.
Your hand falls to your wallet, and you reach to open it as you have done countless times before. Just as every time before it, it is empty. There are no photos of your blue-eyed boy, smiling and sat at the piano. If you close your eyes, you can see the scene perfectly, hear the notes he plucks out and the sound of his laughter. You know the photo should be there.
Perhaps it was, once.
Your eyes turn towards the ceiling, where a grand mural of the Heir is painted. The mural has been there for centuries, yet the pigments of the blue paint have never faded. The painting shows the Heir as he is always shown - smiling and carefree, floating above the world. There are no shoes on his painted feet, because he never touches the ground. He is blue, blue, blue. He is surrounded by it, in the sky and the sea and his breeze, and he is it, in his eyes and his attire and in everything but his moods.
You smile at the painting, and it smiles back as it always does.
Swirls of wind and breeze are painted in the background behind the Heir, and further in the background are patches of dark shade. The light swirls of white and blue represent the life he breathed into the world, and the shade represents the sorrow he unknowingly breathed with it. He brings on invisible wings love and life and laughter, friendship and family and fortune, and the sadness and solemnity and despair is brought because he cannot cry - he does not understand and so he cannot control it. He hardly knows it exists - he can only experience it second hand, by noticing that someone is sad, but that is when he notices at all.
He always was oblivious. He never read the mood well, and never quite experienced sadness the same way as everyone else; he genuinely believed that everything could be solved. His never-ending optimism was a source of both inspiration and frustration to you, once upon a time. He never truly understood sadness, and now, sadness can never understand him. It does not understand his immunity. You understand why he is immune. You understand everything.
"I'm sorry," you murmur. "I never taught you it's okay for men to cry."
In the painting, a lock of dark hair is blown across his forehead, and your fingers twitch with the urge to smooth it back into place.
"but I'll always be proud of you, son."
Nobody hears you.
The woman from before is stood next to you.
"They look so normal. Like regular kids."
You turn to her and smile - that is all they are, and everything they never have been. She smiles back, and you decide to impart a little of your impossible knowledge. She won't believe you, but you're okay with it.
"They are," you murmur. You point at a grand picture of the Witch of Space. Her hair is black and flowing, studded with diamonds to represent how she created the Universe. Her emerald eyes are shut, and she looks peaceful, graceful. To you, she doesn't look quite relaxed. The painting seems to have an empty spot to her left, and her hand seems to stroke a pet that isn't there.
"She looks like she misses her dog." you say to the woman. The woman's smile does not falter, but takes on the bemused quality that everyone does when you talk to them about the Gods. You're just a devout old man, too invested in the stories of the Four Creators. She laughs, and so does her companion, a man you hadn't noticed before.
"They have the world at their fingertips!" he chuckles. His smile is bright and genuine, much like the Heir's. "I'm sure there's nothing they miss!"
You are silent for a long moment. The man and woman are about to go, when you speak again.
"She's only a child. Look at her." you say. "All the power in the universe can't console a girl who misses her dog. Even if the girl is a God."
"You speak of the Gods as if you've met them." the young man says.
You can say it, because he won't believe you.
"She was always so cheerful. She loved her friends and her dog more than anything." you say. You chuckle to yourself. "And she loved gardening."
"How do you know that?" the man asks. He almost believes you, but a natural seed of suspicion is planted in him. You ignore him, and go on, talking about the Knight and the Seer, and you struggle not to call them by name.
"And what about the Heir?" the man asks. You lean back on your heels and smile at the mural again, just staring for a little while.
"His name was John." you say, but the man and woman are gone.
Nobody hears you.
When dusk falls, you leave the temple. As always, you're the last one out. The security guards close the heavy doors behind you and exchange goodbyes as you begin the long walk home. By the time you arrive home, it is dark, and the stars are out. The blackness seems to shift before you slightly, like a sheet of long hair would. The round moon glows like a round eyeglass lens - Light has gone to bed, but the Witch is awake and covering the world with her gentle dark. Time gets no respite, no relief from his duty. Poor kid.
In your garden, there are two trees growing, with a hammock slung between them. It has been there for years. Although it is night, the air is warm and still smells of summer - it's warm enough for you to clamber into the hammock and light your pipe. You lie comfortably, and before long the hammock starts to rock in a gentle breeze as it does every night. Tiny air currents play with your pipe smoke, and the leaves of the tree rustle, echoing the laughter of a boy who isn't there, never has been. Little gusts hit you and you feel sadness, but also bliss. You ignore the melancholy and smile, and the breeze sways your hammock in a consistent rhythm. You let the wind sway you until the pipe is all smoked, and you close your eyes.
"Goodnight, son." you murmur before you drift off. "I am so, so proud of you."
You know he hears you.