The God of Arepo (ah-REH-poh)
A Tale from the Mortal Realm
Long ago, when the wind still whispered names and the soil remembered footsteps, there lived a sower named Arepo. He was no priest, no prophet, and no man of power—only a farmer with calloused hands, a quiet heart, and a deep reverence for the world beneath his feet. One season, during a time of uncertainty and failing rains, he built a shrine of stones at the edge of his field—not for favor or fortune, but as an invitation. And from that invitation, something ancient answered.
The god that came was not one of lightning, nor of bounty, nor of war. It was a forgotten presence—one who watched over the unnoticed: fallen leaves, the crisp snap of fruit skin, the hush between summer and frost. The god warned Arepo that it had no blessings to offer, no miracles to give. But Arepo stayed. He prayed anyway. He brought offerings of breath and time and memory. Through war, through famine, through grief, the farmer returned each day to the altar he built, offering what little he had. And though the god could not save him, it listened.
When the end came, Arepo crawled back to the temple he’d tended his whole life. The god held him in its presence as he passed, not with light or fire, but with the soft dignity of being witnessed. And for the first time, the god wept. Later, it was said a traveler came and found the bones buried beneath the altar, and in that act gave the nameless god a name: The God of Arepo.
Some say that Arepo became a god himself—a guardian of devotion, of friendship without condition, of bonds that cannot break. They say the two spirits dwell still among the wheat and wind, keeping company with those who watch over small things. And though no one remembers the shape of their faces, if you pass a certain field at twilight, you might feel them nearby. Not gods of thunder. Not gods of glory. Just two friends, eternal, in the silence between seasons.
