Based on a real story:

They walked to Praxede, not wanting to really go. They walk, hand in hand, a mother and a child. They are headed to their deaths, death by the Nazi. 

   They had been taken to a labor camp, a family of four and their two grandparents. The dad watched as his parents walked away to their deaths and knew that his littlest son would go next. 

     Every night, after their work, the family would gather and thank God that they had another day with each other. 

     One night, the dad came to their tent and found only his oldest son. 

     "Where's your mom and brother?" He asked, fearing for the worse. 

     "The Nazi's came for Daniel and he was scared. He cried and screamed and Mom told him not to worry. She took his hand and went with him," The oldest brother stopped. Just then, the Mom and son were walking to Praxede, to their deaths. 

(This is for a late Mother's-day.)

They walked to Praxede.

When they arrived, Praxede, Prax to his friends, looked them up and down, said, "Why the fuck you walking up on me? You want advice? Do it or don't, doesn't matter to me. Stay or go? Do what you want, just get outta my face. I got nothing for you. You want me to tell you the meaning of life? Death is the meaning of life, so jump off a cliff, wade into the ocean, start swimming til you can't see land, and keep going. Be done with it."

One of the walkers said, "Prax, we don't need advice, we just wanted to see you. Bask in your glory."

Prax furrowed his brow like he was trying to set a world record for most furrowed brow, replied, "Son, first of all, you ain't no friend of mine, so say my full name or say, "Hey Mister Praxede," but do not address me informally again. Second, there's no glory to be basked in. There's only the shit you see every waking moment of every inglorious day on this earth. So bask in the sun, sail a boat to the Basque region of Spain, but do not put your troubles on me. I have enough of my own, and all these years, I've accepted enough of humanity's concerns for an infinite number of lifetimes. There's no cure for humanity. There's just the days and the space between birth and death, and we all eat, shit, work, and fuck if we're lucky."

A young woman, another walker, said, "But Mr. Praxede, you've always been here for us. We've come to rely on you, all of us."

Praxede laughed out loud, said, "Praxede used to provide a pax, now you get a Praxede pox. It's over, young ones. Tell the rest. Pack your bags, kiss your children and grandbabies goodbye, and leave me to ponder what could have been while I sip espresso at sidewalk cafes and visit those who came before me in ornate, decrepit mausoleums. I desire peace for the rest of my days, for I have lived the opposite. I've been at war with all of you who walk the mountain steps, who crawl across deserts, prostrate yourselves to my infinite misinformation, though my words were true as they left my lips, they soured, fell on deaf ears, disemboweled by demons dressed as senators as they touched your minds. One cannot turn rotting flesh back to baby's breath. What a fool I have been to think I could save anything. I couldn't even save myself. Praxede, the woebegotten savior of mankind."

They walked away from Praxede. Didn't believe a word he'd said. Made plans to walk again, walk to someone else. A different mountain, a different demigod, an infinite number of steps. Praxede had had enough, and they must walk on.