Explorer (Mythklok, Chapter 69)
Sep. 17th, 2011 11:05 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
tikificTitle: Explorer (Mythklok, Chapter 69)
Author: tikistitch
Rating: PG-13
Summary: A wee bit o' backstory about that Gibson. Oh, and also some other stuff.
Warnings: Tiki is attempting to WRITE TO A PROMPT! DANGER! DANGER!
Notes: This was partly based on Tam's prompt. Hope I don't mess it up, like I do nearly every other prompt. (More under cut.)
Basically, Tam was wondering about the dude in her icon.
So, what's with this guy? I think this would be a cool idea for any kinda fic, but I decided I had a fragment of a story about it in my head, so maybe I better fill it in for my AU.
Many years ago....
Wotan looked curiously at the being sitting across the desk from him.
So, this was an angel?
He was smaller than expected. Much smaller. But the greatest surprise was how very ordinary he looked. Many earth gods had another Form that allowed them to walk among humans. But this being: he could have been human. Except for the odd pale angel skin he was fairly nondescript, and wrapped in fairly nondescript clothing, which looked at least a size too big for him.
It was remarkable.
The angel was now openly looking around the office, light green eyes squinting behind spectacles. He looked like he honestly needed the eyeglasses, which was also interesting. A flawed angel?
The Creator was one weird ass son of a bitch.
“So, you, uh, wanted to see me?” asked the angel, tapping his cigarette into the ashtray on Wotan's cluttered desk.
“I've heard you're the best. And I'd like the best,” said Wotan.
The eyes were suddenly boring into him. “Let me guess. A gift?”
“Yes!” smiled Wotan. Ah, a smart bugger. “And, what sort of gift do ye suppose it is?” he asked, steepling his large hands.
The angel used the cigarette to think on it for a moment. The eyes returned to casting curiously about the office. “I don't suppose it's for a girlfriend,” he mused.
“Yes, that is a correct supposition,” said Wotan. He narrowed his blue eyes and leaned forward. “But, it's close to the mark.”
One of the angel's eyebrows raised a fraction. More thoughtful puffing. “A kid? Uh. One of your halflings?”
Wotan chuckled merrily and actually slapped his knee. “Can't imagine Thor with a violin, can ye?” he asked.
There was just the trace of a smile on the angel's face. “No, as a matter of fact, I sure as hell can't.”
Wotan opened the humidor on the desk. “Do you mind?” he asked, extracting a cigar. The angel shook his head. He may have looked just a tiny bit envious. “I've done some things, things in my life, that I regret,” Wotan continued.
“Yeah. I understand,” the angel said sadly.
“And I am trying, in my way, to achieve a certain amount of atonement.”
“So you thought you'd buy it?”
“Cynical bastard, aren't you?”
“Yeah.” The cloud of exhaled smoke obscured his expression. “So, I take it you want it magicked?”
“Specifically, I want your magic.” Wotan blew his own languorous cloud of smoke. “I want something my enemies, as well as my friends, among those of earth, won't be able to counteract.”
“Yeah. I can do that.”
“Good. Now, as a matter of payment....”
“Well, on that, I have a proposal. You have a reputation as someone who remembers favors.”
Wotan nodded. This was unexpected. Angels had a reputation for greed. He had expected to argue over gold coins, or bank notes. “What would you propose?”
“If I'm going to be using my magic.... Well, it tends to make me hungry.”
Wotan frowned. “Ye'll do this for food?” he asked, certain he had misheard.
“Yeah. Gimme a place to stay up here, and access to your kitchen, I'll get it done.”
“All right,” said Wotan, reaching out a meaty hand to shake.
“Oh, and uh, one more thing, before we finalize” said the angel, holding up an index finger. “This is a present for a kid? A boy?”
“Yes.”
An eyebrow cocked up. “I have one suggestion.”
Wotan entered the workroom. The angel did not look up. He was hard at work, on his steak sandwich.
Perhaps I should have paid the bastard in gold after all, the god mused.
“Honored Sariel,” said Wotan.
The angel looked up, wiping some mustard from his mouth on a sleeve. Now no longer wearing his heavy jacket, which was draped over a chair, he looked like he hadn't eaten in centuries. Which could not be true, as Wotan's cooks had attested. The larders were being emptied at an astonishing pace.
“You don't have to call me that, you know,” Sariel told him as he popped the remainder of the sandwich into his mouth, licking his fingers. “The honorific.”
“I make it a point to avoid angel politics,” Wotan told him. He held up a liquor bottle. The angel's eyes lit up. He hopped off the workbench and came over to take a glass.
Sariel rolled the Scotch around in the glass, and held it up, appreciating the smoky color. Wotan beamed. It was good to have someone around worth a damn to drink with, he thought.
They sipped in silence for a moment, and then Sariel inclined his head towards the workbench. Wotan approached. Unlike some other gods, he could not literally see magic, but he could tell a work of good quality.
“This is splendid!” he boomed. And he meant it.
Sariel casually grabbed it by the neck and handed it to him. “Don't worry,” he said. “It won't break from you looking at it.” It was a lovely thing to behold, but felt exquisite in hand, perfectly balanced, with a smooth veneer.
“An electric guitar?” asked the god.
“He'll like it,” said Sariel.
Wotan nodded, and Sariel hopped back up on the workbench. “So, tell me something,” the angel asked. “You got a kid. You're a god. A god king. Why don't you just go grab him?”
“That's exactly what I would have done, years ago,” Wotan agreed, placing the guitar carefully up on the workbench next to Sariel. “This boy is special, or so I understand. But he is also his mother's only son.”
“Going soft, huh?”
“Yes, in fact, I am.” Sariel leaned over to his coat to grab his cigarette pack. Wotan extracted two cigars from his own pocket. The angel crammed the pack of Marlboros back in the jacket and eagerly accepted the stogie instead.
“So, talk me through the magic,” said Wotan.
“It's probably not much different that what you're used to,” Sariel told him, accepting a light. “You can't just hand it to him, he has to find it, it has to draw him to it. But, as you know, there are ways to help that along.”
“I have some friends in the neighborhood,” laughed Wotan.
“It will give back what he puts into it. And more. The big issue, as far as we're concerned, is that I can't make this specific to him.”
“So, theoretically, anyone could discover it?”
“Unless you wanna lay a curse of two down yourself?”
“That will be something to consider,” Wotan told him, rubbing his short reddish beard.
“You got someone specific in mind?” Sariel asked.
“I'm Amon Ra, bitches!”
Sariel cast a practiced eye around the club. He knew a bit about the music industry. He just didn't have a whole lot of experience around old world earth gods. Like Wotan, he disliked the politics. And Wotan was reputed to be pretty tight with the Eastern Kingdom, where angels weren't particularly well-liked this century. For good reason, he had to admit. Didn't really matter that he was Fallen, those guys just saw feathers and drew sabers.
But the offer from Wotan had been communicated, and Sariel found it interesting. Wotan had quite a reputation, and Sariel just plain wanted to meet the guy. A lot of the old earth gods had fallen into hard times I the modern world: Sariel had seen it happen. But Wotan still ran a pretty tight ship, and he was reputed to be quite wealthy in the human world.
Wotan was also supposed to be related to just about everybody, mainly through a bewildering series of intermarriages, as far as Sariel could tell. He referred to this Amon Ra guy as a cousin, though Sariel gleaned that he was related not directly to Wotan by blood, but rather to the Eastern Kingdom's royal family. This was a weird place to find an earth god: a ratty little club in Germany. He felt a little uneasy. The humans had managed to clear out all the guys with the swastikas a decade or two ago, but he still wasn't quite sold on this place. The beer was good, though.
Sariel looked up from his sudsy lager to the stage. He was one of the few in the club, he noticed, who bothered. Amon Ra cut quite a figure: that he had to admit. Handsome, with high cheekbones, tendrils of long, jet black hair and arresting deep black eyes. He was clad in tight jeans and a pretty fucking amazing studded leather jacket. A huge ankh charm hung in the middle of his bare chest. As he strutted, like the cock of the walk, back and forth on the small stage, he looked every bit the rock star.
But then he started singing, and suddenly Sariel had no fucking idea. He had expected some pounding acid rock, but instead it was some kind of dance crap. Sariel didn't have much stomach for it.
And to make it even more obnoxious, Amon Ra was being followed around by another guy, a smaller dude with black skin whose function seemed to be grabbing his crotch and growling, “Yeah!” to punctuate the choruses.
“What's up with the little guy?” he whispered to Wotan, gesturing with his ever present cigarette.
“Min? He's been following Amon Ra around since the the Eighteenth Dynasty.”
“He's a god too?”
“Uh-huh.”
“What does he do?”
“What you see him doing now.”
“Grabbing his crotch?”
“Pretty much,” grinned Wotan.
Sariel searched Wotan's face to see if the god was pulling his wings. But Wotan just shook his head and laughed.
Sariel turned back to the stage.
Amon Ra flourished his guitar and sang....
I'm bringin' Egypt back
Dem other gods dey don't know how to act
Around my ego gives 'em heart attacks
They can go cram it right up their butt crack
“Take 'em to Mesopotamia!” growled Min.
Got an ankh
I got some shackles
So don't try to walk
I'll whip your ass if I get backtalk
Then I might let you suck my sacred cock
“Take 'em to the Fertile Crescent!” echoed Min.
“Arsegeige,” called one of the ruder patrons.
The music suddenly stopped. Amon Ra peered into the crowd. “What did you call me?” he demanded.
“He called you a dickhead,” translated another helpful patron.
The first patron helpfully laughed and gulped his beer.
It happened very fast. Amon Ra was on stage, and then, there seemed to be a flash of sunlight, and then the first patron was not laughing, he was watching he beer pour back out the big new hole in his neck.
The heckler slumped back against the wall, blood and beer now pooling at his feet.
Amon Ra was back onstage, flourishing what, for just one moment, glinted like a sword, before it turned back into a guitar.
He wailed on a riff and then sang....
Bitches I am Amon Ra
Yo get ready for my guitar roar
Gonna set up a new dynasty
You bitches gonna crawl to worship me
“Take 'em all to Thebes!” toasted Min.
“Oh, we got trouble,” sighed Sariel.
“With a capital T and it rhymes with F and it stands for fool,” muttered Wotan, who, though no poet, was a great fan of American musical comedies.
Sariel sat hunched over a well thumbed Joseph Campbell paperback. Wotan had one fucking amazing library. Not a bad idea, a big library. Knowledge was power. And Sariel definitely liked power.
He closed the book and looked up, surveying his handiwork.
Yes, falling into a cave. That would do it. Classic!
(Plus, it had worked for Batman. Sariel, though no poet either, was a great fan of American comic books.)
The mine hadn't been in use in some time (the demand for Mithril having grown spotty in the Twentieth Century). And the caterers from Thor's latest nuptials had done a bang-up job with the massive ice sculpture. Thor had demanded it be constructed in his likeness. What a guy. Wouldn't fucking shut up about his fucking hammer.
And as for Sariel's own handiwork.... Well, even Sariel had to admit, Wotan had gotten his sandwiches worth on that. The angel went up and repositioned it slightly in the ice giant's hand, so the glint was just so in the single shaft of sunlight that made it down here at midday.
It all screamed, “this is your destiny.” Even a human could probably figure it out.
It was a bit chilly down here, though it was shielded from the wind. Sariel mulled the notion of True Forming, as he was more resistant to the cold that way.
But then he heard....
“Bitches I'm Amon Ra....”
“YEAH!”
“Get outta da way from my guitar!”
Damn, that had been fast. Wotan was right about this guy. Sariel sighed deeply and hopped off the ice sculpture to stand on the icy stairs leading up to it. “I'm sorry, uh, Amon Ra, but this item is meant for another individual.”
“And who are you supposed to be, shorty?” asked the god, who, Sariel couldn't help but notice, was holding the same guitar he had at the club. The guitar that turned into a pointy object.
“Haha!” echoed Min, grabbing his crotch. “Shorty.”
“Nobody. Just the hired help,” explained Sariel.
“Yeah? You wanna know who I am?” growled Amon Ra, striking a chord.
“I think that's already been sufficiently explained....”
“Bitches I'm Amon Ra
I'm startin' a new posse now
Gonna grab me a magic guitar
Then we gonna partay hard”
“Take it to the pantheon!” chorused Min.
Amon Ra hadn't changed clothes since Sariel had seen him at the club. When he danced to his music, Sariel noticed that the leather soles of his boots slipped awkwardly on the icy floor. “You really rhyme 'Amon Ra' with 'now?'” asked Sariel.
'You dis my crazy rhymes?” demanded Amon Ra.
“Yeah!” demanded Min.
“Uh, yeah, that's pretty much what I'm doing,” agreed Sariel. “Look, I don't care who you are, but I can't let you leave with this instrument. It's not yours. Godly hands off.” And he stood there, arms stubbornly crossed, between the god and the guitar.
“You gonna lose your life on Amon Ra's crazy blade, bitch!” cried the god, who was quite suddenly holding not a guitar, but a broadsword.
“Ammon Ra. You're a god, right?” asked Sariel.
“Duh!”
'So, waddya want with another guitar? I mean, that one if pretty cool, turning into a sword. Seems pretty handy. Don't you have better stuff to do?” Sariel distractedly dug into his jacket and brought out a bottle of Scotch. “You don't mind, do you? If you're gonna slay me with that big sword of yours, I'd like a last drink.” Amon Ra shrugged, so Charles took a swig directly from the bottle. He waved it at Amon Ra, who eagerly grabbed it.
“Dat's a magic guitar too, yeah? One that will bring da bitches to me?”
“Well. Yeah. It has the 'bring the bitches' effect. That's why all the ice sculpture and frou-frou,” explained Sariel.
“I be a god without a country!” complained Amon Ra, guzzling a generous portion of the amber liquid. “Hey, dis is good shit.” Min reached for the bottle, but Amon Ra ignored him and took another swig himself. “I was rockin' da New Kingdom, but then some bitch-ass elder gods came down and fucked with mah shit.”
“Huh,” said Sariel, lighting up a Marlboro. “That's too bad. I mean, having your shit fucked and all.”
“But I'm back now!”
“He's back,” echoed Min, once again snatching ineffectively at the Scotch bottle, which Amon Ra was freely guzzling.
“So,” said Sariel, “you think you're gonna get your cult back with my guitar?” he asked, pointing at the guitar cradled picturesquely by the hulking ice sculpture.
“Your guitar, bitch?” demanded Amon Ra, waving the Scotch bottle and the sword.
“Hah,” grunted Min.
“My guitar. I mean, until someone takes it from me,” said Sariel, flicking ashes.
“That's what I'm here for. I'm Amon Ra....”
“Yeah, I think we've got that straightened out. Thing is, Amon Ra, you're kind of a douche.”
“WHAT?”
“And, you're frankly starting to annoy me. No, I take that back. I'm well past annoyance. So, you need to take your girlfriend,” he said, pointing his cigarette at Min, “and scoot.”
Amon Ra glared. He flourished his weapon. “Draw your weapon, bitch” he said.
“Sorry,” said the angel. “I kinda forgot my weapon.”
“Then die upon my bad-ass blade!” howled Amon Ra.
“YEAH!” barked Min.
Amon Ra charged, his feet sliding on the ice.
Sariel flicked his cigarette, with deadly aim, right into Amon Ra's eye. The god emitted an ungodly squeal of pain and stumbled Between the heavy sword and the whiskey bottle, he overbalanced, and the his feet slid right out from underneath him. He fell back, his head striking one icy stair with a loud crack.
“Yeah … uh?” said Min, who cringed at the sound.
Min and Sariel stood over the now unmoving Amon Ra. They exchanged a glance.
“By the way,” Sariel informed Min. “You annoy me too.”
Min grabbed his crotch and ran.
“Whatta douche,” sighed Sariel.
Somone was now crouching over Amon Ra now, two fingers on his neck. “Dumb bastard's dead,” said Wotan, standing up.
“You don't fuck with an angel of vengeance,” shrugged Sariel. “Has he still got a death grip on my scotch?”
“My scotch you mean?” laughed Wotan. “Let him take it to the underworld with him.” He grabbed the sword, which had fallen to the floor, and stuck it back into Amon Ra's grip. “And now we have a guardian.”
Sariel started to feel for his pack of Marlboros, but Wotan brought out two cigars, and the two beings lit up. “So,” said Wotan, “I'm curious about something. Someone.”
“Yeah?”
“There's supposed to be a Seraph. A female seraph.”
“Yeah.”
“Handy with the sword.”
Sariel merely grinned.
“You know her.”
“Oh, yeah.” Sariel eyed Wotan up and down. “You looking for trouble?”
“I might be,” allowed Wotan.
Sariel puffed on his cigar. “She comes and goes, that one. She's not bound here, like me, you understand?”
Wotan nodded, seeming a bit disappointed. The two men smoked in silence for a while. “So,” said Wotan, “I consider this to be complete. I wonder if you might do me another favor, however?”
“Yeah?”
“The boy. You wouldn't mind … checking in with him, now and again?” asked Wotan. “I don't feel it's my place. And, you walk among the humans more than I do.”
“Sure thing,” Sariel told him. “Well, it's kinda chilly here, if you don't need me for anything else?”
Wotan stuck out a large hand, and they shook.
Sariel turned to go. He stopped. “Dancing,” he said.
“What's that?”
“She likes dancing.”
“I'll keep that in mind,” said Wotan.
The present day, Valhalla....
“Dada, an owie!”
Elias, who had already clambered up onto Charles' lap, displayed the woefully scraped knee. Wotan, who had been sitting outside next to Charles, smiled and nodded.
“Uh-huh,” said Charles. “In my professional opinion, that's definitely an owie.”
“An da patewa!” clarified Elias, at least one of whose fathers was a medical professional.
“Yes, yes you have sustained an owie to the patella.”
His hand went to a jacket pocket, one that so recently had been a favorite for holding a cigarette packet, and extracted instead some essential medical equipment. While Elias bravely steeled himself, Charles carefully wiped the knee with a sterile pad. And then, flourishing some plastic bandaids, he asked, “So, waddya want? We got Transformers, Buzz Lightyear, and … Functional Bunny? How does this shit always get in my pocket?”
Elias' cousin Liam, who had been present during the tragic event, and was taking in the medical treatment with wide eyes, suddenly piped up. “Buth!” he lisped.
“Bud Liteyea, Dada!” agreed Elias.
Charles applied the appropriate plaster, and then pulled the knee to his mouth to apply a healing kiss.
“Better?” he asked.
“Uh-huh!” giggled Elias.
“Liams!” All eyes darted up to Skwisgaar, who had just strode up, fingering his ever present guitar. “It ams times for da gee-tar leskons.”
Liam looked up searchingly at his own father. “Is it time for your lesson, dear?” he asked the boy. Liam nodded nervously.
“Why don't you go hang with your cousin, Boon?” asked Charles. “Maybe you could drum along?”
“Yeah, Boon an pay dum,” agreed Elias, nodding at Liam, who looked a little heartened at the offer.
Skwisgaar turned and strode off, two little boys skittering after him like chicks. “You ams practices all da times if you ams be da guitars gods!” he lectured.
Charles stuffed the unused bandaids back in his jacket pocket.
“Boon comes to you for medical treatment?” Wotan laughed.
“Ganesh won't give him a kiss. Says it's not sterile.”
“That boy's a stubborn one,” said Wotan. “So,” he said, more quietly. “Have you ever said anything to my son, about the guitar?”
“Nope. You?”
“The topic has never come up.” Wotan looked wistful. “Sometimes I wonder...”
“Look, take it from someone who's spent way too fucking much time thinking about what ifs. He's done OK.”
Wotan nodded.
“Hey,” said Charles. “You ever find your female Seraph?”
Wotan chuckled. “You know, I did.”
“How'd that work out for ya?”
Suburban New Jersey, the present day....
It was an unremarkable house, behind a neat picket fence. She was a comely woman, the former Miss Monmouth County.
The former Mrs. Selatcia. Before the tragic disappearance.
But she carried on.
In the morning and the evening, she walked the dogs, as she always did. They had been His. A little remembrance. And then she tended to the small garden. He had always insisted on keeping it neat.
She prepared a light dinner. He had always regarded her comely figure.
She set the kettle on to boil, and set to remembering. The quiet evenings. Sitting by the fire.
The feel of his hand, hot, slapping her across the face.
The white light as she felt her rib crack, slamming against the edge of the kitchen table.
She started. The kettle was whistling.
She poured boiling water over a bag of oolong. She let it steep, and gathered her knitting bag. The yarn was soft. The needles were cool in her hand.
The tea steeped, the woody aroma filling the small kitchen. She strained out the bag with a tiny silver spoon, and picked up the dainty cup by its delicate handle.
She thought she heard something. The wind?
She heard the small jingle of of metal on metal. Keys.
The front door.
There was a click as the tiny mechanism inside the lock aligned.
The creak of a hinge that was wanting oil.
She shivered, the small puff of chill air from early autumn making its way inside.
The soft thud of footsteps on the carpet coming down the hall.
The wet tear, stopped, halfway down her face, as her breath ratcheted in quiet terror.
The silhouette in the kitchen doorway. The large silhouette, filling up the frame.
The small crackle as the teacup, falling on the hard tile floor, shattered forever.
“Hi, honey. I'm home!”
Author: tikistitch
Rating: PG-13
Summary: A wee bit o' backstory about that Gibson. Oh, and also some other stuff.
Warnings: Tiki is attempting to WRITE TO A PROMPT! DANGER! DANGER!
Notes: This was partly based on Tam's prompt. Hope I don't mess it up, like I do nearly every other prompt. (More under cut.)
Basically, Tam was wondering about the dude in her icon.
So, what's with this guy? I think this would be a cool idea for any kinda fic, but I decided I had a fragment of a story about it in my head, so maybe I better fill it in for my AU.
Many years ago....
Wotan looked curiously at the being sitting across the desk from him.
So, this was an angel?
He was smaller than expected. Much smaller. But the greatest surprise was how very ordinary he looked. Many earth gods had another Form that allowed them to walk among humans. But this being: he could have been human. Except for the odd pale angel skin he was fairly nondescript, and wrapped in fairly nondescript clothing, which looked at least a size too big for him.
It was remarkable.
The angel was now openly looking around the office, light green eyes squinting behind spectacles. He looked like he honestly needed the eyeglasses, which was also interesting. A flawed angel?
The Creator was one weird ass son of a bitch.
“So, you, uh, wanted to see me?” asked the angel, tapping his cigarette into the ashtray on Wotan's cluttered desk.
“I've heard you're the best. And I'd like the best,” said Wotan.
The eyes were suddenly boring into him. “Let me guess. A gift?”
“Yes!” smiled Wotan. Ah, a smart bugger. “And, what sort of gift do ye suppose it is?” he asked, steepling his large hands.
The angel used the cigarette to think on it for a moment. The eyes returned to casting curiously about the office. “I don't suppose it's for a girlfriend,” he mused.
“Yes, that is a correct supposition,” said Wotan. He narrowed his blue eyes and leaned forward. “But, it's close to the mark.”
One of the angel's eyebrows raised a fraction. More thoughtful puffing. “A kid? Uh. One of your halflings?”
Wotan chuckled merrily and actually slapped his knee. “Can't imagine Thor with a violin, can ye?” he asked.
There was just the trace of a smile on the angel's face. “No, as a matter of fact, I sure as hell can't.”
Wotan opened the humidor on the desk. “Do you mind?” he asked, extracting a cigar. The angel shook his head. He may have looked just a tiny bit envious. “I've done some things, things in my life, that I regret,” Wotan continued.
“Yeah. I understand,” the angel said sadly.
“And I am trying, in my way, to achieve a certain amount of atonement.”
“So you thought you'd buy it?”
“Cynical bastard, aren't you?”
“Yeah.” The cloud of exhaled smoke obscured his expression. “So, I take it you want it magicked?”
“Specifically, I want your magic.” Wotan blew his own languorous cloud of smoke. “I want something my enemies, as well as my friends, among those of earth, won't be able to counteract.”
“Yeah. I can do that.”
“Good. Now, as a matter of payment....”
“Well, on that, I have a proposal. You have a reputation as someone who remembers favors.”
Wotan nodded. This was unexpected. Angels had a reputation for greed. He had expected to argue over gold coins, or bank notes. “What would you propose?”
“If I'm going to be using my magic.... Well, it tends to make me hungry.”
Wotan frowned. “Ye'll do this for food?” he asked, certain he had misheard.
“Yeah. Gimme a place to stay up here, and access to your kitchen, I'll get it done.”
“All right,” said Wotan, reaching out a meaty hand to shake.
“Oh, and uh, one more thing, before we finalize” said the angel, holding up an index finger. “This is a present for a kid? A boy?”
“Yes.”
An eyebrow cocked up. “I have one suggestion.”
Wotan entered the workroom. The angel did not look up. He was hard at work, on his steak sandwich.
Perhaps I should have paid the bastard in gold after all, the god mused.
“Honored Sariel,” said Wotan.
The angel looked up, wiping some mustard from his mouth on a sleeve. Now no longer wearing his heavy jacket, which was draped over a chair, he looked like he hadn't eaten in centuries. Which could not be true, as Wotan's cooks had attested. The larders were being emptied at an astonishing pace.
“You don't have to call me that, you know,” Sariel told him as he popped the remainder of the sandwich into his mouth, licking his fingers. “The honorific.”
“I make it a point to avoid angel politics,” Wotan told him. He held up a liquor bottle. The angel's eyes lit up. He hopped off the workbench and came over to take a glass.
Sariel rolled the Scotch around in the glass, and held it up, appreciating the smoky color. Wotan beamed. It was good to have someone around worth a damn to drink with, he thought.
They sipped in silence for a moment, and then Sariel inclined his head towards the workbench. Wotan approached. Unlike some other gods, he could not literally see magic, but he could tell a work of good quality.
“This is splendid!” he boomed. And he meant it.
Sariel casually grabbed it by the neck and handed it to him. “Don't worry,” he said. “It won't break from you looking at it.” It was a lovely thing to behold, but felt exquisite in hand, perfectly balanced, with a smooth veneer.
“An electric guitar?” asked the god.
“He'll like it,” said Sariel.
Wotan nodded, and Sariel hopped back up on the workbench. “So, tell me something,” the angel asked. “You got a kid. You're a god. A god king. Why don't you just go grab him?”
“That's exactly what I would have done, years ago,” Wotan agreed, placing the guitar carefully up on the workbench next to Sariel. “This boy is special, or so I understand. But he is also his mother's only son.”
“Going soft, huh?”
“Yes, in fact, I am.” Sariel leaned over to his coat to grab his cigarette pack. Wotan extracted two cigars from his own pocket. The angel crammed the pack of Marlboros back in the jacket and eagerly accepted the stogie instead.
“So, talk me through the magic,” said Wotan.
“It's probably not much different that what you're used to,” Sariel told him, accepting a light. “You can't just hand it to him, he has to find it, it has to draw him to it. But, as you know, there are ways to help that along.”
“I have some friends in the neighborhood,” laughed Wotan.
“It will give back what he puts into it. And more. The big issue, as far as we're concerned, is that I can't make this specific to him.”
“So, theoretically, anyone could discover it?”
“Unless you wanna lay a curse of two down yourself?”
“That will be something to consider,” Wotan told him, rubbing his short reddish beard.
“You got someone specific in mind?” Sariel asked.
“I'm Amon Ra, bitches!”
Sariel cast a practiced eye around the club. He knew a bit about the music industry. He just didn't have a whole lot of experience around old world earth gods. Like Wotan, he disliked the politics. And Wotan was reputed to be pretty tight with the Eastern Kingdom, where angels weren't particularly well-liked this century. For good reason, he had to admit. Didn't really matter that he was Fallen, those guys just saw feathers and drew sabers.
But the offer from Wotan had been communicated, and Sariel found it interesting. Wotan had quite a reputation, and Sariel just plain wanted to meet the guy. A lot of the old earth gods had fallen into hard times I the modern world: Sariel had seen it happen. But Wotan still ran a pretty tight ship, and he was reputed to be quite wealthy in the human world.
Wotan was also supposed to be related to just about everybody, mainly through a bewildering series of intermarriages, as far as Sariel could tell. He referred to this Amon Ra guy as a cousin, though Sariel gleaned that he was related not directly to Wotan by blood, but rather to the Eastern Kingdom's royal family. This was a weird place to find an earth god: a ratty little club in Germany. He felt a little uneasy. The humans had managed to clear out all the guys with the swastikas a decade or two ago, but he still wasn't quite sold on this place. The beer was good, though.
Sariel looked up from his sudsy lager to the stage. He was one of the few in the club, he noticed, who bothered. Amon Ra cut quite a figure: that he had to admit. Handsome, with high cheekbones, tendrils of long, jet black hair and arresting deep black eyes. He was clad in tight jeans and a pretty fucking amazing studded leather jacket. A huge ankh charm hung in the middle of his bare chest. As he strutted, like the cock of the walk, back and forth on the small stage, he looked every bit the rock star.
But then he started singing, and suddenly Sariel had no fucking idea. He had expected some pounding acid rock, but instead it was some kind of dance crap. Sariel didn't have much stomach for it.
And to make it even more obnoxious, Amon Ra was being followed around by another guy, a smaller dude with black skin whose function seemed to be grabbing his crotch and growling, “Yeah!” to punctuate the choruses.
“What's up with the little guy?” he whispered to Wotan, gesturing with his ever present cigarette.
“Min? He's been following Amon Ra around since the the Eighteenth Dynasty.”
“He's a god too?”
“Uh-huh.”
“What does he do?”
“What you see him doing now.”
“Grabbing his crotch?”
“Pretty much,” grinned Wotan.
Sariel searched Wotan's face to see if the god was pulling his wings. But Wotan just shook his head and laughed.
Sariel turned back to the stage.
Amon Ra flourished his guitar and sang....
I'm bringin' Egypt back
Dem other gods dey don't know how to act
Around my ego gives 'em heart attacks
They can go cram it right up their butt crack
“Take 'em to Mesopotamia!” growled Min.
Got an ankh
I got some shackles
So don't try to walk
I'll whip your ass if I get backtalk
Then I might let you suck my sacred cock
“Take 'em to the Fertile Crescent!” echoed Min.
“Arsegeige,” called one of the ruder patrons.
The music suddenly stopped. Amon Ra peered into the crowd. “What did you call me?” he demanded.
“He called you a dickhead,” translated another helpful patron.
The first patron helpfully laughed and gulped his beer.
It happened very fast. Amon Ra was on stage, and then, there seemed to be a flash of sunlight, and then the first patron was not laughing, he was watching he beer pour back out the big new hole in his neck.
The heckler slumped back against the wall, blood and beer now pooling at his feet.
Amon Ra was back onstage, flourishing what, for just one moment, glinted like a sword, before it turned back into a guitar.
He wailed on a riff and then sang....
Bitches I am Amon Ra
Yo get ready for my guitar roar
Gonna set up a new dynasty
You bitches gonna crawl to worship me
“Take 'em all to Thebes!” toasted Min.
“Oh, we got trouble,” sighed Sariel.
“With a capital T and it rhymes with F and it stands for fool,” muttered Wotan, who, though no poet, was a great fan of American musical comedies.
Sariel sat hunched over a well thumbed Joseph Campbell paperback. Wotan had one fucking amazing library. Not a bad idea, a big library. Knowledge was power. And Sariel definitely liked power.
He closed the book and looked up, surveying his handiwork.
Yes, falling into a cave. That would do it. Classic!
(Plus, it had worked for Batman. Sariel, though no poet either, was a great fan of American comic books.)
The mine hadn't been in use in some time (the demand for Mithril having grown spotty in the Twentieth Century). And the caterers from Thor's latest nuptials had done a bang-up job with the massive ice sculpture. Thor had demanded it be constructed in his likeness. What a guy. Wouldn't fucking shut up about his fucking hammer.
And as for Sariel's own handiwork.... Well, even Sariel had to admit, Wotan had gotten his sandwiches worth on that. The angel went up and repositioned it slightly in the ice giant's hand, so the glint was just so in the single shaft of sunlight that made it down here at midday.
It all screamed, “this is your destiny.” Even a human could probably figure it out.
It was a bit chilly down here, though it was shielded from the wind. Sariel mulled the notion of True Forming, as he was more resistant to the cold that way.
But then he heard....
“Bitches I'm Amon Ra....”
“YEAH!”
“Get outta da way from my guitar!”
Damn, that had been fast. Wotan was right about this guy. Sariel sighed deeply and hopped off the ice sculpture to stand on the icy stairs leading up to it. “I'm sorry, uh, Amon Ra, but this item is meant for another individual.”
“And who are you supposed to be, shorty?” asked the god, who, Sariel couldn't help but notice, was holding the same guitar he had at the club. The guitar that turned into a pointy object.
“Haha!” echoed Min, grabbing his crotch. “Shorty.”
“Nobody. Just the hired help,” explained Sariel.
“Yeah? You wanna know who I am?” growled Amon Ra, striking a chord.
“I think that's already been sufficiently explained....”
“Bitches I'm Amon Ra
I'm startin' a new posse now
Gonna grab me a magic guitar
Then we gonna partay hard”
“Take it to the pantheon!” chorused Min.
Amon Ra hadn't changed clothes since Sariel had seen him at the club. When he danced to his music, Sariel noticed that the leather soles of his boots slipped awkwardly on the icy floor. “You really rhyme 'Amon Ra' with 'now?'” asked Sariel.
'You dis my crazy rhymes?” demanded Amon Ra.
“Yeah!” demanded Min.
“Uh, yeah, that's pretty much what I'm doing,” agreed Sariel. “Look, I don't care who you are, but I can't let you leave with this instrument. It's not yours. Godly hands off.” And he stood there, arms stubbornly crossed, between the god and the guitar.
“You gonna lose your life on Amon Ra's crazy blade, bitch!” cried the god, who was quite suddenly holding not a guitar, but a broadsword.
“Ammon Ra. You're a god, right?” asked Sariel.
“Duh!”
'So, waddya want with another guitar? I mean, that one if pretty cool, turning into a sword. Seems pretty handy. Don't you have better stuff to do?” Sariel distractedly dug into his jacket and brought out a bottle of Scotch. “You don't mind, do you? If you're gonna slay me with that big sword of yours, I'd like a last drink.” Amon Ra shrugged, so Charles took a swig directly from the bottle. He waved it at Amon Ra, who eagerly grabbed it.
“Dat's a magic guitar too, yeah? One that will bring da bitches to me?”
“Well. Yeah. It has the 'bring the bitches' effect. That's why all the ice sculpture and frou-frou,” explained Sariel.
“I be a god without a country!” complained Amon Ra, guzzling a generous portion of the amber liquid. “Hey, dis is good shit.” Min reached for the bottle, but Amon Ra ignored him and took another swig himself. “I was rockin' da New Kingdom, but then some bitch-ass elder gods came down and fucked with mah shit.”
“Huh,” said Sariel, lighting up a Marlboro. “That's too bad. I mean, having your shit fucked and all.”
“But I'm back now!”
“He's back,” echoed Min, once again snatching ineffectively at the Scotch bottle, which Amon Ra was freely guzzling.
“So,” said Sariel, “you think you're gonna get your cult back with my guitar?” he asked, pointing at the guitar cradled picturesquely by the hulking ice sculpture.
“Your guitar, bitch?” demanded Amon Ra, waving the Scotch bottle and the sword.
“Hah,” grunted Min.
“My guitar. I mean, until someone takes it from me,” said Sariel, flicking ashes.
“That's what I'm here for. I'm Amon Ra....”
“Yeah, I think we've got that straightened out. Thing is, Amon Ra, you're kind of a douche.”
“WHAT?”
“And, you're frankly starting to annoy me. No, I take that back. I'm well past annoyance. So, you need to take your girlfriend,” he said, pointing his cigarette at Min, “and scoot.”
Amon Ra glared. He flourished his weapon. “Draw your weapon, bitch” he said.
“Sorry,” said the angel. “I kinda forgot my weapon.”
“Then die upon my bad-ass blade!” howled Amon Ra.
“YEAH!” barked Min.
Amon Ra charged, his feet sliding on the ice.
Sariel flicked his cigarette, with deadly aim, right into Amon Ra's eye. The god emitted an ungodly squeal of pain and stumbled Between the heavy sword and the whiskey bottle, he overbalanced, and the his feet slid right out from underneath him. He fell back, his head striking one icy stair with a loud crack.
“Yeah … uh?” said Min, who cringed at the sound.
Min and Sariel stood over the now unmoving Amon Ra. They exchanged a glance.
“By the way,” Sariel informed Min. “You annoy me too.”
Min grabbed his crotch and ran.
“Whatta douche,” sighed Sariel.
Somone was now crouching over Amon Ra now, two fingers on his neck. “Dumb bastard's dead,” said Wotan, standing up.
“You don't fuck with an angel of vengeance,” shrugged Sariel. “Has he still got a death grip on my scotch?”
“My scotch you mean?” laughed Wotan. “Let him take it to the underworld with him.” He grabbed the sword, which had fallen to the floor, and stuck it back into Amon Ra's grip. “And now we have a guardian.”
Sariel started to feel for his pack of Marlboros, but Wotan brought out two cigars, and the two beings lit up. “So,” said Wotan, “I'm curious about something. Someone.”
“Yeah?”
“There's supposed to be a Seraph. A female seraph.”
“Yeah.”
“Handy with the sword.”
Sariel merely grinned.
“You know her.”
“Oh, yeah.” Sariel eyed Wotan up and down. “You looking for trouble?”
“I might be,” allowed Wotan.
Sariel puffed on his cigar. “She comes and goes, that one. She's not bound here, like me, you understand?”
Wotan nodded, seeming a bit disappointed. The two men smoked in silence for a while. “So,” said Wotan, “I consider this to be complete. I wonder if you might do me another favor, however?”
“Yeah?”
“The boy. You wouldn't mind … checking in with him, now and again?” asked Wotan. “I don't feel it's my place. And, you walk among the humans more than I do.”
“Sure thing,” Sariel told him. “Well, it's kinda chilly here, if you don't need me for anything else?”
Wotan stuck out a large hand, and they shook.
Sariel turned to go. He stopped. “Dancing,” he said.
“What's that?”
“She likes dancing.”
“I'll keep that in mind,” said Wotan.
The present day, Valhalla....
“Dada, an owie!”
Elias, who had already clambered up onto Charles' lap, displayed the woefully scraped knee. Wotan, who had been sitting outside next to Charles, smiled and nodded.
“Uh-huh,” said Charles. “In my professional opinion, that's definitely an owie.”
“An da patewa!” clarified Elias, at least one of whose fathers was a medical professional.
“Yes, yes you have sustained an owie to the patella.”
His hand went to a jacket pocket, one that so recently had been a favorite for holding a cigarette packet, and extracted instead some essential medical equipment. While Elias bravely steeled himself, Charles carefully wiped the knee with a sterile pad. And then, flourishing some plastic bandaids, he asked, “So, waddya want? We got Transformers, Buzz Lightyear, and … Functional Bunny? How does this shit always get in my pocket?”
Elias' cousin Liam, who had been present during the tragic event, and was taking in the medical treatment with wide eyes, suddenly piped up. “Buth!” he lisped.
“Bud Liteyea, Dada!” agreed Elias.
Charles applied the appropriate plaster, and then pulled the knee to his mouth to apply a healing kiss.
“Better?” he asked.
“Uh-huh!” giggled Elias.
“Liams!” All eyes darted up to Skwisgaar, who had just strode up, fingering his ever present guitar. “It ams times for da gee-tar leskons.”
Liam looked up searchingly at his own father. “Is it time for your lesson, dear?” he asked the boy. Liam nodded nervously.
“Why don't you go hang with your cousin, Boon?” asked Charles. “Maybe you could drum along?”
“Yeah, Boon an pay dum,” agreed Elias, nodding at Liam, who looked a little heartened at the offer.
Skwisgaar turned and strode off, two little boys skittering after him like chicks. “You ams practices all da times if you ams be da guitars gods!” he lectured.
Charles stuffed the unused bandaids back in his jacket pocket.
“Boon comes to you for medical treatment?” Wotan laughed.
“Ganesh won't give him a kiss. Says it's not sterile.”
“That boy's a stubborn one,” said Wotan. “So,” he said, more quietly. “Have you ever said anything to my son, about the guitar?”
“Nope. You?”
“The topic has never come up.” Wotan looked wistful. “Sometimes I wonder...”
“Look, take it from someone who's spent way too fucking much time thinking about what ifs. He's done OK.”
Wotan nodded.
“Hey,” said Charles. “You ever find your female Seraph?”
Wotan chuckled. “You know, I did.”
“How'd that work out for ya?”
Suburban New Jersey, the present day....
It was an unremarkable house, behind a neat picket fence. She was a comely woman, the former Miss Monmouth County.
The former Mrs. Selatcia. Before the tragic disappearance.
But she carried on.
In the morning and the evening, she walked the dogs, as she always did. They had been His. A little remembrance. And then she tended to the small garden. He had always insisted on keeping it neat.
She prepared a light dinner. He had always regarded her comely figure.
She set the kettle on to boil, and set to remembering. The quiet evenings. Sitting by the fire.
The feel of his hand, hot, slapping her across the face.
The white light as she felt her rib crack, slamming against the edge of the kitchen table.
She started. The kettle was whistling.
She poured boiling water over a bag of oolong. She let it steep, and gathered her knitting bag. The yarn was soft. The needles were cool in her hand.
The tea steeped, the woody aroma filling the small kitchen. She strained out the bag with a tiny silver spoon, and picked up the dainty cup by its delicate handle.
She thought she heard something. The wind?
She heard the small jingle of of metal on metal. Keys.
The front door.
There was a click as the tiny mechanism inside the lock aligned.
The creak of a hinge that was wanting oil.
She shivered, the small puff of chill air from early autumn making its way inside.
The soft thud of footsteps on the carpet coming down the hall.
The wet tear, stopped, halfway down her face, as her breath ratcheted in quiet terror.
The silhouette in the kitchen doorway. The large silhouette, filling up the frame.
The small crackle as the teacup, falling on the hard tile floor, shattered forever.
“Hi, honey. I'm home!”
