Elias, Part 2 (Mythklok, Chapter 75)
Oct. 30th, 2011 12:17 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
tikificTitle: Elias, Part 2 (Mythklok, Chapter 75)
Author: tikistitch
Rating: PG-13
Summary: More cruisin' with our big angel pals!
Warnings: Fast food.
Notes: Notes after the jump.
Mythklok is a known cure for male pattern baldness. OK, maybe not.
Last time: we set off on a cruise. Hopefully not the three hour kind. Uncle Visnhu was all pissy because he didn't get to bring his dancing elephants, but then he got to do a Barry Manilow filk, which I think pleased him. But THEN the angels showed up. Who invited those guys? And there was a cool battle, and then Pickles fell. But, he got better.
Also: this is part of two of two.
The Archangel Gabriel regarded the fiery spinning wheels with a jaundiced eye. He had never trusted Ophanim, all tucked away underground, hoarding their precious … books. Idiots!
There were three of them now in the huge grey airship's control room, hovering ever close to Uriah. They were traitors, all of them. Once they had worked in Valhalla, in Mordhaus, in the Royal Palace of the Imperial City, curating the stolen Angelic texts kept in those places. Their resentment, Uriah had explained, over the plundering of their heritage by the respective parties had caused them to switch sides.
“Over books?” Gabriel had demanded. “Dusty old stories? Who cares about them?”
Uriah glared at him. “Oughtn't you pay attention to marshaling your troops, Gabriel?”
Gabriel glowered back.
He had a bad feeling about this.
Aboard the Polypus Rubra, they had started to emerge from belowdecks, mortals and immortals both, when the angelic attack seemed over. But then, upon the appearance of the great looming battleship, yet more straggled out. It was awesome. And terrifying. And impossible to look away from.
At the prow, what would have been the large grinning mouth had the thing actually been a shark, there was what seemed to be a gap, a hollow.
And out the hollow, now, angels flew. Leagues and leagues of angels. Green and yellow wings. Riding golden chariots. Further darkening the sky.
A group of mortal immortals – rock gods they were – now all stood in a motley group at the railing.
“I ain't never seen so many angels before,” said Pickles.
“Hey, that's a pretty badass bandage!” noted Nathan, peering at the red-stained white cloth now circling Pickles' head. “We should all get badass bandages!”
“I gaht a bandage becuz I wuz injured!” Pickles protested.
“Yeah?”
“Yeh! In a hair-raisin', death defyin', last-minnit epic rescoo!”
Nathan frowned. “How do you know if was so cool if you were UNCONSCIOUS the whole time?” he asked suspiciously, though he was also smiling ever so slightly.
“It wuz cool! Raz plucked me outta da sky! She sed so, dood!”
“But nobody actually saw this?” Nathan teased.
“Wul....”
“Ja, dat Raz, you knows,” Skwisgaar, his slim, nimble fingers plucking at guitar strings. “Sometimes, she ams exaggeratsing!”
“SHE AIN'T EXAGGERATIN'!”
“Sche's probably conschidered herschelf to be truthful,” Murderface allowed.
“From a certain point of view,” jibed Nathan.
“But DOODS! I FELL-! I WUZ-! YOO DON'T-!”
“Pardon me, Masters,” put in a burly hooded figure who had been strolling by.
“Hey, PIE!” said Nathan, using the nickname for Charles' Klokateer receptionist, whose Gear number happened to be 31415.
“I could not help but overhear you discussion. I apologize for intruding, but would you perhaps be interesting in viewing my vehicle's video of the incident in question?”
“You got tape?” asked Nathan. “FUCK YEAH!” Pickles frowned and frankly looked a bit pale, but with the rest on the band, leaned over to better view the small screen on Pie's Dethphone.
“Here they are both still falling,” Pie narrated. “Still falling. Still falling. You can see at this point, the ground has come quite close. Still falling. Still falling.... And here is where the Lady Raziel at last converts to her winged Form and at dives to intercept Master Pickles. Notice how they appear to be still fated to crash upon the ground.... Oh dear!” The last was said as Toki had fainted dead away, possibly from the terrible suspense of it all.
“We need to get Ganesch over here,” chuckled Murderface, who was not being terribly compassionate about the whole thing.
“Aw, c'mon, he's OK,” said Nathan. Pickles helpfully poured the remainder of his beer over the unconscious guitarist's head, causing Toki to sputter and blink. “See, he's great!”
“Ams Pickle OK?” asked Toki.
“Naw, dood, I died,” Pickles reported with a laugh. Which caused Toki to once again fade away.
“Pickle, you shoulds quits horsings around!” Skwisgaar scolded.
Nathan looked grimly at Pickles' empty glass. “Damn! We're out OUT OF BEER!”
“Passengers and crew aboard the Polypus Rubra!” The band, including Toki, who had now reawakened after being splashed with a bit of after-shave, looked up at the amplified voice. The band made its way over to where Captain Aubrey, Wotan, Raziel, Charles and Ganesh were now standing together at the railing.
It was the Goddess, in all Her glory, riding on a golden chariot, surrounded by hosts of angels. Mounts snorted, and yellow and green wings flashed. Uriah stood at Her side, broad arms crossed. Just in back of her, riding in another splendid vehicle, the Archangel Gabriel, who may have looked worried.
“We have only one request,” She boomed. “Give up the children. And Sariel. And we can end this in a nonviolent manner.”
“FUCK. YOU. BITCH.”
The group by the railing turned in surprise at Ganesh, who had actually made the deck vibrate with his anger. Nathan grinned and whacked the glowering elephant god on the shoulder.
“We have a counter-offer,” Wotan shouted back. “Leave. Now. And you live. For now.”
The charioteer riding with Her turned and muttered, audible over Her live microphone, “That sounds like kind of a crap deal.” Uriah glared, and the angelic charioteer suddenly shrugged and straightened up.
“Hey! Whoever does your PA is a fucking idiot!” All now turned to see the figure of Nick Ibsen, arm in arm with his date, Bunny, laughing at the railing.
The Goddess seemed taken aback for a moment. “You! What are you doing here?”
“I was invited!” laughed Ibsen.
“You invited yourself, more likely!”
“Well, she got that part right at least,” Charles whispered to Ganesh.
“Enough of this!” She snorted. “Do you surrender?”
“Bit my schiny metal assch!”
“Oh, hey, that's a good one,” Nathan told Murderface.
“It's one of Dick'sch favoritesch, and he couldn't be here,” explained the bassist.
“I HAVE JUST ONE THING TO SAY TO YOU!” It was now Charles, actually standing up on the railing, where no proper being really had a right to stand.
“What do you want, Sariel?” She hissed, as Uriah leaned over, licking his lips.
“HIT THE DECK!”
For once in their lives, Dethklok listened to their manager.
There was a terrific noise. It sounded a lot like canon fire. That's because it was canon fire.
With horrifying screams, angels fell from the sky.
Flying out of the sun, the two masted schooner, the Starlight Mermaid, dove at them.
“What are you waiting for, you dumb cocksucker? Arm canon!” shouted Papa Jacque, who was stalking irritably up and down the deck.
Elegba, standing nearby, waved a hand, magicking the artillery. “Give me a minute, dumbshit!” he growled.
“Fire two!' barked Papa Jacque.
“Shit,” muttered Gabriel. The Goddess and Uriah had already turned, running back to the ship, leaving Gabriel to mount the charge. And then he shouted, “Hold the line! Form up, we'll make short work of these ninnies.”
He jumped, as did his lieutenants, at the terrible roar from behind.
Up, out of the clouds: a submarine, sides flashing yellowy in the sun.
“Oh, clusterfuck,” muttered Gabriel.
“Arm torpedoes!” barked Poseidon over the com, though, indeed, he probably did not need any artificial amplification of his magnificent voice within the submarine which had just come up out of the other sun.
Chango did a little dance before the torpedo tubes, and, twirling he feather boa as a flourish, nodded to Orula.
“We are fission forward, mon capitain!” Orula told the intercom.
“Well, whatever the fuck that means,” muttered Poseidon. “Fire torpedoes!” he ordered.
“It's about fucking time, you dumb motherfucker!” crackled Papa Jacque's voice.
“Fuck you, you motherfucking cocksucker,” rejoindered Poseidon.
Back in the control room on the the Polypus Ruber Charles listened to the interplay over the radio. “Master strategists,” he laughed. “Papa, will you fucking listen?” he said over the com.
“Is my good for nothing son there!” barked Jacque. “What do you want, you little motherfucker?”
“I wanna say,” and then Charles yelled something in Common Angelic.
“Aye, same to you!” growled Papa Jacque's crackly voice.
“Same over twice,” agreed Poseidon.
Charles' grin only grew.
“'Suck my angelic dick' is the signal?” laughed Ganesh.
“Needed something we all recognized,” Charles told him. “Captain, you got that?”
Captain Aubrey grinned and shouted orders.
Suddenly, two great slot-like hatches, one on either side of the great airship, opened up, and struts extended. The struts fanned slowly but surely out into a pair of fragile-seeming golden wings. The wings had what looked like several giant golden pods all lined up underneath.
Jet engines.
The engines whirred to life, and, after a cry of “Hard aport! Full speed ahead!” from the captain, the airship suddenly burst off as the air battle sounded behind them.
The ship was not a bumblebee after all. It was a wasp. And on a mad dash to … somewhere.
“Nathan?”
“Yeah, what?” said Nathan, who had been mesmerized – as were, to be fair, most everyone on deck – at the extension of the wings. He turned from the railing to face his manager.
“Get your shit together. You guys are playing. Now,” Charles told him.
“Dude. We're playing in the middle of a fucking war?”
“Yes, exactly.”
“AWESOME!” said Nathan. “Hey, guys, GET YOUR SHIT TOGETHER!”
But Charles was already off running down the deck. “You got this, Breagan?”
The red haired goddess was sitting on the deck, plying at a toy helicopter with a screwdriver. “Babysitting ain't the worst job, darlin'!” she told him as the three children hovered around, staring in fascination. “You just make sure to pay me your tenpence an hour! It's the going rate.”
Charles leaned over and kissed Elias on the top of his touseled head. “Daddy will be back very soon, OK?”
“Hewwicoptah, dada!” said Elias. “An BOOM!”
“Yes, it made a very nice boom.”
“You guys gonna be good?” Raziel, who had just walked up, addressed her twins.
“NO!” they blared in unison.
“Yeah, figures,” grinned Breagan.
“C'mon, we gotta hit it,” said Raziel, grabbing Charles' arm and dragging him off.
The Polypus Rubra shot through the dream sky, with, for quite an embarrassing amount of time, utterly no one in hot pursuit. The Goddess's great war ship was evidently taking a while, as big objects tend to do, in changing direction and setting off. Meanwhile, the schooner, the Starlight Mermaid and the submarine, Kitrino Ypovrychio, after causing much confusion amongst the angelic host by darting in and out of pink clouds, both took off after the Polypus Rubra.
Angelic charioteers, pushing their mounts to the limit, followed just behind.
“Here we go!” said Raziel to Charles. On the lower decks, Wotan and Ganesh stood by something that looked very much like a Lamborghini Gallardo Superleggera. Raziel released Charles' arm and went to walk around making a final inspection.
“Will you be alright?” Charles looked up at Ganesh, searching his face.
“With Raziel driving?” Charles croaked.
“You took your Dramamine,” Ganesh grinned.
“Do you have something that will knock me out?” he asked.
“Hurry up the goodbyes!” Raziel urged. Charles looked slightly green.
“I will see you soon, my dear,” Ganesh assured him giving him a quick kiss.
Raziel then manhandled Charles into the passenger seat, and, stopping to go up on her toes to kiss Wotan goodbye, jumped in and gunned the engine.
“Wait 'til I get my fucking seatbelt!” wailed Charles.
Then with a great smoking squeal of tires, the low slung car gunned off the deck, and shot out ahead, into the sky, like some crazy vehicular torpedo.
“Nothing like Italian engineering,” sighed Wotan. “Now, I see charioteers, are you mounted?”
Ganesh whistled and then looked around, confused. And then he let out a small cry of surprise.
He whirled around. “Ashva!” he scolded the black demon horse that had just goosed him. “It is time to quit playing around!” Ashva grinned a horsey grin. “Well, are you going to transform?” Ganesh asked irritably, tapping a foot.
Ashva stepped back, whinnyed with a snort of smoke from his demon nostrils, and quite suddenly had sprouted two fantastic black, bat-like wings.
“Never had a use for wings myself,” said Wotan, who had mounted the eight-legged Sleipnir. “Let's go fuck with some angels!” he urged, and with that, rode off the deck, into the sky.
Ganesh and Ashva regarded each other suspiciously. “Well, do you want fight angels? We could stay here and play chess. Only you would probably beat me!”
“Could you boys use some help?”
“Oh, hello Mr. Ibsen,” said Ganesh, flicking a last glare at his horse.
“Call me Nick,” said the newsman warmly. “It's not really my Name anyway.”
“I believe Sariel thought that you should seek safety within,” said Ganesh, aiming a hand at the cabin.
“You really don't tell him what you see, huh?”
Ganesh shrugged. “It depends on circumstances. At any rate, I am in haste. Did you wish to join the battle?”
Ibsen grinned.
Only it was no longer Ibsen.
“Do you require armaments?” asked Ganesh.
And then Ibsen-who-was-not Ibsen was holding an awfully big sword. “Oh, I brought a little something along, thanks.”
And, grinning at each other, the flew out to meet the pursuing angelic charioteers.
Nathan Explosion surveyed his band mates. He was accustomed to the guys getting keyed up before a gig. But he had never seen Skwisgaar so fucking intense. The Swede bent over the new guitar he'd gotten from Raziel's dad. Frankly, Nathan had never much seen how one guitar was any different from another – they all had pegs and strings, right? But, hey, these dudes got so fucking superstitious.
“Be cool, dude,” Nathan wisely counseled.
“Dis ams da big solos,” Skiwgaar muttered.
“They're always big solos.”
“Ja, mebbe.”
“Seriously, dude, who else would you rather be out there with?”
Skwisgaar stopped playing and peered up at the band mates now arrayed around him.
“Well....” he began. “Eric Sclapton ams better geetarist dan Toki, an' I ams always liked da lates John Bohnham's drummsing, an' Moiderface ams could learns somet'ing from Paul McCartnies, an' Roger Daltrey ams da quintessentials lead singers.”
There was a long moment's awkward silence.
“Huh?” said Nathan.
“Ja. But, I guess you assholes ams does in da pinches,” concluded Skwisgaar.
“Hey, great speech, let's go!” enthused Nathan.
Although the huge grey angelic battleship was still many leagues off, the swift angelic charioteers had reached the fleeing Polypus Rubra, and were now engaging.
The Starlight Mermaid and the Kitrino Ypovrychio, not as fleet, were somewhere behind.
Parvati, astride her great tiger, once again led her troops in battle. Elsewhere, Wotan and Ganesh engaged at close quarters, and Klokateers mounted on flying machines sent out deadly magicked torpedos.
From the deck, Great Brahma, in a move that would have made his poor nephew, Sariel, swoon in pain, greatly amused himself by tossing some of Auntie Sarasvati's pies at warrior angels who strayed too close.
One party of angels managed nonetheless to mount the starboard wing.
“BREAGAN!” The red haired goddess ran to the railing. “They're hitting the starboard engine!” Ganesh, astride Ashva, shouted. “We need a hand.”
“I'll be right there, love!” she shouted. She hunkered down and addressed the children, who all seemed memmerized by little toys. “You three little devils, you'll stay here? And do as I said?”
All three nodded solemnly. “Yes, Wantie Weagan!” answered Elias.
“All right, loves. I'll be back in a twinkling.” And with that, she drew a sword, and was over the railing.
But as it happened, a few Powers, some sly ones, had managed to sneak onto the lower deck.
They saw the three tiny children, all alone, all play
“Which is it, the male of the female?” asked one Power.
“Who cares? Get them all.”
There was a little dark-haired boy, pulling strings on a tiny old-fashioned wooden dancing figure. The angel loomed near.
“Pway?” inquired the boy, as the angel approached. And then the angel was no longer approaching. Quite to his own surprise, he was dancing.
The boy burbled with happy laughter. As the little wooden figure did a jig, so did the angel. And he was soon joined in the dance by two of his fellow soldiers, dancing and dancing.
And then the dark haired little girl knelt beside the boy. She carefully wound up a tiny metal figure, which she sat down on the deck. A tiny paladin, a knight in shining armor, proudly rode down the deck, mounted on his little metal steed.
The clattering got louder. And louder. As he approached the Powers, he seemed to grow. And grow. He grew to man sized, and then more, the shiny metal of his sword flashing as he approached the angels, blade raised high....
And then there was a Power who was rather sneakier than the rest, slinking along the deck in back of where the children played, carefully tiptoeing towards the little curly-haired one. He was obviously a stupid boy, sitting and reading a book.
The Power stooped. He snatched.
“Wead?” asked the stupid boy, cheerily pointing to his book.
The Power frowned, flapping green-gold wings in irritation. He peered at the book, and, quite against his will, was intrigued. It was a picture of him, holding the blond child, and reading the book over the boy's shoulder. Accurate to every detail, with one very large exception: behind the angel, a large, ugly monster was opening its drooling jaws, reaching out a clawed hand, ready to snatch, ready to chomp down.
The Power suddenly dropped the book and the child. Was that hot breath he felt at the back of his neck?
A bit later, Breagan leapt back on deck. There was angel blood on her sword.
“Well, looks like you've had a time of it,” she said, toeing the bodies of some Powers who were now sprawled on the deck. She knelt down beside one. “This one's not injured!” she said.
“Faw down!” Liam told her. Abby and Elias nodded.
“Just fainted, hmmm? Well, some people have no constitution for war.”
The great grey angelic battleship had come into range.
Abruptly, more abruptly than you might have imagined, the chubby airship Polypus Rubra engaged some kind of braking system, and came crashing to a strange mid-air halt.
Gabriel, who had been paying attention to the battle, but not his surroundings, looked up in surprise.
“Has it gotten dark?”
They had flown through a dream, through time and space and dimensions.
And now, they had arrived at a gate.
It was a lovely wrought iron affair, with inlays to look like a musical staff.
A grey figure stood in front of the gate, flanked by two demons.
“Welcome, everyone, to the fifth circle of Hell!” announced the courtly Phanuel the Grey. “I am so glad to have. Company. Would anybody like … refreshment?”
And here he held up a delicious looking pack of Dethklok Hell Fries.
“I've heard my little canapes have become. Quite popular. Amongst. A certain clientele,” continued the Seraph, munching on a crispy fry. “THOSE OF YOU WHO HAVE PARTAKEN MY FOOD. Won't you. Come join us?”
There were screams among the host. Suddenly, compelled by a sad, sorry history of noshing on what turned out to be cursed potato snacks, dozens upon dozens of the Goddess's warrior angels abandoned their positions, and flew, wailing, towards the Gates of Hell.
Every angel among Her host who had surreptitiously sneaked off for a visit to a certain fast food joint was now compelled, by a very old but very strict law, to follow the Lord of Hell, Phanuel's bidding.
They abandoned chariots, dropped swords, bows and arrows, and fled to the gates.
And out of the great, grey battleship, more angels poured. A great portion of her crew. In fact, almost all of her crew.
“Whoa,” said Charles, who was standing at the gate, next to Phanuel. He flapped his slivery demon wings with pleasure. “No wonder we've tripled our revenue this quarter!” Even in victory, he could not put aside thoughts of his bread and butter. Or rather, fries and ketchup.
“They are tasty little things,” allowed Phanuel, grinning at the herd of angels now sailing past, into damnation.
“Thanks, father,” said Raziel, giving her own bat-like, dark demon wings an impatient flap. “Now, we gotta get going.”
“Yes,” agreed Phanuel. “Go trounce that albino bahstard. Oh, and if you have a chance,” he said, waving a fry, “Would you consider. Bringing back. Some secret. Sauce?”
Inside Her great angelic battleship: chaos.
There simply weren't enough angels left to man the vessel. Under the compelling spell of the Hell food, they had all abandoned ship.
And now what few remained were also going to have to abandon. The giant ship was going down, not with a bang, but with a whimper.
Uriah, red-faced, turned to the Ophanim in the control room, spinning fire, as they always did.
“You didn't know about this trick?” he demanded. The response was only hissing.
He seized a terrified Cherub who was passing by, fleeing before the ship went down. “Translate! Translate what I said.”
The Cherub spoke to the Ophanim in Common Angelic. A language Uriah had never bothered to learn.
One of the Ophanim hissed back. There was an exchange.
“What are you saying?” Uriah shouted, shaking the Cherub.
“Venerated Brother,” whispered the Cherub, voice trembling. “All they will say is that you destroyed their great library.”
Uriah released the Cherub, who immediately fled.
“You bastards. You knew? You led us into a trap? OVER BOOKS?” sputtered Uriah.
The fiery Ophanim spun. Were they mocking him? And then they too were gone, with hisses that sounded much too much like cackles, Uriah learning the lesson, much too late, never to fuck with librarians.
He growled and pushed his way out of the sinking ship, knocking Cherub and Powers and whatever else aside on his way. There would be blood. And he knew whose.
He burst out to the giant, jaw-like door in the very forward of the sinking ship, and stood for a time, overlooking the end of the battle.
“Hey, Uriah! Looking for someone?”
Uriah turned, startled, and looked up, grinning his shark grin. He couldn't believe his luck. That idiot, Sariel, was standing on the hull. It was as if he had a death wish.
Uriah wanted to fly to him. But no, he must be patient! He had waited too long. He wouldn't finish Sariel off all at once. He quieted his mind, closed his eyes, and raised a hand. He would take some of Sariel's lovely power from him, just enough to weaken him. Arrogant little bastard.
He opened his eyes. Confused.
Nothing.
“Hey! Don't worry, just try again!” mocked Sariel.
Uriah glowered. All right, he probably wasn't pulling hard enough. He closed his eyes and raised both hands.
And pulled.
What the hell?
“Don't worry, Uriah, sometimes you just can't get it up!”
His eyes snapped open again. Raziel! She grinned at him.
And flapped her demon wings.
“This power isn't from the Creator. This is from my dad!” she told him, hooking a thumb back at the wings.
“You can't grab it!” said Sariel.
Yes, thought Uriah. Lord of Hell.
There would be blood.
Infuriated, he True Formed to his hulking Seraph Form, bursting out three pairs of terrifying wings. He ignited his sword. And he flew at them.
There was an unholy roar.
Skwisgaar, as if in a trance, was winding out the solo of his life.
Angels
Darkening the sky
Wait 'til
We get you to die
Some kind of curse has made you follow us all here
Waitl til you find the thing that opens up your fear
Powers
You don't understand
Your death
Will be by your own hand
And evil fate is waiting just beyond the door
We all await seeing you broken on the floor
Your can't cop a plea
You answer to me
You all answer to me
Your lives are all forfeit to me......
Far down below, in the fifth circle of hell, the gate began to glow with magic.
Phanuel smiled and licked special sauce from an elegant fingertip.
“You bastard! You tricked us!”
Phanuel smiled at Gabriel. “Why, hello. Old friend.”
“Eating your food. How were they to know it was Hell food? It's against the rules! It must be against the rules!”
“My nephew is. An awfully clever fellow,” Phanuel noted. “A lawyer. As well as a businessman. I am proud. You could say.”
“It's cheating,” complained Gabriel.
“No, he assures me, it is completely within. The Law.” Phanuel downed another deep fried morsel. “But I apologize, my manners have abandoned me, old friend. Won't you try? They are quite agreeable. In the secret sauce.”
Gabriel rolled his eyes, but, as a polite guest, took a french fry from the Facebones-decked cardboard container the grey Seraph had proffered and obediently dipped it in secret sauce.
“Yeah, I guess it's-” Gabriel looked up, suddenly choking.
Phanuel, smile on his face, was politely beckoning him within the gates.
“Bastard!” screamed Gabriel, as he too whirled into Hell.
“Brave, but tragically stupid,” tutted Phanuel, as he licked salt from the bottom of the empty container.
Above the hull of the sinking warship, three angels flew.
Flying – he liked flying like this.
Demons couldn't control their body weight like angels could. They flew on wing power alone. It was a physical effort, but Sariel had always been slight of body, and this way, you didn't need to keep thinking about your weight. You could keep your attention on what mattered: stabbing the fuck out of the other guy.
Demon wings. This was the first time he felt comfortable fighting and flying.
Uriah was being annoying, though. As Raziel had observed, he was one who was usually likely to make stupid risky moves. But he'd gotten cautious at some point. He would jab at them, and then wrap himself in his three pairs of wings and whirl around. He was quite impervious to swords – even flaming ones – or to Sariel's cutting power.
“What are we gonna do?” he asked Raziel at one point.
“I dunno. Wear 'em down?”
“Wear down a fucking Seraph?”
“Make 'em mad?” Raziel proposed.
“He's already mad.”
“Naw, I got it!”
“Wait, Raziel....”
“Hey, Uriah!” she was already shouting. “I brought my hatbox! It's empty!”
Uriah produced a low guttering growl and launched himself at Raziel, who merrily dove out of the way before she went after him. A mistake. Uriah had made a mistake.
Charles raised his sword.
“Sariel?”
Charles stopped, startled by the familiar voice.
“Sariel! Help me!”
He turned. It couldn't be.
“Sariel!” It was Raziel. “Now!”
But he looked down instead to the sinking war ship.
Dark hair and eyes.
Reaching her little hand up towards him.
His only friend in the world.
“SARIEL!” Raziel's voice came from a different universe, a different dream.
Naked and alone, abandoned on a new world. And she had been his first friend. His only friend.
He had to save her.
He dove for the deck, reaching out for her hand.
Almost there.
And then the pain. A pain like he'd never experienced. A fire in his side. He slumped bleeding, rolling on his back. Uriah above him now, sword raised for the killing blow.
The world grew grey..... There was a scream.
Nathan didn't know how: he didn't see it, as his back was to them, and he sure as hell didn't hear anything over the sonic din that was Dethklok in full thrash.
But something changed, and he knew.
Sometimes he would see stuff when they were playing. Well, not really see. It was more stuff that would flash in the corner of your eye, and later you weren't sure whether you'd seen anything at all, or it was just the lights blinding you, or maybe something Pickles sneaked into your beer.
But this time, here, tonight....
Toki wasn't Toki any more. He was something splendid, and feathered, hovering over them all on the stage.
And Murderface had turned into something so dark, he sucked all the light out of his corner, pulling it all back to earth.
And Pickles wasn't Pickles: he was a god, with as many arms as he had tom-toms, beating in a crazy syncopation.
And as for Skwisgaar: he had stopped! Right in the middle of a number! While everyone else continued pouring out chaos, Skwisgaar suddenly ripped off his prized guitar, his beautiful new guitar, seized it by the neck, and pitching it high above his head, brought it down onstage with a terrific smash – a smash so loud, you could hear it over Toki's caterwauling and Murderface's throbbing and Pickles' terrible clatter.
And again.
And again.
Again.
Again.
To parts. To splinters. To sawdust.
Uriah's scream was bloodcurdling.
Blood everywhere.
He whipped around, tried to cover himself with his one remaining flight wing.
Raziel above him, demon wings spread full, sword ablaze, quivering with righteous anger.
“My wing!” he screamed.
“And now your life, you bastard!” she screamed, coming at him.
But then slim arms were around his waist. The little girl, who was not the little girl at all, was pulling. Pulling him away, far away, to another universe.
“COME BACK HERE MOM YOU BITCH!” Raziel yelled. But She was gone, taking what was left of Uriah with her.
Cursing, Raziel flew to Charles' side. “Are you-” she asked. But she needn't have completed the sentence.
Blood everywhere.
“Get you to Ganesh. Now.” she said, pulling him up. “And STAY THE FUCK ALIVE!”
And then somewhere down below, there was a creaking.
The gates of hell were drawing shut, sealing in the angelic warriors, binding with a magic that was too strong to bend, too powerful to break.
Death metal magic.
Up aboard the Polypus Rubra, Nathan looked around, amazed. His band mates – they weren't human. None of them. They had stopped playing, all of them, and were gathered at the lip of the stage on the lido deck, as if waiting for a curtain call.
And then the tremendous crashing. The giant warship had finally met the ground. It flared and thundered, and finally howled with a tremendous fiery explosion.
“Whoa, that's pretty fucking cool light show,” Nathan allowed.
“I could use a beer,” Pickles laughed, flourishing many hands.
Nathan looked around, slightly sourly. They all had wings and arms, and even Skwisgaar – dude was like glowing or something.
Nathan looked at his own hands. “Why the fuck didn't I get cool?”
“You ams cool, dude,” chuckled Skwisgaar, who for once didn't have a guitar to finger.
“Yeah, bro, you're Nathan,” said Murderface.
“What ams dat?” asked Toki, pointing upwards to a strange four-winged flying beast.
Nathan squinted upwards.
“That'sch two people!” said Murderface.
“Shit!” said Nathan, and he was running down the deck.
Blood everywhere.. At first, Ganesh wasn't sure who was injured. Raziel was covered: Charles' blood, Uriah's blood.
“Lay him down. Right here,” said Ganesh. Demon wings folded out everywhere. Evidently injury didn't knock you out of a demonic Form, Ganesh thought, because he was trying not to think of other things.
Don't think, just do.
It was too late for mortal medicine. Ganesh's practiced hands were shaking as he put them along the ragged gash in Charles' side. He closed his eyes, muttering incantations as Charles' pale form went ever paler, white and cold as marble.
Dethklok, still sweating and in stage makeup, ran up from the lido deck.
“Don't leave me,” Ganesh whispered. It was apparent even to those beings who were not blessed with magical sight that he was pouring every last scrap of magic into the healing.
The angel grew pale. The heartbeats fainter.
“Is he gonna-” asked Nathan.
“No,” said Raziel, her arms crossed, her clothes soaked in his blood. “No.”
“Sariel,” said Ganesh. It was a whisper. A plea. A prayer.
A heart beat. And then no more.
Silence.
“DON'T LEAVE ME.”
It was like an electric shock. Charles was sitting upright, looking very confused.
“Sariel,” whispered Ganesh. The elephant god smiled. And then sank to his knees in a faint.
“Crap!” said Charles. He jumped off the table to support Ganesh.
“You'll rip.... Your stitches....” Ganesh muttered.
“I don't have any stitches!”
“He's just ran himself outta magic, let's get him up,” said Raziel, motioning to Charles and Nathan. They brought Ganesh up to his feet. Raziel gripped two of his hands. “OK, stand clear,” she warned.
It was as Charles had seen before when Raziel did the magical battery thing – as if both she and Ganesh were in the center of a static-charged field.
And then....
“Holy crap!” said Charles.
“Whoa,” said Nathan.
“That was unexpected,” said Raziel.
Ganesh, who was now standing under his own power, looked curiously over his back, and tentatively flapped his large pair of dark demon wings.
He frowned. “I adored this shirt!” he said,” regarding the tatters of his designer wear.
“Yeah, wings'll do that,” said Charles.
“WHY DOES EVERYBODY GET TO BE A DEMON BUT ME!” Nathan wailed.
“You know, I am not entirely certain – how do I get rid of these?” asked Ganesh.
“Why would you want to?” asked Nathan.
“Else I will never be able to wear couture!” sighed Ganesh.
“You just get out of True Form,” explained Charles.
“I don't have a True Form!”
“Ganesh,” said Raziel. “You realize Sariel nearly died and now you're bitching about your shirt?”
Ganesh blinked, his eyes teary. “I really liked that shirt,” he said, suddenly grasping Charles to himself with many arms, and then also wrapping him inside the large, dark wings.
“I want demon wings. Raz, dude, can't you buzz me? Just a little?” pleaded Nathan.
“No,” said Raziel.
“They're kind of a pain in the assch,” confessed Murderface, flapping his own dark wings.
“Something not blood-soaked,” said Raziel.
“I'm not sure if I brought anything else,” said Charles.
“I packed stuff for you. Just check in your stateroom.”
“Oh, fuck, not designer crap.”
“Sariel, you nearly died, and now you're whining about dressing up? YOU GOT BLOOD ON MY STELLA MCCARTNEY!”
“Who the FUCK fights in a designer outfit?” wailed Charles, as they stood together on the deck.
“I wanna look cute,” grinned Raziel.
“You saved me,” said Sariel.
“Wasn't the first time. And don't you DARE try to hug me!”
“I wouldn't,” said Charles.
They regarded each other for a moment. Raziel, sighed and, grabbing his arm, gave him a quick kiss on the cheek. “I'm glad you're OK, Little Brother. Now, let's get changed and get your damned kid named.”
Charles nodded as Raziel went belowdecks.
“Pretty fancy!” Charles turned his head to the sound of the familiar voice. There was an angel sitting up above him on the forecastle.
“Azazel,” grinned Nick Ibsen, lazily flapping his wings. “At your service.”
“Oh!” said Charles, as the realization suddenly hit him. He spread his own silvery demon wings and lofted up to sit beside Ibsen. “You were one of the first!”
“Could never resist a dame!” Ibsen laughed.
“But I thought you partnered with Lucifer?” Charles asked.
“He's a jerk. Never thought he could be brought down though. Wotan is one calculating bastard.”
“He is.”
“So, Ganesh didn't tell you?” asked Ibsen.
“He takes the doctor patient confidentiality thing pretty seriously. You know. There's a lot of stuff I'd like to ask you.”
“I'm sure there is,” laughed Ibsen. “But I've been told, as an interview subject, I'm a pretty close-mouthed bastard.”
“You know Wotan's hobby, don't you?” asked Charles. Ibsen shook his head. “Single malt. And cigars.”
“Ha! I knew he was a man of taste!” said Ibsen.
“Look, I gotta go Name my kid now, but we'll talk?”
Ibsen grinned.
“French fries?” asked Papa Jacque, picking up a cardboard container. “My boy oughta be eating a motherfucking steak!”
Phanuel was contentedly sitting at a table piled with fast food, his granddaughter, Abby in his lap, the two boys seated nearby. “It is surprisingly. Tasty,” he said, proffering a container to the vodouisant.
Jacque tried a fry. “Could use some whiskey!” he concluded.
“Did you bring any whiskey, you old faker?” asked Phanuel.
Jacque grinned, sat down, pulling Elias into his lap, and took out a flask, which he shook into Phanuel's drink, as well as his own.
“None for you, young one,” Phanuel warned Liam, who was now reaching towards his grandfather's drink.
“Maybe later,” grinned Jacque, winking towards Liam.
“Seegar?” asked Elias.
“Whatever have you been teaching them?” laughed Phanuel.
“My uncle has started growing impatient that the ceremony get underway,” Ganesh told them as he walked up. He was wearing a clean suit and, somehow – probably the irresistible lure of couture – he was back to his human Form.
“Tell that old red cocksucker he's a big red motherfucker,” suggested Jacque, to a rather rude snort from Phanuel.
“I am certain he knows this,” sighed Ganesh.
“And my boy,” said Jacque.
“He is quite recovered,” said Ganesh. Jacque nodded. “But, er....”
“What is it boy, spit it out?”
“Whatever it is you're spiking those Dethsodas with? Could I have a taste?”
Jacque grinned and reached for the flask.
“Wisk, Dada?” inquired Elias.
“As your father says, not until you have reached age 147,” said Ganesh.
“Shri Brahma Vishnu Maheshwara Elias Ogoun Sen Michel,” said Brahma from the stage on the lido deck as the assembled crowd watched politely but impatiently. They were all rather in the mood to get back to drinking, and Elias had a quite long, complicated name.
“Uh-huh!” cheerfully agreed Elias as Raziel bounced him on a hip.
“You are to be Lord of the Dance,” Brahma continued.
“Uh-huh! Boonie wike a dance!” Elias agreed.
As the crowd chuckled softly, Brahma frowned, obviously unused to being interrupted by the object of his Naming.
“And Protector of the Earth,” continued Great Brahma.
“Uh-huh!” agreed Elias.
“What?” said Ganesh, who was standing nearby.
“Wasn't that a 70s TV cartoon?” asked Charles, who had cleaned up and gone back to his Court Form.
“We didn't agree to this, Uncle,” said Ganesh.
“That was the will of the family,” Brahma told him.
“What?” said Charles.
“I am a member of this family,” grumbled Ganesh.
“No, Dada!” said Elias, wriggling down from Raziel. “Boonie pwotect!” he said, tugging on Charles' pantleg.
Charles looked down and ruffled Elias' tousled hair. “Just a minute, Boon.”
“No, Dada!” said Boon. “Boonie pwotect da Dadas!” He gestured towards Raziel. “An Boonie pwotect Wantie Was, and Wunky Wote!” He gestured at his cousins, “An Boonie pwotect Yabb an Yeem!”
“Elias-” said Ganesh.
“An Boonie pwotect Wunky Bwama. He big! An Wantie Sarasbatti!”
“Brahma, he's not a protector of anything, he's a kid!” Charles told Brahma.
“It was the request. Of the Old Ones,” Brahma told him.
Elias had now toddled off the small stage, and was going through the assembled crowd. “An Boonie powtect Defkwok! An Wunky Nate-Nate, an Wunky Tok, an Wunky Willem, an Wunky Bicka, an Swisser!”
“The Old Ones?” said Ganesh.
“We are all of the earth now,” said Brahma.
“An Boonie pwotect Papa Zhak! An Boonie pwotect Gamma Babatti!” Liam and Abby exchanged a glance and True Formed, and then fluttered on their little wings after their cousin as he walked.
“He can't do it, Brahma!” said Charles. “He won't! I won't have it!”
“An Boonie pwotect Unky Phan. An Unky Baseidun! An Boonie pwotect Bisnu! An Boonie pwotect Tsango an Owoola! An Boonie pwotect Legba!”
“It isn't your choice,” said Brahma.
“I'm his fucking father,” said Charles. “He's gonna do your dance shit. And be a kid!”
“An Boonie pwotect Skuwd, an Urd, an Bewdandy. An Boonie pwotect Spider Gamma. An Boonie pwotect Hon an Kwahu, an da Koowi....”
“Boon!” said Charles, marching down into the crowd.
“An Boonie pwotect Bie, an Boonie pwotect Tam, an Boonie pwotect Z, an Boonie pwotect Sike, an Boonie pwotect Abalon, and Boonie pwotect....”
“A Naming child running off, such nonsense,” muttered Great Brahma, striding after Charles.
“An Boonie pwotect Suwt, and Boonie pwotect Pewe....”
“Elias!” said Charles. “Stop that.”
“Yes, come back here,” fumed Brahma.
“Charles,” said Nick Ibsen, who was standing nearby.
“What?”
“We haven't received his blessing yet.”
“HIS WHAT?” said Charles. “Nick! He's a toddler! He can't pronounce the letter R yet! He can't give blessings.”
“Sariel.” Ganesh's voice was quiet. Charles blinked, surprised that he had transformed to his elephant god Form.
“Uncle Brahma,” Ganesh continued. “Our son is performing his first duties in his new role. I would say we let him continue.”
Charles gulped, but nodded sadly.
Elias cheerfully continued, his cousins following him.
Nick Ibsen, who was back to his Court Form, had knelt down before him.
“An Boonie pwotect Unkynik...”
“Thank you, Boon,” said Nick Ibsen, standing and wiping a tear.
“Uh-huh!” said Elias.
Ganesh offered an arm. “He's so small,” Charles whispered to him.
“We're here for him,” said Ganesh. And so the strange procession followed after the child, until he had Named each and every passenger and crew member, knowing all of them by name, not making any mistakes.
Some hours later, inside their stateroom, Ganesh smiled indulgently, his son splayed out in his lap, snoring that ridiculous angel snore. Ganesh's leg had long since gone to sleep, but he found he didn't mind. The boy was now learning at an incredible pace: a brace of new words seemed to pop up every day. But it was quite pleasant to have the wordless moments as well, even if they weren't exactly what one could describe as quiet.
Ganesh, who remained in his elephant god Form, reached out his trunk, lightly tickling the sleeping boy on the bit of belly that bulged out between his pants and shirt. He giggled softly in his sleep, and then, as Ganesh had wished, curled into a slightly more compact position. However, it did not let up the pressure on Ganesh's leg.
Sariel breezed into the room. “He looks comfortable!” he said of Elias.
“I certainly hope so. My leg's gone dead for the past twenty minutes,” smiled Ganesh.
Sariel stopped and bent over the boy, seeming to be listening. “He's out. You could put him down to bed.”
“No, I don't think so.”
“Why not?”
Ganesh stirred, trying to move his numb leg without disturbing Elias. “Because. It will happen faster than you expect. Very soon. They grow too big to fit in your lap any more. Ever again.”
Sariel stood for a time, his head cocked.
And then, in a blink, he was sitting on the couch, next to Ganesh, gently tugging Elias into his own lap. Elias briefly stirred, and then went back to sawing angel wood.
“OK. All right. Until your leg comes back,” Sariel told Ganesh.
It was a few days later. And Nathan Explosion, as was his custom, was nestled into a couch at Mordhaus, staring at the television.
The screen showed two nearly identical men, each standing at a podium.
“And I say your titanium tax goes to far!” said the one.
“And I say it doesn't go far enough!” bleated the other.
“Soooooo,” said Nathan. “That Goddess chick is no longer running for president?”
“No, Nathan,” said Charles. “Her entire campaign staff, uh, unexpectedly quit.”
“Unexpectedly?” asked Nathan.
“Inexplicably,” echoed Ganesh.
“So, I don't have to run any more?” asked Nathan.
“No. No you don't.”
“Well, that's a fucking relief.” Nathan cast his eyes back to the television. “So, it's just these two guys?”
“Yep.”
“You think they would, you know, wear a different tie or something?”
“You would think they would. Yeah.”
“Huh. You mind if I change the channel to celebrity mud wrestling instead?”
“No. Not at all.”
The general waited impatiently in the meeting room. It had been such a long time since he had been called here.
It wasn't something he tended to think about, but if he had thought about it, he would have wondered. But, oddly, he never thought about it.
He stood. He hadn't seen or heard anything, but somehow, he knew.
Coming down the corridor. He was too big to be a man. Something, oddly, no one ever remarked upon.
He was … changed somehow. Crozier wasn't exactly certain how. It wasn't just that he had one beefy arm wrapped up in a sling.
And two steps behind, ever two steps behind, his mad friend.
“Well,” said Selatcia, easing his bulk into a seat. “Let's get down to business.”
“Sariel?”
The angel was drowsing on his chest, wrapped in so many arms. He hadn't really protested about it tonight.
“Mmmm?”
“When you were.... When you were hurt....”
“Mmmmm-hmmmm?”
Ganesh ground his teeth. It made him shiver, even to think about it. But he couldn't help himself. He was a curious creature.
“Where did you go?”
“Nowhere.”
“Nowhere?”
There were eyes blinking at him now. The Court Formed green ones. “I was waiting for you. I knew you'd call.”
“You were.... You can do that?”
“Mmmm-hmmm. I said I'd come back. I'll always come back. For you. You smell reeeeeeally good.” And then there was the not at all soft sound of an angel snore.
“Well. Huh,” said Ganesh. Who thought about it – but not too hard – as he drifted off himself.
Author: tikistitch
Rating: PG-13
Summary: More cruisin' with our big angel pals!
Warnings: Fast food.
Notes: Notes after the jump.
Mythklok is a known cure for male pattern baldness. OK, maybe not.
Last time: we set off on a cruise. Hopefully not the three hour kind. Uncle Visnhu was all pissy because he didn't get to bring his dancing elephants, but then he got to do a Barry Manilow filk, which I think pleased him. But THEN the angels showed up. Who invited those guys? And there was a cool battle, and then Pickles fell. But, he got better.
Also: this is part of two of two.
The Archangel Gabriel regarded the fiery spinning wheels with a jaundiced eye. He had never trusted Ophanim, all tucked away underground, hoarding their precious … books. Idiots!
There were three of them now in the huge grey airship's control room, hovering ever close to Uriah. They were traitors, all of them. Once they had worked in Valhalla, in Mordhaus, in the Royal Palace of the Imperial City, curating the stolen Angelic texts kept in those places. Their resentment, Uriah had explained, over the plundering of their heritage by the respective parties had caused them to switch sides.
“Over books?” Gabriel had demanded. “Dusty old stories? Who cares about them?”
Uriah glared at him. “Oughtn't you pay attention to marshaling your troops, Gabriel?”
Gabriel glowered back.
He had a bad feeling about this.
Aboard the Polypus Rubra, they had started to emerge from belowdecks, mortals and immortals both, when the angelic attack seemed over. But then, upon the appearance of the great looming battleship, yet more straggled out. It was awesome. And terrifying. And impossible to look away from.
At the prow, what would have been the large grinning mouth had the thing actually been a shark, there was what seemed to be a gap, a hollow.
And out the hollow, now, angels flew. Leagues and leagues of angels. Green and yellow wings. Riding golden chariots. Further darkening the sky.
A group of mortal immortals – rock gods they were – now all stood in a motley group at the railing.
“I ain't never seen so many angels before,” said Pickles.
“Hey, that's a pretty badass bandage!” noted Nathan, peering at the red-stained white cloth now circling Pickles' head. “We should all get badass bandages!”
“I gaht a bandage becuz I wuz injured!” Pickles protested.
“Yeah?”
“Yeh! In a hair-raisin', death defyin', last-minnit epic rescoo!”
Nathan frowned. “How do you know if was so cool if you were UNCONSCIOUS the whole time?” he asked suspiciously, though he was also smiling ever so slightly.
“It wuz cool! Raz plucked me outta da sky! She sed so, dood!”
“But nobody actually saw this?” Nathan teased.
“Wul....”
“Ja, dat Raz, you knows,” Skwisgaar, his slim, nimble fingers plucking at guitar strings. “Sometimes, she ams exaggeratsing!”
“SHE AIN'T EXAGGERATIN'!”
“Sche's probably conschidered herschelf to be truthful,” Murderface allowed.
“From a certain point of view,” jibed Nathan.
“But DOODS! I FELL-! I WUZ-! YOO DON'T-!”
“Pardon me, Masters,” put in a burly hooded figure who had been strolling by.
“Hey, PIE!” said Nathan, using the nickname for Charles' Klokateer receptionist, whose Gear number happened to be 31415.
“I could not help but overhear you discussion. I apologize for intruding, but would you perhaps be interesting in viewing my vehicle's video of the incident in question?”
“You got tape?” asked Nathan. “FUCK YEAH!” Pickles frowned and frankly looked a bit pale, but with the rest on the band, leaned over to better view the small screen on Pie's Dethphone.
“Here they are both still falling,” Pie narrated. “Still falling. Still falling. You can see at this point, the ground has come quite close. Still falling. Still falling.... And here is where the Lady Raziel at last converts to her winged Form and at dives to intercept Master Pickles. Notice how they appear to be still fated to crash upon the ground.... Oh dear!” The last was said as Toki had fainted dead away, possibly from the terrible suspense of it all.
“We need to get Ganesch over here,” chuckled Murderface, who was not being terribly compassionate about the whole thing.
“Aw, c'mon, he's OK,” said Nathan. Pickles helpfully poured the remainder of his beer over the unconscious guitarist's head, causing Toki to sputter and blink. “See, he's great!”
“Ams Pickle OK?” asked Toki.
“Naw, dood, I died,” Pickles reported with a laugh. Which caused Toki to once again fade away.
“Pickle, you shoulds quits horsings around!” Skwisgaar scolded.
Nathan looked grimly at Pickles' empty glass. “Damn! We're out OUT OF BEER!”
“Passengers and crew aboard the Polypus Rubra!” The band, including Toki, who had now reawakened after being splashed with a bit of after-shave, looked up at the amplified voice. The band made its way over to where Captain Aubrey, Wotan, Raziel, Charles and Ganesh were now standing together at the railing.
It was the Goddess, in all Her glory, riding on a golden chariot, surrounded by hosts of angels. Mounts snorted, and yellow and green wings flashed. Uriah stood at Her side, broad arms crossed. Just in back of her, riding in another splendid vehicle, the Archangel Gabriel, who may have looked worried.
“We have only one request,” She boomed. “Give up the children. And Sariel. And we can end this in a nonviolent manner.”
“FUCK. YOU. BITCH.”
The group by the railing turned in surprise at Ganesh, who had actually made the deck vibrate with his anger. Nathan grinned and whacked the glowering elephant god on the shoulder.
“We have a counter-offer,” Wotan shouted back. “Leave. Now. And you live. For now.”
The charioteer riding with Her turned and muttered, audible over Her live microphone, “That sounds like kind of a crap deal.” Uriah glared, and the angelic charioteer suddenly shrugged and straightened up.
“Hey! Whoever does your PA is a fucking idiot!” All now turned to see the figure of Nick Ibsen, arm in arm with his date, Bunny, laughing at the railing.
The Goddess seemed taken aback for a moment. “You! What are you doing here?”
“I was invited!” laughed Ibsen.
“You invited yourself, more likely!”
“Well, she got that part right at least,” Charles whispered to Ganesh.
“Enough of this!” She snorted. “Do you surrender?”
“Bit my schiny metal assch!”
“Oh, hey, that's a good one,” Nathan told Murderface.
“It's one of Dick'sch favoritesch, and he couldn't be here,” explained the bassist.
“I HAVE JUST ONE THING TO SAY TO YOU!” It was now Charles, actually standing up on the railing, where no proper being really had a right to stand.
“What do you want, Sariel?” She hissed, as Uriah leaned over, licking his lips.
“HIT THE DECK!”
For once in their lives, Dethklok listened to their manager.
There was a terrific noise. It sounded a lot like canon fire. That's because it was canon fire.
With horrifying screams, angels fell from the sky.
Flying out of the sun, the two masted schooner, the Starlight Mermaid, dove at them.
“What are you waiting for, you dumb cocksucker? Arm canon!” shouted Papa Jacque, who was stalking irritably up and down the deck.
Elegba, standing nearby, waved a hand, magicking the artillery. “Give me a minute, dumbshit!” he growled.
“Fire two!' barked Papa Jacque.
“Shit,” muttered Gabriel. The Goddess and Uriah had already turned, running back to the ship, leaving Gabriel to mount the charge. And then he shouted, “Hold the line! Form up, we'll make short work of these ninnies.”
He jumped, as did his lieutenants, at the terrible roar from behind.
Up, out of the clouds: a submarine, sides flashing yellowy in the sun.
“Oh, clusterfuck,” muttered Gabriel.
“Arm torpedoes!” barked Poseidon over the com, though, indeed, he probably did not need any artificial amplification of his magnificent voice within the submarine which had just come up out of the other sun.
Chango did a little dance before the torpedo tubes, and, twirling he feather boa as a flourish, nodded to Orula.
“We are fission forward, mon capitain!” Orula told the intercom.
“Well, whatever the fuck that means,” muttered Poseidon. “Fire torpedoes!” he ordered.
“It's about fucking time, you dumb motherfucker!” crackled Papa Jacque's voice.
“Fuck you, you motherfucking cocksucker,” rejoindered Poseidon.
Back in the control room on the the Polypus Ruber Charles listened to the interplay over the radio. “Master strategists,” he laughed. “Papa, will you fucking listen?” he said over the com.
“Is my good for nothing son there!” barked Jacque. “What do you want, you little motherfucker?”
“I wanna say,” and then Charles yelled something in Common Angelic.
“Aye, same to you!” growled Papa Jacque's crackly voice.
“Same over twice,” agreed Poseidon.
Charles' grin only grew.
“'Suck my angelic dick' is the signal?” laughed Ganesh.
“Needed something we all recognized,” Charles told him. “Captain, you got that?”
Captain Aubrey grinned and shouted orders.
Suddenly, two great slot-like hatches, one on either side of the great airship, opened up, and struts extended. The struts fanned slowly but surely out into a pair of fragile-seeming golden wings. The wings had what looked like several giant golden pods all lined up underneath.
Jet engines.
The engines whirred to life, and, after a cry of “Hard aport! Full speed ahead!” from the captain, the airship suddenly burst off as the air battle sounded behind them.
The ship was not a bumblebee after all. It was a wasp. And on a mad dash to … somewhere.
“Nathan?”
“Yeah, what?” said Nathan, who had been mesmerized – as were, to be fair, most everyone on deck – at the extension of the wings. He turned from the railing to face his manager.
“Get your shit together. You guys are playing. Now,” Charles told him.
“Dude. We're playing in the middle of a fucking war?”
“Yes, exactly.”
“AWESOME!” said Nathan. “Hey, guys, GET YOUR SHIT TOGETHER!”
But Charles was already off running down the deck. “You got this, Breagan?”
The red haired goddess was sitting on the deck, plying at a toy helicopter with a screwdriver. “Babysitting ain't the worst job, darlin'!” she told him as the three children hovered around, staring in fascination. “You just make sure to pay me your tenpence an hour! It's the going rate.”
Charles leaned over and kissed Elias on the top of his touseled head. “Daddy will be back very soon, OK?”
“Hewwicoptah, dada!” said Elias. “An BOOM!”
“Yes, it made a very nice boom.”
“You guys gonna be good?” Raziel, who had just walked up, addressed her twins.
“NO!” they blared in unison.
“Yeah, figures,” grinned Breagan.
“C'mon, we gotta hit it,” said Raziel, grabbing Charles' arm and dragging him off.
The Polypus Rubra shot through the dream sky, with, for quite an embarrassing amount of time, utterly no one in hot pursuit. The Goddess's great war ship was evidently taking a while, as big objects tend to do, in changing direction and setting off. Meanwhile, the schooner, the Starlight Mermaid and the submarine, Kitrino Ypovrychio, after causing much confusion amongst the angelic host by darting in and out of pink clouds, both took off after the Polypus Rubra.
Angelic charioteers, pushing their mounts to the limit, followed just behind.
“Here we go!” said Raziel to Charles. On the lower decks, Wotan and Ganesh stood by something that looked very much like a Lamborghini Gallardo Superleggera. Raziel released Charles' arm and went to walk around making a final inspection.
“Will you be alright?” Charles looked up at Ganesh, searching his face.
“With Raziel driving?” Charles croaked.
“You took your Dramamine,” Ganesh grinned.
“Do you have something that will knock me out?” he asked.
“Hurry up the goodbyes!” Raziel urged. Charles looked slightly green.
“I will see you soon, my dear,” Ganesh assured him giving him a quick kiss.
Raziel then manhandled Charles into the passenger seat, and, stopping to go up on her toes to kiss Wotan goodbye, jumped in and gunned the engine.
“Wait 'til I get my fucking seatbelt!” wailed Charles.
Then with a great smoking squeal of tires, the low slung car gunned off the deck, and shot out ahead, into the sky, like some crazy vehicular torpedo.
“Nothing like Italian engineering,” sighed Wotan. “Now, I see charioteers, are you mounted?”
Ganesh whistled and then looked around, confused. And then he let out a small cry of surprise.
He whirled around. “Ashva!” he scolded the black demon horse that had just goosed him. “It is time to quit playing around!” Ashva grinned a horsey grin. “Well, are you going to transform?” Ganesh asked irritably, tapping a foot.
Ashva stepped back, whinnyed with a snort of smoke from his demon nostrils, and quite suddenly had sprouted two fantastic black, bat-like wings.
“Never had a use for wings myself,” said Wotan, who had mounted the eight-legged Sleipnir. “Let's go fuck with some angels!” he urged, and with that, rode off the deck, into the sky.
Ganesh and Ashva regarded each other suspiciously. “Well, do you want fight angels? We could stay here and play chess. Only you would probably beat me!”
“Could you boys use some help?”
“Oh, hello Mr. Ibsen,” said Ganesh, flicking a last glare at his horse.
“Call me Nick,” said the newsman warmly. “It's not really my Name anyway.”
“I believe Sariel thought that you should seek safety within,” said Ganesh, aiming a hand at the cabin.
“You really don't tell him what you see, huh?”
Ganesh shrugged. “It depends on circumstances. At any rate, I am in haste. Did you wish to join the battle?”
Ibsen grinned.
Only it was no longer Ibsen.
“Do you require armaments?” asked Ganesh.
And then Ibsen-who-was-not Ibsen was holding an awfully big sword. “Oh, I brought a little something along, thanks.”
And, grinning at each other, the flew out to meet the pursuing angelic charioteers.
Nathan Explosion surveyed his band mates. He was accustomed to the guys getting keyed up before a gig. But he had never seen Skwisgaar so fucking intense. The Swede bent over the new guitar he'd gotten from Raziel's dad. Frankly, Nathan had never much seen how one guitar was any different from another – they all had pegs and strings, right? But, hey, these dudes got so fucking superstitious.
“Be cool, dude,” Nathan wisely counseled.
“Dis ams da big solos,” Skiwgaar muttered.
“They're always big solos.”
“Ja, mebbe.”
“Seriously, dude, who else would you rather be out there with?”
Skwisgaar stopped playing and peered up at the band mates now arrayed around him.
“Well....” he began. “Eric Sclapton ams better geetarist dan Toki, an' I ams always liked da lates John Bohnham's drummsing, an' Moiderface ams could learns somet'ing from Paul McCartnies, an' Roger Daltrey ams da quintessentials lead singers.”
There was a long moment's awkward silence.
“Huh?” said Nathan.
“Ja. But, I guess you assholes ams does in da pinches,” concluded Skwisgaar.
“Hey, great speech, let's go!” enthused Nathan.
Although the huge grey angelic battleship was still many leagues off, the swift angelic charioteers had reached the fleeing Polypus Rubra, and were now engaging.
The Starlight Mermaid and the Kitrino Ypovrychio, not as fleet, were somewhere behind.
Parvati, astride her great tiger, once again led her troops in battle. Elsewhere, Wotan and Ganesh engaged at close quarters, and Klokateers mounted on flying machines sent out deadly magicked torpedos.
From the deck, Great Brahma, in a move that would have made his poor nephew, Sariel, swoon in pain, greatly amused himself by tossing some of Auntie Sarasvati's pies at warrior angels who strayed too close.
One party of angels managed nonetheless to mount the starboard wing.
“BREAGAN!” The red haired goddess ran to the railing. “They're hitting the starboard engine!” Ganesh, astride Ashva, shouted. “We need a hand.”
“I'll be right there, love!” she shouted. She hunkered down and addressed the children, who all seemed memmerized by little toys. “You three little devils, you'll stay here? And do as I said?”
All three nodded solemnly. “Yes, Wantie Weagan!” answered Elias.
“All right, loves. I'll be back in a twinkling.” And with that, she drew a sword, and was over the railing.
But as it happened, a few Powers, some sly ones, had managed to sneak onto the lower deck.
They saw the three tiny children, all alone, all play
“Which is it, the male of the female?” asked one Power.
“Who cares? Get them all.”
There was a little dark-haired boy, pulling strings on a tiny old-fashioned wooden dancing figure. The angel loomed near.
“Pway?” inquired the boy, as the angel approached. And then the angel was no longer approaching. Quite to his own surprise, he was dancing.
The boy burbled with happy laughter. As the little wooden figure did a jig, so did the angel. And he was soon joined in the dance by two of his fellow soldiers, dancing and dancing.
And then the dark haired little girl knelt beside the boy. She carefully wound up a tiny metal figure, which she sat down on the deck. A tiny paladin, a knight in shining armor, proudly rode down the deck, mounted on his little metal steed.
The clattering got louder. And louder. As he approached the Powers, he seemed to grow. And grow. He grew to man sized, and then more, the shiny metal of his sword flashing as he approached the angels, blade raised high....
And then there was a Power who was rather sneakier than the rest, slinking along the deck in back of where the children played, carefully tiptoeing towards the little curly-haired one. He was obviously a stupid boy, sitting and reading a book.
The Power stooped. He snatched.
“Wead?” asked the stupid boy, cheerily pointing to his book.
The Power frowned, flapping green-gold wings in irritation. He peered at the book, and, quite against his will, was intrigued. It was a picture of him, holding the blond child, and reading the book over the boy's shoulder. Accurate to every detail, with one very large exception: behind the angel, a large, ugly monster was opening its drooling jaws, reaching out a clawed hand, ready to snatch, ready to chomp down.
The Power suddenly dropped the book and the child. Was that hot breath he felt at the back of his neck?
A bit later, Breagan leapt back on deck. There was angel blood on her sword.
“Well, looks like you've had a time of it,” she said, toeing the bodies of some Powers who were now sprawled on the deck. She knelt down beside one. “This one's not injured!” she said.
“Faw down!” Liam told her. Abby and Elias nodded.
“Just fainted, hmmm? Well, some people have no constitution for war.”
The great grey angelic battleship had come into range.
Abruptly, more abruptly than you might have imagined, the chubby airship Polypus Rubra engaged some kind of braking system, and came crashing to a strange mid-air halt.
Gabriel, who had been paying attention to the battle, but not his surroundings, looked up in surprise.
“Has it gotten dark?”
They had flown through a dream, through time and space and dimensions.
And now, they had arrived at a gate.
It was a lovely wrought iron affair, with inlays to look like a musical staff.
A grey figure stood in front of the gate, flanked by two demons.
“Welcome, everyone, to the fifth circle of Hell!” announced the courtly Phanuel the Grey. “I am so glad to have. Company. Would anybody like … refreshment?”
And here he held up a delicious looking pack of Dethklok Hell Fries.
“I've heard my little canapes have become. Quite popular. Amongst. A certain clientele,” continued the Seraph, munching on a crispy fry. “THOSE OF YOU WHO HAVE PARTAKEN MY FOOD. Won't you. Come join us?”
There were screams among the host. Suddenly, compelled by a sad, sorry history of noshing on what turned out to be cursed potato snacks, dozens upon dozens of the Goddess's warrior angels abandoned their positions, and flew, wailing, towards the Gates of Hell.
Every angel among Her host who had surreptitiously sneaked off for a visit to a certain fast food joint was now compelled, by a very old but very strict law, to follow the Lord of Hell, Phanuel's bidding.
They abandoned chariots, dropped swords, bows and arrows, and fled to the gates.
And out of the great, grey battleship, more angels poured. A great portion of her crew. In fact, almost all of her crew.
“Whoa,” said Charles, who was standing at the gate, next to Phanuel. He flapped his slivery demon wings with pleasure. “No wonder we've tripled our revenue this quarter!” Even in victory, he could not put aside thoughts of his bread and butter. Or rather, fries and ketchup.
“They are tasty little things,” allowed Phanuel, grinning at the herd of angels now sailing past, into damnation.
“Thanks, father,” said Raziel, giving her own bat-like, dark demon wings an impatient flap. “Now, we gotta get going.”
“Yes,” agreed Phanuel. “Go trounce that albino bahstard. Oh, and if you have a chance,” he said, waving a fry, “Would you consider. Bringing back. Some secret. Sauce?”
Inside Her great angelic battleship: chaos.
There simply weren't enough angels left to man the vessel. Under the compelling spell of the Hell food, they had all abandoned ship.
And now what few remained were also going to have to abandon. The giant ship was going down, not with a bang, but with a whimper.
Uriah, red-faced, turned to the Ophanim in the control room, spinning fire, as they always did.
“You didn't know about this trick?” he demanded. The response was only hissing.
He seized a terrified Cherub who was passing by, fleeing before the ship went down. “Translate! Translate what I said.”
The Cherub spoke to the Ophanim in Common Angelic. A language Uriah had never bothered to learn.
One of the Ophanim hissed back. There was an exchange.
“What are you saying?” Uriah shouted, shaking the Cherub.
“Venerated Brother,” whispered the Cherub, voice trembling. “All they will say is that you destroyed their great library.”
Uriah released the Cherub, who immediately fled.
“You bastards. You knew? You led us into a trap? OVER BOOKS?” sputtered Uriah.
The fiery Ophanim spun. Were they mocking him? And then they too were gone, with hisses that sounded much too much like cackles, Uriah learning the lesson, much too late, never to fuck with librarians.
He growled and pushed his way out of the sinking ship, knocking Cherub and Powers and whatever else aside on his way. There would be blood. And he knew whose.
He burst out to the giant, jaw-like door in the very forward of the sinking ship, and stood for a time, overlooking the end of the battle.
“Hey, Uriah! Looking for someone?”
Uriah turned, startled, and looked up, grinning his shark grin. He couldn't believe his luck. That idiot, Sariel, was standing on the hull. It was as if he had a death wish.
Uriah wanted to fly to him. But no, he must be patient! He had waited too long. He wouldn't finish Sariel off all at once. He quieted his mind, closed his eyes, and raised a hand. He would take some of Sariel's lovely power from him, just enough to weaken him. Arrogant little bastard.
He opened his eyes. Confused.
Nothing.
“Hey! Don't worry, just try again!” mocked Sariel.
Uriah glowered. All right, he probably wasn't pulling hard enough. He closed his eyes and raised both hands.
And pulled.
What the hell?
“Don't worry, Uriah, sometimes you just can't get it up!”
His eyes snapped open again. Raziel! She grinned at him.
And flapped her demon wings.
“This power isn't from the Creator. This is from my dad!” she told him, hooking a thumb back at the wings.
“You can't grab it!” said Sariel.
Yes, thought Uriah. Lord of Hell.
There would be blood.
Infuriated, he True Formed to his hulking Seraph Form, bursting out three pairs of terrifying wings. He ignited his sword. And he flew at them.
There was an unholy roar.
Skwisgaar, as if in a trance, was winding out the solo of his life.
Angels
Darkening the sky
Wait 'til
We get you to die
Some kind of curse has made you follow us all here
Waitl til you find the thing that opens up your fear
Powers
You don't understand
Your death
Will be by your own hand
And evil fate is waiting just beyond the door
We all await seeing you broken on the floor
Your can't cop a plea
You answer to me
You all answer to me
Your lives are all forfeit to me......
Far down below, in the fifth circle of hell, the gate began to glow with magic.
Phanuel smiled and licked special sauce from an elegant fingertip.
“You bastard! You tricked us!”
Phanuel smiled at Gabriel. “Why, hello. Old friend.”
“Eating your food. How were they to know it was Hell food? It's against the rules! It must be against the rules!”
“My nephew is. An awfully clever fellow,” Phanuel noted. “A lawyer. As well as a businessman. I am proud. You could say.”
“It's cheating,” complained Gabriel.
“No, he assures me, it is completely within. The Law.” Phanuel downed another deep fried morsel. “But I apologize, my manners have abandoned me, old friend. Won't you try? They are quite agreeable. In the secret sauce.”
Gabriel rolled his eyes, but, as a polite guest, took a french fry from the Facebones-decked cardboard container the grey Seraph had proffered and obediently dipped it in secret sauce.
“Yeah, I guess it's-” Gabriel looked up, suddenly choking.
Phanuel, smile on his face, was politely beckoning him within the gates.
“Bastard!” screamed Gabriel, as he too whirled into Hell.
“Brave, but tragically stupid,” tutted Phanuel, as he licked salt from the bottom of the empty container.
Above the hull of the sinking warship, three angels flew.
Flying – he liked flying like this.
Demons couldn't control their body weight like angels could. They flew on wing power alone. It was a physical effort, but Sariel had always been slight of body, and this way, you didn't need to keep thinking about your weight. You could keep your attention on what mattered: stabbing the fuck out of the other guy.
Demon wings. This was the first time he felt comfortable fighting and flying.
Uriah was being annoying, though. As Raziel had observed, he was one who was usually likely to make stupid risky moves. But he'd gotten cautious at some point. He would jab at them, and then wrap himself in his three pairs of wings and whirl around. He was quite impervious to swords – even flaming ones – or to Sariel's cutting power.
“What are we gonna do?” he asked Raziel at one point.
“I dunno. Wear 'em down?”
“Wear down a fucking Seraph?”
“Make 'em mad?” Raziel proposed.
“He's already mad.”
“Naw, I got it!”
“Wait, Raziel....”
“Hey, Uriah!” she was already shouting. “I brought my hatbox! It's empty!”
Uriah produced a low guttering growl and launched himself at Raziel, who merrily dove out of the way before she went after him. A mistake. Uriah had made a mistake.
Charles raised his sword.
“Sariel?”
Charles stopped, startled by the familiar voice.
“Sariel! Help me!”
He turned. It couldn't be.
“Sariel!” It was Raziel. “Now!”
But he looked down instead to the sinking war ship.
Dark hair and eyes.
Reaching her little hand up towards him.
His only friend in the world.
“SARIEL!” Raziel's voice came from a different universe, a different dream.
Naked and alone, abandoned on a new world. And she had been his first friend. His only friend.
He had to save her.
He dove for the deck, reaching out for her hand.
Almost there.
And then the pain. A pain like he'd never experienced. A fire in his side. He slumped bleeding, rolling on his back. Uriah above him now, sword raised for the killing blow.
The world grew grey..... There was a scream.
Nathan didn't know how: he didn't see it, as his back was to them, and he sure as hell didn't hear anything over the sonic din that was Dethklok in full thrash.
But something changed, and he knew.
Sometimes he would see stuff when they were playing. Well, not really see. It was more stuff that would flash in the corner of your eye, and later you weren't sure whether you'd seen anything at all, or it was just the lights blinding you, or maybe something Pickles sneaked into your beer.
But this time, here, tonight....
Toki wasn't Toki any more. He was something splendid, and feathered, hovering over them all on the stage.
And Murderface had turned into something so dark, he sucked all the light out of his corner, pulling it all back to earth.
And Pickles wasn't Pickles: he was a god, with as many arms as he had tom-toms, beating in a crazy syncopation.
And as for Skwisgaar: he had stopped! Right in the middle of a number! While everyone else continued pouring out chaos, Skwisgaar suddenly ripped off his prized guitar, his beautiful new guitar, seized it by the neck, and pitching it high above his head, brought it down onstage with a terrific smash – a smash so loud, you could hear it over Toki's caterwauling and Murderface's throbbing and Pickles' terrible clatter.
And again.
And again.
Again.
Again.
To parts. To splinters. To sawdust.
Uriah's scream was bloodcurdling.
Blood everywhere.
He whipped around, tried to cover himself with his one remaining flight wing.
Raziel above him, demon wings spread full, sword ablaze, quivering with righteous anger.
“My wing!” he screamed.
“And now your life, you bastard!” she screamed, coming at him.
But then slim arms were around his waist. The little girl, who was not the little girl at all, was pulling. Pulling him away, far away, to another universe.
“COME BACK HERE MOM YOU BITCH!” Raziel yelled. But She was gone, taking what was left of Uriah with her.
Cursing, Raziel flew to Charles' side. “Are you-” she asked. But she needn't have completed the sentence.
Blood everywhere.
“Get you to Ganesh. Now.” she said, pulling him up. “And STAY THE FUCK ALIVE!”
And then somewhere down below, there was a creaking.
The gates of hell were drawing shut, sealing in the angelic warriors, binding with a magic that was too strong to bend, too powerful to break.
Death metal magic.
Up aboard the Polypus Rubra, Nathan looked around, amazed. His band mates – they weren't human. None of them. They had stopped playing, all of them, and were gathered at the lip of the stage on the lido deck, as if waiting for a curtain call.
And then the tremendous crashing. The giant warship had finally met the ground. It flared and thundered, and finally howled with a tremendous fiery explosion.
“Whoa, that's pretty fucking cool light show,” Nathan allowed.
“I could use a beer,” Pickles laughed, flourishing many hands.
Nathan looked around, slightly sourly. They all had wings and arms, and even Skwisgaar – dude was like glowing or something.
Nathan looked at his own hands. “Why the fuck didn't I get cool?”
“You ams cool, dude,” chuckled Skwisgaar, who for once didn't have a guitar to finger.
“Yeah, bro, you're Nathan,” said Murderface.
“What ams dat?” asked Toki, pointing upwards to a strange four-winged flying beast.
Nathan squinted upwards.
“That'sch two people!” said Murderface.
“Shit!” said Nathan, and he was running down the deck.
Blood everywhere.. At first, Ganesh wasn't sure who was injured. Raziel was covered: Charles' blood, Uriah's blood.
“Lay him down. Right here,” said Ganesh. Demon wings folded out everywhere. Evidently injury didn't knock you out of a demonic Form, Ganesh thought, because he was trying not to think of other things.
Don't think, just do.
It was too late for mortal medicine. Ganesh's practiced hands were shaking as he put them along the ragged gash in Charles' side. He closed his eyes, muttering incantations as Charles' pale form went ever paler, white and cold as marble.
Dethklok, still sweating and in stage makeup, ran up from the lido deck.
“Don't leave me,” Ganesh whispered. It was apparent even to those beings who were not blessed with magical sight that he was pouring every last scrap of magic into the healing.
The angel grew pale. The heartbeats fainter.
“Is he gonna-” asked Nathan.
“No,” said Raziel, her arms crossed, her clothes soaked in his blood. “No.”
“Sariel,” said Ganesh. It was a whisper. A plea. A prayer.
A heart beat. And then no more.
Silence.
“DON'T LEAVE ME.”
It was like an electric shock. Charles was sitting upright, looking very confused.
“Sariel,” whispered Ganesh. The elephant god smiled. And then sank to his knees in a faint.
“Crap!” said Charles. He jumped off the table to support Ganesh.
“You'll rip.... Your stitches....” Ganesh muttered.
“I don't have any stitches!”
“He's just ran himself outta magic, let's get him up,” said Raziel, motioning to Charles and Nathan. They brought Ganesh up to his feet. Raziel gripped two of his hands. “OK, stand clear,” she warned.
It was as Charles had seen before when Raziel did the magical battery thing – as if both she and Ganesh were in the center of a static-charged field.
And then....
“Holy crap!” said Charles.
“Whoa,” said Nathan.
“That was unexpected,” said Raziel.
Ganesh, who was now standing under his own power, looked curiously over his back, and tentatively flapped his large pair of dark demon wings.
He frowned. “I adored this shirt!” he said,” regarding the tatters of his designer wear.
“Yeah, wings'll do that,” said Charles.
“WHY DOES EVERYBODY GET TO BE A DEMON BUT ME!” Nathan wailed.
“You know, I am not entirely certain – how do I get rid of these?” asked Ganesh.
“Why would you want to?” asked Nathan.
“Else I will never be able to wear couture!” sighed Ganesh.
“You just get out of True Form,” explained Charles.
“I don't have a True Form!”
“Ganesh,” said Raziel. “You realize Sariel nearly died and now you're bitching about your shirt?”
Ganesh blinked, his eyes teary. “I really liked that shirt,” he said, suddenly grasping Charles to himself with many arms, and then also wrapping him inside the large, dark wings.
“I want demon wings. Raz, dude, can't you buzz me? Just a little?” pleaded Nathan.
“No,” said Raziel.
“They're kind of a pain in the assch,” confessed Murderface, flapping his own dark wings.
“Something not blood-soaked,” said Raziel.
“I'm not sure if I brought anything else,” said Charles.
“I packed stuff for you. Just check in your stateroom.”
“Oh, fuck, not designer crap.”
“Sariel, you nearly died, and now you're whining about dressing up? YOU GOT BLOOD ON MY STELLA MCCARTNEY!”
“Who the FUCK fights in a designer outfit?” wailed Charles, as they stood together on the deck.
“I wanna look cute,” grinned Raziel.
“You saved me,” said Sariel.
“Wasn't the first time. And don't you DARE try to hug me!”
“I wouldn't,” said Charles.
They regarded each other for a moment. Raziel, sighed and, grabbing his arm, gave him a quick kiss on the cheek. “I'm glad you're OK, Little Brother. Now, let's get changed and get your damned kid named.”
Charles nodded as Raziel went belowdecks.
“Pretty fancy!” Charles turned his head to the sound of the familiar voice. There was an angel sitting up above him on the forecastle.
“Azazel,” grinned Nick Ibsen, lazily flapping his wings. “At your service.”
“Oh!” said Charles, as the realization suddenly hit him. He spread his own silvery demon wings and lofted up to sit beside Ibsen. “You were one of the first!”
“Could never resist a dame!” Ibsen laughed.
“But I thought you partnered with Lucifer?” Charles asked.
“He's a jerk. Never thought he could be brought down though. Wotan is one calculating bastard.”
“He is.”
“So, Ganesh didn't tell you?” asked Ibsen.
“He takes the doctor patient confidentiality thing pretty seriously. You know. There's a lot of stuff I'd like to ask you.”
“I'm sure there is,” laughed Ibsen. “But I've been told, as an interview subject, I'm a pretty close-mouthed bastard.”
“You know Wotan's hobby, don't you?” asked Charles. Ibsen shook his head. “Single malt. And cigars.”
“Ha! I knew he was a man of taste!” said Ibsen.
“Look, I gotta go Name my kid now, but we'll talk?”
Ibsen grinned.
“French fries?” asked Papa Jacque, picking up a cardboard container. “My boy oughta be eating a motherfucking steak!”
Phanuel was contentedly sitting at a table piled with fast food, his granddaughter, Abby in his lap, the two boys seated nearby. “It is surprisingly. Tasty,” he said, proffering a container to the vodouisant.
Jacque tried a fry. “Could use some whiskey!” he concluded.
“Did you bring any whiskey, you old faker?” asked Phanuel.
Jacque grinned, sat down, pulling Elias into his lap, and took out a flask, which he shook into Phanuel's drink, as well as his own.
“None for you, young one,” Phanuel warned Liam, who was now reaching towards his grandfather's drink.
“Maybe later,” grinned Jacque, winking towards Liam.
“Seegar?” asked Elias.
“Whatever have you been teaching them?” laughed Phanuel.
“My uncle has started growing impatient that the ceremony get underway,” Ganesh told them as he walked up. He was wearing a clean suit and, somehow – probably the irresistible lure of couture – he was back to his human Form.
“Tell that old red cocksucker he's a big red motherfucker,” suggested Jacque, to a rather rude snort from Phanuel.
“I am certain he knows this,” sighed Ganesh.
“And my boy,” said Jacque.
“He is quite recovered,” said Ganesh. Jacque nodded. “But, er....”
“What is it boy, spit it out?”
“Whatever it is you're spiking those Dethsodas with? Could I have a taste?”
Jacque grinned and reached for the flask.
“Wisk, Dada?” inquired Elias.
“As your father says, not until you have reached age 147,” said Ganesh.
“Shri Brahma Vishnu Maheshwara Elias Ogoun Sen Michel,” said Brahma from the stage on the lido deck as the assembled crowd watched politely but impatiently. They were all rather in the mood to get back to drinking, and Elias had a quite long, complicated name.
“Uh-huh!” cheerfully agreed Elias as Raziel bounced him on a hip.
“You are to be Lord of the Dance,” Brahma continued.
“Uh-huh! Boonie wike a dance!” Elias agreed.
As the crowd chuckled softly, Brahma frowned, obviously unused to being interrupted by the object of his Naming.
“And Protector of the Earth,” continued Great Brahma.
“Uh-huh!” agreed Elias.
“What?” said Ganesh, who was standing nearby.
“Wasn't that a 70s TV cartoon?” asked Charles, who had cleaned up and gone back to his Court Form.
“We didn't agree to this, Uncle,” said Ganesh.
“That was the will of the family,” Brahma told him.
“What?” said Charles.
“I am a member of this family,” grumbled Ganesh.
“No, Dada!” said Elias, wriggling down from Raziel. “Boonie pwotect!” he said, tugging on Charles' pantleg.
Charles looked down and ruffled Elias' tousled hair. “Just a minute, Boon.”
“No, Dada!” said Boon. “Boonie pwotect da Dadas!” He gestured towards Raziel. “An Boonie pwotect Wantie Was, and Wunky Wote!” He gestured at his cousins, “An Boonie pwotect Yabb an Yeem!”
“Elias-” said Ganesh.
“An Boonie pwotect Wunky Bwama. He big! An Wantie Sarasbatti!”
“Brahma, he's not a protector of anything, he's a kid!” Charles told Brahma.
“It was the request. Of the Old Ones,” Brahma told him.
Elias had now toddled off the small stage, and was going through the assembled crowd. “An Boonie powtect Defkwok! An Wunky Nate-Nate, an Wunky Tok, an Wunky Willem, an Wunky Bicka, an Swisser!”
“The Old Ones?” said Ganesh.
“We are all of the earth now,” said Brahma.
“An Boonie pwotect Papa Zhak! An Boonie pwotect Gamma Babatti!” Liam and Abby exchanged a glance and True Formed, and then fluttered on their little wings after their cousin as he walked.
“He can't do it, Brahma!” said Charles. “He won't! I won't have it!”
“An Boonie pwotect Unky Phan. An Unky Baseidun! An Boonie pwotect Bisnu! An Boonie pwotect Tsango an Owoola! An Boonie pwotect Legba!”
“It isn't your choice,” said Brahma.
“I'm his fucking father,” said Charles. “He's gonna do your dance shit. And be a kid!”
“An Boonie pwotect Skuwd, an Urd, an Bewdandy. An Boonie pwotect Spider Gamma. An Boonie pwotect Hon an Kwahu, an da Koowi....”
“Boon!” said Charles, marching down into the crowd.
“An Boonie pwotect Bie, an Boonie pwotect Tam, an Boonie pwotect Z, an Boonie pwotect Sike, an Boonie pwotect Abalon, and Boonie pwotect....”
“A Naming child running off, such nonsense,” muttered Great Brahma, striding after Charles.
“An Boonie pwotect Suwt, and Boonie pwotect Pewe....”
“Elias!” said Charles. “Stop that.”
“Yes, come back here,” fumed Brahma.
“Charles,” said Nick Ibsen, who was standing nearby.
“What?”
“We haven't received his blessing yet.”
“HIS WHAT?” said Charles. “Nick! He's a toddler! He can't pronounce the letter R yet! He can't give blessings.”
“Sariel.” Ganesh's voice was quiet. Charles blinked, surprised that he had transformed to his elephant god Form.
“Uncle Brahma,” Ganesh continued. “Our son is performing his first duties in his new role. I would say we let him continue.”
Charles gulped, but nodded sadly.
Elias cheerfully continued, his cousins following him.
Nick Ibsen, who was back to his Court Form, had knelt down before him.
“An Boonie pwotect Unkynik...”
“Thank you, Boon,” said Nick Ibsen, standing and wiping a tear.
“Uh-huh!” said Elias.
Ganesh offered an arm. “He's so small,” Charles whispered to him.
“We're here for him,” said Ganesh. And so the strange procession followed after the child, until he had Named each and every passenger and crew member, knowing all of them by name, not making any mistakes.
Some hours later, inside their stateroom, Ganesh smiled indulgently, his son splayed out in his lap, snoring that ridiculous angel snore. Ganesh's leg had long since gone to sleep, but he found he didn't mind. The boy was now learning at an incredible pace: a brace of new words seemed to pop up every day. But it was quite pleasant to have the wordless moments as well, even if they weren't exactly what one could describe as quiet.
Ganesh, who remained in his elephant god Form, reached out his trunk, lightly tickling the sleeping boy on the bit of belly that bulged out between his pants and shirt. He giggled softly in his sleep, and then, as Ganesh had wished, curled into a slightly more compact position. However, it did not let up the pressure on Ganesh's leg.
Sariel breezed into the room. “He looks comfortable!” he said of Elias.
“I certainly hope so. My leg's gone dead for the past twenty minutes,” smiled Ganesh.
Sariel stopped and bent over the boy, seeming to be listening. “He's out. You could put him down to bed.”
“No, I don't think so.”
“Why not?”
Ganesh stirred, trying to move his numb leg without disturbing Elias. “Because. It will happen faster than you expect. Very soon. They grow too big to fit in your lap any more. Ever again.”
Sariel stood for a time, his head cocked.
And then, in a blink, he was sitting on the couch, next to Ganesh, gently tugging Elias into his own lap. Elias briefly stirred, and then went back to sawing angel wood.
“OK. All right. Until your leg comes back,” Sariel told Ganesh.
It was a few days later. And Nathan Explosion, as was his custom, was nestled into a couch at Mordhaus, staring at the television.
The screen showed two nearly identical men, each standing at a podium.
“And I say your titanium tax goes to far!” said the one.
“And I say it doesn't go far enough!” bleated the other.
“Soooooo,” said Nathan. “That Goddess chick is no longer running for president?”
“No, Nathan,” said Charles. “Her entire campaign staff, uh, unexpectedly quit.”
“Unexpectedly?” asked Nathan.
“Inexplicably,” echoed Ganesh.
“So, I don't have to run any more?” asked Nathan.
“No. No you don't.”
“Well, that's a fucking relief.” Nathan cast his eyes back to the television. “So, it's just these two guys?”
“Yep.”
“You think they would, you know, wear a different tie or something?”
“You would think they would. Yeah.”
“Huh. You mind if I change the channel to celebrity mud wrestling instead?”
“No. Not at all.”
The general waited impatiently in the meeting room. It had been such a long time since he had been called here.
It wasn't something he tended to think about, but if he had thought about it, he would have wondered. But, oddly, he never thought about it.
He stood. He hadn't seen or heard anything, but somehow, he knew.
Coming down the corridor. He was too big to be a man. Something, oddly, no one ever remarked upon.
He was … changed somehow. Crozier wasn't exactly certain how. It wasn't just that he had one beefy arm wrapped up in a sling.
And two steps behind, ever two steps behind, his mad friend.
“Well,” said Selatcia, easing his bulk into a seat. “Let's get down to business.”
“Sariel?”
The angel was drowsing on his chest, wrapped in so many arms. He hadn't really protested about it tonight.
“Mmmm?”
“When you were.... When you were hurt....”
“Mmmmm-hmmmm?”
Ganesh ground his teeth. It made him shiver, even to think about it. But he couldn't help himself. He was a curious creature.
“Where did you go?”
“Nowhere.”
“Nowhere?”
There were eyes blinking at him now. The Court Formed green ones. “I was waiting for you. I knew you'd call.”
“You were.... You can do that?”
“Mmmm-hmmm. I said I'd come back. I'll always come back. For you. You smell reeeeeeally good.” And then there was the not at all soft sound of an angel snore.
“Well. Huh,” said Ganesh. Who thought about it – but not too hard – as he drifted off himself.
