Congratulations, genius. You convinced your best friend, the Protagonist, not to marry the story’s Love Interest, and instead go off and have awesome adventures with you forever. But in doing so, you pissed off the Author.
After the third bandit ambush, the Unnecessary Character waits until the Protagonist falls asleep to turn an accusing look at the sky.
“Hey,” the Unnecessary Character says, jabbing a finger stupidly at the non-sentient array of stars, “you quit it. You quit it right now.”
The Unnecessary Character, henceforth known as TUC so as not to waste too many letters on them, looks rather rough. Their hair is a tangled mess from the swallows who’d mistaken the horrendous strands as nesting material.
“I know that was you,” TUC hisses. “Swallows use mud and spit to make their nests, not twigs.”
TUC is unaware that they actually look like dirt, just terrible, smelly dirt.
“This is a lot of unnecessary anger,” TUC says to the sky. “You’re the one who thought Ally needed a friend and now you’re mad that I’m being a friend to her? Josiah was a creep, you know. Maybe you think he was charming, but he’s borderline abusive. No, scratch that. He was straight up abusive.”
TUC’s main weakness has always been the inability to see the big picture. They don’t know that the Love Interest would do anything for the Protagonist, up to and including battling the dragon that would inevitable be coming to the castle.
TUC pales until they begin to resemble watery porridge. “The what?!”
Their voice is shrill and stupid. The pitch of it nearly wakes the poor, exhausted Protagonist who’s had it rough these past few nights with TUC waylaying her with their idiocy.
“Let’s…let’s swing back to the dragon later,” TUC says. They pinch the bridge of their nose, trying to ease the headache thinking so hard has given them. “Look, Josiah wanted to keep Ally in the castle, okay? Like, all the time. She’s an adventurer, dude, not a stay-at-home wife. And have you already forgotten how Josiah locked her in the dungeons when those rebel forces tried to break in? And then just forgot about her in the aftermath until she broke out?”
It’s not surprising that TUC has misinterpreted that lovely and gallant action. Ally is a lady, forced to work hard all her life to support her mean family. She needs someone to take care of her so she can finally be happy.
“Her mean–they were poor!” TUC says, missing the point completely. They direct a hideous look at the sky. “No, I’m not missing the point! Everyone in her family was worked to the bone, not just her! They all had to work insane hours just to pay taxes! Taxes, may I remind you, that Josiah and his father set!”
Tag: original writing
“hello,” the dark lord said, “i need a library card.”
“everyone needs a library card,” the librarian said brightly, sliding a form across the desk. “fill this out.”
the dark lord produced her own elaborately plumed quill from the depths of her robes and scrawled her name in handwriting that was completely illegible but seemed to whisper the secrets of the dark from the blinding white page. “yes, but i need mine in order to take over the tri-kingdom area.”
the librarian’s polite smile barely faltered. “funny, the last dark lord to try that didn’t bother with a card.”
“yes, and do you see that fool currently ruling our kingdom? no. of course not. utterly ridiculous, to attempt to take over any size country without a library card, much less an intermediate-sized one like this.” she accepted the thin plastic card with a gracious flourish of her gloved hand.
the librarian, adding the new card’s number to the database, privately agreed, but chose not to say anything.
the librarian balanced the pile of pulled books under one elbow and held the list of call numbers in their hand for easy consultation. “intermediate spell casting for grades three and four,” they murmured, running fingers along the peeling spines until they found it. “willing to bet that’s sorrel’s request.”
they fit the large, paperbound book under their elbow and moved on, checking the list again. “magical creatures encyclopedia, L through M. that’s jackaby trying to finish the entire set by midsummer.” they would get that one last to carry it around the shortest amount of time.
“next — the complete guide to raising the dead.” they paused in front of the row of shelves with the right call numbers. they could guess the requester of that one too, but knew better than to say it out loud.
the return slot thunked loudly as it swung open and closed, having swallowed the returned books with a wet gulp.
“good morning,” the dark lord said pleasantly as she looked up from sliding her books in — or as pleasantly as “good morning” could sound when it was uttered by a voice that sounded like gravel being chewed to pieces by the jaws of a large monster.
“it is, very,” the librarian said crisply, conjuring a clean handkerchief for the still-slobbering return slot.
the mouth just visible under the dark lord’s enormous cloak hood curved into a scythe’s blade smile, but she said nothing else.
“did you enjoy your books?” the librarian asked, since she wasn’t moving and there were no other people waiting (most likely because of the dark lord standing there).
the hood nodded up and down. “extremely. especially the taped lecture by doctor dramidius ardorius of the dark arts institute.”
“well, we have many more taped lectures. i especially recommend the one on the healing powers of tea.” they tilted their head in a now get out sign. the poor steam-powered self-checkout contraption would get overheated if people were too scared to check out at the front desk.
they didn’t really expect the dark lord to take the recommendation seriously, but the next day they noticed the cloaked, hooded specter glide out the door with the taped lecture on magic-infused herbal teas tucked between a CD of dark chants and a step-by-step art book on drawing occult symbols.
“you give good recommendations,” the dark lord said with a shrug when the librarian raised their eyes from the front desk’s computer to the shadows of her hood.
the librarian wasn’t sure what to say. “you seem to take up quite a lot of my time.”
“i’m only a simple library patron,” the dark lord replied in a saintly voice that resembled a dragon coughing up a partially digested house. “do you enjoy mermaid song?”
“yes. you can find the library’s collection in the CD section over there.” they looked pointedly back down at the computer.
“i hear there’s a concert on the shore tomorrow evening.”
“perhaps we’ll get a recording of it.”
the dark lord continued taking out books on various unsavory topics. the librarian continued suggesting books on healing, positive thinking, and community service. the dark lord seemed more amused with each visit. her smile was almost charming, once you got past the long, sharp teeth.
the librarian was trying to go about their usual morning ritual of pulling books that had been requested the night before, but the dark lord wouldn’t stop making faces at them from behind gaps in the shelves. she seemed to find it hilarious. the librarian hadn’t decided yet if they were amused or annoyed.
“ooh, look at this,” the dark lord said, pulling a sturdy but beaten up board book featuring a werewolf mid-transformation on the cover from the shelf. “this was my favorite when i was just a little menace.”
“somehow i’m not surprised.”
the dark lord tucked the book into the ridiculous basket made of a large skull that floated alongside her. “didn’t you have a favorite picture book when you were little?”
“Barker the Sentient Book End,” the librarian said promptly. “i screamed for it every night until someone read it to me, long after i’d already memorized each page.”
the dark lord cooed, sounding like a cross between an owl and something eating an owl. “adorable. i knew you had a little monster in you somewhere.”
the librarian crossly debated denying being a monster at all or pointing out they had actual kraken blood in them.
they should have guessed how close the dark lord was from how good her mood was, but it wasn’t until they arrived at work on monday that the librarian heard the news.
“the newest dark lord managed to overthrow the faeyrie monarchy last night. something about combining traditional herbal spells with a newfangled mental magic based on the power of willful thinking… or something. the news reporter mentioned the use of mermaid song in a mild kind of mind control, i think? i wasn’t listening. the good news is, our budget stays in place.”
the librarian contemplated hurling the can of bookmarks across the room, but concluded that it would be both unprofessional and unsatisfying. they settled for aggressively stamping returned, only slightly saliva-covered books with red ink.
the phone clicked loudly. “public library, how can i help you?”
“by taking my offer,” the dark lord said, slightly hesitant voice like a rock slide that wasn’t sure it was ready to slide. “the royal library in the capital needs a new head librarian.”
“why’s that?” the librarian spun in their new swivel chair, tangling the phone cord while they were at it, thinking they wouldn’t want to leave so soon after getting it.
there was a cough like the ocean spitting out a new island. “erm, hmm, last one got… eaten. tragic. these things happen when you’re very, very small, you know.”
“so i’ve heard.” the librarian stretched the phone cord and watched it bounce back. “well, i’m happy where i am.”
“well.” her voice was more disappointed than they’d expected. “it’s a very nice library, you know. large selection of mermaid song in the CD section.”
“the royal library is part of our system. i can request any materials from there that i want to be delivered here.”
a pause. the dark lord had not considered this. “well, maybe i’ll take the royal library out of the system.”
“you wouldn’t dare disrupt the workings of our very intricate library system set up at the dawn of time.”
“maybe i would!”
“no.”
“fine. i wouldn’t.”
the librarian swiveled some more, wrapping the cord around with them until it ran out of give and spun them in the other direction. “would you like to grab a coffee sometime?”
“yes,” the dark lord said, voice too surprised to resemble anything in particular. “i can travel down meet you tomorrow morning.”
“don’t you have things to do?”
they could sense the shrug from the other end of the line. “i’ll move the capital to your town. i can do that, you know. i’m the supreme ruler of the tri-kingdom area.”
“yes,” the librarian agreed, un-spinning to return the phone to its cradle. “just don’t forget who gave you the library card.”
Hey @thatonenerdguyishere, you might like this ^_^
Supernatural School Pt. 2
It always takes time to sort yourself out after a reaping, even a relatively pleasant one. That’s why, even though you’d like to rejoin Sam, Amanda and Lexi in the cafeteria, you head back to the dorms.
You don’t feel any different after. Some legends say that you eat the souls of the dead, praying on them for sustenance. You’d like to say that Reapers never do that, that they never commit such a heinous crime, but you’ve been around long enough to know better than to lie. There are words for Reapers who eat, none of which you’d dare say here. Names give things power and eaters get more than their fair share to begin with.
You shiver under the blazing sun and try to turn your mind to more pleasant topics.
You are halfway back to your room, when you see Ms. Jan, Mr. T and Principal Finn rushing towards the animal husbandry building. Mr. T’s upset enough that his mane has burst free of his button-down shirt though he’s the only one of the three so affected. Ms. Jan, all banshee characteristics gone, is composed as she leads the group, strides long and purposeful. Principal Finn is listening to her seriously, his wheelchair rolling over the grass easily, with a grim expression on his face.
This is, of course, until he sees you.
You keep your expression blank as Principal Finn says something to Ms. Jan and Mr. T, gesturing for them to go on, and then directs his motorized wheelchair towards you.
You have been accepted into a school for supernatural creatures. You decide to let your teachers and classmates try to figure out what you are.
Someone puts blood in your orange juice, no doubt hoping to trigger fangs or claws. You know that the vampires often take their meals this way, that they don’t speak until after the meal is done for fear of lisping, but you’re not a vampire.
“It’s not that I can’t drink blood,” you tell your friends, pushing the juice away from you. “It’s just that–well, where did this blood even come from? It might not be clean.”
“Hey,” Amanda says, offended. Her glittery wings twitch behind her and the delicate feathers that serve as her eyebrows furrow. “That’s my blood you’re talking about.”
You grimace and push the glass towards her. “You should hold onto it then. i think chemistry is moving onto blood studies next and you do not want that getting to them.”
Amanda’s strange, light green eyes gleam for a second. In the next moment, the glass is empty, no trace of blood or juice. As one of the fae, she has access to dimensions the rest of them could only dream of. As far as you’re concerned, that glass of blood no longer exists.
Sam groans and slumps forward, his scales scraping against the table. He looks human but, you know, it’s only a glamour. Underneath, Sam is just as inhuman as Amanda, maybe even more so. Were-lizards are an odd bunch. “Come on! If you tell us I promise to split the money with you!”
“Well, I don’t,” Lexi says. She’s reading over the history notes from yesterday, long dark hair falling around the heavy frames of her prescription sunglasses. You know that she’s going to have to join the night classes soon if her vampiric powers get any stronger. You’ll miss her but you’ve never been a fan of the smell of burning flesh so you’d rather she switch classes sooner rather than later. “I plan to collect in full when I finally figure it out.”
Another awesome story by @caffeinewitchcraft
You are a guard in a fantasy world. You notice a man in elegant armor kick a chicken in the streets. In your lawful rage, you manage to kill this man in the name of justice. To your dismay, you realize you just killed The Chosen One. You just doomed the world.
In my defense, it was self-defense.
I saw him saunter through town in his expensive, fancy armor, nearly bowling over Granny Fairchild when she didn’t get out of his way fast enough. I didn’t think much of him – no one did, that I knew – but what was I going to do? The man was clearly some sort of lord or higher, and I’m just a guard. Not even a captain or sergeant! Just a normal, everyday run-of-the-mill guard.
In short, there’s nothing special about me. No special training, no special knowledge – unless you count laws, which I memorized – nothing whatsoever.
I didn’t say anything when he demanded prices to be lowered, and forced his “goods” on us. Spoils of adventures, he said. You can’t get them anywhere else. What are we going to do with forty preserved wyvern eyeballs! It’s not something any of us can use. I don’t care how much some wizard in a city we’ve never been would pay for them.
I didn’t say anything when he aggressively flirted with all the women, to the point that little Maria started crying and her brothers looked for sharp objects. Thank the gods that Maria’s wife is so quick-thinking, and got his attention elsewhere! It would have been a very ugly, very deadly brawl, and Maria would have lost her brothers.
I didn’t say anything when he co-opted the blacksmith’s forge to make a few daggers to push on us – because his skill is so legendary, however were we to survive without his priceless daggers? Ahmed was unable to fulfill his orders that day, and will now have to work twice as hard to catch up! And I wanted him to look at my gauntlet, too, because it was starting to look a little warped at the wrist.
But when I saw that man start to kick around Granny Fairchild’s chickens, I couldn’t keep my mouth shut any longer. Those chickens are all she has! Every morning, Granny Fairchild comes to market with a basket of fresh eggs, and we all buy some – even if we don’t need eggs – to make sure she doesn’t go hungry. Like most of us, she refuses handouts and charity, preferring to get by on her own.
“You can’t do that,” I told him, using my sternest voice.
“Do what?” he asked, kicking a hen and sending her scuttling.
“That,” I said. “Kicking chickens. Or any animal. You can’t do that.”
“Who’s going to stop me?” he asked arrogantly. He looked me up and down, mockingly. “You?”
And just to be an ass, he took out his sword and killed one of the chickens right then and there.
Now, killing someone’s animal isn’t necessarily an arrestable offense. You get a fine, you pay it, and you go on your way. Especially something small, like a chicken. A cow, now, or a horse, that’s a different story. But a chicken – no.
But by this point, I was so tired and so fed up with his attitude. Who was he to walk into our village in his fancy, expensive armor and harrass our people? Making our shy girls cry, assaulting our widows and grandmothers, nearly robbing us blind by forcing his “goods” on us in exchange for ours, and putting good people out of work for his barely average daggers? An entitled ass, I tell you.
So I took out my sword and intended to bash him at the back of his head to bring him to his knees. It’s not a very brave act, to attack someone from behind, but you must understand that even then, he was some mighty adventurer while I am a lowly village guard. In a fair fight, I had no chance.
Apparently, I hit him too hard, or just right, because he went down like a sack of potatoes and didn’t get up. I looked him over, then call for our healer. When she arrived, she pronounced him dead and congratulated me.
Imagine that, being congratulated for being a murderer.
Well, we gathered his things and I sent out a report to my sergeant in the next village over, who must have forwarded it to the captain, because the next thing any of us knew, we had an entire garrison marching on us. The captain demanded to see me, and I reluctantly made my way up.
I murdered a lord’s son, I thought. They’re going to arrest me for murdering a lord’s son! There goes my career!
I hadn’t murdered a lord’s son, of course. I did something much worse.
“You killed Adam Draxon, Hero of a Thousand Lands?” the captain demanded. He looked me up and down, much like the man did, but less mocking and more incredulous.
“I never knew his name,” I managed, nearly biting my tongue in two I was stammering so bad.
“He wore the Crest of King Ellifry!” the captain said. “How could you not know?”
“Is that what it was? I thought it was a fat eagle…”
The captain and all his men stared at me for a long moment, where I was certain that time must have stopped, because it lasted an eternity.
“He was on his way to slay the vicious dragon plaguing Balewood Forest! And you killed him!”
“It was an accident!” I protested. “I was trying to arrest him.”
“Arrest him?!” The captain was apoplectic. “You were trying to arrest the Hero of a Thousand Lands? For what? What could he have possibly done to make you arrest him?!”
“He, ah, well, you see… Hm. It was like this…”
“Go on, I’m listening. I’m very eager to hear your reasoning.”
I took a deep breath. “IwasarrestinghimforkillingGrannyFairchild’schicken.”
“What?”
“He killed Granny Fairchild’s chicken,” I said again, slower. I didn’t dare look up. The captain wears some nice boots. Shiny. Tailored. “So I was arresting him.”
“You murdered Adam Draxon, Hero of a Thousand Lands, Defender of the Free People, for killing a chicken?”
“It was an accident!” I protested again. “I was just trying to… subdue… him…”
“And who, pray tell, is going to slay the dragon plaguing Balewood Forest?” the captain asked me scathingly. “You?”
“I can’t kill a dragon!” I said. I’m pretty sure I squeaked, too.
“You killed the Hero of a Thousand Lands,” he told him, sarcasm practically dripping from his voice. “You must be a mighty warrior, so a dragon can’t be too difficult a task for you.”
I stared at him in disbelief for a long moment. In that moment, I saw something. Okay, a lot of things, but mostly the one. I saw fear. Not of me, gods no. The captain was afraid. I had – accidentally or not – killed our only hope against the forces of darkness in our world. Who was going to slay the dragon? Certainly not me; I’d be lucky if I got close to the beast. And certainly not the captain. Really, there was only one person who was capable of such a feat, and he was moldering in an unmarked grave in our village cemetery.
The next few hours went by in a blur. I was given the Hero’s old things – things we had carefully packed away and inventoried to prevent theft – to protect me. I was told some of it had magic, like protection against evil and the like. It looked pretty, but ultimately worthless. What would a shiny ring do against a dragon, except make it envious and eat me for the ring?
Really, what else did I expect? If I had stayed, I would have been hanged for murder, at best. At worst, I would have been drawn and quartered in some public place while my entire family was arrested and enslaved for my crimes. In a way, the captain was saving me. This was a chance to redeem myself – albeit a very small, very dangerous, and very, very stupid chance. But it would keep me from a very public execution, which was generally better.
It’s not like the thought of chucking all of the Hero’s things the minute I got out of sight and running never occurred to me. It did. Numerous times. I thought about it as I lay awake at night. I thought about it as I heard story after story after story of the Dragon of Balewood Forest. But someone had to try, damnit. Someone had to at least try.
I never did get my gauntlet fixed.
When I had finally made it to the dragon – which, by the by, involved talking wolves and a bargain with a witch that I’m pretty sure she now regrets as you can’t exactly extract a dead person’s first born if they’ve never had children – I was tired, and hungry, and terrified out of my wits.
The mountain wasn’t as big as I pictured. It was a large hill, at most, with a shallow cave. I climbed up – a feat, I assure you, that sounds more daunting that it was. I mostly walked, and like Balewood Forest, it was a pleasant walk. And when I reached the mouth of the cave, I mustered all my meager courage to shout my challenge to the Dragon of Balewood Forest.
“H-hello?” I called out. “Anyone home?”
A roar echoed from the cave – a massive sound that had me quaking – and smoke curled out. I felt a blast of heat roll out of the cave.
“Look, I’d just like to talk for a bit,” I said. “If you have time, that is. I can come back tomorrow, if now’s not a good time for you!”
Heroic bravery at it’s finest, I tell you.
I felt an impact that was like being hit by a mountain. I thought at first it must be some sort of cave-in or avalanche, but not. Just dragon. I rolled down the hill a ways, losing the sword and shield almost instantly along with my bearings. I had barely stopped moving when a clawed paw pinned me to the ground, and I was face-to-face with a wall of long, sharp teeth and sulfuric breath.
“Adam Draxon!” the beast roared at me. “You murdered my parents! You have left me an orphan! Do you have anything to say for yourself before I kill you?”
“Um, I’m not Adam Draxon,” I said.
“What?!” the dragon screeched. It pulled back just enough to look at me with one beautiful sapphire eye. Really, if you get the chance to look at a dragon’s eyes, you should.
“I’m not, um, I’m not Adam Draxon,” I repeated. “I’m not anybody.”
The dragon pulled away, glowering at me. “You’re wearing his armor. You’re wearing his Crest!”
“I still think it looks like a fat eagle,” I muttered as I took the Crest off and tossed it aside. “Look, I know you were expecting Adam Draxon, and I’m sorry, but I’m here. So can we talk, please?”
“Where’s Adam Draxon?” the dragon demanded, arching itself up to look bigger. For all the stories I’d ever heard, the dragon was really about the size of a large draft horse. Certainly not the size of a house, like I was told. And it’s scales – while very bright – weren’t exactly what you’d call shiny.
“Um, he’s, uh… well…” How do you explain that the Hero of a Thousand Lands is dead? Especially to someone who wants to cook and eat him? “He, uh, he died.”
The dragon cocked it’s head to look at me with one eye. “Dead? You expect me to believe that the Slayer of a Dozen Dragons and Terror to the Dark is dead?”
“Yeah, I was surprised, too,” I admitted. “It was an accident.”
“Accident?” the dragon roared. “An accident?!”
“Well, how else was he going to die young?”
The dragon lowered itself and stared at me for a long, long, long time. “You don’t smell like you’re lying.”
“I’m not.”
“But you don’t smell like you’re telling the truth.”
“It’s… complicated.”
“Tell me.”
I took a deep breath. “I was trying to arrest him. His back was turned, and I hit him too hard with the pommel of my sword.”
“… he’s really dead?”
“He’s really dead.”
“But he killed my parents!”
I walked up and patted the dragon on it’s shoulder. “I know, I’m sorry.”
And that’s how I “defeated” the Dragon of Balewood. He told me his story, and I listened for a while, and when night fell, he invited me to stay with him. A dragon lair is surprisingly clean and comfortable, and we talked most of the night. The dragon – Lorcanthan – was in need of a permanent home. The terrorizing was merely to get Adam Draxon to his location, so he could get revenge for the murder of his parents. There was very little terrorizing, I learned, as Lorcanthan mostly showed up and bothered the horses and maybe burned a field by accident.
That morning, I decided to go to the villages around Balewood Forest. For the better part of a season, I went to each village and spoke with the people. In truth, very little actual damage occurred, and even then, it was mostly by panicking animals. The mayors and headsmen were very reluctant to speak with me about the matter, at first, but slowly listened to what I had to say.
Later, I went to Lorcanthan and had him come with me to the outskirts of Balewood, where the mayors and headmen were waiting. I helped negotiate a deal for them, between the dragon and villagers. And so the Dragon of Balewood went from plague to protector.
Really, that’s how it started.
Afterwards, I went to speak to the witch about the bargain, and she was willing to wait. Being as the bargain was struck when I was under extreme duress, I managed to talk her down to shared custody. We’ll figure out the details when I do have a child, I guess. She sent me to talk to her sister, who was across the country, about a matter involving kidnapping.
That was a horrible, horrible case, where I discovered the the Wicked Sorceress of the North was being blamed for the actions of a vile man. The less said, the better, but when I had settled that matter, word go around.
And when a Horde of Orc Barbarians led by Thorid the Bloodthirsty threatened, I was sent to deal with them. I don’t know how, exactly, it happened, because I had a few drinks with Thorid, but I ended up accidentally challenging his eldest to a duel and – purely by chance, I promise! – killed her. Which made me, by Orc law, Thorid’s heir. Somehow. And second-in-command.
When Thorid died from gangrene from an untreated injury by boar, I became the leader of the Horde of Orc Barbarians.
From there, things got complicated fast. And now I’m the Leader of the Dark Forces, and it’s the eve of war. I sent King Ellifry a letter asking that he meet with me to negotiate this matter, but I haven’t heard back yet. I’d really rather avoid the whole war thing, but honestly, when you actually sit down and listen to the Dark Forces, you learn that there’s a lot of inequality and oppression that really needs to be addressed.
And as a guard sworn to uphold the law, it’s up to me to see that it is addressed.
Never did get my gauntlet fixed.
Nice, J! Thank you =)
on loving the Fair
i. you will never love them any way new enough to be novelty.
they’ve been adored, adorned, admired, doted on, devoted to—they’ve had
sacrifices of life&death done in their name, do you really think your gifts
of trinkets and cream are all that impressive? you might be amusing,
temporarily entertaining, but that is your talent appeasing their vanity, not
their hearts. poems to them bolster their ego, not warm their affections to you.
your love for them will only make Taking you easier, not make them love you
back.ii. if they do love you back, know they have different
definitions for that. know they are not always nice, not always pretty, not
always safe. more look like a mouth too-full of too-sharp, dripping,
stalactites/stalagmites-not-teeth than golden warm mornings, basking in their
(many) arms. be ready for this: their obsessions are more likely to burn out
than to bloom.
on loving the human
i. they will not appreciate all your gifts, will akin them to
a cat bringing dead mice to their feet. this is fine. everything else you give,
they will find gorgeous. if you are vain enough, give them something of yours
to wear. if you are rash enough, give them something of yours to wear. they
will find it beautiful and every Other will know you’ve claimed that one. be
sure no one else, such as Not-Cat or even the crows, have done the same yet. a
human, no matter their talents, would be worth such a war. you must remember
this, if you see them keeping feathers-blacker-than-night in their
hair/pockets/pouches. you might be able to fool them from another Fair, but, if
the birds have gotten to them, there is no return. best to pick another that
can catch your attention. any of them would start pleased with that.ii. to appear human while first wooing them is best. you will
need two ears, two eyes, a nose with (only!) two nostrils, 32 teeth, 206 bones,
and about 640 muscles that do not slide or slip or slush. both halves of your
(singular) face must react together, but not mechanically, robotically,
stiffly, or in any manner similar to plastic or silicon. one side of your mouth
must not be higher or lower than the other unless it is a facial expression, of
a half-smile or frown. your eyes must not be too close together, or too far
apart, your ears must be even, the spacing of your
nose-to-eyes-to-ears-to-forehead must all be within a certain ratio. if you
must, watch a good artist space faces to see the estimate. but you must not be
too perfect, either: your teeth not too straight or too white, your nails not
too clean or pristinely cut or without variation, your skin not too
blemish-free. you need some faults in order to appear human. you must maintain solid form at all times.
still, it’s likely they’ll know, regardless. at least, they’ll probably
appreciate the effort. (remember, being seen without protection is even more
telling. keep sugar and pewter/tin/aluminum with you at all times; these will
look enough like salt and iron. it is also advisable you carry ‘offerings,’
even if you never leave them anywhere. creamer cups are most popular.)
tell me a magical story!
When the
witch says “I can make you this spell, but it will cost you your
name,” she doesn’t hesitate.Instead, she says “Which name?”
And the witch smiles. “Most aren’t so
clever as to ask. For that, I’ll let you choose which of your names
you give me.”*
“My child, my child,” says her
mother when she brought home the spell, when she heals the little
sister who was close to death. “What did you give up for this?”“Nothing I didn’t choose to give.”
*
While putting your favorite condiment on a sandwich, you accidentally make a magical occult symbol and summon a demon.
You silently take two more slices of bread out of the package and make another sandwich. You put it on a plate with a handful of potato chips and hand it to the demon. He takes the sandwich, smiles and vanishes in a puff of demonic smoke. The next day you get that job promotion you were after. There was no contract. No words spoken. You owe nothing. But every now and then, another demon pops in for lunch. Demons don’t often get homemade sandwiches.
Can I keep this going? I’m going to keep this going.
It would be a little annoying, if they weren’t so nice about it. You don’t know what you expected demons to be like, but you certainly didn’t expect them to be nice about it. There’s no demands, no voices like wailing babies, no blood on the walls (well, there was that one time, but Balthazak was very apologetic about the whole thing and cleaned it up right quick). Just the occasional demon stopping by for lunch. In fact, you could almost forget that they weren’t just ordinary people, the way they act. Nice people, too.
You start talking with them, as time goes on. In the beginning you carefully pick your words so they couldn’t be spun to even imply a contract or reference a soul, but when they seem politely eager to have a normal chat, your words become a bit looser. You even begin gossiping with them – turns out, demons have breakroom gossip just like anyone else. You listened to Rek’ththththtyr’s account of Drokyarix’s torrid affair with Irkilliz, and Ferkiyan didn’t even know what Drory was doing behind his back, poor dear, and you kept quiet and let Ferkiyan cry on your shoulder after Drokyarix finally broke up with him (the shirt was a bit of a loss, demon tears are ruinous to cloth, but Ferkiyan’s a good sort and you couldn’t just turn him away). You even managed to talk him down from going and starting a fight with Irkiliz, who didn’t even know that Drokyarix was in a relationship, and who was almost as horrified as
Rek’ththththtyr.
After that event in particular, you start to get a sort of a reputation as a place where a demon can come to relax, talk, and – of course – get a sandwich. Your sandwich-making skills have really improved since this whole thing began. Your luck seems to have improved too – you’re not sure if you can attribute the whole thing to the sandwiches and the reputation, but you don’t really want to know anyway.
One day, there’s a bright flash of light from your living room. Nothing unusual in itself – most of the younger demons haven’t quite got the style of their elders, and usually just go for a materialization in a flash of hellfire over your fireplace – except that it’s white instead of the usual red. You look up, and who do you see but an angel looking at you with a spear in his hand. Shrugging, you tell him to sit down and you’ll have a sandwich for him shortly, and meanwhile he can just tell you all about what’s on his mind. This clearly is not at all what he was expecting, but after a moment’s thought, he decides to take you up on your offer and starts talking. Apparently, he’d been dispatched to take care of some demon summoner in the neighborhood, and while he’d evidently got the wrong house the right one shouldn’t be hard to find – have you seen anyone practicing satanic rituals nearby? You laugh, a little, and tell him that you don’t really summon them, they just come on their own. They do like their sandwiches, and they’re quite nice folk.
The angel’s jaw drops, and you remind him to chew with his mouth closed.
And I’m going to take this even further. Here we go.
It took a bit of explaining with the first angel to arrive. Telling him about the first accidental summoning and then how the demons just started stopping by around lunch time on your days off. But once he understood what’s been going on (and finished his sandwich) he nodded solemnly and said he would get this all straightened out “upstairs.”
You eventually start getting more angels coming around for lunch. Sometimes they bring a small dessert for you to share after the sandwiches, and the dishes are always magically clean and back in the cupboard when they leave.
You lean that angels don’t have much of their own drama, but they do know all the truths about human tabloid drama and they’re more than willing to dish on what the Kardashians have been up to.
The first time an angel and a demon show up for lunch on the same day is a little tense. You tell them that ALL are welcome for lunch in your house and that you would prefer it to be a no-conflict zone. It takes a while for them to settle, but eventually they grow comfortable enough to start chatting. Which is when you learn that because demons are technically fallen angels, you’ve been having two sides of an estranged family over for lunch regularly.
Soon, you have an angel and a demon at every lunch. Old friends and estranged siblings meeting up to reconnect over a sandwich at your dinning room table. You help the ones who had a falling out reach an understanding, and you get to hear wild stories of what the “old realm” was like.
One day, as you’re pulling out the bread and cheese, a messenger demon appears. You greet him and tell him a sandwich will be ready soon, but he declines. He is here on behalf of Lucifer to ask if it’s alright by you for him to “enter your dwelling so as to meet with his brother Michael over sandwiches.”
A little stunned, you agree. The demon disappears and you prepare three sandwiches, setting them at the table.
When Lucifer (the actual devil!) appears in small puff of smoke, you welcome him and ask what he’d like to drink. As you’re fetching the apple juice, a blinding flash of light comes from the dinning room indicating Michael’s arrival. You grab a second cup and walk back in to find a tense stand off between the brothers. You set down the cups and juice while calmly reminding them that this is a conflict-free zone, and if they are going to fight, please take it to an alternate plane of existence.
They don’t fight. They sit and enjoy the sandwiches and talk about what happened. You learn a lot about why creation started, what the purpose of humanity was and what it’s grown to be. You only have to diffuse two arguments. And at the end when it’s time for them to leave, they hug each other, agreeing to meet up again somewhere else.
In the following weeks you have the usual assortment of demons and angels stopping by. The regulars ask how you’re mom is doing and if your friend is settling in to their new apartment nicely. At some point during each visit though, they ask if it’s true. Did Lucifer and Michael really come for lunch? You tell them yes, but won’t say what was talked about. They’re disappointed, everyone likes the gossip, but they understand. Before they leave, you ask each angel and demon about this idea you have for the summer, what if you had a barbecue on the back patio for everyone who wanted to come? They think it sounds like a fun idea.
I would pay good money for this to be a movie/tv show
your gods & monsters fics are so beautiful!! I know you had Prometheus in the one with Pandora, but do you think you could do one with him when he was stealing the fire?
By her very nature Hestia is not supposed to have favorites,
but Hades has always been hers.She is the eldest sister, and he the eldest brother. She
wonders if that is perhaps why they somehow end up being the responsible ones.“I like it down here,” she says, curled up in his throne.
“It’s quiet.”He snorts, head bent over the reams of paper, endless lists
of the dead. Somehow, she never sees Zeus with paperwork. “It’s dark, and
cold.” She glances around. The only light comes from the softly glowing
moonstones, from the bioluminescent designs etched into the walls.She extends a hand, “I can–”
A cheerful fire crackles to life in the center of the room,
warm and sweet and smelling of cedar even though there’s no smoke. “Sister!” he
snaps, “Return that to Olympus immediately!”She pouts, holding the fire steady, “Why? It’s my fire, I am
its keeper, am I not? I can give it to whoever I choose.”“Zeus has decreed it is a privilege of those that reside in
the heavens,” he glares, “I will not see his wrath turn upon you. Put it back.”Hestia closes her palm, and the fire snuffs out, returning
to its home on Mount Olympus. “Little brother Zeus would do well to remember
his place.”“I’m sure he would say the same of us,” Hades says wryly,
eyes dropping back down to his desk.She is the keeper of the hearth, the bringer of fire, the
guardian of the home. The spirit of Mother Gaia pulses in her more clearly than
the others, no matter the claims Hera likes to makeZeus is a little boy. A powerful little boy for sure, but a
child none the less. She and Hades grew in their father’s stomach together, his
was the hand she grasped through the years in their horrid prison.She dislikes little boys telling her how to govern her realm
of hearth and home.~
Prometheus was not a smart man, but he was a brave man, an
ambitious man.So when a goddess appears in front of him, offering him an
opportunity for glory, he does not refuse. He grins with eyes too bright and
says, “Fire? The tool of gods back in mortal hands? We could do much with
that.”“Yes,” the goddess agrees, “but it will not come free. If
you succeed you will be sent to Hades’s realm, of this I am certain, and when
you are – you must bring fire to him as well. That is the price of our
bargain.”“Agreed,” he says instantly, and does not question why a god
needs a human to get him fire. His is not the place to question gods.Myths will say that he was a Titan, a god among gods, but
that is not true.He was a lone, ambitious man. The act of a single person can
often be mistaken for the work of a god.~
Hestia’s throne sits unused on Olympus, more concerned with
tending her hearth fire than sitting high above mortals.Any being which must assert their authority through status
symbols likely has very little authority to begin with. “You’re planning
trouble,” Hera accuses one day, her clothing purposefully plain next to her
husband’s and her hair piled atop her head in an exhaustingly elaborate
fashion.Hera did not become wife of Zeus, Queen of the Gods, by
being stupid. She can be accused of many things, but stupidity is not among
them.“Whatever do you mean, little sister?” Hestia asks, reaching
a hand into the fire and watching the flames dance harmlessly over her skin.
None of her other siblings would be so fortunate, should they try to touch her
fire.Hera cross her arms, lower lip jutting out, and Hestia’s
mouth twitches. They are all so painfully young still, now. Hera is little more
than a girl, and Hestia thinks she would be fond of her if she were not so
clearly hiding fangs behind her pretty lips.Loving your family never meant having to like them.
“You won’t get away with it, whatever it is,” Hera declares
before turning on her heel and striding off.Hestia cups a ball of flame in her hand, the warmth of it
seeping down to her bones. “Whatever you say, little sister.”~
The climb up Mount Olympus takes him weeks. He’s exhausted
and hungry by the time he reaches the top, having run out of food some days
ago. But he makes it – something that no other human can claim.He follows the goddess’s instructions to the letter, waits
until the moon is high in the sky before creeping into the palace. He doesn’t
touch any of the statues, the tapestries, the golden goblets or silver plates.
He doesn’t even let his gaze linger on them, for he is after a prize far more
valuable than wealth.Fame. Notoriety. His name written in the heavens, never to
be forgotten.The hearth is in the center of the throne room, larger than
twice his size and more golden than red. He takes a trembling step forward,
eager and terrified all in one.The goddess appears in front of him, more silhouette than
anything else. “This fire will burn you,” she warns, eyes fever bright and
sparking just like the inferno behind her, “It will kill you. It is only a
matter of when – not if.”“I understand,” he says, because it doesn’t matter, death
does not matter. Death comes for all men. If he succeeds in returning fire to
humankind, he will be more than a man – he will be a legend.“Very well.” She spicks up a globe of fire in her hand.
Prometheus reaches for it, but she does not hand it to him. Instead she opens
her mouth impossibly wide and places it on her tongue, lips closing around it
and her whole face turning red from the heat.She grabs him by the front of his shirt and jerks him
forward, placing her mouth to his mouth and pushing the ball of celestial fire
onto his tongue.“There,” she says, leaning back. “That will dampen it enough
for you to make it back to the land of mortal men, but you must not open your
mouth until you are ready – as soon as it’s exposed to the air it will consume
you. If you are not back in the mortal realm at that point, your death will be
for nothing.”It burns, it’s complete agony. He can already feel the fire
eating its way through the soft, wet muscles of his cheeks. But he gives the
goddess one sharp nod and then he’s sprinting his way out of Olympus.He doesn’t have much time.
~
Prometheus is long gone by the time Hera drags herself to
the throne room, sleeping robe askew and Zeus’s teeth marks on her collarbone.
She’s older than her husband but still so terribly young, and for a moment
Hestia pities her.“What did you do?” Hera demands, voice coming out rough.
Hestia can’t see any bruising on her throat but that doesn’t mean there isn’t
any. “I know you did something!”She knows the woman Hera will grow into, has seen many girls
become that same woman, and as the wife of Zeus it’s nearly inevitable. But
she’s not a woman yet, just a girl who’s gambled everything for a play at power
and hasn’t yet figured out if she’s won or lost.“It’s cold in Zeus’s chambers,” Hestia pats the empty space
beside her, “Won’t you sit with me, little sister?”Hera stares at her, mistrust heavy in the air and plain on
her face. She will learn to hide her thoughts better one day. “It’s not cold in
there.”“Isn’t it?” she asks simply, and for a split second Hera’s
face crumples. “Come, little sister.”Hera takes one hesitant step closer, then another,
eventually stumbling to her knees beside her and staring into the fire, Hestia
is sure, so she has an excuse for her eyes to water.“None of that now,” she adjusts Hera’s robe and pulls her
hair from her face, the normally immaculate locks frizzy and tangled. She
summons a brush and runs it through her sister’s hair, careful and steady.The tension leaves Hera’s body by degrees until she chokes
out, “It’s warm here.”“As it always will be, when you are beside me,” she says,
because she can promise that at least. Whether Hera will choose to sit at her
side in the future is another matter entirely.~
Burns have surfaced all across his body, blistering legions
turning into bloody caverns of ash where he once had flesh.Most of his lower face is gone, his jaw open and gaping and
only bone. The ball of celestial fire is nestled at the bottom of his throat;
it’s burned through until only a thin layer of skin separating it from the open
air. He has to hurry. Every step is agony, he hasn’t been able to take a breath
for several minutes, and at this point death can only be a relief.He will not die in vain.
Prometheus finally, finally steps upon mortal soil, but he
does not stop there. He runs home, to his city, to the center of the square.
People recognize him, even with half his face burned away, and there are
screams.He collapses in the city square and reaches what’s left of
his hand into his throat. He pulls all but a spark of the celestial fire free,
and opens his hand.He’s consumed in an instant, and his last sight is of fire
flying – into stoves, lighting hearths, candles twinkling to life.They will carve his name into the skies for this. He dies
satisfied.~
“How could this have happened?” Zeus rages, “How dare he
steal from the gods! I will have Hades destroy him in every possible manner!”“Yes, my king,” Hestia murmurs. She doubts he’ll ever make
note of the contempt in her voice at his title.King of the Gods. As if gods have ever cared for kings.
Hera remains remarkably, carefully silent at her husband’s
side, hair neatly coiled the exact circumference of Hestia’s fingers.It wasn’t something Hestia asked of her, nor what she was
expecting. It is, however, a very pleasant surprise.Maybe there’s hope for her yet.
~
Prometheus opens his eyes, which he wasn’t expecting.
Everything still feels like it’s burning, but his body is back in more or less
one piece.He’s in a place both dark and cold, and when his sight
adjusts he realizes Hades, god of the dead, is standing before him.“You’ve angered my brother greatly,” the god says, but he
doesn’t sound all that upset. “I’m to give you the worst punishment imaginable
for your transgressions.”Prometheus opens his mouth, and out drops the smallest
flicker of a flame. “From the goddess,” he says, and the spark goes twirling,
dancing across torches and leaving them lit, passing by a hearth so it roars to
life.Hades eyes widen as he watches the sparks progress, until it
disappears down the hallway to light the rest of his realm. “Foolish older
sister,” he says, softer and kinder than Prometheus thinks the god of the
underworld is supposed to look.The whole place looks brighter with the fire, it goes from
ominous to nearly – homey, a place not only to arrive at but one to return to.Hades slides his gaze back to him, “Those burns are from
celestial fire. I cannot heal them – you must live with them.”“I understand,” Prometheus says, even though he doesn’t. If
he’s to be subjected to the worst punishment imaginable, what does it matter if
he’s burned or not?The god smiles, as if he’s reading his thoughts, and says
“Very good.”The next thing Prometheus knows, he’s back in the lands of
mortal men. Different, perhaps – but alive.~
Fires are lit in her name, each home’s hearth dedicated to
her, and Hestia smiles.Hers is not a domain so easily extinguished.
gods and monsters series, part vi
just moving along like everyone else 