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« on: March 28, 2020, 02:15:15 pm »
1.4
Phos stood at the door between his world and the Iron Band. He had a nephew now. He had something he had to do. He had… he had… he had no idea what the hell to do in this situation.
The youngest of the outer lords understood what it was like to awaken into a world you didn’t understand at all, that was the reason he was the most human of them. It was easier to try and look at the world from a human’s limited lease than a God’s birds-eye view. But still, he didn’t really know what to do right now. He had just grabbed a selection of his favorite books, and a few books on magecraft, and walked over to the bridge between worlds where he was now frozen in place like a coward. He wished that Clíodhna was there, not that he’d ever say it out loud. She always knew what to do, but she was busy, and he was alone.
Alone… right, that was how Al-Mithran had to feel. Alone… so alone. How much he had to hate being alone. He was so interconnected with everything, but so alone. That wasn’t fair. He deserved to have someone there for him! A parent, a friend! Someone! Someone who he could turn to and talk to and ask questions to and…
With his newfound conviction, Phos pushed through the door into the Iron Band. It was an endless circle of black metal, full of complex tools and measuring machines. Empty bookcases dotted the landscape, though a few stood with some sparse, poorly organized heavy tomes. A casual look at the simple leather-bound parchment would tell a casual observer nothing, but he wasn’t a casual observer, he was the god of stories. The books danced before his eyes with reference stories and complex equations, tales of bindings and epic spells. Even research texts told stories, if you looked at them right.
Phos wandered farther in, past the devices and tools his supernatural senses told him were for a great variety of complex calculations he couldn’t even begin to fully comprehend, and on to a simple sparse corner where he found a young man sitting.
The boy had an odd look about him. He was a handsome youth, Noble features and a thin build, but he was no warrior. His muscles weren’t well developed, but the way his hands moved… those were a mage’s hands, no doubt about that. The boy’s body was built in full from the same black metal of his world, but it looked less solid than the world around it, more… alive. Black bloody tears flowed from his eyes, showing that he was his mother’s son, but the slow flow betrayed even from behind that his eyes were closed.
Once more Phos froze, not knowing what to do. Good gods, he had gone so far. He was standing behind the kid for someone’s sake! But now he was frozen again, so scared to do anything, to say anything. He could practically hear Clíodhna snarking at him.
“Who knew the god of heroes was such a coward?” She’d say. Then she’d push him forwards to speak to Al-Mithran. But she wasn’t here. No one was here to push him so… so he had to do it himself.
“Hello.” He said, with all his strength keeping his voice from cracking or betraying how scared he was. Al-Mithran’s head spun around and he shot straight up. He stared at Phos with startled eyes. Those eyes… even behind the tears he could see them, black sclera and silver irises. They were just like his own eyes...
“Wh-who are you?!?” The young god asked him.
“He’s afraid too,” Phos realized, “he’s just as afraid as I am… more so even.”
“Hello, my name is Phos,” he introduced himself, “I’m your uncle.”
The young God’s expression darkened at the mention of the family connection.
“Leave.” He growled, “I don’t want to have anything to do with my family.”
The boy was… terrifying to put it simply. The aura he gave off, like a monster who was about to bite, would have killed any mortal from the fear alone, and would have sent gods packing, but Phos had seen dragons and chimera. He’d dealt with the worst of monsters tonight up in the dreams of men, and made some of his own.
“Right, because you’re mom’s a fucking bitch who made you by fucking over your champion and yourself at the same time and generally being a shit being.” The writer countered, “trust me, I hate her too.”
“What?” The dark aura disappeared, and Al-Mithran stood there confused.
“Well, I mean, if I was her son, I’d probably lie about it.” Phos continued, “mother of the year she is not.”
“You… you know about how I was made?” Al-Mithran asked.
“Sure thing.” Phos replied, “we all do.”
“Then… then why are you here?” the young god asked, “I- I’m a thing made from a human enslaving an outer god! Why do you want to talk to me?!? Shouldn’t you be avoiding me?!? My very existence is something you should be afraid of.”
“Well… I’m afraid of a lot of things.” Phos explained, “like needles, going into dark rooms alone, spiders, those little buggers have too many eyes I tell you, and definitely pissing off Hroar and Levion, they’re scary. But you? Why should I be afraid of you?”
“I’m an abomination!” The boy shouted back.
“You’re a kid, who’s just coming into his own and doesn’t understand everything yet.” Phos countered. “You’re less of an abomination than some of the outer gods. Next time you think you’re an abomination, get a quick look at Vasov. That’s an abomination.”
The boy looked at him perplexed. Phos hoped this was due to the fact that he was mentally adjusting his self-perception and not because he was trying to figure out how someone so stupid could be a god, but if it was the latter… wouldn’t be the first time.
“Then… then why are you here?”
“To say hello, I suppose.” Phos responded, “and to make sure you knew you knew you had someone to talk to.”
“Who?”
“Me, of course.” Phos feigned shock, “kid, you’re supposed to be smarter than me.”
“Then… uh… I… I have so many.” Al-Mithran replied, “I don’t know what to ask first.”
“Well, take your time.” Phos replied, and then his face lit up with surprise, “oh! Almost forgot!” He leaned down and placed the books he had brought with him at the young god’s feet.
“Some of my favorites.” He explained, “I tossed in some sorcery books too, I hope you don’t have them already.”
Al-Mithran looked down at the pile and picked up the book on top.
“The Tale of the Knights of Ys...” he read from the cover.
“It’s a great story,” Phos explained, “full of Mages and knights, action, romance, laughs. It’s my favorite book, so I was thinking you might like it.”
“You’re… you’re giving me your favorite book?” the young god asked.
“Well, I mean I’ve read it like 300 times now,” Phos chuckled, “and I figured if anyone needed something to distract them from the infinite craziness of the world around them, it would be you.” He leaned over closer to the young god, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper.
“If you don’t feel like dealing with the overwhelming nature of your power, just start reading. Focus on their world, not ours. Get to know your powers at your own pace, no one else’s. You are the author of your story, and don’t let anyone else tell you how to write it. Not your mom, not your dad, not your mom’s buddies, not the chained lord, or the king of chaos-“
“Not even you?” Al-Mithran interjected.
“Kid, if I tell you how to live your life, punch me, really really hard, right in the face.” Phos replied, “I’m an idiot, but something about you tells me you aren’t. You’re going to be a damn good man one day, you just need to figure yourself out first.”
The young god looked at him quizzically.
“Well, when you’ve decided what question to ask, feel free to ask me.” Phos said, as he stood back up straight and prepared to leave, “my door is always open to you.”
He had walked a good distance away before he was stopped by a hand on his shoulder. He turned around, looking at the young man who stood behind him. Standing up, Al-Mithran was only a little shorter than he was. Phos looked right into his eyes, his eyes that looked so much like his own.
“Thank you…” the young god said, “I… I look forward to reading the books you gave me, Uncle.”
“It’s nothing, kid.” Phos replied, “family helps family, that’s the only way the world keeps moving. If someone just tries to take and take, then they aren’t family. That’s why your mom isn’t invited to dinner.”
“Yeah…” Al-Mithran, “Wait, am I invited to dinner then?”
“It was meant as just an expression, but sure.” Phos said, wrapping his arm around his nephew’s shoulder, “you can even pick out some books you like while you’re over with me.”
“Tha-thank you.”
“It’s nothing.” Phos said, as he and Al-Mithran walked over to the door between worlds, “and after dinner, you can ask me questions about being a god, and I can try to answer them. And then we can test out what your powers can do, and I can show you some cool tricks. Oh, and maybe I can introduce you to Clíodhna. Actually, no, she’d have a heart attack if she saw me acting responsibly.”
“Your girlfriend?” Al-Mithran asked.
Phos’s face blushed a deep black. “N-no! She’s just my assistant! She helps me out with-“
He was cut off by the younger god’s laughter. It sounded like iron bells.
What an oddly wonderful sound.
