Gryphy

It is raining.

Clouds have crept through the usually clear night skies to obscure the stars and the grim rain deities who have taken rainfall as their calling tug and poke at the heavy, lazy collections of vapor and water drops, herding them and urging them to melt into the watery curtain that covers the world outside the window, stealing the light, the joy and the color away from the day until all there is left is just grey, solemn twilight.

This is not the light rain of the kinder gods of flurry, sent at the end of the drought to wash over a slumbering world, nurture the plants, warn the animals of the coming of new shoots and children of all kinds and shapes. No, this is the unyielding, unforgiving, depressing rain that lulls the mind with its song and opens doors long ago sealed, brings forth old regrets, washes away the scabs of deep, ancient wounds and leaves the soul unprotected against bitter, predatory melancholy.

It is a rain of mourning and it could not suit Math’s disposition any better.

He sighs and moves away from the window, feeling his flaxen hair lose its color, the grooves on his face become deeper. He feels older, more tired, defeated by Fate if not by Time. Time, after all, has not just robbed him of his only sister and brother-in-law.

The serene, monotone voice of the demigod conveying the terrible news goes silent for a moment as its owner realizes that the Archon is not quite listening anymore. Math looks at the young boy sitting on the chaise lounge clutching a small stuffed toy gryphon. The doll sits looking at Math with beady black eyes, body glowing with a faint, magical light.

“And that is my nephew, is he?” the Archon asks, fixing his gaze on the quiet but alert little boy.

“Yes, your lordship,” the demigod replies. “His name is Gwydion. It was your sister’s wish that he would be left in your care, should anything happen to her.”

“But he’s little more than a toddler!” Math exclaims.

“He is four years old, master Math,” the patient, austere demigod concedes.

The Archon sighs. The boy sitting before him is the spitting image of his father, with long shiny black hair and a well-drawn jawline. Young as he is, he sits straight and attentive, head turning as his inquisitive eyes pay close attention to the world around him, much like his father's used to do. And the hazel in his eyes is exactly the same pleasantly quaint shade of brown that his mother's used to own.

The boy looks down at his toy gryphon, pats it on the head, and the disproportionately small wings on the thing begin to flap. The plush animal rises in the air, clearly animated by a spell of some sort, and performs a little pirouette in midair, much to the child's amusement. Gwydion giggles and claps his hands before calling the toy back to his lap. Looking up, the boy fixes his gaze on his uncle and smiles innocently.

Her smile...

Math shakes his head slowly. “I should have visited more often… What is he playing with?”

“His favorite toy, Gryphy,” the demigod explains. “His father taught him to animate it and he has been inseparable from it since.”

He is a quiet, somber character with long dark hair that falls in waves over his shoulders and thick eyebrows that make his deep-set eyes, already dark brown by nature, look darker, sadder, wiser than most mortals’. His thin moustache and short beard are beginning to turn grey but here and there the light still manages to rip reddish highlights from the soft facial hair. His words are deliberate and kind, both in content and in sound, the perfect mirror of the tranquil heart and solemn mind from which they arise.

Iovan, Demigod of Learning, Groomer of Minds, Guardian of Youth. Many praise him as the best tutor a First Ring child could ever wish for. However, his services are nearly impossible to hire. This is the kind of tutor that knocks on one’s door one night with a guarantee that he is needed, whether his future employer realizes it or not.

Slowly, it dawns on Math that he has not only inherited a child but also his tutor. He looks to his right to find two beady black eyes staring back at him. A soft, plush bleak hovers just a finger’s width away from his nose. A bushy brown tail brushes softly against his shoulder. The sight makes him cringe slightly. From his perch on the chaise lounge, Gwydion smiles beatifically at his uncle.

“I don’t want to look at him and see his parents. My grief is too recent,” the Archon says. “Cut his hair, change his clothes. Everything that has been brought from my sister’s house is to be destroyed.” He grabs the gryphon and hands it to Iovan. “You can start by this toy. It is disturbing to look at.”

The order causes the tutor’s eyes to widen. “Please, your lordship,” he requests as he carefully holds the plush animal. “If I may… The boy has just lost his parents and he is in no condition to sustain the loss of the only friend he has in this world.”

“That…thing is not even real,” Math insists. “It is just a stuffed toy.”

“Yes, but his mother made it for him,” Iovan argues.

“She didn’t even make a proper-looking gryphon,” Math rants on. “Who has ever heard of a gryphon with feline forepaws?”

“She thought that eagle talons might wound the child,” Iovan insists softly, patiently. “Please, master Math. It is the only thing he has left of her. And he is so young now… In a few years, he won’t even remember the way she looked.”

“Good, he won’t be asking questions I can’t answer, then,” the Archon mutters. “From now on, his mother and father are geasa in this house, do you understand? Even their names are not to be spoken. I don’t want him going down the same path they did.”

“I understand, my lord Archon,” the demigod nods in acceptance. “And the toy?”

Math sighs. Iovan is right. Regardless of the well-known resilience of youth, there are only so many blows a child can sustain before being completely destroyed. “I just don’t want to see it, Iovan. Keep it out of my sight, where it won’t remind me of my grief.”

“Thank you, your lordship.”

“Has he even begun to show any hints of a sphere?” the Archon enquires.

“No,” Iovan answers, releasing the gryphon back to the growingly impatient boy, who welcomes his friend by hugging him tightly. “None whatsoever. His father has taught him a few spells and he seems to take to that form of magic quite easily. But nothing else seems to cause him to react the way a god-child should. Even as a baby, his days were rather uneventful.”

“Lovely,” Math snorts derisively. “How tragic and comical that the sole heir of two of our most powerful weapons against Hell is useless as a god.”

“He is young still, my lord,” Iovan notes. “He may yet reveal some great skill. Who knows if he can’t master his father’s more complicated spells? The ones he was trying to perfect before tragedy struck.”

“I don’t want him anywhere near those spells or anything that could send his father’s enemies on the hunt for him,” Math warns the demigod. “Just worry about raising him. I will deal with his education.”

“I shall, my lord Archon,” Iovan states, extending a hand in the child’s direction. Gwydion slides carefully off the chaise and, holding his beloved toy tightly in his arms, walks over to his tutor’s side. “Say goodnight to your uncle Math, little Dion.”

The boy looks up at Math and bows brightly. “Goodnight, Uncle Math.”

“Goodnight, nephew,” Math replies. He looks at the demigod. “Goodnight, Iovan.”

“Goodnight, my lord,” Iovan says as he turns to leave, offering his hand for the young boy to hold. “Come with me now, Dion, and hold on tightly to Gryphy. We don’t want to lose him, do we?”

Dion takes Iovan’s hand and hugs the toy with his free arm, nuzzling the stuffed gryphon. “No,” he says. “Are we going home now? I wanna see my mommy.”

Math watches them leave the room before collapsing onto a chair and helping himself to a glass of Ambrosia from the crystal decanter that sits on the small table by the chaise.

“Oh, Eidon…” he whispers in between sips. “Of all the things you could have left me alone to deal with, why did it have to be him?”

Ch4.46 Fatal Prophecy

Around the Council room, voices rise and fall in bickering and furious whispering in response to Math’s latest statement. The Archon breathes deeply. He knew it would not be an easy Council session. Not that there ever are such things as easy sessions. He looks up and closes his eyes, remembering the day when Nevieve, then an active Archon, stood in the exact same place as he does now and delivered her prophecy. It must have taken her a very large dose of certainty in her vision to stand here and be mocked by her fellow Archons. It is certainly uncomfortable to stand here like someone on trial. And yet, who is laughing now?

Math’s eyes drift to a chronically empty balcony and snorts. Anarai, Archon of Fate, would laugh at this. If she ever attended a meeting of the Council, that is. She never comes to these things. She knows must be done, she replies when questioned about her absences, and the procedures bore her. She might have stood by Nevieve then. She would laugh at her fellow Archons now. They should know better than to deny her.

“My fellow Archons, please–” Math pleads.

“You’ve had a week, Math,” Archon Taleloc’s voice booms from his balcony, echoing in the chamber like thunder in a summer night. “A week since Nekh was taken from existence. And this is all you bring us by way of answer?”

“What is a week to gods, especially in such cases?” Archon Ikenga intervenes, grumpily.

“Such cases?” Archon Chanti notes, her voice always a little too high-pitched for the comfort of all creatures endowed with a sense of hearing. “Have there ever been such cases? An Archon has been killed. By...bunnies!”

“I thought it was Death’s daughter who had been found near the body,” Archon Enki states placidly. “Do we even know if her Bunnies had anything to do with the situation other than just being there?”

Math shakes his head. “Not yet,” he replies. “I have two gods, a gryphon, seven Bunnies and a dead body in an otherwise empty room. And none of them are talking...yet.”

“Does it matter?” Archon Eriseth hisses, poison dripping from her words. “It was all because of her creations! And what are you waiting for to get them to talk?” she demands, adding an accusation of incompetence to her question.

“Bodies and minds need to heal,” Math states in patient, but strained tones. “Healing takes time.”

“Time we don’t have, Math,” Taleloc admonishes him. “The news of Nekh’s demise has spread like mice in crop fields, feeding on speculation and leaving ruin in its wake. It is imperative that we put this issue to rest as quickly as possible in the great theatre of public opinion.”

The rumor of whispered words rises again in general agreement with Taleloc’s statement, making the whole room sound like a rather upset beehive.

“Most of all, we have to make justice,” Eriseth’s voice cries from the shapeless murmuring, feeding it with her anger. “It’s annihilation for them all, I say! Quick and easy!”

“Calm your slithering tongue, Eriseth!” Math growls at the goddess. “Nekh was no force of Good and we all know that! Some of us even better than the others!” He looks intently around the now very silent room. “Was he not holding so many of the people in this room by the short end, after all?”

“Even so, Math, justice must be seen to be served,” Archon Dergallin intercedes, firm but fair. “The last thing we want is to create martyrs among the Death clan.” His tone becomes sharper. “Or even among your own. Nekh’s activities will have to be investigated as much as your Sergeants’.”

“As always, you are the voice of reason, Dergallin,” Math retorts. “And what do you suggest to that end?”

“A representative from the Court Dei will follow your people in their investigation,” Enki declares. “She will also interview the suspects. No special treatment must be seen to be granted.”

“A lawyer, then?” Math wonders.

“More like an independent investigator,” Enki offers. “We have picked her from among the Ketu gods. You know of their fabled eye for the truth.”

Math nods slowly in resentful agreement. “Yes… Who doesn’t? Albeit their unhealthy tendency to plot against us.”

Dergallin’s sigh carries, soft and heavy, across the room. “I will tell you, fellow Archon, that I am not so sure if they should be frowned upon for doing so. It seems to be a popular pastime, after all.”

“What about the Bunnies?” Archon Anura asks, her voice serene like a summer breeze. “Should we assume the prophecy is fulfilled? We don’t even know what part they played in this.”

“One way or another, they’re at the center of this,” Chanti states to a number of whispered echoes of her words from other Archons.

“Where are they now?” Enki enquires.

“At my estate,” Math replies. “All but Inspector Tuma-Sukai and the gryphon have been kept on house arrest at my estate to recover, only allowed to leave under escort. The Bunnies refuse to talk about the incident, but flock around their mother–”

“Mother?” Taleloc exclaims.

Math merely nods. “That is what they call her.”

“Stupid artificial creations, presuming to have ancestry like proper lifeforms!” Eriseth shrieks in bewilderment. “Mother… Their kind didn’t even exist until that reckless goddess brought them to life.”

“If she created their entire species, would that not merit even greater devotion from them?” Archon Kadmyl intervenes. “Besides, we are still to find exactly how they were created. Arion has left us with that mystery to solve.”

“Barely out of her infant robes and already creating the weapons of our destruction,” Enki says, his voice carrying more sadness than anger.

“It is of no consequence,” Ikenga grunts. “Nevieve has refused to answer our callings and confirm that the prophecy is fulfilled. It is up to us to determine if they are no longer a threat or if we should still consider their elimination.”

“Would it be wise to eliminate them now?” Anura inquires. “People might ask questions we do not wish to answer.”

“And look what happened to Nekh…” Taleloc notes.

Silence spreads across the room as the Archons consider the possibility of sharing in Nekh’s fate. Slowly, the murmurs rise again, bickering and disorganized, panicked and misshapen.

Eriseth finally molds them into words. “Well, at least keep them away from us. They have caused enough damage as it is.”

The murmurs rise and rise, agreeing with Eriseth, much to Math’s growing frustration. The whispering and hissing fill the room like the buzzing of millions of hysterical bees, overwhelming and smothering, solid and shapeless, drowning thought under the ghosts of words.

“ENOUGH!” Dergallin suddenly bellows, immediately reducing the room to utter silence.

“Order the Bunnies back to their burrow and proceed with your investigation, Math,” the Archon orders. “Be thorough and be careful. Remember, your nephew’s life and that of his friend rest in the balance of whatever you find.”

Ch4.44 Fatal Prophecy

As the God Striker, drained, goes inactive, Dion begins to see the room more clearly than before. And he sees his best friend across the room – dead or merely unconscious, he has no idea. He begins to rise, but feels a weight on his thigh.

He realizes that, almost without thought, he has been comforting the youngest Bunny, the one from whom he acquired the God Striker. She is weeping, shivering, traumatized by all the violence around her. He can’t just dump her on the floor. Then Kori and Chime, the two just ahead of her in age, come to his assistance, while Sage moves toward Alma.

As Dion hands the young Bunny over to them, he sees her looking at him, her tear-filled eyes holding an emotional intensity he has not seen from her before. But he has no time to think of that.

He pushes himself upright and half-stumbles across the room. Passing Sky – registering his existence fully for the first time, and the Commander’s as well – he glances down and sees Alma shivering in the Inspector’s arms. What she did to the Archon, tearing his soul from him… Dion tries to tell himself that she couldn’t help it, that it was necessary, but he remembers shouting to stop her, how she killed the helpless, already defeated god. Is this what it means to be Guardia? He cannot reconcile the conflicting emotions as they battle for dominance in his thoughts.

He forces himself to focus on Geryon. Falling to his knees in front of his friend, his best friend. The only brother he ever had, if not in blood, then by spirit. Touching his friend's torso lightly, he uses a little of his nearly exhausted mana to cast a probing spell into the gryphon before him...and feels life. Nearly collapsing with relief, he feels tears threatening to spill over as he burns more precious mana, exploring, boosting life and repairing.

A sudden bolt of mana surges into him, creating a shock in his system as it refills his reserves. He releases the spell and quickly turns to find the source.

Math stands above him.

“See to your friend,” the Archon instructs him softly, and then turns to join the Commander, Sky, and Alma by Nekh's remains.

Dion, nodding, returns to the prone gryphon, leveraging the refreshed source of mana to pour healing energy into his friend. He feels two soft forms pressing against him on either side as Cherry and Merri kneel next to him, wiping tears from their eyes.

“Is he gonna be OK?” Cherry finally dares to ask.

“Ain't there nowt we can do?” Merri whispers.

Eyes closed and concentrating, Dion responds in a soft, low voice. “He’s hurt, badly. But…but he's tough.” He wonders if he’s trying to convince them, or himself.

As the god finishes his statement, he is rewarded with a sudden deep breath from his friend. Slowly moving his head, Geryon opens his eyes and looks up. “What...what happened?”

The girls laugh for the first time, hugging each other as Dion smiles towards his friend. “It’s over. He’s finished.”

Geryon’s eyes suddenly get wide. “Did I beat him?”

Now, it’s Dion’s time to chuckle. “You did your part, my friend. More so with the gift you were carrying.”

Before the two friends can say any more, Cherry and Merri are suddenly fussing over Geryon like mothers, carefully stroking his fur and feathers.

“Och, ye puir wee bairn,” Merri murmurs soothingly.

“What’d you think you were doin’?” Cherry chides. “Takin’ on a god! An Archon! You’re crazy, you big, awesome hero, you!” She kisses him, pressing her full lips to his beak.

“Our dear, brave defender,” Merri says, before suddenly sobbing and throwing her arms around his neck. “Oh, we thought ye were daid!”

“Ow! Ow!” the gryphon complains, though seeming quite pleased nonetheless. He relaxes slightly in their delightful care, closing his eyes momentarily, until Dion’s words finally connect. “The Percussorem?” he asks, getting a nod from his friend. “You killed him?” Geryon asks with concern, his mind fearing the repercussions.

“No. I used it, but stopped it before it finished him. But then...”  Dion says softly and then nods his head in the direction of Alma.

Geryon looks over at the goddess, who is now in the arms of Sage, still sitting on the floor, while the Inspector talks quietly but intensely with the Commander and Math off to one side. “I suppose they can’t challenge a member of the Death Clan for taking a life,” the gryphon says hopefully.

“We will see,” Dion says now straightening up and rising. “But, for now, you rest here. I’ve cast a number of healing spells on you, but they’re going to take time to do their work fully.”

As he steps away, he hears Merri saying, “Aye, he is our champion!”

“Oh…I only did what I had to,” Geryon modestly responds, his voice muffled against Cherry’s ample bosom.  “But, I think I’ll need some nursing for awhile until I mend,” he states with an implied invitation, gaining laughter and more hugs from the lady Bunnies.

The antics bring a smile to his face, and then Dion feels a hand slip into his. He looks down and sees the youngest Bunny at his side again, still looking very frightened, Chime and Kori standing behind her, the former looking annoyed with her, the latter looking apologetic. Dion shakes his head at them to tell them not to worry, and lifts her in his arms. She is as small as a child, easily lifted and held, but he knows her size is deceptive – the Bunnies are all on the small side, compared to humans. She is actually in her early teens, if he remembers correctly.

He rocks her in his arms and shushes her gently, using his considerable charm to captivate her full attention. Quoting an old half-remembered song, he says, “Now, little flower, no longer need you cry. You are safe.”

Her huge, blue eyes locked on his, the Bunny falls silent. But then she says in a hesitant stammer, “Not… F-flower.

“Name is…Tulip.”

Ch4.37 Fatal Prophecy

The Curia Concilium, probably the most famous and least-known building in all of the Insula. Perched on the very top of the volcanic mountain that gives this nexus of converging and contrasting realities its shape, the building in which the Great Council of Archons, the Senate and the Council of Tribes find their home hovers just above the crater, its bones resting on the massive levitating marble platform that lends it foundation and beauty. Staircases and long, winding roads stretch from it all the way down to the First Ring, like the tentacles of a gigantic octopus, too long and steep to climb on foot, at least for the most common of humans.

Fashioned like a massive coliseum surrounded by well-trimmed gardens, fountains and imposing portals, the building stands, glistening and white, its intricately carved circular walls depicting scenes of creation and destruction, of great wars against the most fearsome children of Hell, of heroes and traitors, gods and, if one takes the time to search, even men.

Within it, the fate of the Urbis is planned and played each day, like a board game of wits and influence, by the oldest, most powerful and eloquent of gods. Most of these, like Alma’s father, make up the Senate, a body of hundreds of gods, each looking to tilt the scales in his/her/its favor, creating new laws and tweaking old ones, much to the general confusion of even the best, most studious of lawyers. They convene in the lower rings of the Curia, just above the arena, where gods requesting audience may plead their case. Sheltered from the elements by beautiful, movable roofs, the senators do their business with a sort of chaotic order and protocol, to which many a deal struck behind the scenes lends a certain level of perceived efficiency.

The rest of the populace is not without its representation, of course. The Comitia Tributa, mostly known as the Council of Tribes, made of the thousands of elected representatives of the non-divine population in the Urbis, occupies the upper benches of the coliseum. Too far up to even see the arena below, the throng of squabbling mortals stands in five concentric rings sitting far above and away from the Senate, so vast and populated that those wishing to be heard have to raise their voices above the roaring crowd – an impossibility for a single mortal, necessitating factions and parties. In the sun, the rain, under freezing temperatures or lightning strikes, they shout and quarrel every single day about little things, meaningless things as limited as a mortal’s vision can be about the great scheme of all things.

And below, far, far below, in the very bowels of the Curia, the Council of Archons dwells. Names known only to a very privileged few, these figures of myth and wonder meet away from the sight of gods and mortals, below the arena, away from the light, in heavily guarded rooms only they can describe. To reach them, one must descend into the womb of the Curia, through winding staircases and hidden passages.

Just as Math is about to do. Standing at the top of one of the inconspicuous staircases that leads down to the entrance of the Council's pleading stand, he inspects his entourage, currently consisting of seven exquisitely dressed Bunnies, their creator Alma, Math’s nephew and two other Dei, all sporting the rich blue colors of Math’s Guardia. Their clothes styled to a perfect fit, the Bunnies shine in all their glory, their slender bodies hugged and framed in splendid, light fabric, skirts and blouses for the females, except for Cherry. She looks much more comfortable in the skin-tight leather trousers she found in a closet at Math’s, and when one of the servants, trained in magic, used a simple spell to make them fit perfectly, she insisted on wearing them. The males wear shirts and pants or shorts, Sage looking particularly charming in his vest embroidered with magnificent silver-thread cornucopia and leaves.

Alma allows herself to feel slightly more confident, even if mildly uncomfortable with having had to surrender her sword and dagger to comply with the law that forbids anyone not on official guard duty from carrying a weapon within the sacred walls of the Curia. The Bunnies look extraordinary in their outfits, as they themselves keep cooing, happy to model the garments at the smallest opportunity. The goddess herself is dressed to impress in a long, light dress embroidered in silver and white, so finely and subtly that a starry sky would pale in comparison. Her right shoulder bare, the top of her dress hanging from her left shoulder, front and back made of sashes pinned together by her badge, her slim waist  drawn by an intricate corset embroidered with a phoenix in flight, that slowly melts into a long, flaring skirt designed more for show than for practical means, Alma feels readier for a ball than a Council hearing. Gwydion himself, in his impeccable suit trimmed in gold thread and cut to accentuate each line and curve of his muscular form, could just as easily step out and attend a high-end party.

The two First Ring Guardia Dei escorting them look as prim and flawless as their post demands, their golden badges shined to blind the occasional victim with reflected light. One of them, however, finds his face slightly marred by a black eye and a busted lip.

“Very well,” Math determines, rubbing his hands together and composing the collar on his shirt. “Now, while I go and speak to the Council, you lot are going to be escorted by these gentlemen to one of our holding areas.” He indicates the two First Ring Dei. “And Gwydion, please try not to beat them up this time.”

They wait for the Archon to disappear down the staircase before turning away and setting off to walk the curving, winding corridors that so closely follow on the inside the rounded profile of the gaping mouth and outer heart the Curia. They walk some distance before Alma turns to Gwydion.

“Beat them up?” she inquires, eyebrow raised, her query catching the attention of the other two Dei.

“Our fellow Dei and I had a little misunderstanding, that’s all,” Gwydion offers as explanation, his eyes locked on the stretch of corridor in front of him.

“Yeah, I’ll bet you’d call what you did to Grigore’s sister a misunderstanding, too,” the yet seemingly unharmed Dei providing escort snorts.

“Shut up, Gavril,” the Dei identified as Grigore growls.

Alma glances at the jesting god, looking back at the god of magic as she speaks, “First Geryon saying you weren’t exactly welcome in the First Ring, then two Guardia Dei wanting your skin. What did you do that has so many people hating you?”

“Ah, he’s been deflowering damsels like he’s plucking weeds from a garden,” Gavril replies in Gwydion’s turn, clearly too pleased with his wits and the sound of his voice to let go of the conversation. “No daughter, sister or lover is safe if Dion there is around.”

Alma looks at Gavril and then at Grigore, her eyes showing her confusion. Gwydion’s whole image and behavior are plainly indicative of a long life of debauchery and single-night affairs. It can’t possibly be so recent as to be raising alarm in the First Ring court just now.

“I would assume this is consensual, though, even if immoral,” the goddess says, her eyes searching for Gwydion’s as she asks, “Have their parents, brothers and lovers found out about one of those liaisons?”

“Worse!” Gavril cries, a you're-not-going-to-believe-this expression on his face. “All the ladies found out about each other! They all want him dead now!”

Alma freezes in her tracks, soon falling behind from the group, that stops not very far ahead to look at the goddess, a question in every single pair of eyes gazing at her. Alma looks placidly at them for a moment, then smiles, then bursts out in laughter as the ridiculous character of the situation hits her like a rock. It is a pleasant, melodic laugh, fresh and lively, like water running in a young stream on a spring day. The group stares at her in utter shock.

“My... Ah think that’s the first time Ah’ve heard her laugh!” Rosemary exclaims in sheer incredulity. She laughs herself before walking toward the goddess. “Are ye feelin’ well, dear?”

Alma nods, unable to speak and the Bunny jumps at her, fiercely embracing the goddess.

“I’m feeling quite all right, little one, I assure you,” Alma says amidst laughter, resuming her march. “I just couldn’t help but laugh at the exquisite nonsense of it all.”

“You’re saying that ’cause it wasn’t your sister…” Grigore mutters as goddess and Bunny rejoin the group.

Alma stops laughing but smiles still, amused at the thought that someone like Gwydion, whose lines and game can so easily be detected from a distance, could fool so many ladies. She walks up to Grigore, her eyes smiling predatorially at him.

“If it was my sister, I would tell her she made her bed and very thoroughly laid herself in it, my dear,” she states, eyes locked on his. “She can take it as a lesson and move on. But you…” she adds, fingers caressing his golden badge, shaped like an eye, the white stone indicating his First Ring descent set like an iris. Her other hand touches her own, silver badge, shaped like a delicate lily, the blue stone of the Second Ring shining to one side, a phoenix in flight stretching her wings in the other. “Attacking a fellow Dei as if we weren’t all the same behind this badge… Shame on you.”

Grigore’s eyes flare with anger and the god seems about to say something, but he just snarls and looks away instead.

“Let us just keep moving, please,” Gwydion suggests, obviously ill-at-ease with the conversation. “There are enough people looking at us already.”

Alma looks around her to find that the god of magic is not exaggerating. Their attention probably caught by her laughter and the prospect of a fight among the Guardia, a number of people have stopped their mindless migrations to and fro, and simply stand in the middle of the corridor, some distance apart, watching intently. From the crowd, a little boy dressed in grey and black and looking no older than eight years of age detaches and runs in their direction.

“Alma! Sister!” he cries as he covers the distance to the goddess and leaps into her arms.

“Molochai!” Alma exclaims, holding him tightly and spinning him around, making the boy laugh with delight. “How lovely to see you, little brother!”

“It’s been so long since you’ve visited home!” Molochai complains as Alma puts him down. "I thought you had forgotten all about us!”

The goddess strokes her brother’s cheek, pulling a tiny strand of his golden hair behind his left ear, where his harem-earring in the shape of a violet shines, indicating his descent for all to see. “Never, little brother.” She looks around for other familiar faces. “Surely, you are not here alone?”

Molochai waves her off, his tongue sticking out of the corner of his mouth. “Nah!” He points in the general direction he came from. “Melinor came with me.”

Alma looks back at the now not quite so attentive people standing at the end of the hall. There stands Melinor, one of her many older brothers, his heavily muscular body drawn in profile as he tries very hard not to be noticed by the goddess and her entourage. His tanned, handsome face framed by his wild raven-black hair, with the occasional auburn lock, constantly locked in a grimace of intense displeasure, struggles to look away from the goddess but glance watchfully at the little boy standing by her side at the same time. Finally, he has no choice but to turn and look directly at his little sister.

Alma is so used to the vision that she barely sees it as a deformity. The others flinch, though, stunned at how the handsome man occupying the right side of Melinor’s face so sharply contrasts against the misshapen monster taking the left. The tanned skin gives way to greyish, scarred flesh, cracked and carved by a deep gash that crosses his cheek to his lip, exposing muscle and bone beyond the dessicated, decaying skin that ripples and overhangs the edges of the perinneal wound. His left ear, jagged and almost completely destroyed as if bitten off by some wild beast, barely provides enough flesh to hold his harem mark, similar to Molochai’s. The god stares at Alma, his look of intense disapproval contradicted only by the warm glow in his rusty-ochre slanted eyes.

“He’s feeling a bit grumpy today,” Molochai comments with a shrug.

“I have never known him to be otherwise,” Alma replies, greeting Melinor with a nod and smiling with pleasure to see him look away again, the faintest of flustery-pinks tainting his sun-kissed right cheek.

“Ahem…” a voice rings in the immediate vicinity of Alma’s Bunnies.

The goddess meets their inquisitive looks and, in Cherry’s case, crossed arms and softly tapping foot.

“Yes, of course,” the Alma whispers apologetically. “Little ones, Gwydion, this is one of my brothers, Molochai.”

Sage immediately steps forward and offers his hand in greeting to the boy-god as he introduces himself and his ken. “Hi, I’m Sage and these are Cherry, Merri, May, Kori, Chime and our little sister.”

“Hi!” Molochai greets with a friendly wave of his hand and a broad smile on his lips.

Rosemary runs to hug him, holding him tightly to her, his head pressed firmly against her chest. “Oh, he’s so cute, the wee bairn!” she coos, relaxing her choke-hug just enough to look at him closely and say to Alma, “Doesn’t look anythin’ like ye, mind.”

Cherry steps closer and looks at him intently. “Hmm... Maybe a bit around the ears.”

“Well, he merely shares a father with me,” Alma explains, chuckling softly. “His mother, Macana, has always been very good to me.”

Molochai finally manages to release himself of Rosemary’s hold. “So, is this your discomfiting brood?” he asks, looking up at the goddess.

“Hey!” Cherry exclaims, poking Molochai with an accusing finger. “Who’re you callin’ discomfiting? We’re very comfortable-ing!”

“Please, Cherry,” Alma intervenes, placing a hand on her little brother’s shoulder. “Where did you hear them called that, Chai?”

“Melinor muttered it,” Molochai replies, unabashed, pointing back to where his older brother still stands. “Told me to come say hello and I told him to come with me but he just wouldn’t budge, the big, grumpy–”

“Mind your words, little brother,” Alma states sharply.

“I’m sorry,” the little boy apologises, head held down, looking deeply disheartened.

“Aaaawwwww!” Merri coos, hugging Molochai again. “Please dinnae yell at the wee one.”

“Do not let his appearance fool you, Rosemary,” Alma notes softly. “Molochai is older than you and Cherry, and even Mayumi put together.”

“I guess he’s gonna be a late bloomer, then,” Cherry mutters, prompting a warm, squealing laugh from the young child-god.

“You’re funny!” Molochai cries. Without warning, his laughter stops and he looks intently at Cherry, his boyish composure and the youthful glow in his grey eyes replaced now by a shadow of years seemingly unlived. Even his voice sounds deeper, aged as he says placidly, “I am glad you are already beyond my sphere of concern. It would be intensely unpleasant to get called to collect on you.”

He suddenly seems to remember something and his eyes shoot up at Alma. He hops in sudden excitement, looking and feeling like a boy again. “Oh! Father must be almost done in the Senate! I need to go now, Sister!”

Alma nods in agreement. “And so must we,” she embraces Molochai tightly, holding him above the floor, his little feet flailing with childish joy as she strokes his soft golden hair and kisses his temple.

“Give our brother and your mother a kiss for me, yes?” she whispers in his ear before putting him down again.  “And, if you must, give Father a kiss as well,” she adds as an afterthought.

“Will do!” Molochai promises, already waving goodbye at the group and running back to Melinor. “Bye!”

“What an odd character…” Gwydion whispers as he watches the god-child join his brother and leave.

“Did you see how he totally changed all of a sudden?” Cherry comments, shuddering. “Talkin’ like he was real old. Gave me the chills.”

“And what did he mean with collecting on us?” Mayumi inquires.

“Gods come in many shapes and sizes, little ones,” Alma explains, her voice gentle and reassuring. “Molochai, son of Macana, Goddess of Merciful, Blissful Death, is the God of Child Death. He will never grow old in appearance, and even in his mind the child rules most of the time.”

“And Melinor?” Gwydion queries.

“God of Violent Death,” the goddess replies. “He has his reasons for being as he is.”

“I’ll bet so,” the god of magic mutters, looking down the other end of the corridor. “Ah, there’s Inspector Sky and the – is that the Commander?” he asks in vague incredulity.

“It is,” Alma agrees, sharing his confusion at the sight of the rangy figure of their highest commanding officer. “I wonder why he’s here.”