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Description
"Over the Deathbed"

Piccolo lighted down and folded silver wings behind her back. They flexed and lay still, the wire-thin bone trembling with weariness, the feathers like an extension of her bleached hair, rolling down her spine. Stray down floated into the humid evening air.

Not that anyone would see. The streets were empty tonight in this corner of the world. The humble path was a weak dust color, stirring up grit with every step. She had been summoned, the pull becoming stronger and stronger. By the time she had reached the little bungalow, there was no question of resistance. This was her duty; this was her instinct. It wasn't a conscious thing until she was face to face with those eyes, looking at her from the other side of the bed. They belonged to a mortal, a man of average height and dusky complexion.

She looked around, away from those eyes. His eyes. This was the boy's bedroom. There were no posters of rock bands or supermodels, no half eaten pizza crusts hoarded away, no shiny soccer trophies. There wasn't even any old school junk or discarded love-worn teddy bears. It was as if no one lived here. Everything was dusty and faded, the wallpaper barely discernible as yellow pastel. Blankets and blankets were piled haphazardly over the emaciated body. This was a place for dying, not for living.

"I'm only here to do my job," she said softly. "I'll make it quick, don't worry." Not that this mortal could see her. She looked up again though, and immediately regretted the motion.

There were memories in those eyes, sheens of light below the color, ready to be shed like an old snakeskin. Piccolo was hypnotized. Her heart beat far too slowly. Limbs froze and lips stuttered beneath that stare. A part of her sunk into it, drained away.

No, she tried to say. Look away, look away. She jerked her chin in the other direction, but his fingers took hold. Her stomach twisted rebelliously. They felt smooth as marble, and much warmer. He probably didn't even leave fingerprints.
The trickster cleans up well after his fun… she thought bitterly. She knew him, and he was no mortal.

"Remember," the god said, cutting through her urgent defenses. "You can't run forever, angel. You can't lose yourself that way."

She found her voice after hearing that arrogance. Her feet wouldn't move, but her mouth could. "I don't care what you think. Let me go!"

"No. I owe you," Loki replied. His features were carved from gold, unmoving as a statue, glimmering softly in the moonlight.

"Then let me leave," she insisted, unfazed by his beauty. There weren't even windows here.

He looked down, mercifully, past the bridge of his finely cut nose to his son below. His hand slipped and fell to his side. Joseph Nero Antony Niccolai Odinsson. Sheathe. He had named this one, though he doubted that he would bother with future progeny. The boy and he were nearly eye to eye standing, mere inches representing the thousands of years between. Those eyes might never open again.

"I summoned you here," he said grudgingly, gritting too-white teeth against every word. "Because I need a favor."

Piccolo had been apprehensive, but now she relaxed, almost spurting at the ridiculous idea. A favor? From her, of all people?

"What kind of favor?" she asked warily. "I am only a lowly reaper, least servant of Thanatos." This was all his fault. He deserved no favors from the likes of her. How dare he even ask?!

He watched her mouth set with anger, noted the red spark to her amber irises, and saw the taut pull of her cheeks against the white bone. The years had not changed her spirit; it was a satisfying observation, for all she held the air of a hunted beast.

"Let this one go," he replied. "Just this one. I am even willing to make a bargain for it."

"His life will not sit so well by your efforts." The answer was reflexive, sliding like mercury off of her tongue, and she pressed her teeth together, already regretful. She had been released. She should leave. She shouldn't waste her time like this. Not on someone like him.

"I cannot make exceptions," she said, glancing down coldly. The thought passed in her mind, fleetingly: he is obviously ignorant. The upper hand is mine, for once. "And I want no more of your… favors, if you have the audacity to call them that." Her nose wrinkled with distaste.

Loki looked back at her under half lidded eyes. Spirit indeed, he thought. "That isn't the point. I've changed. You haven't. It's not healthy."

"Blatant lies!" She crossed her arms across her chest. He hadn't changed at all. "And what do you care, besides?"

The god shrugged. "I'm curious, that is all…. I'm willing to give you the answers that you seek. Show another view. Help an old friend."

She narrowed her eyes at him, fidgeting a bit as she watched him pretend his heart away. The room seemed too small for both of them. Despite all better instincts, she found herself truly curious. This was too weird. Why did he want this?

"I am no friend of yours," she asserted, struggling back to the original argument. "But I don't understand. Your defense of this whelp –"

Loki gave a blinding smile, disarming and dangerous. "No matter," he said, with a mocking diffidence. "I don't intend to let my plans derail this quickly."

Piccolo frowned. Another scheme, of course. But he persisted in talking in riddles. She scolded herself for asking. She had too much work to do tonight. She should leave now, before sunrise caught her unaware. It would come soon enough and all too soon.

"The master beckons. The punishment for idle transgressions such as these is harsh. Shall I bear that for you, for daydreams and sawdust?" She watched him carefully, a challenge in her bare face. If he was gold and onyx, she was ivory and alabaster. Hard and cold.

He laughed, instantly at her side. "So you still remember the old haggling games," he whispered, his fingers to her chin, giving a twist so they were nose to nose. She looked up at him with startled mooncalf eyes, her hands automatically reaching, trying to pry his fingers away. No, she thought, confused, paralyzed at his touch. Let me go!

"Let me show you," he said, again whispering, hypnotically, his mouth far too close to her ear. All she could see were those eyes… Engulfing pools of crisp apple green all strung through with molten tawny, the slitted pupils a constant black amidst the wild, swirling hazel kaleidoscopes…

Piccolo's breathing slowed. It was tempting to drown in the memories now lying dormant in those eyes.

Vines cover everything on Chantilly Venue. Grapes are the kudzu of Olympus these days, a nuisance. But old drunks like them, and tonight I do too. The moonlight sets everything aglow, even the cracked and stained sidewalk.

But it's his presence that supplies the real intoxication. I smile helplessly as the god twines his fingers through my long hair. It's less than gold, dull next to his skin.

"You know I don't love you, child," he says, tossing the words carelessly. I feel my eyes grow as round as heirloom drachmas, and covered with twice as many cobwebs.

Looking up, my throat is taut like the strings of a Stradivarius violin. His eyes are as dark and hard as bronze. "Please, no," I beg. "Don't try him, Brosie!" My voice is too high, squeaking desperately.

Unmoving. A boulder. Towering. Little muscles twitch, and he is gone. I must… must know, must do… do something! Brother! Why did I tell?!

Piccolo struggled to surface, to take control. Was this nothing but torture, after all? Her lungs contracted desperately as if she was drowning in the memory.

It is a sunbathed courtyard near the Tarantella Boulevard on the north side of Olympus, lolling on a stone bench carved like a lion while he soaks up rays. Sunlight glances off of his smooth forehead. Two cherry nymphs sit at his head; one runs caramel fingertips through his hair while the other looks on admiringly. Their hair is rich magenta and bushy, falling far below their emerald silk shifts, embroidered with ornate leaves in many blushing shades. Their lips are a luscious red, red as cherries. Red as blood.

I hide behind the stone latticework. My heart flutters like a hummingbird's wings as I watch the confrontation, my brother whitewashed next to golden Loki. Both mine. Tender pain. Fingers skitter. Not mine.

Their voices are so different. Granite expression, gravel in the throat, voice grating. Muscles flexing. Loki smiles wildly as he is thrown on his face, subtle chords of harmony in his words. Words sharply curved like the handwriting I love, small and regular. Black ink ripples with rich oily color, like spilled gasoline or a beetle's glossy shell.

"High noon, cowboy. Let's put on a show, shall we? Cute chorus girls and all that jazz…"

"No!" He grabs the trickster's shoulder. The black cloth is like leather, not quite. Denim. Linen? At least it seems so at first, and then more like silk, dancing through his sword calloused fingers. He holds on, clenching tight, but the flesh fades away. The cloak is nothing more than a gauzy veil. He is left with only emptiness.

Wind scatters the detritus out of the gutter, sweeps clean the engraved streets, and then in another gust sprays it all back with artistic distaste. A sprig of holly drapes around a gargoyle's claw foot. It is playful today.

Near the Edge of the city, everything is covered with mist, occasionally stirring with tendrils of wind. It is a good day for flying. Rubble crunches beneath foot and falls, slipping into the swathed sky Pale pinched fingers, nails tinted lilac with pressure, cling desperately to the stone.

Saved - Uncle! Muscles stand at attention, examined and appraised. Brutally sharp edges. Heart hard, hesitant to answer. Cannot trust, trust even this…. Scrawled message.

"Well, the good news," Uncle says, "He wants to fight you. Humiliation at twelve sharp." Unspoken: in front of our entire family… Entire immortal family.

There is a slump in my brother's shoulders, heavy as a boulder on his back, when he finally leaves.

There was a surge in her heart, a jolt through her bones. She knew what came next. This memory needed no reliving. "Please," she whispered, squeezing her eyes shut as if to block the light of day.

I sit outside the theater door with Uncle Icarion. His arms are warm around my waist but do not comfort. He cannot erase the shame that floods this place with red. Everything is red. My eyes, my cheeks… His blood. My brother charges like a bull, clattering across the cobblestones. Bruises flower like hibiscus bouquets across his white skin. It is because of me.

The god laughs, the cocky matador without any red at all. "Little pup! What are you, a bull or a dog?" He takes my brother by the nape of his neck, defenseless as a plucked chicken. He squirms without a shape, shrinking, snapping his shifting jaws. "No…. Perhaps the bite of a badger." The bones shift, sickeningly, rearranged without consent. I see pain in his eyes, but the trickster invites us all to share in the joke.

"That's enough!" Uncle stands. Bosom friend, blood brother, son of Zeus. Trust. Flames erupt in his anger, but they do not hurt. They are one. Loki laughs again, and the flames flare and mix, sound and light and air. Everything turns white, white and cold, bleaching all the red…

"No!" I scream. This could not happen. This could not be happening. I could not bear this any longer. I could not live with this. I must escape. I break loose, limbs flailing, and flee. They would find nothing of me…

I left nothing but a bloody razor and shorn locks of golden hair, Piccolo remembered, on her own regard.

Loki closed his eyes, the fringe of black lashes delicately feathering his upper cheekbones. His fingers trailed away, falling limp. He looked content, a modest smirk curving around the scarred mouth.

"Your answer?" he asked.

Piccolo was shaken and could not speak, though the answer brimmed at her lips. Her heart in her breast throbbed wildly. Everything that had happened…. The past had been right before her eyes, inside her mind. Her spine trembled, a bittersweet taste filling her mouth. She had lived again!

Is this a gift, truly? She wondered. A little time away from death, per se... A favor for a favor?

"Yes, "she whispered, eyes hooded. "Yes, I will."

Lying prone in bed, Sheathe raised his head, sensing something was amiss. His forehead was hot and he felt something cool and wispy brush over the skin. Silver refracted over his blurred vision. The sounds were cold and metallic, not raspy but hollow and fluting. Flap, flap… The silver flickered and folded up out of sight. It hurt his eyes to focus; he closed them, coughing deep in his chest.

Cold! He held his breath as he felt something press at his Adam's apple. Cold, cold, something cold and sharp. His skin crawled with shivered; he dared not swallow. Carefully, he drew shallow breath, in and out, spine trembling. He knew he would die.

There was a point to the cold, keen as a knife. It searched at his throat for weakness. He felt it consume him; he was made of holes. He was frail and ill and surely the cold would take him away. It was only natural. Give in, whelp.

But his sick, sallow flesh could give no more. He was quivering now, though he could feel the rough mounded pressure of the blankets draped over his body. His heart was a contracted lump inside, cringing away from its chilled neighbors, beating faster and faster. Slowing… He closed his eyes.

The lonely white feather whisked its way across his forehead and traced a path out the half opened window. It drifted down in the crisp fall air for a time before being lifted aloft by a rogue breeze.

Description
"Over the Deathbed"

Piccolo lighted down and folded silver wings behind her back. They flexed and lay still, the wire-thin bone trembling with weariness, the feathers like an extension of her bleached hair, rolling down her spine. Stray down floated into the humid evening air.

Not that anyone would see. The streets were empty tonight in this corner of the world. The humble path was a weak dust color, stirring up grit with every step. She had been summoned, the pull becoming stronger and stronger. By the time she had reached the little bungalow, there was no question of resistance. This was her duty; this was her instinct. It wasn't a conscious thing until she was face to face with those eyes, looking at her from the other side of the bed. They belonged to a mortal, a man of average height and dusky complexion.

She looked around, away from those eyes. His eyes. This was the boy's bedroom. There were no posters of rock bands or supermodels, no half eaten pizza crusts hoarded away, no shiny soccer trophies. There wasn't even any old school junk or discarded love-worn teddy bears. It was as if no one lived here. Everything was dusty and faded, the wallpaper barely discernible as yellow pastel. Blankets and blankets were piled haphazardly over the emaciated body. This was a place for dying, not for living.

"I'm only here to do my job," she said softly. "I'll make it quick, don't worry." Not that this mortal could see her. She looked up again though, and immediately regretted the motion.

There were memories in those eyes, sheens of light below the color, ready to be shed like an old snakeskin. Piccolo was hypnotized. Her heart beat far too slowly. Limbs froze and lips stuttered beneath that stare. A part of her sunk into it, drained away.

No, she tried to say. Look away, look away. She jerked her chin in the other direction, but his fingers took hold. Her stomach twisted rebelliously. They felt smooth as marble, and much warmer. He probably didn't even leave fingerprints.
The trickster cleans up well after his fun… she thought bitterly. She knew him, and he was no mortal.

"Remember," the god said, cutting through her urgent defenses. "You can't run forever, angel. You can't lose yourself that way."

She found her voice after hearing that arrogance. Her feet wouldn't move, but her mouth could. "I don't care what you think. Let me go!"

"No. I owe you," Loki replied. His features were carved from gold, unmoving as a statue, glimmering softly in the moonlight.

"Then let me leave," she insisted, unfazed by his beauty. There weren't even windows here.

He looked down, mercifully, past the bridge of his finely cut nose to his son below. His hand slipped and fell to his side. Joseph Nero Antony Niccolai Odinsson. Sheathe. He had named this one, though he doubted that he would bother with future progeny. The boy and he were nearly eye to eye standing, mere inches representing the thousands of years between. Those eyes might never open again.

"I summoned you here," he said grudgingly, gritting too-white teeth against every word. "Because I need a favor."

Piccolo had been apprehensive, but now she relaxed, almost spurting at the ridiculous idea. A favor? From her, of all people?

"What kind of favor?" she asked warily. "I am only a lowly reaper, least servant of Thanatos." This was all his fault. He deserved no favors from the likes of her. How dare he even ask?!

He watched her mouth set with anger, noted the red spark to her amber irises, and saw the taut pull of her cheeks against the white bone. The years had not changed her spirit; it was a satisfying observation, for all she held the air of a hunted beast.

"Let this one go," he replied. "Just this one. I am even willing to make a bargain for it."

"His life will not sit so well by your efforts." The answer was reflexive, sliding like mercury off of her tongue, and she pressed her teeth together, already regretful. She had been released. She should leave. She shouldn't waste her time like this. Not on someone like him.

"I cannot make exceptions," she said, glancing down coldly. The thought passed in her mind, fleetingly: he is obviously ignorant. The upper hand is mine, for once. "And I want no more of your… favors, if you have the audacity to call them that." Her nose wrinkled with distaste.

Loki looked back at her under half lidded eyes. Spirit indeed, he thought. "That isn't the point. I've changed. You haven't. It's not healthy."

"Blatant lies!" She crossed her arms across her chest. He hadn't changed at all. "And what do you care, besides?"

The god shrugged. "I'm curious, that is all…. I'm willing to give you the answers that you seek. Show another view. Help an old friend."

She narrowed her eyes at him, fidgeting a bit as she watched him pretend his heart away. The room seemed too small for both of them. Despite all better instincts, she found herself truly curious. This was too weird. Why did he want this?

"I am no friend of yours," she asserted, struggling back to the original argument. "But I don't understand. Your defense of this whelp –"

Loki gave a blinding smile, disarming and dangerous. "No matter," he said, with a mocking diffidence. "I don't intend to let my plans derail this quickly."

Piccolo frowned. Another scheme, of course. But he persisted in talking in riddles. She scolded herself for asking. She had too much work to do tonight. She should leave now, before sunrise caught her unaware. It would come soon enough and all too soon.

"The master beckons. The punishment for idle transgressions such as these is harsh. Shall I bear that for you, for daydreams and sawdust?" She watched him carefully, a challenge in her bare face. If he was gold and onyx, she was ivory and alabaster. Hard and cold.

He laughed, instantly at her side. "So you still remember the old haggling games," he whispered, his fingers to her chin, giving a twist so they were nose to nose. She looked up at him with startled mooncalf eyes, her hands automatically reaching, trying to pry his fingers away. No, she thought, confused, paralyzed at his touch. Let me go!

"Let me show you," he said, again whispering, hypnotically, his mouth far too close to her ear. All she could see were those eyes… Engulfing pools of crisp apple green all strung through with molten tawny, the slitted pupils a constant black amidst the wild, swirling hazel kaleidoscopes…

Piccolo's breathing slowed. It was tempting to drown in the memories now lying dormant in those eyes.

Vines cover everything on Chantilly Venue. Grapes are the kudzu of Olympus these days, a nuisance. But old drunks like them, and tonight I do too. The moonlight sets everything aglow, even the cracked and stained sidewalk.

But it's his presence that supplies the real intoxication. I smile helplessly as the god twines his fingers through my long hair. It's less than gold, dull next to his skin.

"You know I don't love you, child," he says, tossing the words carelessly. I feel my eyes grow as round as heirloom drachmas, and covered with twice as many cobwebs.

Looking up, my throat is taut like the strings of a Stradivarius violin. His eyes are as dark and hard as bronze. "Please, no," I beg. "Don't try him, Brosie!" My voice is too high, squeaking desperately.

Unmoving. A boulder. Towering. Little muscles twitch, and he is gone. I must… must know, must do… do something! Brother! Why did I tell?!

Piccolo struggled to surface, to take control. Was this nothing but torture, after all? Her lungs contracted desperately as if she was drowning in the memory.

It is a sunbathed courtyard near the Tarantella Boulevard on the north side of Olympus, lolling on a stone bench carved like a lion while he soaks up rays. Sunlight glances off of his smooth forehead. Two cherry nymphs sit at his head; one runs caramel fingertips through his hair while the other looks on admiringly. Their hair is rich magenta and bushy, falling far below their emerald silk shifts, embroidered with ornate leaves in many blushing shades. Their lips are a luscious red, red as cherries. Red as blood.

I hide behind the stone latticework. My heart flutters like a hummingbird's wings as I watch the confrontation, my brother whitewashed next to golden Loki. Both mine. Tender pain. Fingers skitter. Not mine.

Their voices are so different. Granite expression, gravel in the throat, voice grating. Muscles flexing. Loki smiles wildly as he is thrown on his face, subtle chords of harmony in his words. Words sharply curved like the handwriting I love, small and regular. Black ink ripples with rich oily color, like spilled gasoline or a beetle's glossy shell.

"High noon, cowboy. Let's put on a show, shall we? Cute chorus girls and all that jazz…"

"No!" He grabs the trickster's shoulder. The black cloth is like leather, not quite. Denim. Linen? At least it seems so at first, and then more like silk, dancing through his sword calloused fingers. He holds on, clenching tight, but the flesh fades away. The cloak is nothing more than a gauzy veil. He is left with only emptiness.

Wind scatters the detritus out of the gutter, sweeps clean the engraved streets, and then in another gust sprays it all back with artistic distaste. A sprig of holly drapes around a gargoyle's claw foot. It is playful today.

Near the Edge of the city, everything is covered with mist, occasionally stirring with tendrils of wind. It is a good day for flying. Rubble crunches beneath foot and falls, slipping into the swathed sky Pale pinched fingers, nails tinted lilac with pressure, cling desperately to the stone.

Saved - Uncle! Muscles stand at attention, examined and appraised. Brutally sharp edges. Heart hard, hesitant to answer. Cannot trust, trust even this…. Scrawled message.

"Well, the good news," Uncle says, "He wants to fight you. Humiliation at twelve sharp." Unspoken: in front of our entire family… Entire immortal family.

There is a slump in my brother's shoulders, heavy as a boulder on his back, when he finally leaves.

There was a surge in her heart, a jolt through her bones. She knew what came next. This memory needed no reliving. "Please," she whispered, squeezing her eyes shut as if to block the light of day.

I sit outside the theater door with Uncle Icarion. His arms are warm around my waist but do not comfort. He cannot erase the shame that floods this place with red. Everything is red. My eyes, my cheeks… His blood. My brother charges like a bull, clattering across the cobblestones. Bruises flower like hibiscus bouquets across his white skin. It is because of me.

The god laughs, the cocky matador without any red at all. "Little pup! What are you, a bull or a dog?" He takes my brother by the nape of his neck, defenseless as a plucked chicken. He squirms without a shape, shrinking, snapping his shifting jaws. "No…. Perhaps the bite of a badger." The bones shift, sickeningly, rearranged without consent. I see pain in his eyes, but the trickster invites us all to share in the joke.

"That's enough!" Uncle stands. Bosom friend, blood brother, son of Zeus. Trust. Flames erupt in his anger, but they do not hurt. They are one. Loki laughs again, and the flames flare and mix, sound and light and air. Everything turns white, white and cold, bleaching all the red…

"No!" I scream. This could not happen. This could not be happening. I could not bear this any longer. I could not live with this. I must escape. I break loose, limbs flailing, and flee. They would find nothing of me…

I left nothing but a bloody razor and shorn locks of golden hair, Piccolo remembered, on her own regard.

Loki closed his eyes, the fringe of black lashes delicately feathering his upper cheekbones. His fingers trailed away, falling limp. He looked content, a modest smirk curving around the scarred mouth.

"Your answer?" he asked.

Piccolo was shaken and could not speak, though the answer brimmed at her lips. Her heart in her breast throbbed wildly. Everything that had happened…. The past had been right before her eyes, inside her mind. Her spine trembled, a bittersweet taste filling her mouth. She had lived again!

Is this a gift, truly? She wondered. A little time away from death, per se... A favor for a favor?

"Yes, "she whispered, eyes hooded. "Yes, I will."

Lying prone in bed, Sheathe raised his head, sensing something was amiss. His forehead was hot and he felt something cool and wispy brush over the skin. Silver refracted over his blurred vision. The sounds were cold and metallic, not raspy but hollow and fluting. Flap, flap… The silver flickered and folded up out of sight. It hurt his eyes to focus; he closed them, coughing deep in his chest.

Cold! He held his breath as he felt something press at his Adam's apple. Cold, cold, something cold and sharp. His skin crawled with shivered; he dared not swallow. Carefully, he drew shallow breath, in and out, spine trembling. He knew he would die.

There was a point to the cold, keen as a knife. It searched at his throat for weakness. He felt it consume him; he was made of holes. He was frail and ill and surely the cold would take him away. It was only natural. Give in, whelp.

But his sick, sallow flesh could give no more. He was quivering now, though he could feel the rough mounded pressure of the blankets draped over his body. His heart was a contracted lump inside, cringing away from its chilled neighbors, beating faster and faster. Slowing… He closed his eyes.

The lonely white feather whisked its way across his forehead and traced a path out the half opened window. It drifted down in the crisp fall air for a time before being lifted aloft by a rogue breeze.