“Yes.” There was something about the way Death said the word that forbade any and all further discussion. Clearly, something had happened, and Torment was not about to push his luck. The less involved he was in the squabbles of the Greater Gods, the better.
“Oh.” Torment wracked his mind for ideas. If he could help Death, he’d be in the Greater God’s good books again and most likely freed from extra paperwork. Who knows? Death might even owe him a favour, and a favour from Death was a valuable thing indeed. “I guess we do have some horses here, and since they’re already dead, they might not mind your daughter’s divine powers so much…” But the mere spirit of a dead horse was hardly suitable for someone like Death’s daughter. She needed something magnificent, something truly impressive. “Ah! I know! How about using a Nightmare as a pony?”
Death’s eyes blazed with radiance that no words could describe. It was light from the beginning and end of Creation. “A Nightmare? That would be perfect. You have my thanks, Torment.” And then he was gone. He hadn’t even bothered to use one of the doors he could open. Instead, he’d simply vanished.
Torment relaxed. This was his good deed for the day, and if it all worked out, then he was definitely going to get rewarded for it. He reached for his bowl of cereal and helped himself to another spoonful before glancing back at the lake of molten lava. One of the damned had somehow managed to make his way to the shore. Torment gestured with one hand, and a wave of lava carried him back to the middle of the lake amidst a lot of screaming and pleading for mercy. Honestly, the poor fellow should have saved his breath. He had another century of suffering scheduled before he was allowed to return to the cycle of death and rebirth. Besides, the best way to not have to plead for mercy after being damned to centuries of unimaginable torment was to not do anything bad enough to end up in this part of the afterlife.
As more screaming and wailing rang out, Torment gestured again and made himself a nice chair to sit on out of the burning rocks of the shore. He’d finish this bowl of cereal and then maybe have some marshmallows. After that, he’d pay the especially evil people a visit. He had some new surprises lined up for them, and he’d hate to keep them waiting.
* * *
Death was mildly embarrassed that he hadn’t considered Nightmares until Torment had mentioned them. Nightmares were mighty spirits that looked vaguely like horses made of shadow and fire. Although they inhabited his realm – they enjoyed tormenting the mortals who’d earned punishment – he rarely dealt with them himself. Most of them reported to Torment and the other gods of his kind, and they spent the majority of their time invading the dreams of the wicked and plaguing them with visions of the most horrific and terrifying sort. Their goal was to drive their victims to first insomnia and then despair and madness. That was why they were called Nightmares. However, despite their fearsome reputation, he was certain that one of them would make a perfect pony for his daughter, particularly if he could find one that was still young and growing. His daughter could raise the creature to become a trusted ally and friend.
First and foremost, he didn’t have to worry about his daughter growing attached to a Nightmare only for it to keel over and die in a decade or two. As spirits of his realm, Nightmares were not subject to the ravages of time although they could choose to fade. As long as they had access to the energies of his realm or the realm of dreams, they could live forever. They could even survive on the energies of the mortals they tormented if they had to although it wasn’t encouraged. His daughter would never have to worry about her pony getting old. If her Nightmare were killed, it wouldn’t be a problem. Their physical forms were merely shells created to house their spirits. It would take another god, spirit, or an exotic ritual to deal with a Nightmare even temporarily, never mind permanently.
A Nightmare would also be able to serve his daughter well in the future, especially in battle against the Void Born. A full-grown Nightmare was a powerful foe, capable of annihilating an entire mortal city if left unchecked. Mortal heroes who managed to best or tame one were the stuff of legends, unmatched heroes whose deeds would be spoken of for centuries after their passing. A powerful Nightmare could give even a god pause if the battle was fought here or in another favourable area, and any Nightmare his daughter owned and cared for was sure to grow powerful and deadly indeed.
Nightmares were also fiercely loyal. Only a handful of them had ever turned traitor, and they had immediately been reported and ostracised by their peers. They were also highly intelligent, and the older Nightmares were wise and cunning creatures that had no problems outwitting mortals or even the occasional god. There was no doubt in his mind that his daughter would one day be able to rely on her Nightmare to help her with any number of important tasks. If only they’d possessed opposable thumbs, he would have roped them into helping with his paperwork millennia ago. He had once considered using his powers to allow them to translate their thoughts into writing, but Bureaucracy had vetoed that idea. She did not think they possessed the necessary qualifications for doing his paperwork although she was open to reconsidering if some of the Nightmares were willing to undertake an extensive training program. So far, none of them had volunteered, and he wasn’t about to force any of them into the torture that his sister liked to call Bureaucracy 101: An Introduction to Divine Bureaucracy.
Death strode out onto a vast plain of burning rock and waved away some of the ash that rained down from the sky. Life would not have been happy if she saw this. There wasn’t nearly enough green around here for her liking. Not far away, he spotted a group of Nightmares chasing after some mortals who’d earned their place in the unpleasant part of the afterlife. The leader of the group caught sight of him and wheeled away to greet him as the others continued to harry the mortals, never giving them a moment to relax.
Greetings, Lord Death. The Nightmare’s voice echoed in his mind. It would have driven a mortal insane, but to Death, it sounded more like the creature was nervous. Oh well. It was perfectly understandable. He was Death. He ignored the screaming – the other Nightmares had evidently decided that some good, old-fashioned trampling was in order – and explained what he needed.
“I need a young Nightmare,” Death began. “Preferably one that is currently the size of a pony. It’s for my daughter…”
* * *
A normal person would have run screaming in the opposite direction as quickly as possible to escape the terrifying creature that was shaped vaguely like a pony made of fire and shadows. Raw menace and unearthly power rolled off it in equal measure, and the very air around it seemed to tremble in fear. Simply gazing upon it would have driven all but the mightiest of mortals insane, and mortals of a more fragile constitution would have died on the spot due to the sheer, overwhelming terror its mere presence inspired. However, that was not how Young Death saw it. What she saw was the most adorable and wonderful pony in the entire history of forever.
“You got me a pony!” Young Death threw her arms around her father. “You’re the best father ever!”
Death smirked. Was he great or what? Yes, his greatness was truly incomparable. “Technically, he’s a young Nightmare.” His voice turned serious. “Now, he will be your Nightmare, but you must care for him and treat him as a trusted ally and friend. Believe me, there are few creatures as loyal as a Nightmare. Earn his love, respect, and loyalty, and he will never let you down. You will, of course, receive lessons in how to look after him, so I expect you to pay attention and do your best.”
“I will, father!” She was still grinning from ear to ear.
“So… what are you going to name him?” It was customary for Nightmares to receive their name from their master. Normally, that would be someone like him or Torment, but this Nightmare would be hers. She had to name him.
“Shadow Blaze,” Young Death said.
“A fine name.”
“But I’ll call him Twinkles for short – you know, because of the merry twinkle in his eyes!”
Death twitched,
and Shadow Blaze – also known as Twinkles – snorted with amusement. Clearly, she’d gotten her taste in names from her mother, not him.
Artistry
Muse walked through the city with a sunny smile on her face. Oh, the gods were worshipped throughout the mortal world, but Alleron had always held a special place in her heart. It was her city – a city she had personally watched over and guided for centuries. It was a city of poets and dreamers, a city of artists and musicians. It stood at the heart of a thriving kingdom whose prosperity and strength had enabled a golden age in the arts. She was always busy whenever she visited, but it was always the best kind of busy. There were so many mortals for her to inspire, and there was so much artistic potential here just waiting to be awakened.
The streets held a certain charm that could be found nowhere else in the mortal world, and the city was a pleasant mix of the painstakingly planned and the delightfully spontaneous. Each building was a work of art in itself. The facades were covered with murals, and the masonry was fashioned with exquisite skill. Countless stalls lined the streets, and they sold everything from finely crafted jewellery to whimsical paintings and ornate statuary. Musicians could be found on almost every street corner, singing or playing instruments to entertain those passing by and perhaps earn some coin.
The hustle and bustle of so many mortals striving to reach the very pinnacle in dozens of different arts was a beautiful feeling, and she spent much of the night exploring the crowded marketplaces and delving through the small, half-hidden lanes that concealed inns serving food of the most delicious sort and stores selling more exotic artwork. The mortals around her didn’t notice her at all. It would have taken all of the fun out of coming here if they simply dropped to their knees to worship her. She walked amongst them unseen, not even in mortal guise but entirely concealed from their senses. She had found from past experience that she had a tendency to draw the attention of mortals even when she was in mortal guise, particularly those of an artistic inclination. It was simply part of her, the same way that Death’s solemnity was a part of him and Mischief’s mischief was a part of her.
She was about to leave – there were so many other people and places that required her attention – when she noticed a man standing alone on a bridge. Her eyes narrowed in suspicion. It was the middle of the night, and he was weeping on a bridge. That was hardly normal, even in a city filled with people who had a tendency to be melodramatic. It was also not the weeping of a frustrated artist in some fit of pique. This was something far more profound. This was the weeping of a man who clearly felt as though he had lost everything. She frowned, and her good cheer faded. Something about this mortal’s sorrow demanded her attention. She looked up and wondered if this was Fate’s doing. It would be so like the other goddess to engineer a situation like this. It didn’t matter. She was curious now. At the very least, she wanted to know what was going on.
Muse shifted into a mortal guise, effortlessly weaving her power into a seemingly mortal shell. The last thing she wanted to do was spook the fellow, and so many mortals had a conniption when they saw a god. It was true that there had been a rather depressing number of smiting-related incidents over the years – some of which were most definitely deserved – but the vast majority of gods did not smite people without good reason. Poor Death was forever being blamed for smiting people when all he did was collect people’s souls. Personally, smiting people wasn’t her style. She was Muse, the goddess of dreams, inspiration, and creativity. She was the patroness of all artists, dreamers, sculptors, musicians, and other people of a generally creative or artistic inclination. She was one of the Greater Gods, but she’d leave the smiting to the gods who were good at it.
With deliberate calm and adopting a casual air, she wandered over to the bridge and walked along it before stopping to stare down into the water beside the man. The moon was bright and full above them, and the river flowing under the bridge was swift and deep. She didn’t say anything, but she didn’t have to reach into his mind to sense his turbulent emotions. This might have been a city of poets and dreamers, but weeping in the company of a stranger was still not something a resident of Alleron would be comfortable with. At last, the mortal collected himself, taking a deep breath and leaning heavily on the worn stone railing of the bridge.
He looked to be about forty, which was middle-aged for a mortal. He wasn’t especially handsome, but he wasn’t ugly either. Instead, she would have described him as plain. Everything about him – from his hair, which was black, to his eyes, which were blue – was unremarkable. He was the sort of man who other mortals could walk past every day for years without ever giving him a second glance or a second thought. How depressing.
When she finally spoke, her voice was gentle. “It’s a long way down,” she murmured. “And with the water flowing so swiftly, you’d be in a lot of trouble if you fell in.” She turned her head and pinned him with her gaze. “You were thinking of jumping in, weren’t you?”
He stared at her, and his surprise momentarily drove away his melancholy. “What makes you think I was going to jump?”
Muse smiled thinly, and her gaze flicked briefly to the tear tracks on his face that he’d done a very poor job of scrubbing away when he’d thought she hadn’t been looking. “I’m not sure you want me to answer that.”
“Was it so obvious?” he asked before laughing mirthlessly. “Of course, it was. I’ve never been a good actor. If that was my occupation, I’d have starved to death already although I can’t say I’m doing much better than that.”
“Do you mind telling me why you were going to jump?” Muse asked. “You don’t look sick, and the clothes you’re wearing seem decent enough. You even have a few paintings.” She nodded at the paintings propped up beside him. Strangely, all of them were wrapped in thick cloth. “So I doubt you’re too poor.” Something that was part anger and part disbelief twisted his features into a grimace, and she softened her tone. “I’m not going to stop you if that’s what you’re worried about. I’m curious, that’s all. And do you really think I could stop you if I wanted to?” Muse gave a self-deprecating laugh. She might still draw the eyes of mortals when she was in mortal guise, but her appearance was that of a petite, young woman. She was hardly a terrifying sight. Based on appearances alone, most mortals would have laughed at the thought of her being able to physically restrain him.
He nodded slowly. “You do have a point there.”
“You can tell me.” Muse leaned over the railing and peered into the rushing waters below – and at something the mortal couldn’t see. “You’ve got all night, and the river and the bridge aren’t going anywhere. You must have some family too, right? I can tell them if you want – that is, if you want them to know what happened.”
He looked at her for a long time before he finally nodded. The truth was that what most mortals wanted, more than anything else, was to be understood and to know that someone cared about them. It explained so much of their art. In a way the gods were similar, which was why the Supreme Mother and Supreme Father had given most of them siblings or companions of one sort or another. His shoulders slumped, and he joined her in staring at the river again. Perhaps he found it easier to talk without having to look at her.
“You’re right. The river and the bridge aren’t going anywhere. It might be… nice to tell someone. At least that way, even if the rest of the world thinks I’m crazy, there’ll be one person who knows I’m not.”
“I’m not going anywhere either.” Muse reached into the pockets of the cloak she’d created as part of her mortal guise and tossed him a small flask. “It’ll take the edge off the cold up here although I doubt it’ll do anything about how cold the river is.” Her lips twitched. “And if a man is going to die, he should have a good drink before he goes.”
His eyes widened before he gave her a small smile and took a swig from the flask. A second later, he was sputtering, hacking, and coughing. “Are you trying to kill me? This stuff is strong!”
> She raised one eyebrow at his remark before replying, “Sometimes, stronger is better.”
“That’s true.” He sighed and took a moment to gather his thoughts. She wondered what he must think of her, some stranger asking to hear his story. It would have been so easy to reach into his mind and pry into his thoughts, but she fought the temptation. She’d let him speak. “Do you have a dream, something you’d give your life for?”
“I do.” She would have gladly died – and been consigned to oblivion and lost forever – to defend this world that the Supreme Mother and Supreme Father had created. The hopes and dreams of this world, all of its art and beauty, she was not only the inspiration for it all but also its most devoted defender. “And I think everyone should have a dream they would die for, at least one.”
“Good. You’ll understand my story then.” He took another swig from the flask. It went down more easily this time, or perhaps he didn’t care about the burn. Mortals could be so adaptable.
The drink would help loosen his tongue too. It was an old trick, and Muse would have needed something much stronger to loosen the tongue of a god, but it was the same principle. It was why Muse kept bottles of several famously enjoyable divine vintages on hand at all times. She could fight – she was a Greater God – but she preferred not to.
“My family has never loved the arts. The truth is that I’m not even from this city. I’m not even from this kingdom. But when I was a boy I saw this… this fresco. Have you ever been to the temple of Justice in the capital of the kingdom north of here? Have you ever seen the fresco in the temple’s inner sanctum?
Muse had done more than see it. She’d watched as its painter, one of her favourites until Death had claimed him, had painted it. It was truly magnificent, a pinnacle of the art form and an almost perfect rendition of Justice in all of her glory. The goddess was clothed in divine majesty, robed in gleaming fabric made of light, wind, and fire as she judged the wicked and the good from her throne set near two of the great doors of the afterlife. Radiance spilled out from beneath her blindfold, a testament to her vision that saw to the truth of every matter brought before her.
Divine Assistance Page 10