Done with the Troubles of This World...
Enki loved Oxford in summer.
Naturally, being a divine entity coming on seven thousand years old gave one a lot of time and leeway to choose one's favorite places. He had reserved a deep, abiding love for the largest marketplace in Athens of Plato's time; spent a hazy decade doing nothing but reading and rereading his way through the Alexandria library; had a house in Florence that he'd owned since the early Rennaissance to which he retreated from affairs gone especially bad (another thing one picks of a lot of in a god's lifetime). There was a tree in Harrisburg, Pennsylvania, under which he had once been crushingly defeated in a debate by Ben Franklin, and despite his normal aversion to the East, he even had a marked fondness for a select Shinto shrine in Kyoto just because of the scents that mixed in it early in the day. He was a man (god?) of the world, and oh, what a wide, huge, crazy, fascinating old world it was. Note that it had kept him sane and optimistic for seven millennia.
But Oxford, when it wasn't raining... maybe it was just a passing fancy. By circumstances of his nature, he couldn't stand to be away from cities for too long, and having a learning center nearby always left him with a faint buzz, like constantly smelling something sweet cooking from the house next door. No one prayed to Enki anymore, burned offerings and chanted sacred words to him, but when so close by, humans were studying the laws of nature and culture, his laws, it made him feel young again.
Or something. He hadn't exactly done any aging. Bad metaphor. Never mind.
Putting the last of his books in its appointed box, Enki straightened and glanced out the window, and sighed. The little attic - a tiny cluttered space turned by his bright perceptions to 'snug' - looked so very bare and sad with all his Stuff (he thought of it capitalized) stowed away. Never mind that the books, notebooks, figurines, fossils, writing implements, lenses, aquarium and all the rest of the minor things, the volume of which combined was maybe ten times his own weight, were going someplace nice and safe. He should've hired someone to take care of the place rather than rented it out, despite the lucky linguistic student who was getting the best board price in the city. Vacating it like that was making him wonder whether this whole Going Back Up idea was such a good one after all.
"Why can't I crash at your space, again?" He asked mildly, eyes turned upwards.
Enlil's ocean-deep voice rumbled between the bones of his skull. Because you're an embarrassment.
Enki knelt next to the box and closed it up carefully. It was so nice to have family. Enlil and the rest - he could've sworn his elder brother was still upset over that business with the fish. Some people just had unehalthily long memories, and Enki, in the meantime, was going to have to go lurk around with the Greeks or the Celts or even, alas, the Scandinavians, like a statue put up in the wrong wing in the museum. Not the Egyptians, though, there was only so far he was willing to swallow his pride.
It would be an adventure certainly. He could barely remember what it was like being anywhere other than upon the rapidly changing earth. He was a god of culture, innovation, humanity; he'd gone with the times. They couldn't very well expect him to stay away from where the action was, could they? But it's been seven thousand years. He needed a break. It was legit. Happened to everyone. Either way, it was too late to back off now, having set all his mortal affairs in order for a long leave, got the attic fixed, informed the university that they would not be enjoying the services of Darius Font, PhD., expert on Mesopotamian languages, this year. He was all set to go. Consider it a vacation.
Too bad he couldn't take a flight.
With that idea stewing away in his mind, which was just the mind to handle it, he stood up once more and straightened his outfit (fashionable, but not ridiculously so. Elegant. Impeccable. If he didn't bother having taste, who would?) and ran a hand through his charcoal hair. Presentable enough, but then when wasn't he. It should do. She was a sweet thing - all things considered - and could forgive him the eccentricities of an old, old god.
Then he closed the windows, shutters and all, and turned on the bedlight, which was murky and yellow, casting everything in deep shadows.
"Nyx." His voice was musical, and his ancient Greek was no less perfect than the other two hundred languages he spoke. Divinity had its advantages. "Can I beg a moment?"
Naturally, being a divine entity coming on seven thousand years old gave one a lot of time and leeway to choose one's favorite places. He had reserved a deep, abiding love for the largest marketplace in Athens of Plato's time; spent a hazy decade doing nothing but reading and rereading his way through the Alexandria library; had a house in Florence that he'd owned since the early Rennaissance to which he retreated from affairs gone especially bad (another thing one picks of a lot of in a god's lifetime). There was a tree in Harrisburg, Pennsylvania, under which he had once been crushingly defeated in a debate by Ben Franklin, and despite his normal aversion to the East, he even had a marked fondness for a select Shinto shrine in Kyoto just because of the scents that mixed in it early in the day. He was a man (god?) of the world, and oh, what a wide, huge, crazy, fascinating old world it was. Note that it had kept him sane and optimistic for seven millennia.
But Oxford, when it wasn't raining... maybe it was just a passing fancy. By circumstances of his nature, he couldn't stand to be away from cities for too long, and having a learning center nearby always left him with a faint buzz, like constantly smelling something sweet cooking from the house next door. No one prayed to Enki anymore, burned offerings and chanted sacred words to him, but when so close by, humans were studying the laws of nature and culture, his laws, it made him feel young again.
Or something. He hadn't exactly done any aging. Bad metaphor. Never mind.
Putting the last of his books in its appointed box, Enki straightened and glanced out the window, and sighed. The little attic - a tiny cluttered space turned by his bright perceptions to 'snug' - looked so very bare and sad with all his Stuff (he thought of it capitalized) stowed away. Never mind that the books, notebooks, figurines, fossils, writing implements, lenses, aquarium and all the rest of the minor things, the volume of which combined was maybe ten times his own weight, were going someplace nice and safe. He should've hired someone to take care of the place rather than rented it out, despite the lucky linguistic student who was getting the best board price in the city. Vacating it like that was making him wonder whether this whole Going Back Up idea was such a good one after all.
"Why can't I crash at your space, again?" He asked mildly, eyes turned upwards.
Enlil's ocean-deep voice rumbled between the bones of his skull. Because you're an embarrassment.
Enki knelt next to the box and closed it up carefully. It was so nice to have family. Enlil and the rest - he could've sworn his elder brother was still upset over that business with the fish. Some people just had unehalthily long memories, and Enki, in the meantime, was going to have to go lurk around with the Greeks or the Celts or even, alas, the Scandinavians, like a statue put up in the wrong wing in the museum. Not the Egyptians, though, there was only so far he was willing to swallow his pride.
It would be an adventure certainly. He could barely remember what it was like being anywhere other than upon the rapidly changing earth. He was a god of culture, innovation, humanity; he'd gone with the times. They couldn't very well expect him to stay away from where the action was, could they? But it's been seven thousand years. He needed a break. It was legit. Happened to everyone. Either way, it was too late to back off now, having set all his mortal affairs in order for a long leave, got the attic fixed, informed the university that they would not be enjoying the services of Darius Font, PhD., expert on Mesopotamian languages, this year. He was all set to go. Consider it a vacation.
Too bad he couldn't take a flight.
With that idea stewing away in his mind, which was just the mind to handle it, he stood up once more and straightened his outfit (fashionable, but not ridiculously so. Elegant. Impeccable. If he didn't bother having taste, who would?) and ran a hand through his charcoal hair. Presentable enough, but then when wasn't he. It should do. She was a sweet thing - all things considered - and could forgive him the eccentricities of an old, old god.
Then he closed the windows, shutters and all, and turned on the bedlight, which was murky and yellow, casting everything in deep shadows.
"Nyx." His voice was musical, and his ancient Greek was no less perfect than the other two hundred languages he spoke. Divinity had its advantages. "Can I beg a moment?"