October Story Month #26
Title: What the Gods Look Like
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 1,353
Story Arc: The Myrrosta
Summary: One night on a hill overlooking the river.
Note: Crossposted to Runaway Tales and Dreamwidth.
“What do your gods look like?”
It was in Atro’s nature to blurt out seemingly random questions, regardless of tact, but Merrus was taken aback by the words anyway. He remained silent for several long moments, wondering how best to answer, or if he should answer at all. Atro stirred next to him, fidgeting with impatience already.
Merrus sighed. “What do your gods look like?”
It wasn’t the best tactic for avoiding the actual question, and Merrus expected Atro to give him that look he did whenever Merrus said something Atro found confusing, incomprehensible, or just plain stupid, the one where his eyes narrowed and the corners of his mouth turned down in an exaggerated pout. It was a look that everyone (save Martyn, who was far too busy for anything but his paperwork, and Merrus, who knew better) agreed was sweetly petulant in that adorable way that made it impossible for them to deny Atro anything. Unfortunately, although even Merrus grudgingly accepted that the look had been somewhat cute on an eight-year-old, Atro was nearly thirteen and it had become merely tedious.
Merrus turned to look at Atro, an admonishment to grow up already on his lips, but Atro did not greet him with that look. Atro was not looking at Merrus at all, his eyes still fixed on the stars above him, his arms crossed beneath his head, dirty elbows sinking into the thick grass. He looked…
He looked contemplative.
Merrus stared, not used to that sort of look on Atro’s face. Maybe it wasn’t contemplation. Maybe Atro was just feeling ill.
Before he could say anything, Atro spoke, his voice as matter-of-fact as always, but without the usual certainty of a boy who thought he knew the world because his tutor made him read about it in books and because he was heir to a city he had only ever seen from the windows of a carriage.
“They look like…like that.” Atro pointed straight up, his index finger centering on the full disc of the moon. “That’s one.”
“Nur Patkej,” sighed Merrus. Thanks to Martyn’s constant haranguing the first year after Merrus had joined the Court, he had quickly learned the basics of Ceenta Voweiian religion. The finer points, however, were something he couldn’t muster up the interest in. He was only familiar with his own people’s spirituality because he had been forced to learn it.
Now Atro frowned, but it was an introspective frown, and for a moment Merrus got what might be a slight glimpse of what Atro would look like as an adult. A flash of Atro as Lord Councilor, a vision that had nothing to do with any ability to see into the future (Merrus was a salkiy, and knew the difference) danced in front of his eyes, and he was surprised that his response was one of vague sadness.
“But that’s not quite right, is it?”
“I wouldn’t know,” said Merrus, tilting his head up to look at the moon. Atro’s arm was still held straight out above him, his finger still pointed, as if the boy had forgotten it was even there.
“Kersel said that it’s only the representation of Nur Patkej, what we see. The moon is symbolic of how he watches over us at night.” Atro’s mouth exaggerated unfamiliar words as it moved around them. He was parroting back what his tutor had told him, probably earlier that very day, and Merrus sighed. It was all well and good to lecture, but sometimes he wished a little more care was taken to make sure Atro actually comprehended the concepts he was being taught.
“Do you understand what that means?” asked Merrus.
Whatever thrall had held Atro in place snapped, and he finally turned to look at Merrus, all traces of adulthood gone, his blue eyes arrogant and his face full of a child’s version of disgust. “Of course I do!”
Merrus waited, merely cocking one eyebrow.
“I do! You don’t believe me! Well, I don’t care whether you do or not!”
Merrus waited.
“I figure you’re the one who doesn’t understand. You’re hoping I’ll tell you because you hate it when I know something you don’t!”
“Then why don’t you tell me?”
Atro sat up in a huff, swiping a hand through his hair in irritation, knocking out blades of grass. “Why should I do that?”
“Because I asked?”
Atro didn’t seem to have a good comeback to this, and he settled back down into the grass, though his agitation was still apparent in his fidgeting legs and the clipped tones his voice took. “It’s just like what I said. The moon,” he pointed up again, “isn’t Nur Patkej, not really. It’s just a shape he uses to let us know he’s watching.”
“So what does he really look like, then?” said Merrus.
Atro shrugged. “I guess no one knows that. How could anyone know that, if all we ever see is the moon?” He turned narrowed eyes toward Merrus. “But you never answered my question, and I asked first. What do your gods look like?”
Merrus thought back to his schooling, to what the arai of his village had tried in despair to beat into his head. “I suppose they could look like the moon, too,” he finally said.
“No, they couldn’t,” replied Atro with all the authority his twelve years of life gave him.
“Why not?”
“I just explained. The moon belongs to Nur Patkej. That’s his symbol.”
“But we’re talking about my religion now, not yours,” said Merrus.
“That doesn’t matter!”
“No?”
Atro grunted in frustration. “No, because Nur Patkej is real. He’s real and he really made the moon and uses it to watch over us at night. So your gods can’t use the moon. They have to use something else.”
Merrus was not in the mood for any kind of religious debate, especially to defend one religion he didn’t believe in against another he didn’t believe in, so he made a mental note to challenge Atro’s fundamental understanding of the world at some time when he felt more up to it. “All right, then, they can be something else if that makes you feel better.”
Silence from Atro, but an unsettled silence that told Merrus that Atro was considering whether to take offense or continue along the path of thought the salkiy was obviously leaving for him. Merrus hoped for the latter.
Luckily, Atro didn’t seem to be in the mood for much debate, either. “But what do they look like? I can’t just give them something to look like when I don’t know.”
“Yes, you can,” said Merrus. “They’re gods, right? So they can look like anything.”
“That’s stupid,” said Atro. “They have to look like something.”
“That’s what we believe,” said Merrus with a shrug. “Salkiys, I mean. The gods can look like anything. They aren’t constrained by the world as we are. The moon, the suns, the trees or the river water, humans or salkiys or animals or races we’ve never seen before.”
Ekalaps, too? The thought came unbidden, and Merrus pushed it away. No. Never ekalaps.
Atro, who had never heard of ekalaps and would never hear of them if Merrus had any say about it, continued his argument oblivious to the odd pause that had followed his teacher’s statement. “But what do they really look like?”
“I suppose no one knows that,” said Merrus, throwing Atro’s own words back at him. “How could anyone know that, if all we ever see is the world?”
Atro didn’t speak for a long moment. He craned his neck to look up at the moon once more. He seemed troubled. “I think gods should just have symbols that they always look like, so we know what’s a god and what isn’t.” A sudden yawn cut off the end of his sentence.
Merrus thought he agreed, but all he said was, “Time to go inside?”
“All right,” said Atro. He stood, facing toward the Private Hall, his back turned against the moon.
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 1,353
Story Arc: The Myrrosta
Summary: One night on a hill overlooking the river.
Note: Crossposted to Runaway Tales and Dreamwidth.
“What do your gods look like?”
It was in Atro’s nature to blurt out seemingly random questions, regardless of tact, but Merrus was taken aback by the words anyway. He remained silent for several long moments, wondering how best to answer, or if he should answer at all. Atro stirred next to him, fidgeting with impatience already.
Merrus sighed. “What do your gods look like?”
It wasn’t the best tactic for avoiding the actual question, and Merrus expected Atro to give him that look he did whenever Merrus said something Atro found confusing, incomprehensible, or just plain stupid, the one where his eyes narrowed and the corners of his mouth turned down in an exaggerated pout. It was a look that everyone (save Martyn, who was far too busy for anything but his paperwork, and Merrus, who knew better) agreed was sweetly petulant in that adorable way that made it impossible for them to deny Atro anything. Unfortunately, although even Merrus grudgingly accepted that the look had been somewhat cute on an eight-year-old, Atro was nearly thirteen and it had become merely tedious.
Merrus turned to look at Atro, an admonishment to grow up already on his lips, but Atro did not greet him with that look. Atro was not looking at Merrus at all, his eyes still fixed on the stars above him, his arms crossed beneath his head, dirty elbows sinking into the thick grass. He looked…
He looked contemplative.
Merrus stared, not used to that sort of look on Atro’s face. Maybe it wasn’t contemplation. Maybe Atro was just feeling ill.
Before he could say anything, Atro spoke, his voice as matter-of-fact as always, but without the usual certainty of a boy who thought he knew the world because his tutor made him read about it in books and because he was heir to a city he had only ever seen from the windows of a carriage.
“They look like…like that.” Atro pointed straight up, his index finger centering on the full disc of the moon. “That’s one.”
“Nur Patkej,” sighed Merrus. Thanks to Martyn’s constant haranguing the first year after Merrus had joined the Court, he had quickly learned the basics of Ceenta Voweiian religion. The finer points, however, were something he couldn’t muster up the interest in. He was only familiar with his own people’s spirituality because he had been forced to learn it.
Now Atro frowned, but it was an introspective frown, and for a moment Merrus got what might be a slight glimpse of what Atro would look like as an adult. A flash of Atro as Lord Councilor, a vision that had nothing to do with any ability to see into the future (Merrus was a salkiy, and knew the difference) danced in front of his eyes, and he was surprised that his response was one of vague sadness.
“But that’s not quite right, is it?”
“I wouldn’t know,” said Merrus, tilting his head up to look at the moon. Atro’s arm was still held straight out above him, his finger still pointed, as if the boy had forgotten it was even there.
“Kersel said that it’s only the representation of Nur Patkej, what we see. The moon is symbolic of how he watches over us at night.” Atro’s mouth exaggerated unfamiliar words as it moved around them. He was parroting back what his tutor had told him, probably earlier that very day, and Merrus sighed. It was all well and good to lecture, but sometimes he wished a little more care was taken to make sure Atro actually comprehended the concepts he was being taught.
“Do you understand what that means?” asked Merrus.
Whatever thrall had held Atro in place snapped, and he finally turned to look at Merrus, all traces of adulthood gone, his blue eyes arrogant and his face full of a child’s version of disgust. “Of course I do!”
Merrus waited, merely cocking one eyebrow.
“I do! You don’t believe me! Well, I don’t care whether you do or not!”
Merrus waited.
“I figure you’re the one who doesn’t understand. You’re hoping I’ll tell you because you hate it when I know something you don’t!”
“Then why don’t you tell me?”
Atro sat up in a huff, swiping a hand through his hair in irritation, knocking out blades of grass. “Why should I do that?”
“Because I asked?”
Atro didn’t seem to have a good comeback to this, and he settled back down into the grass, though his agitation was still apparent in his fidgeting legs and the clipped tones his voice took. “It’s just like what I said. The moon,” he pointed up again, “isn’t Nur Patkej, not really. It’s just a shape he uses to let us know he’s watching.”
“So what does he really look like, then?” said Merrus.
Atro shrugged. “I guess no one knows that. How could anyone know that, if all we ever see is the moon?” He turned narrowed eyes toward Merrus. “But you never answered my question, and I asked first. What do your gods look like?”
Merrus thought back to his schooling, to what the arai of his village had tried in despair to beat into his head. “I suppose they could look like the moon, too,” he finally said.
“No, they couldn’t,” replied Atro with all the authority his twelve years of life gave him.
“Why not?”
“I just explained. The moon belongs to Nur Patkej. That’s his symbol.”
“But we’re talking about my religion now, not yours,” said Merrus.
“That doesn’t matter!”
“No?”
Atro grunted in frustration. “No, because Nur Patkej is real. He’s real and he really made the moon and uses it to watch over us at night. So your gods can’t use the moon. They have to use something else.”
Merrus was not in the mood for any kind of religious debate, especially to defend one religion he didn’t believe in against another he didn’t believe in, so he made a mental note to challenge Atro’s fundamental understanding of the world at some time when he felt more up to it. “All right, then, they can be something else if that makes you feel better.”
Silence from Atro, but an unsettled silence that told Merrus that Atro was considering whether to take offense or continue along the path of thought the salkiy was obviously leaving for him. Merrus hoped for the latter.
Luckily, Atro didn’t seem to be in the mood for much debate, either. “But what do they look like? I can’t just give them something to look like when I don’t know.”
“Yes, you can,” said Merrus. “They’re gods, right? So they can look like anything.”
“That’s stupid,” said Atro. “They have to look like something.”
“That’s what we believe,” said Merrus with a shrug. “Salkiys, I mean. The gods can look like anything. They aren’t constrained by the world as we are. The moon, the suns, the trees or the river water, humans or salkiys or animals or races we’ve never seen before.”
Ekalaps, too? The thought came unbidden, and Merrus pushed it away. No. Never ekalaps.
Atro, who had never heard of ekalaps and would never hear of them if Merrus had any say about it, continued his argument oblivious to the odd pause that had followed his teacher’s statement. “But what do they really look like?”
“I suppose no one knows that,” said Merrus, throwing Atro’s own words back at him. “How could anyone know that, if all we ever see is the world?”
Atro didn’t speak for a long moment. He craned his neck to look up at the moon once more. He seemed troubled. “I think gods should just have symbols that they always look like, so we know what’s a god and what isn’t.” A sudden yawn cut off the end of his sentence.
Merrus thought he agreed, but all he said was, “Time to go inside?”
“All right,” said Atro. He stood, facing toward the Private Hall, his back turned against the moon.