Battlefield of the Gods
Title:
Rating:
Word Count:
Prompt:
Characters:
Warnings:
Summary:Battlefield of the Gods
PG
1057
still_grrr 155 Classic Literature (Pre-1960 Free for All)
Glory and Illyria
Blasphemy, crack and present tense. I feel like I should apologize for this one.
Gods don't die. They merely take time off.
Should auld acquaintance be forgot,
and never brought to mind ?
We'll take a cup o’ kindness yet,
for auld lang syne.
Two women sit at a cafe table and stare each other down.
They looked like old college roommates - the sort of acquaintances one forms as a result of bureaucratic shuffling rather than commonality of interests. After putting up with each other for a year, the permed blonde in the red dress probably moved into a sorority house while the goth with blue hair moved off-campus with her artist boyfriend. Now running into each other after eight years, they must realize they have nothing to talk about if they aren't negotiating when to turn off the lights.
The blonde raises an over-plucked eyebrow and says, "I'm so glad you got rid of those tentacles. They were doing nothing for your figure."
The goth responds, "It is fitting that your retainers have devolved into the primordial muck from whence they arose."
The blond smiles tightly, "Great."
They sip their lattes.
Glory examines the non-existent scuff marks on her white suede slingbacks. Illyria stares at the poster explaining the merits of various coffee roasts.
"Have you heard from Jasmine lately?" asks Glory.
"I am told that she is in rehabilitation," says Illyria.
"It got that bad, huh?"
"I find it unsurprising. Her followers indulge her appetites too readily."
"Yeah, I can see you don't have to worry about that."
Illyria gives Glory a look that, in its time, had driven entire armies to gibbering madness. Glory simply smirks.
"Exile becomes you," says Illyria. "The burdens of your throne were growing evident upon your visage.
"At least no one's ever called me an Old One."
"That would be an insolence bordering on blasphemy." Point, Illyria.
A red-lacquered finger nail taps against a coffee cup.
"I hear your new Qwa'ha Xahn is a half-breed."
Illyria shifts in the undersized cafe chair. "What of it?"
"Oh nothing, just remembering the good old days when we didn't give half-breeds the time of day. Didn't your little clique cast out Shub-Niggurath because she got knocked up by a goat?"
"It wasn't her copulations with a mortal that we objected to. It was the thousand-fold bleatings of her execrable spawn. One could scarcely hear the ululations of the undying Yig-Tsum through that din."
"Tough. So back to this half-breed you're so touchy about..."
"Do not presume to suggest that I am touchy."
"Whatever you want to call it, hon. I'm just saying, the barrel must be pretty empty if that's what you scraped out of it. What's so special about this kid anyway?"
Illyria ponders that for a minute. "He is...a source of amusement. He fights like a mongoose and squalls like a termagant."
"Didn't you date a guy like that once?"
"I do not recall."
Glory leans forward, "Oh, I'm pretty sure you did. Scrawny guy, yellow fur, went all emo when he was drunk?"
"You mistake me for someone else..."
"No, no. He was the consort you cast away right after you won your godhood. I remember him crawling to the base of your throne and serenading you with the severed heads of infant sirens..."
"Nothing of the sort ever..."
"The whole gang was talking about it for aeons, even after you left for that other pantheon..."
Illyria jumps to her feet and sweeps the coffee cups off the table.
"Cease your prattle, you mendacious bint!" she shouts.
The barrista freezes behind the counter, half-way through a syrup shot. A law professor in the corner glares at the God-King until she sits down. Glory retakes her seat and keeps her voice low this time.
"Bint? Where did you pick up the British talk?"
"If we are to maintain a civil dialogue, you will show a higher regard for the protocols of discourse."
"I'm not kidding, you remind me of that half-breed I met in...huh." Glory leans back with a triumphant smile.
"Have you heard of what befell Semkhet after - " Illyria begins hurriedly but Glory will have none of it.
"A short, bleach-blond vampire with a cockney accent? Spike is your Qwa'ha Xan?"
"It is no concern of...you know of Spike?"
"Know of him? He was one of the vermin responsible for breaking my avatar! Do you know how hard I worked to keep that body in shape?"
The set of Illyria's shoulders suggests a certain satisfaction.
"I can't believe that pest could even walk after I flayed his ass!"
Illyria doesn't move a muscle at this, but the air grows cold. The barista suddenly decides she needs to clean the kitchen. The law professor hides behind her newspaper.
Glory barely pauses. "Like, is it too much to ask that people act injured if I go to the trouble of torturing them? I admit I didn't have the best resources at my disposal, being in exile and all, but he didn't have to bounce back in less than a week! The nerve of some people."
"Indeed," whispers Illyria. Then she stands up, as graceful as an eclipse, as terrible as an army with banners, and goes to the counter to order a blueberry mocha latte. The barrista emerges from the back room, makes Illyria's drink, and flees without ringing up the order.
Illyria walks back with her drink and, with all the dignity of a winning blow on a blood-soaked battlefield, pours the drink over Glory's shoes.
Glorificus' howl shakes the rafters with its fury. "You fucking brute!" she shrieks, "Those were next season's Manolo Blahniks. Do you have any idea how many minions I killed before they found these for me?"
Illyria leans forward, so close that even in her rage Glory fliches.
"North London," she says.
"What!?"
"My Qwa'ha Xahn speaks in the manner of North London, not Cockney. And you will do well to remember that he belongs to me. I may not have the legions of Vahla ha'nesh at my back, but my pride is not lessened. I protect and avenge what is mine."
"You're not the only one in town who can carry a grudge, sister. Insults to me I can handle, but when you messed with my shoes, you crossed a line. I will take you down!"
"I sneer at your pathetic swagger, hell-bitch."
"Do your best, Smurfette."
The two fallen gods glare at each other for one final moment before departing through opposite doorways. The Law professor and the barrista share a look.
"I think," says the professor, "L.A. is due for another apocalypse."
Rating:
Word Count:
Prompt:
Characters:
Warnings:
Summary:Battlefield of the Gods
PG
1057
still_grrr 155 Classic Literature (Pre-1960 Free for All)
Glory and Illyria
Blasphemy, crack and present tense. I feel like I should apologize for this one.
Gods don't die. They merely take time off.
Should auld acquaintance be forgot,
and never brought to mind ?
We'll take a cup o’ kindness yet,
for auld lang syne.
Two women sit at a cafe table and stare each other down.
They looked like old college roommates - the sort of acquaintances one forms as a result of bureaucratic shuffling rather than commonality of interests. After putting up with each other for a year, the permed blonde in the red dress probably moved into a sorority house while the goth with blue hair moved off-campus with her artist boyfriend. Now running into each other after eight years, they must realize they have nothing to talk about if they aren't negotiating when to turn off the lights.
The blonde raises an over-plucked eyebrow and says, "I'm so glad you got rid of those tentacles. They were doing nothing for your figure."
The goth responds, "It is fitting that your retainers have devolved into the primordial muck from whence they arose."
The blond smiles tightly, "Great."
They sip their lattes.
Glory examines the non-existent scuff marks on her white suede slingbacks. Illyria stares at the poster explaining the merits of various coffee roasts.
"Have you heard from Jasmine lately?" asks Glory.
"I am told that she is in rehabilitation," says Illyria.
"It got that bad, huh?"
"I find it unsurprising. Her followers indulge her appetites too readily."
"Yeah, I can see you don't have to worry about that."
Illyria gives Glory a look that, in its time, had driven entire armies to gibbering madness. Glory simply smirks.
"Exile becomes you," says Illyria. "The burdens of your throne were growing evident upon your visage.
"At least no one's ever called me an Old One."
"That would be an insolence bordering on blasphemy." Point, Illyria.
A red-lacquered finger nail taps against a coffee cup.
"I hear your new Qwa'ha Xahn is a half-breed."
Illyria shifts in the undersized cafe chair. "What of it?"
"Oh nothing, just remembering the good old days when we didn't give half-breeds the time of day. Didn't your little clique cast out Shub-Niggurath because she got knocked up by a goat?"
"It wasn't her copulations with a mortal that we objected to. It was the thousand-fold bleatings of her execrable spawn. One could scarcely hear the ululations of the undying Yig-Tsum through that din."
"Tough. So back to this half-breed you're so touchy about..."
"Do not presume to suggest that I am touchy."
"Whatever you want to call it, hon. I'm just saying, the barrel must be pretty empty if that's what you scraped out of it. What's so special about this kid anyway?"
Illyria ponders that for a minute. "He is...a source of amusement. He fights like a mongoose and squalls like a termagant."
"Didn't you date a guy like that once?"
"I do not recall."
Glory leans forward, "Oh, I'm pretty sure you did. Scrawny guy, yellow fur, went all emo when he was drunk?"
"You mistake me for someone else..."
"No, no. He was the consort you cast away right after you won your godhood. I remember him crawling to the base of your throne and serenading you with the severed heads of infant sirens..."
"Nothing of the sort ever..."
"The whole gang was talking about it for aeons, even after you left for that other pantheon..."
Illyria jumps to her feet and sweeps the coffee cups off the table.
"Cease your prattle, you mendacious bint!" she shouts.
The barrista freezes behind the counter, half-way through a syrup shot. A law professor in the corner glares at the God-King until she sits down. Glory retakes her seat and keeps her voice low this time.
"Bint? Where did you pick up the British talk?"
"If we are to maintain a civil dialogue, you will show a higher regard for the protocols of discourse."
"I'm not kidding, you remind me of that half-breed I met in...huh." Glory leans back with a triumphant smile.
"Have you heard of what befell Semkhet after - " Illyria begins hurriedly but Glory will have none of it.
"A short, bleach-blond vampire with a cockney accent? Spike is your Qwa'ha Xan?"
"It is no concern of...you know of Spike?"
"Know of him? He was one of the vermin responsible for breaking my avatar! Do you know how hard I worked to keep that body in shape?"
The set of Illyria's shoulders suggests a certain satisfaction.
"I can't believe that pest could even walk after I flayed his ass!"
Illyria doesn't move a muscle at this, but the air grows cold. The barista suddenly decides she needs to clean the kitchen. The law professor hides behind her newspaper.
Glory barely pauses. "Like, is it too much to ask that people act injured if I go to the trouble of torturing them? I admit I didn't have the best resources at my disposal, being in exile and all, but he didn't have to bounce back in less than a week! The nerve of some people."
"Indeed," whispers Illyria. Then she stands up, as graceful as an eclipse, as terrible as an army with banners, and goes to the counter to order a blueberry mocha latte. The barrista emerges from the back room, makes Illyria's drink, and flees without ringing up the order.
Illyria walks back with her drink and, with all the dignity of a winning blow on a blood-soaked battlefield, pours the drink over Glory's shoes.
Glorificus' howl shakes the rafters with its fury. "You fucking brute!" she shrieks, "Those were next season's Manolo Blahniks. Do you have any idea how many minions I killed before they found these for me?"
Illyria leans forward, so close that even in her rage Glory fliches.
"North London," she says.
"What!?"
"My Qwa'ha Xahn speaks in the manner of North London, not Cockney. And you will do well to remember that he belongs to me. I may not have the legions of Vahla ha'nesh at my back, but my pride is not lessened. I protect and avenge what is mine."
"You're not the only one in town who can carry a grudge, sister. Insults to me I can handle, but when you messed with my shoes, you crossed a line. I will take you down!"
"I sneer at your pathetic swagger, hell-bitch."
"Do your best, Smurfette."
The two fallen gods glare at each other for one final moment before departing through opposite doorways. The Law professor and the barrista share a look.
"I think," says the professor, "L.A. is due for another apocalypse."