Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Enkidu was merry living with the shepherds,

 till one day lifting his eyes he saw a man approaching.

He said to Shamhat, ‘Woman, fetch that man here.
Why has he come? I wish to know his name.’

She went and called the man saying,

‘Sir, where are you going on this weary journey?’

“My lord. I bring news.”

“Yes? What is it?”

“You wished to be notified of new and unusual arrivals in the port. Marākib arrived this morning. From the lands of the Rūs.”

“...Al-majūs.”

“Yes, lord. Three of their strange dragon-headed ships, all full to the brim with Rūs warriors and heavy with spoils. Lead by some Rūs princeling, to hear them boast.”

“...Hm. Anything else?”

“...Their shields. All the same. Blue, with birds of some kind—”

“Ravens. Two of them.”

“You have seen them, then?”

“Not yet.”

“...But I intend to.”

“These Rūsiyyah warriors and their little princeling of Ravens. Where might they be found?”

“They likely still linger near the docks, lord, or else the souq.”

Every violation, every wrong, paid back tenfold and then tenfold again.

 
No mercy.

No forgiveness.

Be you ever so wary, one-eyed-wretch, mad-one, kin-killer, oath-breaker.

Your kin named us back-biter, and so we shall bite back at you in turn.

We are hunting for you.

And we will find you, in every one of your havens.

 “The man answered, saying to Enkidu,

‘Gilgamesh has gone into the

 marriage-house and shut out the people.”

“....Let me get this straight: you want access to an Apple of Eden… for an art project??”

“...Yes?” Basim raised an eyebrow.

“...You want the modern Brotherhood, to give you—an Isu Sage imprinted from the Isu whose most well remembered claims to fame are ‘inventing the concept of chronic lying’ and ‘causing the apocalypse’—access to one of your species’—”

“Former. Species.”            

“...And why do people keep thinking we were a chronic liar?”
“We were not even good at it.”

“Also we did not ‘cause the apocaly-”

“Yeah, whatever, man. You want the Brotherhood to give YOU access to an Apple of Eden, one of the POEs your “”former”” people created as a tool SPECIFICALLY for THE MIND-CONTROL OF HUMANITY—for AN ART PROJECT????”

“I mean. Basically? Yes.”

“...We still do not see the problem here, Technician.”

“You—don’t—you don’t see the—No, you—uggghhhhhhhhh. No. You know what? You know what? Nevermind. The point is: that’s not gonna fucking happen, Basim. …Nehal.”

“...well why not??”

“‘Why no’—seriously???? Were you even LISTENING to ANYTHING I just said?”

“Yes?”

“Wait. “mind-control” - is this because of the neurotransmitters in human brains—”

“YES!!! YES!! It’s because of the effing neurotransmitters, Nehal. Fucking finally, I thought they would never—”

“...why do you still have those?”

“Wh—Wh—”

“....what the fucking hell do you mean, ‘why do you still have those????’ Basim???? What the fuck do you mean? ..Everyone??? Has those???”

“...Nnnn-ooo??”

“What, oh, and you don’t? Oh, sod off, mate. Your being a Sage doesn’t make you special, you know that right? If you really are human, like us, then you have neurotransmitters in your brain, like us, simple as that.”

“No, we do not.”

“Wh—”

“We removed them years ago—”     “We removed them years ago—”

“Bloody hell, I fucking hate it when they do that. Stop with the twinspeak shite already, it’s just creepy!”

“Y—You. ‘...removed them??’”

“Yes?”

“It took maybe all of five minutes and 7.8 zeptoseconds?”

“You—”

“...What the fuck is a bloody zeptosecond?”

“Shaun, shut the fuck up. Shaun. Please. Shut up.”

“Who SAYS that? “oh, we’ve just got 3 minutes and 14.5 zeptoseconds left to wai—”

 “Shaun. No one gives a shit about zeptoseconds right now. You. What the fuck do you mean ‘You removed them?’ How the fuck did you REMOVE the NEUROTRANSMITTERS you were BORN WITH INSIDE YOUR HEAD?????”

“We removed them.”        “We removed them!”

“Jesus Christ, stop DOING that—”

“...BY YOURSELF?”

“...Yes?”

“You mean. to tell me. That you did. brain surgery. on. Yourself????”

“‘Brain surgery?’ What? No—no, it is not—”

“...but you aren’t even a DOCTOR???”

“It is not—it is not brai —”

“...Mate, what the fuck is wrong with you?”

“No. But we were a hologram technician. And an artist. Which is basically the same thing.”

“It is not—Technician. Historian. It is not brain surgery—”

“No, it ISN’T?? “Basically the same thing.”  What are you fucking talking about—”

“And we have names, Nehal! People don’t just go around calling us “Historian” and “Technician” all the time, thank you very much! … Well, normal ones, anyways.”

“—Basim. In no way is making funny holograms that ATTACK you, PSYCHICALLY, equivalent to being a licensed. medical. doctor. And you, Nehal, what the fuck do you mean, oh, ‘It’s not brain surgery?” oh so what, you just—”

“shàn.”

“—what the FUCK.”

“...I’ve changed my mind. Never fucking do that again.”

“Did you—Did you just Isu-ify his fucking name?”

“‘Isu-ify?’ Really, Rebecca? That’s not a real word—”

“Shaun! Ca—”

“shàn!”

“Stop that!”

“....sh—”

“NO. Shut up, Loki 2. Don’t you start—”

“Loki 2?!”        “Loki 2??”

“No, Nehal. He’s Loki 2. You’re Loki 3.”

“Shaun! Don’t encourage them!”

“Asinine.”   “Ridiculous.”

“Everyone. just. Shut. up.”

“That joke was not funny.”     “You will die in seven days.”

“Shut up! Shut up!”

“He does strange things in Uruk, the city of great streets.

At the roll of the drum work begins for the men,

 and work for the women.“

Dolos paused in the entryway to his family’s quarters in Asgard, frowning slightly as raised voices reached him—Vali and Sigyn were arguing. Again.

“They will die for this, every one of them! It is time we fight!”

In the room beyond, Sigyn let out a frustrated, tired sigh. From this alone, Loki could gather that this argument had been ongoing for quite some time prior to his arrival and was clearly going nowhere. Wonderful.  “Your anger is just, but you will not win a war, Freki.”

With a grimace, he strode further into their home, allowing the door to hiss closed behind him. “Sigyn. What is—”

“Loki. Good.” His partner looked up with an odd mixture of relief and irritation on her face. She held out a datapad. Wordlessly, he took the offered device and began skimming over the message she had pulled up. “You are needed. Tyr discovered rebel sympathizers in his household. The Havi wishes for you to dispose of the bodies.”

“‘The Havi wishes for—’” Dolos broke off with a frustrated hiss of displeasure. “...am I now to be his personal wetworks director and undertaker as well as security specialist, political analyst, and diplomatic ambassador to his court? Does he not have anyone else in the whole entire city except for me to call on? Does the man not realize he has guards that can do his dirty work for him just as well as I? I do have to work on that treaty sometime, you know—”

“The Havi wishes for you to dispose of the bodies.” Sigyn said, slowly, as though speaking to a small child. “Byliest would want them to have a proper funeral.”

“...Ah.” He murmured, grimacing uncomfortably. “I see.”

“And take Freki with you.”

“...Vali?”  Loki said pointedly, ignoring Sigyn’s irritated hiss of displeasure at his correction. “Stars above. Why would she think that he needs to see that—”

“I am RIGHT here! And it is not like I have not seen a dead body before—”

“The Havi  commands it.”

Both Loki and Vali fell silent in consideration at that revelation. Vali’s earlier righteous arrogance fled, replaced with a quiet trepidation. He glanced nervously between the two adults, eyeing the red-red fear-anxiety-worry of their auras with uncertainty.

“That is.” Loki grimaced, turning the datapad around in his hands absently. “…Absurd. And worr —”

“Loki. I know.  Just. Go.” Sigyn snapped as she strode over and snatched the datapad from his hands with a low growl and a harried expression on her face, aura roiling with a red undercurrent of anxiety that matched Loki’s own.

“Now!” She barked, and they started into motion.

“...You fire-bringers are strange.” Vali said, at last breaking the lingering silence that had followed them from their home, his younger burden-beast trailing behind Loki’s own. “You give us weapons you do not want us to use, then give us credit for your victories.”

Dolos sighed, directing the burden-beast to slow its mincing trot. The animal grunted softly and shook its great antlered head in response.

 He let Vali’s mount take the lead ever so slightly, just enough that the beasts would not be tempted to challenge one another or allow their wide-set palmate antlers to become entangled.

Rutting season was still a fair way off, and the animal that Vali rode had been gelded, but, still, one could never be too careful. The animals led solitary lives in the wild for a reason, after all.

He pressed a thread of gentle red-blue concern-and-sympathy across their bond, giving the boy a sad smile.  “War would be bad for everyone, Vali. Especially you.”

Vali scoffed.“That is your masters speaking, rhṇhérs.”

“‘My masters?’” Dolos let out a low whistle of admonishment. Where was this coming from? “Careful, Vali.”

Refusing to reply just long enough to make his point, Vali reluctantly chirped back in apology.

Dolos rolled his eyes. Teenagers.

After a few more heartbeats of silence, the boy glanced up at him again over his mount’s sweeping, gnarled antlers, frowning. “ ...Does it truly not bother you that those you obey are the same ones making the rules that demand your obedience?”

Loki hummed gently at his trade-son. “They do not control me, Vali. I am free. I fight so that others are free as well.”

“Everything you do serves their whims.” Vali argued. “That is a strange kind of freedom.”

“They are my kin. There is no contradiction.”

“...If you say so.”

“...Once I lived in Atlantis, where those like us were supposed to be able to find sanctuary. But I was not free, Vali.”

“And now that others tell you who you are, rhṇhérs, are you any freer?”

“You would not understand.”

“I understand better than you.” the boy muttered. “...If you are truly free, why the struggle within?”

“What do you mean? There is no struggle.”

“What you think is at war with what you feel. You will never find truth  if you are not first truthful  with yourself .”

“Gilgamesh the king is about to celebrate marriage

with the Queen of Love, and still he demands

 to be first with the bride, the king to be first

and the husband to follow.”

“Why do you do that?” Rebecca asked them, frowning.

“Do what, Technician?” Nehal asks, glancing up from where she works beside her other half. They’re busy tearing apart her spare desktop computer. Again.

She stared flatly at the Sage. “First of all;  it’s Rebecca. My name is Rebecca. Secondly: Why do you only ever call Odin—”

They flinched.

(“Dolos. My name is Dolos.”)

“The Havi.” Basim snapped irritably.

(“Outside Asaheim’s borders, perhaps, yes. But as long as you are within them, you will always be Loki.”)

“You just did it again! Why do you only ever call him “THE Havi???”

(“Do you not understand it yet? Even if you leave this land, you can never leave its borders.”)

“Because—” he started and then cut himself off.

(“Sigyn. That. That does not make any sense—”)

His breath audibly caught in his throat and his eyes went distant. Beside him, his restless other half had gone as still and quiet as a windless lake.

He brought his hands together in front of himself, worrying absently at the missing digit of his left hand, before turning quietly towards his other half, putting his back to her.

(“No matter where you go or what you do, you will still be Loki. Even if you die. Even then.”)  

Rebecca stared at his back, trying to work out what emotion the expression on his face had conveyed. Distress, maybe? Fear? Anxiety?

(“Sigyn—”)

Nehal shifted closer to him, leaning slightly against her other self; whether the gesture was intended to be comforting or seeking to be comforted, Rebecca couldn’t tell. Probably both. She conceded after a moment.

Nehal turned to rest her chin on Basim’s shoulder, shifting so that she faced Rebecca. The expression on her face looked vaguely pained, and her eyes darted around the room with a haunted intensity that was all-too-familiar.

Desmond had looked like that on occasion, when they’d asked what it was like growing up on the Farm, or when he was in the middle of a really bad Bleed and had no idea where or when he was. Watchful, hunted and wary.

(“It is the way things are done here. You get used to it.”)

“Because what?” Rebecca prodded, trying to draw them out of their head and back into the conversation. Halfway through the question, she found that she didn’t really quite want to know any more, but soldiered on in finishing the question regardless.

It wasn’t as though she could take the words back, anyways.

(“Whether you like it or not,  Loki.”)

There was a flash of something else in their eyes when they at last turned in uncanny unison to look at her, something that left Rebecca feeling not unlike what she’d always imagined looking behind her and seeing the dreaded white cloud of an avalanche rushing down the slope behind her would feel like.

“Because we are still there.” Nehal’s voice is quiet, low with shame and thin with pain.

There, Rebecca reads in their expressions, being not so much of a place as a situation.
 It wasn’t terribly hard to guess what she was referring to.

[“The Havi was… not a kind man.” Basim had told her, staring at the campfire with a sad little smile that never really quite managed to reach his eyes.]

[“...He liked to get inside your head. Enjoyed playing games with others’ minds. Breaking things and never fixing them, just to see how they worked.”]

[“His study was like that, you know. So many little pieces, strewn all about ‘til they could never be put back together.”]

The smile that crosses Nehal’s face is brittle and Rebecca notes with concern, for the first time, how often her hands stray towards the dagger at her other half’s back.

“We will always be  there.”

[“...Well, what about Sigyn? You of all people should be able to tell us something about her, right? Why did they call her ‘the loyal goddess?’”]

[“Oh, no, she was. Loyal, that is. Just not to…”]

[“Basim?”]

[“...can we not talk about something else? Must you pry so shamelessly?”]

Basim spread his hands in an apologetic shrug, flashing her another pained smile as though to say ‘it can’t be helped.’  
“In a way, we never left.”

 “For such was ordained by the gods from the day of his birth,

from the time the umbilical cord was cut.

 But now the drums roll for the choice

 of the bride and the city groans.’”

“...and where did you get this idea that the havi was the one to slay balor?” Basim groused, turning halfway to address Nehal sitting next to him, who looked as though she was seconds away from attempting to tackle him again. “All our efforts, all our accomplishments, lauded onto that miserable one-eyed old bastard.”

Shaun stared at them.“Y—You?? You?”

Nehal rolled her eyes and Basim turned back to face him with a scoff, staring at him with one eyebrow raised disapprovingly.  

“Let me guess.” He muttered dryly. “‘But you thought that the historical reccountings of Celtic mythology claimed that lug was a pale-skinned, blonde man who was so…” Basim paused, letting his words linger meaningfully. “…white, that he shone like the sun?”

“I… okay.” Shaun grimaced. “When you put it like that. It, ah. That. That does sound… er… fucked up.”

“But what about Fj—”

Nehal hissed.

Basim ignored her. “You thought that just because Eivor’s ridiculous drug-addled hallucination of balor called the warrior wielding Gae Bolg “fjoḷnir” that that meant that the Havi was also lug in the Isu Era?”

“Wel—Well, yes, I did, actually. Also, worth noting, she wasn’t tripping on drugs that time—”

“That time.” Basim muttered darkly.

    “It is funny, is it not, Basim?”  Nehal muttered, seemingly relenting in her bad mood slightly, digging her elbow into his side.

“Yes.” he snorted, casting a look of dark amusement in the direction of the distant patch of dirt  outside where Eivor’s bones had been reburied. “Very funny.”

Nehal nodded, baring her teeth in a grimacing snarl of an amused smile. She pitched her voice slightly, affecting a raspy stage whisper in deliberately poor mimic of the Aesir in question in biting, mocking tones. ”‘I will not forget this life. Not one breath. I will always remember when Odin—” She stumbled unexpectedly over the Aesir’s name, fear flashing across her face as she fell silent with a sharp intake of breath, and both she and Basim flinched in unison as though expecting some sort of violent retribution in response to the transgression.

Shaun made a questioning noise, bumping her knee with his own.

“What on earth?” he mouthed, glancing at her in confusion, nodding his head towards the Sage.

“Tell you later.” Rebecca mouthed back, grimacing.

When whatever punishment they seemed to be expecting failed to come, the Sage relaxed from their tense, coiled posture. Nehal exhaled shakily and exchanged a small, tentative grin with her other half.

For a moment, all four of them sat there a while, staring at anything but each other, until the tension in the air finally bled away. Wordlessly, they all agreed to carry on like nothing had happened.

Basim huffed softly, shaking his head. “...For all he knew, Baldr had been murdered not but days before, and all he could care about was boasting about ‘never forgetting who he was’ and being father to thor. In verse, no less. Pompous fool.”

Nehal let out a snort of derisive laughter.

“Oh, Havi.” She shook her head, laughing. “Oh, Havi, Havi, Havi. No, no you will not. You will forget everything, understand nothing, and spend more than half of your very short life wandering around in one forest or another getting high on random hallucinogens you found on the ground, until you eventually decide to fuck off into the forest on a different continent to die. Badly.”

“...on our front lawn!!!” Nehal chirped brightly.

“Your—” Rebecca started. “Your front lawn?”

“...Yes?” Basim said, staring at her quizzically. “Well. Metaphorically speaking.” he added, waving a hand dismissively. “Technically it was further up the hill.”

 “ ...The Vault of the Six is that way?” Nehal chimed in, pointing helpfully out the kitchen window towards the distant site of the Grand Temple.

Rebecca glanced skeptically at the window, watching out of the corner of her eye as Shaun did the same, leaning forward and peering out the window intently as though he would be able to look all the way back through time and see the ancient Isu city that had supposedly once dominated the local skyline.

Shaun shook his head and groaned loudly, pinching the bridge of his nose in frustration. “Ugh. ...This is not the fucking Ironwood. No. You’re bullshitting me again.”

 “Have we ever lied to you, my dear friends?” Basim said, putting his hands behind his back and leaning forward in that slightly aggressive way he did whenever he tried too hard at playing “nice”, all bared teeth and sharp edges.

“Frequently.” Rebecca muttered, eyeing the Sage.

  Besides her, Shaun made a noise of irritation and aimlessly scribbled his pen around on a scrap piece of paper.

“Bloody cheap pens,” he muttered. ”Dried up.”

“Well, we are not now.” Basim huffed, retreating backwards a step, body language reading ‘disappointed.’ “Our family’s home was here. We lived here. Thus, our front lawn.”

“Hippity, hoppity, get your corpse off our property.” Nehal snickered.

“I hate that.” Shaun said immediately, getting up and wandering away to his workstation to retrieve a different pen. “I hate that so much. Never do that again.”

Rebecca took the moment of her husband’s brief absence to ask a burning question of her own. “...Why do you know about memes?”

“Believe it or not, the Grey is an extremely boring place.” Nehal said with a small, smug smile, hopping up onto the back of the couch opposite her and lounging there like some kind of cat.

After a moment, Basim ceased his restless prowling and joined her, curling into the corner of the couch furthest from Rebecca and Shaun’s chairs and closest to Nehal.

 “There is only so many times one can deliberately implode the physics in Folkvangr before the novelty wears off.” Nehal said, and then fell silent, leaving them to ponder that cryptic statement in silence.

 Rebecca blinked. “Huh?”

The other woman shrugged and smiled mysteriously, leaning over to rest her cheek against the top of Basim’s head. He grumbled half-heartedly, stretching out his legs on the couch and slouching slightly, but ceased when Nehal leaned further onto him in silent threat of rolling off the back of the couch on top of him and using him as a pillow.

Cute. Rebecca snorted. Weird, but cute. In a way.

…It must be nice. She mused. To share your existence in such a way that you were guaranteed to never have to be alone.

“Folkvang—?” Shaun questioned, returning with pen in hand. “I. Ugh. Nevermind. Becs, can you please quiz them on their Internet savvy later? I’m trying to get actual useful information here, love. I’ve got only a little time before I need to head into town.”

“Fiineeeeee.” She said with an overdramatic roll of her eyes, getting up from her seat to wander back over to the safehouse’s small kitchenette. “Break-time’s over for me anyways.”

“Supply run.” Shaun said to the Sage as Rebecca made her way over to the kitchenette counter, shrugging. Pulling the carafe out of their dingy little generic all-purpose coffee-and-tea-maker, she flicked the lid up, filled it with water, and then poured it in the reservoir.

She turned back to lean on the island countertop, watching their exchange as she waited for the water to heat up.

 Shaun made a face that suggested he didn’t really want to ask the Sage, but was doing so anyway just to be polite. “...Need anything?”

The Sage spoke, voices overlapping in an unintelligible blur of noise that was only rendered further unintelligible by the bubbling gurgle of their safehouse’s glorified electric kettle beginning to boil.

“...Right.” Shaun said, crossing his arms and leaning back against his chair, staring at them. “Come again?”

“Ginger green tea, with turmeric.” Basim said.

“Chamomile tea—preferably with fennel.” Nehal muttered, burying her head in the crook of her arm against her other half’s shoulder.

“‘...Chamomile and fennel….?’” Shaun muttered, baffled.

The kettle shut off with a soft click, and Rebecca turned to open the cabinet door, gingerly scooting both the Sage’s beautifully etched-and-enameled imported glass istikan (Basim) and wolf-emblazoned mug, likely shoplifted from some tacky tourist trap in Norway (Nehal) aside to collect her own mug from the shelf, setting it down on the counter with a shake of her head.

 [Why they insisted on having separate glasses despite only one of them actually being able to physically drink the tea, Rebecca had long since given up on trying to figure out.]

“...And mint tea for me!” Rebecca joined in, smirking. “I’m almost out.” She tossed over her shoulder, holding up the box in question.

“....Alright.” Shaun called back. “I’ll see what I can do. …Are you sure you don’t want me to make that for you, love?”

“Too late.” She said, raising an eyebrow as she waved the packet of tea around pointedly before opening it and plopping the tea bag directly in the mug.

“Fennel, chamomile, ginger, turmeric and mint.” Shaun shook his head, grumbling to himself. “Might as well buy a whole bloody apothecary at this point.”

“Right. ...I thought the Jotnar—”

“Feyan.”

“Feyan, right, sorry. Bit rusty on my Isu era geopolitical knowledge there, my apologies.” Shaun bit back, annoyed by the constant corrections.

Basim openly laughed in response, sitting up and turning to face Shaun, drawing his legs in so that he was sitting cross legged on the couch with Nehal practically halfway draped across his shoulders.

The position looked equally uncomfortable for both parties, but neither seemed to mind. 

“Point is; I thought the …Feyan Isu, yeah?  I thought they were based in the Mediterranean? Because of the Vaults and Temples and the, you know, Greek—”

“Feyan occupied a large swath of territories on multiple continents. Including here.”

“....I.... I guess that makes sense.”

Shaun started back on his questioning as Rebecca sat down at her workstation, mousing through her notifications, occasionally glancing up at their conversation.  

(“...Okay!” Shaun said, clapping his hands together. “ So if you were Lew of the—”)

Ten new emails, said the notification bar at the right of her screen.

Connection lost, retrying, said her inbox, very blatantly not containing ten new emails of any kind.

(“lug.” Basim said tensely, smiling unblinkingly at Shaun with that warning look in his eyes that suggested he was contemplating new and inventive ways of ruining your entire day, posture coiled and taut like he was going to leap from the couch and maul something. Or someone.)

(Beside him, Nehal flinched. For a moment, it had looked as though she was about to protest, a flash of anxiety flickering in her eyes before it was gone again.)

…Or any recent emails at all, actually. She fumbled for her mug, finally closing her fingers about the handle and hastily taking a sip—and then immediately winced. Ow. Too hot. 

(“Whatever.” The slight waver in Shaun’s voice told Rebecca that he had caught the sudden strange split shift in mood as well. “Look, I’m just saying. If you were supposedly the one to kill Balor, then where were you in all that? And why did Balor claim that he killed you before that—”)

She set the mug back down and checked her internet connection. Nope. Stable. Strong signal.  

Reconnect just to make sure? Nope. Still good.

Close the network session? Restart the program? Obviously. Done and done. Nothing.

(“We blinded him.” Basim said, harsh and irritated, in a tone like one would use when explaining something to a small child but with far less patience, like Shaun should have simply already just known this somehow. “With a rock. He quite literally could not see us. We—”)

(“That said: He nearly did.” Nehal said suddenly, cutting off whatever her other half had been going to say. Basim let out a low, sharp whistle, an irritated expression on his face, and Nehal mirrored it in response, crossing her arms and staring challengingly at Basim for a moment.)

(“Had it not been for the Havi, he might have still done so.” She said, and Basim made a tiny tsking  noise of derision, expression full of bitterness, trying and failing miserably to look as though that statement didn’t bother him in the slightest.)

Pursing her lips, she clicked on her outbox.

She stared.

(“...Didn’t you just say that Odin did not kill Balor, though?”)

“...What the fuck?”

(“We were there, yes, but—” Nehal started.)

Her outbox was totally empty, starkly void of the somewhat terse exchange she’d had with Voronina only four hours ago.

(“The Havi did not land the decisive blow, despite all his claims to the contrary.” Basim all but snarled before diving off the couch and rolling to the floor to avoid his irate other half.)

…Along with every other communication from the past six hours.

She sat back in her chair and took another sip of tea.

Well that was weird.

 “At these words Enkidu turned white in the face.

 ‘I will go to that place, to the place where Gilgamesh, who is wise to perfection,

still struts his power over the people like a wild bull!”

“Welcome, child-of-nál. You have died, and been reborn.”

They shudder as the words echo through time to reach them. Their (unwanted) companions watch in amazement at the scene before them, the words sliding harmlessly past their uncomprehending ears and winding in an invisible, choking coil around their neck that makes it hard to breathe.

Do they not see now, that allowing this small glimpse will not hurt them? They had allowed their anger to get the best of them, yes, but there was no true damage done. What they had said earlier—there had been no real harm in it—

[The simulation flickers red in their vision, warping like heat shimmers in the height of summer.]

But they know that this was not what was demanded of them. This was not what they were taught. It is not wise. It is not safe. They are not the only ones that will be affected by their decisions. Not the only ones whose safety they must look to. Have they now forgotten this?

[Fractals dance at the edge of their vision.]

No, no. Of course they have not forgotten. What a foolish notion. …But they do need these Assassins to trust them. This will not be something they can do alone, no matter how much they might wish otherwise. They need this Brotherhood to need them. 

A demonstration of their talents is in order. A résumé. Is it boasting? Perhaps. But the time of the Isu is long past. No one remains who knows who or what they were, and humanity has spun so many lies and myths and miracles from the truth in their long absence. There’s no harm in giving a little clarification. They are merely doing a little …’public relations management.’ An embellishment here, an elaboration there. That is all.

 If they want these ‘Assassins’, these hash-eaters to trust them, then they need to know who they’ll be working with.
The truth. Or some measure of it, at least.

It is no different than when they had shared their memories of their second childhood, after all.

That long gone voice speaks again and they immediately turn their attention to it, trying to memorize its qualities as best they can, desperate to make the link between mind-and-name and voice-and-face that their first life had never even gotten the chance to form.

The Historian turns to them with a questioning expression, clearly hoping for a translation.

He frowns when they remain steadily silent.

(“Hey, uh, guys?”)

Too bad. He will just have to be disappointed then.

(The Animus readout is looking a little… uhhh…  shakey?”)

…They had promised to teach them. These Assassins. These distant, pitiful cousins. The far flung remnants of their clan.

(“…Everything okay in there?”)

Some day. Eventually.

Not yet.

“Yes.” They strangle out. “We are fine. Continue.”

[Some secrets are meant to remain secret.]

[This is one of them.]

A shadow falls across them.

Blond hair framing her face like a lion’s mane. Vivid blue eyes like two pieces of ice chipped from a glacier. A stern expression tempered faintly by a mind alive with an undercurrent of blue-blue fondness.

Markings that pulsed faintly in time to the rhythm of her steady heartbeat, warm golden color and branching, linear, angled patterns declaring her a noble daughter of the Aesir’s lands.

 A spear whose keen-tipped head glittered even in the soft, ambient low-light of the pre-dawn gloom, held firmly in a soldier’s grip that spoke to a lifetime of intimate familiarity with war. A muscular form that too in its own way, spoke to the same familiarity.

Before her, a young Isu sat kneeling in the grassy clearing, head bowed. His long, dark hair was half-held up in a warrior’s knot, the rest captured in braids that obscured his face from view.

 They stare up at the simulacrum hungrily through the fan of their younger self’s braided hair, trying to press the features of their former dam into their memory.

(“Who was she?” The Technician asks softly, voice hushed with a momentary sympathy.)

“Laufey. Our dam.”
They murmur, voices echoing and twining together in their throat, hushed with quiet respect as though the memory of their dam will notice the interruption.

They grimace, feeling strangely uncomfortable at the sensation. This …Animus’ simulation is primitive—despite their careful, sly alterations and improvements when the Technician is distracted, it will not allow them to assert joint control over the simulation as they wish, recognizing them as frustratingly whole.

It leaves them feeling cramped and uncomfortable in a way that they find deeply ironic. How long had they yearned uselessly to be one and singular again, for the divide between them to be mended whole?

“...Though our sire always called her Nyx.”

A smile spasms across their lips, and they twitch at the absence of an expected tug at faded scar tissue. He was so young. Young and untried and whole.

 [Envy curdles their aura shades of mottled red that go unseen by all but their own eyes, followed by bluer  hues of self-loathing and disgust,  darkening into  the color of a mottled bruise.]

…Origin of their greatest mistake. Every agony, every violation they had suffered traced its roots back to this young fool’s naivety.  

[The simulation shudders with an almost undetectable distortion.]

They bow their head and school their expression and thoughts into conformity once again.

“Nyx—Greek personification of Night, right? Your fa—sire, sorry. He was Erebus, yeah? The personification of Darkness.” The Historian paces around into their line of sight, giving Laufey a wide, respectful berth. A wise decision—were this not mere memory—perhaps the most wisdom the man has displayed yet.

 The Historian frowns at them. Contemplatively. Judgmentally.  

“Night and Darkness.”

[You promised,  Hawwāh.]

He says these like they are negative connotations. Like they imply some dark secret shame. Like their clan’s motto is not “We work in the dark to serve the light.”

[There will always be a place for you among our kin.]

“...Born from Chaos.” 
He says, tone almost accusative.

(Order versus Brotherhood. Order versus Chaos. Fate versus Free-will.)

(The age-old question still lingers, answer undecided.)

(Is it nature or nurture that is the master?)

(Is it enough?)

(“Is it enough, Phanes? Is your so-called ‘miracle’ enough to save us?”)

(“...I believe it to be a viable Solution, yes.”)

“Yes!” 
They hiss, bristling when the Historian smiles smugly like they’ve just admitted to some great truth. They suppress the urge to flinch, thankful that he does not understand that they have.

Chaos. Nun. Ginnungagap.

Not just a pretty piece of poetic metaphor. The primordial void from which all life sprang. The deep black sea between stars. How long the memory of men stretched, to recall this history at all.

How ironic, that they had managed to tread where the Isu had not even dared to dream of reaching for fear of encountering that ancient, half-remembered terror that haunted the collective memory of every Terran species.

Ananke. Cethlenn. Tiamat. Audhumla.

Chronos. Typhon. Balor. Abzu. Ymir.

Winged. Mighty. Inexorable. Cruel and capricious and hungry. Stars fallen from the heavens above.

So many names.
Humanity has made it easier than ever for them to hide.

[Storm-blue scales and white hot light  flash in their memory.]

[—The weight of the heavens above bearing down upon their fellows in the form of a screaming wall of scale-plated muscle and blinding white-hot starlight—]

[—They look up and find themselves staring up into an eye that had  seen the light of countless stars they could never hope to reach. Grim and resolute and so terribly afraid, they punch the jagged bit of stone grasped in one white-knuckled hand violently upwards, ensuring beyond all doubt that it never would again—]

[—a scream that shakes the earth and leaves their ears ringing—]

[—No one must know. Hide in plain sight. Do not betray our clan—]

[—They duck beneath the cold waters of the lake again, trying to wash the gore from their hair—]

[The simulation spasms under their wayward thoughts, skipping slightly.]

“...Soon, you will lend your hand, your blade, to that very mission.” Laufey says, and the mark at their neck itches.

 “We are quite aware of our own lineage, thank you, Historian.” They snap, trying to affect a tone of dry sarcasm.

 [Do not forget your dam’s  promise, children of Hawwāh.]

They grow tired of this little game their handlers are so fond of playing.

Throwing false stories (myths) and half-truths (miracles) and ridiculous accusations (lies) at them as though they think they will catch them by surprise. As though this outlandish fiction that came from the mouths of men who never knew them is supposed to mean anything. As though it had any bearing on reality.
On history. On their story.

[We will not forget ours.]

“Don’t take this the wrong way, mate. But uh. Not much of a personification of Night, was she? Your mum?” The Historian says, gesturing vaguely at the tall figure of their former dam, framed by the alien light of a distant, unreachable sunrise.

“And while the-star-of-the-piercing-strike is a fearsome target, you will be the one to bring him down. I have great belief in that. And in you.” Their once-dam murmurs, hand cupping their cheek in an oddly sentimental gesture that she had rarely ever been prone to. They resist the urge to lean into the memory of a touch. “Through all my stoicism, all my harsh lessons, know that you have impressed me, Dolos.”

Her words echo, doubled in their memory.

The itch at their neck turns to a stinging pain.

They quietly decide that they hate everything about this infernal machine.

Tailored by design, almost, it feels, to mock them. To remind them.

That they have struggled and struggled and sacrificed and fought and bled and died and still…

They are going nowhere.

Stuck traveling in circles.

They smile so wide that it could almost be recognizable as the snarled threat it is, even to these nàgṃr. “Yes. Our sire evidently found the contrast …amusing.”

They stall for as long as the simulation will allow, refusing to look their dam in the face. Despite her face being cast in shadow by the light behind her, Laufey’s eyes glow with more than just an odd refraction of the sunlight—and there is a smattering of metallic golden dots patterned across the bared skin of her shoulder glinting faintly in the rising dawn—aberrations that they are thankful that neither of their unwanted companions have thought to question yet.

They do not think of golden blood on a golden blade, or how it was that their clan got its name and reputation.

..Not for nothing were they called “Those Who Bring Fire.”

[Be our avenging arrow from afar.]

For once, they find themselves thankful that so much was lost.

It makes the task of lying by omission that much easier.

Laufey  releases them, twirling the butt of the spear upwards and catching it in her free hand before presenting it to their younger self, offering it to him as it had been offered to so many of their clan before him in chain  unbroken. “The stardrakes’ presence in Vanaheim—and beyond—rests on stormy seas so long as you remain at the tip of our spear.”

“What was that about?” The Historian grumbles.

[Be our long-reaching spear that bites deep.]

“A conversation between kin.” They say, rolling their eyes.

“A private conversation.” They say pointedly when he starts to protest.

The Historian scoffs and then waves a hand at them in irritated dismissal, and then reaches up and taps at something on his temple, the man’s virtual projection blinking out of existence as he disconnects the headset.  Distantly, over the Technician’s open connection, they can hear the sounds of their handlers talking, animatedly discussing what they had seen.

Good.

Enough prying.

[May you always walk among us.]

The young Isu they once were bows his head submissively, solemnly accepting the spear and the duty that went hand-in-hand with it.

“And that is where I intend to remain. Beholden to your guidance, rhṇhérs.”

[Hidden among the hidden. A shadow among the shadows.]

The moment ends, and the stranglehold that Time held upon them through their dam’s words falls away, letting them breathe a little easier. They take a moment to gather themselves, and then rise unsteadily to their feet, shaking out the phantom numbness in their limbs out of habit even as the simulation falls away into glittering fractals, frowning in slight disappointment as it takes the spear with it.

The node does not feel quite so near, for the moment.

 “I will challenge him boldly, I will cry aloud in Broad-Marted Uruk,

‘I am the mighty one!' Lead me in and I

 will change the order of things; he whose strength

is mightiest  is the one born in the wilderness!"

The lightbearer is not sad to see the aluhṃut mountains finally recede below the horizon as their clan makes the long journey to the coast where their oldest son will meet them with their newly acquired fleet.

The journey would have been swifter  made by Isu alone, but the teeming throngs of humanity that the-breaker-of-the-chains has gathered to their cause are the ones who set the pace. They would be lying if they said they minded. The slower pace affords them ample time to hunt and regain their strength, to look to not only their own hurts, but those of their children as well.

Their eldest sends them a message.

The Heir still has not awoken.

Hawwāh draws her cloak tighter against the midday chill and seaspray, frowning as she eyes the surprisingly crowded upper deck of the Naglfar. Adem chuckles beside her. “I told you others would have the same idea.”

Others, too, have taken to the exposed upper decks to take advantage of the sunlight, drawing what warmth they can from the light of their fickle star; an unsurprising number of them are Isu, among them her archons, the cohort of sympathizers who had followed in her elder brother’s footsteps, cleaving totally to the rebellion and submitting themselves fully to her authority. An idea that still leaves her feeling unsteady and off-balance if she thinks on it too long.

There are humans too, on the deck—she is gratified to see that some have even mingled openly with the clustered groups of Isu, joining in the low buzz of conversation that fills the air.

Adem nudges her shoulder, pointing out a familiar cluster of winged forms sprawled about sunning themselves on the deck with wings outspread.

“Glorified featherless chickens.” he mutters in her ear, and she snorts.

Her elder brother himself is lying on the deck on his belly with his cloak thrown haphazardly over his head and shoulders, head buried in the crook of one arm. He has afforded himself a wide clearance of personal space, one that none save his kin dare to intrude upon, all others giving the humming glow of white-light and razor-keen blackened adamant nano-shell of his outspread wings a wide, respectful berth.

Well. Almost. Aletheia’s memory lingers near her husband in holographic projection, leaning against the railing besides an Isu she cannot immediately place, perched upon the railing above him, smiling sweetly as they repeatedly and apparently without thought kicked the star-who-dwells-in-grief in the shoulder.

As she passes them, Dolos finally sits up with an irritated snarl and rolls over, taking a swipe at the other Isu, hissing a shrill fledgling’s nest-whistle of stop-that-hurts-annoying-me-why at them.

They laugh, cooing a somewhat condescending apology back at him, and Hawwāh shakes her head in exasperation and bemusement.

Of course. Momus.

The lightbearer’s other sibling, too, has brokered passage aboard this ship—though unlike the rest of it’s ill-fated cargo, Momus-called-Helblindi will leave the doom-driven ship behind when they dock in adḷivṇ , slipping free of the grim death-omen as easily as a wiley fox disappears into its den, though their duty is no less grim. The Staff—now the precious vessel of Aletheia’s memory—is their solemn charge, and will be for a long, long time.

She almost had not recognized them, perched on the deck railing near their younger brother—they are lanky and slim this time, with short, curly blonde hair and boyish features—it is only the eyes that mark them; a distinctive and unnatural shade of violet that they are inordinately fond of, one that she privately suspects they have permanently altered their genetic makeup and physiology to possess.

This in and of itself is not particularly remarkable; Momus has stolen countless forms and faces over the decades—which one they wear now is hard even for Hawwāh to say.

Momus catches her watching them and waves cheekily, flashing her a sharp-toothed grin before returning to their quiet conversation with Aletheia’s memory and their younger sibling.

At least someone onboard this ship isn’t totally miserable.

Dolos nods at her as she passes, and then turns to glance warily up at the sky, expression full of melancholy.  

Momus moves to kick him again and, without blinking or looking in their direction, her older brother snatches their oldest sibling by the ankle and tugs sharply, pulling them unceremoniously from their perch and to the deck beside him. They land in a crumpled, tangled heap with an ungainly squawk that draws scattered laughter from nearby onlookers.

Over their heads, Hawwāh exchanges a wordless look of exasperation with Aletheia’s memory, rolling her eyes.

Nearby, Cain sits quietly with Baldr.  

Beside them, in a position not unlike that of his sire, Kukulkan is taking a momentary break from steering the massive, slow moving vessel, flopped on his belly with holographic drakon  wings lazily outspread, drowsing in the warmth of the sun. His drakon bond pet is nowhere to be seen, likely out patrolling the skies above for threats.

  She stalls for a moment, quietly observing them from a distance. Her eyes linger searchingly on the face of her firstborn, and her heart aches at the vacant expressions she finds there, and for a moment she wishes nothing more than to rush to his side and comfort him, but the way that he has flinched whenever she or Adem drew near these past few days makes her uncertain it would be welcomed.

…He is in good hands, she reasons, with the other children of their clan keeping him close company. There will be time later.

After.

…After…

“Love?” Adem murmurs, touching her shoulder gently, voice soft with concern.

“...I am worried for him, Adem. For all of them.” She admits with a shudder. “For the future that is promised.”

“Leave worry of the future that is promised to those who it belongs to, love.” Adem advises. “That is a sunrise we will never see, and so there is little use in worrying over what it will look like.”

“We will not see it, Adem.” She says, voice quiet but no less firm in her convictions. “But they will. Our children. Our kin. Our clan. Just because we will not does not mean it is without meaning.”

He sighs, holding up his hands in surrender, and she turns and begins picking her way across the deck once more.

“You are right, love.” he admitted after a moment of quiet reflection, following after her.

The children stir as they come closer.

“Jor.” Cain  mutters, nudging the older Hybrid. “Jor, move.”

She raises an eyebrow at the group as she approaches, watching with quiet amusement as Baldr, too, kicks her older nephew in the shoulder with a soft, hissed “Jorm. Get up. Hawwāh is here.”

“You are fine, Kuku.” She calls out, putting her hands on her hips and shaking her head as he “accidentally” bats the Aesir’s fugitive princeling in the face with one broad wing as he scrambles into a sitting position. “We simply thought to take advantage of the sun’s warmth while it lasts.”

“An idea we were not alone in having, evidently.” Adem adds over her shoulder, eyes twinkling with mirth.

“You can join us, if you want…!” Kukulkan offers quickly, though the pinched, tight glance he exchanges with Baldr over Cain’s head and the milliseconds long worried flicker of his eyes towards his remaining trade-sibling says the offer was only made to be polite.

There will be time, she tells herself. Later.

“Thank you, hmàs vrasṃ. That is very sweet of you, Kuku. But I think we will check on the others first.” Relief stutters quickly across their auras in a flash of blue. “Besides, It is likely to become crowded up here on the deck, especially when Tizheruk returns.” She says, smiling fondly when Kukulkan perks up at the mention of the by-name for his drakon bond-partner.

They leave them to it.

Azaes-called-Azrael stands near the stairwell leading to the lower portion of the midship deck some distance away, leaning against the railing. The former celebrated doctor is the oldest among their cohort, though even he is still young by the standards of their former people—all of them are—still so frightfully young, not even having reached far beyond a century in age, and most even less than that.

Long ago used to the sway of a ship after a lifetime spent in the shining-city-on-the-sea, he, like the lightbearer who leads them, merely regards the sky above with a sort of weary, bitter impatience.

 He, too, gives her a respectful nod of acknowledgement as she passes him, this time accompanied by a soft, almost reverent “pausṃrs.” (Liberator of Us All.)

She does not  know what to make of how quickly the title her brother laid upon her shoulders in the cold shadowed depths of aluhṃut, has spread among his fellow Isu, most of whom she had never met prior to his bringing them before her, and so she nods quickly in acknowledgement of the older Isu, and descends to the lower decks.

Many of the Isu on the deck come from the Atlantean diaspora—though not all; clustered together on the midship, the daughters of the valkyrie-called-Hildr murmur among themselves, sharpening swords and checking armor. They do not bear the mark of her clan—but neither do they need to.

[They had come chasing after her elder brother as he made his escape from the Morrígan’s halls, rising above the Aesir war-council in a great wheeling clamor, doggedly following him all the way to the foot of the mountain—not to retrieve his stolen prize, or to strike him from the sky in vengeance, as first had been assumed, but the offering of a truce between their clans.]

 [When they entered the camp of her people at the root of aluhṃut, it was to offer oaths and pledge of arms—at their head was Freyja’s eldest daughter.]

["Dolos-called-Loki,” Adair-called-Hnoss had cried. “mṇrhṇgwardachs lug. Father of Sétanta.  The Aesir mock you for the wolven mixing of your blood, and say that borr’s son slew Balor-called-Ymir, but we daughters of the morígan remember which starspawn-kin it was that led the Tuatha Dé to victory that day.”]

[“Our mothers once told us stories of your low-cunning-in-battle, of the clever wound you gave to Balor-of-the-deep, long before the Dagda became our king. Now the Dagda’s grip, too, grows too tight. Take that one-eyed-wretch’s sight as you once took Balor’s, and we will be but a step behind you.”]

[“Macha-called-Hildr, our rhṇhérs, is imprisoned on false charges which not even our dam can fight, and our machtérs Anand-called-Freyja has turned her back on both our people and theirs. She has decided not to fight, desperate to curry the Havi’s favor for some reason which she keeps hidden even from we-her-daughters.”]

[“I am not the one that you must broker with,” the lightbearer snorted, “and neither do those names belong to me anymore. Dolos died when Atlantis fell, and I have not been Lugh since the Havi made treaty with your Vanir kin, and Loki is the name given to me by the enemies of our clan, and I would be very careful with my usage of it, if I were you, unless you wish to count among them.”]

[“Then to whom must we make our case?” Adair had said. “And what do we call you, if not your names?”]

[“‘Light-bearer’ her  clan has named me, and so that is my name.” The star-that-dwells-in-grief murmured with a gesture in her direction, before stepping backwards, removing himself from the conversation and wordlessly ceding control of the situation to her. “And it is the pausṃrs, my trade-kin, she-of-the-white-and-red, with whom you must speak if you wish to walk among us.”]

In sharp contrast to her fellow Isu nearer to the stern, Sekhmet-called-Eimyrja lounges in near total isolation on the farthest end of the upper decks, near the prow of the massive former merchant-vessel, her father’s sword cradled against her chest, and all except Seb-called-Hálogi—her dam’s own sire—and the warriors under her command steer well clear of the bloody brood of Ra. She, and the band of Mísṛ warriors who follow her are not here for shared notions of honor and justice, nor under oaths of friendship with Hawwāh’s clan as the daughters of Hildr are. Their presence here is both far more practical and far less desired.

The Havi feared the ruthlessness of the girl’s clan—a ruthlessness she had inherited.  

[Sekhmet had not come to them with any pretense of friendship, placing herself and her kin as an obstacle in their path to the bay where the Naglfar waited, looming in the distance like some massive, hulking creature huddled upon the waters, standing over the maimed and mangled corpses of the Dingir Isu whom they had come expecting to fight for control of the port.]

 [“You know who we are.” The woman said expectantly, almost bored, with a self-assurance that set Hawwāh’s teeth on edge, waving a hand in dismissal of her archons’ furious demands for identification.]

 [Yes. Oh, yes, Hawwāh knew who they were. Mísṛ. Corpse-eaters. Hunters of her kin. The men-eaters of the northern river-valley were feared throughout the slave-compounds of her youth, even as far away in Eden—whispered tales of their bloody feasts were the stuff of many a human child’s nightmares.]

[“No???” Cain  had muttered quietly in exasperation beside her, and she saw in the distance Dolos’ brow furrow, the same exact expression of annoyance clear on his face.]

[“You are going to kill that senile old one-eyed bastard?” Sekhmet continued immediately in a way that made it clear it was only superficially a question.]

[“Yes.” Cain  responded before she could even open her mouth, aura crackling with a fierceness that surprised even himself, “We are.” He glanced back at Hawwāh, as though expecting to be reprimanded for speaking out of turn. She sighed and then nodded slightly.]

[“Good.” Sekhmet smiled at him, and Hawwāh knew for a fact she was not imagining the golden ichor that stained her teeth. “We will join you, pack-of-wolves.” She wasn’t asking. Her unsettling eyes flickered towards Cain once again.]

 [Hawwāh hissed, stepping forward protectively in front of her eldest at the same time as Adem. Dolos was there a millisecond later, holding his adamant dagger to Sekmet’s throat and snarling whispered threats in her ear.]

 [She grimaced, uncertain. The last thing she wanted was a band of man-eating Mísṛ warriors anywhere near her children or her people. However… The children of Ra did not haunt mankind’s nightmares alone; they haunted the Havi’s too. ]

[Though the deal had been struck with Eysa-called-Hathor, rather than her notably more unhinged twin, the Mísṛ had proven… useful to their cause before, even if the ordeal with the Salakar had ultimately ended in utter disaster. Perhaps… ]

[“You and your clan might find…” She paused, reigning in her disgust back down to polite levels. Beside her, Adem made a noise of incredulous protest. “...passage on this ship—provided you can follow certain stipulations.”]

[“Such as?” The woman said, expression and aura alike loudly communicating “bored!” even as the star-in-mourning  pressed the blade closer to her throat, eyes roving restlessly over their group like a predator in search of their next meal.]

[“My people are not your prey, Sekhmet. Your people had better get used to eating fish, and fast, because if one of them even so much as looks in their direction, I will end them.” She snarled.]

[“Done. If one of them dares do so , we will eat them ourselves.” the woman said, shrugging, earning herself sneers of disgust and hissed mutters of “carrion-corpse eaters” from the rebel Isu. She smiled nastily at them in response. “What else?”]

[“That includes during and after the battle, Sekhmet. I meant it when I said your people had better get used to eating fish, and I meant forever.”]

[“That is assuming any of us are going to survive the coming battle, wolf-mother.” Sekhmet said coolly, “And that is assuming a lot. Regardless,” She shook her head and gestured for her band to stand down and out of the way. “You have my word, for what little it may be worth. We will not hunt your clan, mother of wolves.”]

[Hawwāh jerked her head, gesturing for the star-in-morning to release the woman. He shook his head ever so slightly in refusal. The Mísṛ smirked knowingly, rolling her eyes.]

[“Your…” she leaned to the side, eyeing their attempts to block Cain  from her sight with amused contempt and ignoring the thin line of gold that welled up in warning along her throat from Dolos’ blade. “...cubs are safe from us.” Only at this implicit guarantee of his trade-kin’s safety does Hawwāh’s elder brother at last relent to her command, releasing the Mísṛ princess with a reluctant hiss, snarling at her as she strode past him.]

[“We can find other food easily enough.” Sekhmet said, baring her teeth at him in kind with an ugly cackle. “After all, my people will eat anything.” With this, she turned and began to stride down towards the beach ahead of them before suddenly stopping in her tracks.]

[“...And fame-wolves?” Sekhmet called over her shoulder, briefly glancing back at them, looking each of them in turn up and down with the appraising look of one warrior judging another in a way that did nothing to curb Hawwāh’s already mounting desire to set Ra’s sole surviving daughter on fire. “Kill him slowly, will you? Make it hurt.”]

“Now Enkidu strode in front and

the woman Shamhat followed behind.

He entered into the city of Uruk,
and walked its streets.”

“He entered Uruk, that great market,

and all the folk thronged round him where

he stood in the street in strong-walled  Uruk.”

Dolos watched the assembled throng in the sidhe  war-council hall with no small amount of trepidation, grip tight on his ancestor’s stolen spear.

“Calm yourself, Lugh.” a voice murmured behind him, and Dolos turned with a slight jolt at the feel of cold metal against his shoulder.

From the gleam of silver-chased pathorica alone Dolos knew at once who was speaking to him—there was no other warrior amid all the combined host of the Tuatha Dé Dannan or the Aesir warband who was possessed of such a prosthetic but the lord-of-the-silver-hand—but he nonetheless returned Lord Nuada’s wordless psychic greeting in turn for politeness’ sake. The king of the Tuatha Dé Dannan smiled encouragingly at him, and patted him gently on the shoulder before dropping his right hand and moving to stand next to the younger warrior.

“I am trying, my lord.” Dolos admitted after a moment, reigning in the nervous red tinge of his aura as he ducked his head, and then frowned briefly in the direction of their agitated ally.

“Though It would help if the Aesir justice-bringer could perhaps stop pacing.” he muttered quietly, and Nuada chuckled.

Across from him, one of the morígan snorted.

“Unlikely.” said one—Badb—the eldest and wisest of the counseling Triad of Ériu, leaning backwards in her seat in a chair nearby, a look of almost boredom on her ancient, lined face as she watched the pacing foreigner.

 Macha, meanwhile, leaned against a nearby pillar, golden eyes moving restlessly among the crowd, ever-watchful. She did not move from her self-appointed post to Dolos’ right, never once looking away from the milling crowd. “The day that the lord-of-kennels stops worrying is the day that humans learn to fly.”

Dolos grimaced uncomfortably at the reminder. The epithet, though unflattering, was not without merit. The Aesir judge was infamous even here in Ériu for his vast collection of ‘pets.’  Hawwāh and Aletheia both had sworn violently when he had told her of the man’s presence in the coalition.

(“No, ‘Theia. You cannot come with me. We cannot murder a foreign diplomat in the country of his enemies when they are offering aid in an unprecedented benevolent act of diplomacy. That would cause a political nightmare. It is already a political nightmare. We do not need to make it worse. Kill Tiwaz of the Kennels-and-Whip another time, my love.”)

Regrettably, only the Aesir seemed to share in his anxiety; Lord Tiwaz was still pacing, aura bright with agitation. Suddenly, seemingly having had enough of keeping his thoughts to himself, the judge of the Aesir warband wheeled around and marched up to Nuada. “Where is the Voice of your Triad, vanlṇdi?”

“Address Lord Nuada with the respect he deserves, outlander.” Macha snarled.

Instead of apologizing, the irate Aesir lord doubled down.

“He will not be lord of the Vanir for much longer.” he insisted stubbornly.

“I will soon pass the mantle of leadership of this coalition to another, aye.” The king said, drawing himself up to his full height with a low, whistling hiss of authority. “But not yet. Mind yourself, justice-bringer. The morígan do not answer to me. What Anand does is her own business.”

The lord of the Tuatha Dé settled into the empty chair beside Badb, resting the gleaming digits of his right hand pointedly on the pommel of his sword, raising an eyebrow at the aesir.

“Besides… Where is your own lord? Is Odin of Asgard so easily distracted he cannot keep in mind a council session which he called for?”

Dolos watched, fascinated, as Lord Tiwaz visibly flinched at the open use of his prince’s name, red-red-red fear spiking jagged across his form before he beat a hasty retreat, snarling over his shoulder as he stepped back down from the dais. “The Havi will not suffer a wolf to lead us, lord-of-the-silver-hand. You are making a mistake.”

He flinched and grit his teeth, clamping harshly down on his empathic output.

“...Perhaps he is right, my lord. Surely this alliance would be better served to be led by someone from your own clan, or someone better qualified to lead—”

“mṇrhṇgwardachs lug.” Nuada said sharply, ("Lugh of the many skills.") raising one hand to forestall any further speech on the subject. “Enough. I have heard quite enough of such talk from these pompous ruffle-feathered Aesir fools in the past few days. I do not wish to hear it from your own lips as well. Do not discredit yourself—you are more than qualified. You came to us highly recommended by Feyan’s Voice, and you have more than proven yourself worthy of her high praise. You do your kin and clan both great credit, young man.”

“I…thank you, my lord.”

 “Odin might have called for this meeting, aye, but I am the one who chooses my successor. If he sees fit to be absent when the council is in session, then more fool him.”

Dolos bowed his head subserviently, flaring his aura into a chastened reddish-blue.  After a moment, he pushed himself off of the pillar, and moved to stand beside the older Isu’s unassuming, temporary throne.

Curiosity gnawed at him. “...He did have a point, however, my lord. Where is Anand? …Or the Dagda for that matter?”

“Where do you think, boy?” Badb snorted in open amusement. He glanced at her curiously.

The Tuatha machtṃrs (Mother of Wisdom) grinned wickedly up at him, aura swirling blue-gold with knowing amusement, as she made a crude gesture with one hand.

Dolos gawked at her.

Badb cackled.

Beside her, Nuada, too chuckled at his baffled expression.

What…oh.

 Dolos cringed, and then turned swiftly on his heel to stare anywhere else but at her face, aura stuttering red-blue-white-red with embarrassment-comprehension-disgust. The two elder Isu laughed even harder in response.

“They—She? The Dagda?????” Dolos blurted out. “But! She—” he floundered, uncertainly glancing at Macha’s back. The union of the rhṇhṃrs (Father of Understanding) and shuàgw (Sacred Voice) of the Tuatha Dé's Triad was well known, even beyond the lands of Ériu.

Macha let out a short, low chirp of permission-given-unoffended, but her aura flashed blue-then-red with hues of annoyed-hurt-dejection that said the topic did, in fact, bother her. Despite this, she shrugged, affecting an air of careful nonchalance. “We all have our duties. Things that we must do. Whether we wish to or not, mṇrhṇgwardachs lug.”

She pushed herself up off the pillar, and turned towards them, striding to her seat, signaling discreetly for the guards to shut the doors. “Anand buys us precious time where the Dagda’s focus is… occupied. Let us waste no more of it.”

Dolos shot Nuada a look  of alarmed realization. “You… but why—”

He stilled, frowning thoughtfully. “The Dagda called for this council meeting. It was he who first brought forth concerns of Lord Nuada’s fitness for leadership… His second was near frantic at his lord’s absence. The Aesir have warred with your people before, yet suddenly they come sweeping in with offers of alliance now that the protogenoi show themselves again…”

His eyes widened. “He wanted to use this as an excuse to overthrow you.”

Nuada laughed quietly, and Macha nodded approvingly.

“Exactly.” the older Isu murmured. “Quick, clever boy. There might be an alliance between our peoples now, young Lugh, but mark my words; the Dagda is as treacherous as they come, and he covets our green lands highly.”

“Oaths and promises are nothing more than pretty words to him.” Nuada murmured, humming with satisfaction as the guards locked the doors and then took up their posts at the perimeter of the wide, circular hall. He tilted his head towards the chair to his right, and Dolos swiftly took his seat.

Nuada smiled, eyes sharp and keen, teeth bared. “No, I might no longer be fit to rule, but even I have enough wisdom to know that the less advantages over us we give that skulking-prince-of-ravens, the better.”

“He blocked the way through Uruk the Sheepfold.

The land of Uruk stood around him,

the whole land assembled about him,

the populace was thronging around him,

the men were clustered about him,

and kissed his feet as if he were a little baby.”

Mission Debriefing: Rome, December 9th, 2020

Sigma Team Operative Sorkin, Director of Research, Lineage and Acquisitions Div., Mitsuko Nakamura

“—What happened, Nakamura , is that this mission was a fucking disaster. Two no-name street rats in Rome? Easy pickings. Fuck, you found them in a clinic in the first place. How the fuck did they lose them to begin with? You don’t send Sigma Team for this kind of shit. This is the kind of shovel work you send Delta Team out on. Hell, you could send any fucking run of the mill security grunt from the facility down the street to waltz out into the city and nab them.”

“And yet you have returned empty handed. No, worse than empty handed. Down two team members—one of them the newly appointed leader of your team, no less—and out a vehicle and several thousand dollars worth of valuable military equipment. I’d better start hearing a very good explanation for that, Mr. Sorkin. And fast.”

“I don’t know what you or Frïa fucking expected, replacing Berg with that moron. You should have let us rescue him.”

“Berg is not the priority here, Mr. Sorkin. If it was so easy, then why were your team unable to apprehend them?”

“Because they weren’t fucking human!!”

“...Weren’t human.”

“Fuck. I don’t know, Nakamura—You ever seen a human teenager fucking teleport across a room and tear a man’s jugular out with nothing but his teeth? Ever shone a flashlight in a kid’s face and had their eyes shine back at you like some kind of fucking animal in the dark? Because I sure as fuck haven’t.”

“The people jostled; speaking of him they said,

 ‘He is the very twin of Gilgamesh.’

 ‘He is shorter.’ ‘He is bigger of bone .’

‘This is the one who was reared on

the milk of wild beasts. His is the greater strength.’”

Fuladh,

…I begin to fear that we were both right.
And yet… I also feel compelled to give you warning, if you did not know, and confirmation if you already suspected: the girl is a Sage as well. Or closely tied to one at least.

We met briefly in Qosṭanṭanīye, outside of her brother’s assigned district.
Do not ask what I was doing there. My business is my own.

We exchanged words and… I was rash. I allowed my anger to get the better of me. We fought. And…

Fuladh. The vault—she claimed it was a prison. Implied that ‘they’ had once been held there. In this much  you were correct.

…But she also spoke of nightmares and a nature shared . How much I do not know, but…

Something happened during that encounter. Something words alone cannot explain.
But one thing I do know for certain, now.
The Ancient is there,  Fuladh. It is awake. It is aware. It is still alive. And I fear that it is no longer confined to their dreams alone. What the Order spoke of… it is real.  Very, very real.

Forgive the brevity of this letter. …There is an emptiness to the world now that I do not know how to put into words for fear of sounding weak of mind.  

In leaving so soon, I fear that I have made a grave mistake.

Do not respond by the standard channels. I have been informed that a great deal of correspondence to this region has been routed through their district, and do not think It would be wise for this conversation to end up on their Bureau desk.

—Roshan

Roshan, my dear friend,

You and he are more alike than you might have ever imagined.
I have told you many times before, and now I will tell you once more again: There is never any shame in admitting that you were wrong. Quite the opposite in fact.

You fear that you have made a mistake? Then my advice is this: do not let this wound linger in silence. Speak, and you may yet mend it.  This is another thing the two of you share: you allow your hurt to cloud your judgment too easily.

But Roshan, who is this girl you speak of? ‘Basim’s sister’—is this his mysterious ‘Nehal’ you are referring to? I am afraid that I have never met the girl. Basim so rarely spoke of her in the months after the Order’s attack that I was led to believe he had left her behind in Anbar for good when he left Baghdad the second time, and he has certainly never given the Council any indication that she wished to join our order.

…To learn that they might share in that nature is both troubling and surprising. All the Order’s research suggests that such a thing should not be possible. All their texts speak of a Sage as a singular living being—what were the specifics of her words that made you believe otherwise?

I am moreso troubled and confused, however, by your claims of having encountered their Ancient progenitor. “An emptiness to the world?” I have too much faith in the sharpness of your wit to ever believe you weak  of mind, dear girl, but what do you mean by that?

Words may indeed fail but I would implore you to try. What exactly was the nature of your encounter?

 I had long suspected that opening the Vault was the catalyst which stirred up the ancient memories that he was heir to, but I disagree with this notion of a separation of the mind. The Order’s research is questionable at best, and further tainted by their worship of the Ancients.

As for Basim himself, he has grown more and more distant in the years that have passed, dogged by some obsession he keeps closely guarded. He balks at the Council’s every order, and the masters assigned to his den often complain of the sharpness of his tongue and his frequent questioning of the tenets. Even Rayhan grows wary. I have tried to warn him against such actions, but I am told he had assigned an apprentice to report on any further strangeness.

That effort has yet to bear any fruit, thankfully.

I am afraid that you are not the only one to have mishandled this situation. In my eagerness to prove my theories and desire to aid the boy, I fear I may have pressed too hard, too quickly.

He is flightier than ever now, and never lingers longer in Alamut than he absolutely must. I am called by my own duties to Daylam, and so I will soon see even less of him than I already do, If at all.

His behavior is concerning, yes, but not to such a degree, I believe, that he is now a threat to our brotherhood, let alone mankind. He has simply suffered a great deal of tragedy, grief, and loss, some of it by our own hands—we, who had promised to guide and protect him as his clan and kin. Little wonder he now mistrusts us.

To call such beings ‘Sages’ was an apt choice on the Order’s part, I think. For all that he is arrogant and impulsive and driven foremost by his passions, at times there is a wisdom in him born of experience such as elders like ourselves can only hope to achieve.

He speaks the Ancient’s tongue as easily as breathing, now—even in our scant and scattered one-sided conversations he has taught me much more than could fill the pages of a book—and I often wonder at how much more could we learn from him, all the knowledge that has been lost that could be rediscovered. Perhaps, if we were able to regain his trust, he might be the one to help us finally make sense of this endless struggle we find ourselves in.

I do not think him   to be  an enemy to our cause, Roshan. What we saw in him—that potential— it has  not disappeared. If anything it has only grown stronger. He still bears a deep hatred for injustice, and that iron will that will not suffer tyrants. A love for the world and all its wonders still shines in his eyes. And… the Council saw fit some years ago to assign him apprentices of his own. I was privileged to observe their initial training in Alamut and…

There were concerns, at first, from the other Council members. They feared he might not react well to having such a duty thrust upon him, and yet were desperate enough to see him settled and his mania laid to rest they considered it worth the risk.

A foolish, unfounded notion, and I told them as much.

He was tender to them despite his lessons, treating them as though they were his own, guiding them with a guarded patience that I believe many of our siblings in shadows would do well to learn from. It does appear to have pacified something in him as the others believed it might, but worth far more in my eyes is the genuine care with which he treats them.

You should have seen it, Roshan. You and he are so alike that I at times marvel that the two of you are not blood-kin in some distant manner.

This is not the behavior of some malignant, ancient evil come  clawing its way out of the dark to subject mankind to its will once more, Roshan, but that of a young man, and nothing more, one who has suffered greatly, and yet still struggles to do right regardless.  

 I would once more implore you to return to the Brotherhood, Roshan. Your own unhappiness with your decision is palpable in every word, and you know where I and the rest of the Council stand on this matter. Why inflict such needless misery on yourself?  End this self-imposed exile of yours, my girl. Amends can still be made, and I think you might be surprised at the welcome you might find. If not to Alamut, then to their Bureau in Qusṭanṭinīyya.

 Despite the improvement he has made since his assignment as a mentor, I am concerned for the boy and his sister both in light of your revelations, and suspect that they could sorely use your guiding hand. From my conversations with him during the months before his assignment, I gather that they might even welcome it. He was deeply hurt by your actions, yes, but even still he often spoke of you with fondness and expressed much grief at your absence.

No wound was ever cured by letting it fester in silence.

 There will always be a place for you among us.

—Fuladh

“The men rejoiced: ‘Now Gilgamesh has met his match.

This great-one, this hero whose beauty is like a god,

he is a match even for Gilgamesh.’”