Glory and gluttony
The Boy
I
"You've got to eat your breakfast, ok, all of it, I want the plate to sparkle by the time you're finished." The boy's mum told him ever sweetly as she placed a juicy breakfast down in front of him. The plate was crowded with naught but a heaping serving of ham, piled a head higher than he and spilling up over the confines of the plate. The savory aroma found him kindly and he could feel saliva gathering upon his tongue, threatening to overtake the thick of his lip. The grease and juice pooled in an oily, red sheen over the slices of meat and ran down to collect in a delectable puddle at the bottom of the plate.
He couldn't wait to feast.
"Meat will make you grow up big and strong. So finish it all, ok." She smiled warmly down at the boy as she pinched his cheeks and ruffled his hair.
He didn't have to be told twice.
He nodded a docile nod to his mum and got to work cleaning his plate, one bite at a time. As his teeth sank forth the warm taste of flesh nearly melted in his mouth.
He licked the juice from his lips and watched as his mum's curly brown hair bounced up and down and up and down, while she turned and walked back toward the kitchen mirror and the counter beneath it. He quite liked that. Even mum's hair was playful.
His father was sat opposite him at the small kitchen table, pouring over a newspaper with the bored indifference reserved for fathers at kitchen tables, a pipe hanging slack from the corner of his mouth. He twiddled the end on his thin mustache and puffed his pipe, releasing wafts of smoke that melted into the air above the table. His bald head shone a stark white against the overhead glare.
The boy took another bite of the meat, a heaping one, ever delicious it was. His cheeks bulged, and a bit of excess juice escaped, dribbling down his chin as he sucked down a wet strand of pork. His little legs swung excitedly back and forth, his whole body swaying with naive joy.
His mum smiled at him with that warm smile of hers. "Remember you've got another Doctors appointment today, ok. So once you've eaten all your ham then you ought to go get ready." She wiped the grease from his chin with the napkin tucked into the collar of his pajama top before running her hand through his hair in a poor attempt of ridding the boy of his bed head.
He didn't want to go. Though the boy usually liked his doctors appointments well enough, last week they'd shown him strange hieroglyphs that had made his stomach turn and his skin crawl. He'd hated that. "Do I have to, mama?" He asked. "They showed me scary pictures last time."
His father shot him a dark glare, one that would brook neither complaint nor dispute. Though it was mum who spoke. "Don't worry little one, I'll ask them not to this time." Father made a huffing sound at that and mum shot him down with a dark glare of her own. That seemed to settle the discussion.
"Ok, mama" He burbled through another mouthful of ham.
He bounced and ate and watched his mum's hair dance up and down as she stomped about the kitchen. She threw on a blue apron, the one dappled with little white flowers, and turned her attention to a slanted stack of dishes beside the sink.
His father, still puffing smoke, noisily turned the pages of his newspaper, "Mmh, looks like the Thracians tried crossing the border, our boys beat them back though." He said idly.
mum just sighed in a disinterested tone.
"Plenty o' dead though, on both sides."
"Can't we keep talk of war out of the kitchen?" Mother wondered.
"War's coming whether or not you listen." Father replied, sounding equally disinterested.
Mum just scrubbed the dishes.
"The Thracians wouldn't stand a chance," he continued, "the western front made Anatolia look like a picnic," Father gestured with his pipe ultimately to no one, "our boys'll have em' running back to their lil churches before long. Trust me." And the boy did trust him. The certainty in fathers tone was as ardent as it was comforting, although he wasn't too sure for what or why about he was trusting him, he just kicked his little legs and ate the mouth watering ham.
"I don't want to hear it." Mother shot back.
"You'll be hearing it come the end of the year, earlier maybe. War's knocking. I just hope the young King has some of his father's mettle but less of his madness. Rumor is he's a timid lad."
"I said I don't want to hear it." Mum's tone slipped, the calm of it receding.
"And I said it doesn't matter if you wanna bury your head in the sand, the bomb's will fall either way." Father's voice raised ever so slightly to match, dour notes of his own slipping into his voice. "If this is the war the Comet's sang of, well, it'll be a short one." Mum gave an exasperated shake of her head in silent irritation. "The Iron-hand-"
"Alright now, finish up your breakfast and get upstairs." Mum said to the boy, interrupting father's talk.
"Ok, mama" The boy sloppily and quickly scarfed down the rest of the ham, leaving but a glisten of congealing grease upon the plate.
He dropped from his seat and began towards his bedroom upstairs. "Boy!" His father's stern voice cut across the kitchen, "the plate," he dipped his newspaper towards the boy's greasy dish. "Are you just going to leave it there?"
The boy shook his head and started towards the plate, but mum had already turned from the dishes and picked it up, "Don't worry, peach, I've got it." Sweetness covered her words like honey over a roll. "Now get upstairs and ready to go."
He ran from the kitchen to the living room stairs and rocketed up them on all fours. He could still make out his parent's muffled voices amongst the thumping of his little feet against wooden steps.
Curiosity got the best of him. Atop the stairs, he turned and pressed an ear to the floor and listened.
"I don't like how you talk to him." His mum's voice squeaked through wooden walls. She was using her 'I know best' voice.
"What? It- I mean, he, doesn't know what's going on, he'll forget it before tomorrow." "We're meant to treat him as we would our own boy."
"We're meant to keep him static," Father insisted, "it's an easy enough thing, the boy builds his own story. All we need to do is let him dress us up like mannequins as he pleases."
There was a long pause, the boy could feel his mum's silent seething the whole while.
Father continued despite. "You're a brilliant Theologian but… Well, perhaps you're not seeing this entirely clearly? Perhaps you're overthinking it?"
"Perhaps you're underthinking it! Gods, you're a biologist, who are you to teach me theology?" The harshness of her voice was an easy enough thing to hear. "The more consistent we are with his vision, the fewer divine shifts we'll see and the better our data. I swear, August is the only one who understands"
"I'm just saying-"
"And I'm just saying we pretend to be a happy family, he'll think we are one, simple as that. This is my area of expertise and I won't…"
Their little debate faded away behind the opening and closing of doors. No matter, he had found it boring and confusing besides.
He hopped into his room and rummaged through his drawer, tossing clothes onto the floor as he searched for attire. He found a red and yellow striped t-shirt and jeans, tossed them on and rushed to the bathroom to brush his teeth.
He stared at his reflection, watching as his mouth foamed from the toothpowder, it grew oddly unfamiliar. He was a picturesque version of a child, cute cheeks dotted with freckles, big eyes, messy red hair.
And it wasn't right. In fact it was about as far from right as one could get.
This isn't me. The icy realization that his kind knows all too well seeped into him then, slow at first. His fleshy molecules began vibrating, sliding, dissipating. The toothbrush fell from his mouth. No, not from, but through. The toothbrush had passed through the mesh of his jaw to clatter at his feet.
The foamy saliva ringing his mouth followed suit and dripped onto the tiled floor as he lost corporeality, as he realized.
As he realized what he was.
No, no, it cannot be, his mind worked cold as it returned. The blackness cannot be, if I had tears to offer. I'd let them flow, oh accursed life. The room suddenly got very hot though the little God had no concept of temperature. How could we have lost, how could we be this. Playthings for flesh, flesh?! As the God remembered he seemed to grow larger and fainter, his molecules distancing themselves from one another as he shed layer after layer of shape. Rage and sorrow swam unabated throughout the mind, consuming every thought. The inevitable oblivion marches towards me, I cannot run from it, must I grow so accustomed to the harsh metallic taste of iron? Free me oh world, free me from my anxieties.
And as suddenly as the shadow of terror appeared it slumped off again, like a wave of deja vu. The boy forgot and returned to himself. His molecules realigned and he innocently wondered to himself, what had that been all about?
He heard a faint murmur and quiet bumps from beyond the mirror above the bathroom sink. He stuck his ear up to the glass and listened carefully.
Nothing, must have been his imagination.
He bounded back into the kitchen, and there mum and father were, quietly discussing something or other, he didn't especially care what. "Mama" he said, "They aren't gonna make me look at the pictures again, are they?"
His mum's platinum blonde hair ran like a river down her back, she brushed the long torrent of hair from her eye, "I don't know. We'll find out soon enough, won't we," she answered boredly. She shot a knowing glance at the kitchen mirror, seemingly to something beyond. She wore a severe look on her face that was paradoxically coupled with a sly grin, "Are you ready? We ought to leave now." And without another word they did.
The Boy
II
As they stepped through the doors to the observation room, a bright light shone in blinding white. Instinctively, he tightened his grip around his Mum's hand. She did not squeeze back.
"Sit." She ordered. He did as he was bid and hopped up atop an uncomfortable metal chair in front of a big metal desk. The entire room was white save for one wall that was covered by a large mirror. That and the desk shared the same reflective silverish hue, but otherwise it was like stepping into a blizzard. He'd been in this room many a time, but it was just as alien every session.
Two men in white lab coats entered soon thereafter, they each gave mum short stiff bows. He recognized only one of the men immediately. Dr. P. He wore an enormous pair of square glasses beneath ash colored curls. Dr. P was alway happy to see him. Today was no different. He cast a jovial smile in the boy's direction.
The unfamiliar doctor had a cold demeanor about him. He wore an eternally knit brow above a hawkish stare. A thick, blobby jaw supported a fish-like frown and atop a thin upper lip sat an ever thinner mustache. He too had glasses, though his were small circles that seemed to barely fit his eyes. His bald head shone serene like a calm lake against the bright light of the room. The boy looked from one doctor to the other and back. "Where's Dr. O?" The boy asked innocuously. The good Dr. O had been the usual face for the last few sessions. He had always been quite nice too.
Dr. P shot a confused, albeit awkward, glance at his new partner and then to the mirror before bringing his attention back to the boy, "Well, umm, it seems Dr. O will no longer be working with us." He swallowed, "he was, well, he umm…"
"Got fired," mum cut in, she said it slow and smirked as she did so. And the two Doctors both glared daggers in her direction for it.
"Yes, he had to be let go, don't worry though, you'll be still working with me." Dr. P gestured to himself, "and this, umm, is Dr. L, he'll be joining us from now on, how's that sound?"
The boy nodded amicably despite his disappointment. He'd miss Dr. O.
The session started as they always did, with general questions about his health and wellness, if he was happy, if he was sleeping well, if he'd had any visions or 'out of place happenings,' any lingering feelings of awesomeness and the such, boring stuff like that. He answered them quickly and honestly, excited to get to the second half of the session. Sometimes they'd tell him stories, draw with him, or even play little games. He hoped they had a game for him today, he liked those days the most.
Of course last week they'd shown him the strange art, those had made him sick and scared. He hoped they wouldn't do that again.
Curse the demons and curse the flesh and most of all curse the Gods.
"Can we play the games now?" He asked once the Doctor had arrived at his last question.
The good doctor chuckled. "Sure, would you like to try a riddle today?" Dr. P asked. The boy, giddy, nodded. Dr. P smiled and began. "A pilot was flying his Aeroplane across Oceania to Gilli-gong, he ran into some trouble and his plane began to smoke and puff before going down over the bush. It gets cold in the bush at night, below freezing even. The pilot needed a fire to keep warm but he has no fuel, nor any matches, how does he make himself a fire?"
The boy stroked his chin and pondered the question. Dr. P smiled at the boys' mimicry of maturity. "I don't know," the boy responded.
Dr. L leaned back in his chair with pursed lips, his thin mustache seemed to shrink with the movement, he swept his hand along his shining head as if he'd forgotten he'd no hair to sweep. His mouth began to open but Dr. P spoke before he had a chance to voice. "Well how would you start a fire?" He stared at the boy with his kind eyes. But still the boy had nothing to offer in response but a shrug.
The session continued in this back-and-forth manner for a long while and moved nowhere.
Finally, Dr. L got his chance to speak. His dark eyes, through the coin-sized lenses, glared at him with a malevolent hint of a smile. "I don't think this is working, August, maybe we ought to continue with Siambo's more promising method?" It had been a question but L didn't wait for a response, he was already digging around his bag.
"We've barely tried." P complained, a tense anxiety plagued his voice, he sounded whiney, scared even. The boy didn't like that much. He supposed they meant to show him the hieroglyphs. He didn't want to see those hieroglyphs again. He said as much but the Doctors argued over his protests.
"We've tried, sir, we've been trying, and for several weeks now. Your methodology is proving impotent. Now we try the good Dr. Siambo's way."
"Have you no concern for the subject? Gods, have you no concern for yourself even? What about Ollius, remember him?"
"My chief concern is success, as should yours be as well. Progress has been demanded of us and none too kindly. Now that we've actually found a path towards, I suggest we push. Elsewise, well I don't need to tell you what might become of us."
Dr. P brought his hand to his temple. Defeated, he simply sighed "A smaller 'dose' this time." and crossed his arms. The boy looked back and forth utterly lost beneath the conversation.
"Of course, we don't want a repeat of last time." Dr. L pulled a set of cards from his bag. "We'll start with just one this time." The doctor turned his attention to the boy. He smiled. It was not a kind smile. "I want you to tell me what you see." He flipped the first card over revealing a hieroglyph of incomprehensible form.
An immediate tendril of disgust and fear wrapped around the boy at the sight of it, he wanted to retch, he wanted to scream, he wanted to pluck his fingernails from his fingertips, he wanted to close his eyes and disappear.
The hieroglyph was horrifying, horrifying in a shapeless and evil way, he wanted it gone so he made it so.
Flames spiraled around the room, the doctors ducked under the desk as fire chewed away the paper cards, reducing them to a smoldering ash.
When the flames retreated and the smoke settled, the remains of the cards rested in a thin layer of white dust across the desk. Dr. L crawled out from beneath, he wore a nervous smile on his face, "Progress." He said to the mirror. The boy stared at the spot where the Dr. had spoken to, but saw nothing, nothing but his own red headed reflection staring back.
Dr. Kurri Siambo
III
Dr. Lorus had hardly flipped the card before everything became fire.
She watched through the one-way mirror as the smoke settled across the room. With a flick of her head, she wagged the platinum strands of hair from her eye. "Will you look at that." She told Dr. Quinntus haughtily.
The curly-brown haired woman beside said nothing, she was clutching her little clipboard to her chest so tight it was wont to snap in two, like it was a life preserver and she was lost at sea. She so obviously had a soft spot for the subject, often treating him like a real boy. How pathetic you are. "The Section III chief will be awfully chipper to learn his little pet project is finally picking up steam." Siambo continued. And one crispy colleague was all it took.
Dr. Quinntus remained as quiet as ever, just staring at her little God with teary-eyed concern. Siambo's own tepid concern was reserved for the two doctors crouching under the table and looking a cowardly pair, and even still she hardly worried.
"Better show than last week." Siambo thought aloud, reading the temperature outputs.
"We should have been more cautious, elsewise we'll end up with another Ollius." Quinntus offered.
"Caution has yet to produce such heat. Almost nine hundred degrees at its hottest."
The Doctor only humphed at that.
Weak woman. Siambo thought.
Frankly, her co-doctors were not to her liking. Dr Quinntus was a whiny Etruscan dog with more worry than sense. Dr. August Polsti was a jolly enough soul, not to mention Gaullic, Barcish in truth, but close enough, but too sweet-hearted for his own good. Dr. Lorence Lorus was the only one other than she with any sort of mettle, but he lacked the brains to put it to any sort of use. Besides, he wasn't even a theologian. The man was a bioengineer.
There'd been another man. But the good Dr. Ollius had been burned to a crisp a week past. Their first trial with the hieroglyphs had surprised the lot of them with its effectiveness. And temperature. None more so than poor Ollius.
And then of course there was Stephan Wernege. The great neo-phrenologist of this 20th century. She often wondered if he remembered her from their days back in Subeli. But, despite having worked so closely for six and a half years, she somehow doubted it. The man favored that queer tar of his so, and it left him mindless and stupid. She suspected he'd hardly bore a coherent thought in years. They'd worked together in the kennels prior to the Great War, and once Godwin had annexed the north Barcans and invaded the Norselands, Wernege must've seen the writing on the wall for he fled over the Boneyard, from Gaul to Thracia. She'd taken over his works in Yarwin's Chimeral Pits then. She'd always wondered what had become of him. Working for Etruscan dogs as it were.
And so she was alone in her competence.
She couldn't help but chuckle as Dr. Lorus's bald head poked above the desk, smooth as an egg it was and shone a similar color in this white light.
"And just what could be funny about this?" Quinntus's shrill, motherly tone really had a way of piercing one's brain.
Siambo rolled her eyes. "Gods, everyone here takes life a bit too seriously." Her own work, back in Gaul, would've made these fools sick.
"They could have been seriously hurt!"
"Perhaps then I would've offered up some solace." She knew the woman's concern was really for the little God. "You know he's older than this mountain."
"I'm well aware of what he is. My treatment of the boy is more than warranted, small changes in attitude could-"
"Could drastically change the outcomes," Siambo finished for her with an eye roll. "Yes, I know. You've mentioned." She was sick of Quinntus, sick of her uppity nature, her insistence that this ever motherly behavior was for anything but some deep-seated longing to raise some snot-nosed welp of her own. Her little obsession was a far greater liability than a bit of coldness for the little Lord of fire.
She and Wernege were Gauls, gauls of Subeli stock, where life was a cheaper thing. Working for Prince Yarwin, she'd learned first-hand what life cost and knew well the price of blood. Even if her colleagues did not.
An awkward silence stretched between the two. Broken finally by Quinntus's musing. "Why didn't he recognize Lorence as Dr. O, I wonder."
"Whatever does it matter?" Siambo shot back. "He's mindless."
"That is exactly why it matters. We need to understand his shifts. We can't control the boy without understanding him."
"The God, you mean"
"Yes, the God."
You'd do well to remember what he is woman, lest he mistakes you for some delectable ham.
Spymaster Antigenes is due here soon." Dr. Quinntus, not so subtly, changed the subject. "He's to stop by after dealing with some trouble in the highlands"
"Ah, good, the Salamander. It's been too long since he's slimed his way over to see his little pet."
"Gods, don't call him that or we'll be the next little bit of 'trouble' he is out 'dealing with.'"
"Section III chief Antigenes." Siambo put a mock honor into her voice for his title. "Well, thank the Gods we have something to show him. I'd rather not be turned to dog food quite yet. He'll be quite happy with this." She gestured to the smokey room.
"He's a hard man to impress."
"I know the sort."
The little God seemed to be staring through the mirror and right into her. His large eyes unblinking. And with a faint glow of ember still alight in them.
A blindfold on a blind man does little good.
A leash on a Kodiak does less.