A Creative Streak


By: Kitty Ryan

Rating: PG for herasy


S. Patrick: You who are bent, and bald, and blind,

With a heavy heart and wandering mind,

Have known three centuries, poets sing,

Of dalliance with a demon thing.

--The Wanderings of Oisin, W.B. Yeats.


In the countless millennia since Existence, the Black God had never been one to join the crowd. He had affected crowds, certainly. He had dealt with crowds, but only ever in a professional capacity, which was--even he was prepared to admit--not quite the same thing. Perhaps it was preference for cowls and black. Perhaps it was his eternal patience, which was the product of knowing exactly where everyone is going to end up, in the end, no matter what they did or said beforehand. Hell, perhaps it was just the whole 'personification of the universal perception of death' thing, but whatever the case, this particular divinity found it rather a challenge to work comfortably with large groups of people--immortal or otherwise.

This God never took part in the Fateful chess matches. He never meddled, and he certainly never had any Chosen. (People who chose him belonged in a completely different category.) He could never have argued about the meaning of life with his siblings, even if he wanted to. They'd just back away and say he was in no position to offer an opinion; which, he supposed, was true enough. The Black God simply watched, and cleaned up the mess afterwards. He did his job. He didn't try to be dramatic about it.

On the day when Mother Flame and Father Universe finally ran out of patience and condemned Uusoae to her cage of dead matter and starfire, The Black God did not come up to the bars to gloat. He was nowhere to be seen while Mithros and all the other siblings tried to deal with the girl Veralidaine as quickly as possible while avoiding any direct eye contact with Gainel. He wasn't with the masses; he had better things to do. The Black God was the only one of the Divine Assembly to greet Ozorne Muhassin Tasike--former Emperor Mage of Carthak turned Stormwing, former world menace, current death statistic--into his new realm. A realm of shadows, a good hundred thousand of them brought there at by his hands, who were never too dead to talk revenge. A realm that was endless, timeless, relentless. A realm with a special corner, made just for him. The Black God might not have been one for brotherly communication or world affairs, but he'd watched enough of both to know who he was dealing with, and that the Graveyard Hag had a bottle of something very special tucked away for this particular moment in history. She was probably just on the point of cracking the seal.

The Black God smiled his quiet smile, and put a hand on Ozorne's shoulder. A hand with a grip that began to burn.

He might not have been as dramatic as his family, but the Black God had a creative streak that was entirely his own. He had plans for Ozorne. He'd asked several of the man's victims for contributions.

"Welcome to the inevitable, you sick, sad little man."


Standard Disclaimer applies. I own nothing. Not even the poem