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ways_back_room2017-12-19 06:36 pm
annalalaith) wrote in ways_back_room2017-12-19 06:36 pm
Advent Day 7!
Here is a little fic by Gen.
The next place the Labyrinth brought them was a small, snowy city.
“Does it look familiar?” said Bahorel, squinting at a street sign. “That might be Swedish. Or something like it, anyway.” He was hastily shrugging back into his wool coat; the last world had been hot and swampy, and he was shivering already. To Thor, the air felt mildly chilly -- pleasantly bracing, really -- but mortal frames were less sturdy.
Thor shrugged. “Broadly. I don’t know this city. Come, let us ask these people.”
Thor’s approach, in this town as in any strange place, was to walk up to the nearest stranger and greet them with open, direct cordiality and questions. Bahorel seemed perfectly in accord with this, except that he gravitated quickly towards a small meadhall that seemed to specialize in coffee. Thor wasn’t sure whether this was because of a resemblance to the cafés he spoke of often, or because it was well-heated, but in either case he had no objection.
In short order they established that this was not only Earth but Sweden; that it was probably not Thor’s Earth, since his name and face got only a nod without awe or astonishment; that it was nearly Christmas; and that they had found themselves in the town of Gävle, noted for its two giant straw goats.
Thor didn’t trouble to squelch the glow of satisfaction. Of course, Asgardians were not gods, as such, at least not with all the powers humans had once attributed to them. Of course, Earth had come a long way technologically since then. But they still remembered their old gods -- in his name, now common enough, and even, likely, in this monument to the goats that had once pulled his chariot.
Bahorel’s face, however, had suddenly lit with glee. “I know this town! The goats get set on fire, don’t they? Ha, that must be an amazing sight!”
Thor started to grin back. The merits of such a custom were, after all, obvious. But Nils, the meadhall guest they were speaking to, grimaced.
Thor blinked at him. After a moment, he hazarded, “Do you not think so?”
“Gets set on fire,” said Nils grimly. “But it’s not meant to be. Just started happening, and now everyone thinks so. All right, it makes a good show. And some’ll say it needs to be, for the sun, though that’s just an excuse for liking fire, if you ask me. But then the tourists don’t come anymore, do they? Soon as it burns down, everybody cancels their trip to Gävle. You’d think, if they were that enthusiastic about the fire, they’d come to see the ashes too, but no.”
Thor pressed his shoulder seriously. Bahorel, on the man’s other side, did the same. Nils glanced from one to the other, his dour indignation giving way to bafflement.
“That’s hard on your town,” said Bahorel. “Hell! The burning, that’s glorious, but it ought to be done properly.”
Thor said, “What is the proper season for these goats?”
A short while later, on a side street:
“Our duty --”
“Yes, clearly --”
They traded nearly identical grins. Bahorel clapped Thor on the arm.
“I’ll find a calendar, you scout out the goats?”
“Done.”
Bahorel told Thor more stories of the Gävlebocken, as they guarded the goats. (They were indeed impressively large; not especially Asgardian in the details, but nearly so in the scale.) He had, it was clear, made a gleeful study of the subject.
Bahorel’s favorite, loudly proclaimed, was the year that humans dressed as Santa and a spiced cookie-man had destroyed the goat with flaming arrows. Thor was pleased by the artistry of the year it had been burned in a blizzard. Both agreed that the tourist who had burned it down in the earnest belief that this was a proper and legal custom was a sympathetic figure, and that there was a certain humor to his story worth appreciating.
But they were agreed as well on the ideal. The goats should both survive throughout the tourist season. And then, just as it drew to a close, both should be burned by those who knew full well what they were doing, and who would give the Gävlebocken the pyre their legend deserved.
During slow times, when no potential arsonists were in range, or when the fence and the legitimate security guards had matters under control, they spoke of many matters. Of homes, of rulership and the voice of the people, of legends true and might-be-true, of humans of Midgard and peoples of realms beyond. And, of course, they took turns to wander the town of Gävle, to learn its people and its ways, so that they might best do honor to it and know whose legacy they guarded.
But they spoke very little of the end of their guardianship. It was unnecessary. They had very quickly come to an accord on that one.
At midnight, just as December 31st faded invisibly into January 1st in the dark of an Arctic night, both goats exploded into flames. Lightning stabbed down from a sky that had been cloudless only a few moments before, arcing blue currents across the horns and back of the goat built by the Natural Science Club of the School of Vasa. In the same moment, the Southern Merchants’ goat -- “the businessmen’s goat, that one’s mine,” Bahorel had said on the first day -- exploded from within in a glittering burst of fireworks. Both were soon crackling merrily. The metal armatures beneath the straw were dark shadows wreathed in orange flame, occasionally shooting off a stray flower-burst of a rocket.
When the sun rose, reborn on the first day of the new year, two broad-shouldered figures watched from a rooftop with beatific satisfaction, passing a flask back and forth.
A little while later, they were gone, back through a delta-marked doorway into the Labyrinth, working their way through adventure to Milliways again.
Because that’s what heroes -- or, at least, easily bored adrenaline junkies with strong commitments to aesthetics -- do.
The next place the Labyrinth brought them was a small, snowy city.
“Does it look familiar?” said Bahorel, squinting at a street sign. “That might be Swedish. Or something like it, anyway.” He was hastily shrugging back into his wool coat; the last world had been hot and swampy, and he was shivering already. To Thor, the air felt mildly chilly -- pleasantly bracing, really -- but mortal frames were less sturdy.
Thor shrugged. “Broadly. I don’t know this city. Come, let us ask these people.”
Thor’s approach, in this town as in any strange place, was to walk up to the nearest stranger and greet them with open, direct cordiality and questions. Bahorel seemed perfectly in accord with this, except that he gravitated quickly towards a small meadhall that seemed to specialize in coffee. Thor wasn’t sure whether this was because of a resemblance to the cafés he spoke of often, or because it was well-heated, but in either case he had no objection.
In short order they established that this was not only Earth but Sweden; that it was probably not Thor’s Earth, since his name and face got only a nod without awe or astonishment; that it was nearly Christmas; and that they had found themselves in the town of Gävle, noted for its two giant straw goats.
Thor didn’t trouble to squelch the glow of satisfaction. Of course, Asgardians were not gods, as such, at least not with all the powers humans had once attributed to them. Of course, Earth had come a long way technologically since then. But they still remembered their old gods -- in his name, now common enough, and even, likely, in this monument to the goats that had once pulled his chariot.
Bahorel’s face, however, had suddenly lit with glee. “I know this town! The goats get set on fire, don’t they? Ha, that must be an amazing sight!”
Thor started to grin back. The merits of such a custom were, after all, obvious. But Nils, the meadhall guest they were speaking to, grimaced.
Thor blinked at him. After a moment, he hazarded, “Do you not think so?”
“Gets set on fire,” said Nils grimly. “But it’s not meant to be. Just started happening, and now everyone thinks so. All right, it makes a good show. And some’ll say it needs to be, for the sun, though that’s just an excuse for liking fire, if you ask me. But then the tourists don’t come anymore, do they? Soon as it burns down, everybody cancels their trip to Gävle. You’d think, if they were that enthusiastic about the fire, they’d come to see the ashes too, but no.”
Thor pressed his shoulder seriously. Bahorel, on the man’s other side, did the same. Nils glanced from one to the other, his dour indignation giving way to bafflement.
“That’s hard on your town,” said Bahorel. “Hell! The burning, that’s glorious, but it ought to be done properly.”
Thor said, “What is the proper season for these goats?”
A short while later, on a side street:
“Our duty --”
“Yes, clearly --”
They traded nearly identical grins. Bahorel clapped Thor on the arm.
“I’ll find a calendar, you scout out the goats?”
“Done.”
Bahorel told Thor more stories of the Gävlebocken, as they guarded the goats. (They were indeed impressively large; not especially Asgardian in the details, but nearly so in the scale.) He had, it was clear, made a gleeful study of the subject.
Bahorel’s favorite, loudly proclaimed, was the year that humans dressed as Santa and a spiced cookie-man had destroyed the goat with flaming arrows. Thor was pleased by the artistry of the year it had been burned in a blizzard. Both agreed that the tourist who had burned it down in the earnest belief that this was a proper and legal custom was a sympathetic figure, and that there was a certain humor to his story worth appreciating.
But they were agreed as well on the ideal. The goats should both survive throughout the tourist season. And then, just as it drew to a close, both should be burned by those who knew full well what they were doing, and who would give the Gävlebocken the pyre their legend deserved.
During slow times, when no potential arsonists were in range, or when the fence and the legitimate security guards had matters under control, they spoke of many matters. Of homes, of rulership and the voice of the people, of legends true and might-be-true, of humans of Midgard and peoples of realms beyond. And, of course, they took turns to wander the town of Gävle, to learn its people and its ways, so that they might best do honor to it and know whose legacy they guarded.
But they spoke very little of the end of their guardianship. It was unnecessary. They had very quickly come to an accord on that one.
At midnight, just as December 31st faded invisibly into January 1st in the dark of an Arctic night, both goats exploded into flames. Lightning stabbed down from a sky that had been cloudless only a few moments before, arcing blue currents across the horns and back of the goat built by the Natural Science Club of the School of Vasa. In the same moment, the Southern Merchants’ goat -- “the businessmen’s goat, that one’s mine,” Bahorel had said on the first day -- exploded from within in a glittering burst of fireworks. Both were soon crackling merrily. The metal armatures beneath the straw were dark shadows wreathed in orange flame, occasionally shooting off a stray flower-burst of a rocket.
When the sun rose, reborn on the first day of the new year, two broad-shouldered figures watched from a rooftop with beatific satisfaction, passing a flask back and forth.
A little while later, they were gone, back through a delta-marked doorway into the Labyrinth, working their way through adventure to Milliways again.
Because that’s what heroes -- or, at least, easily bored adrenaline junkies with strong commitments to aesthetics -- do.
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Thank you so, so much for this; I am rolling in
the deepdelight. ♥no subject
Thank you so much! I am so pleased that it's bringing at least half as much joy to anyone else as it brought me to write it. :D :D
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Best Character Theft Ever, thank you, Gen! <3
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I think this is the most MAJESTIC of lines.
I laughed and applauded, threw my mug on the floor and shouted "ANOTHER!"
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Thank yooooouuuu. :D I am super delighted you liked it!
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(subjectively: <3 <3)
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Such a fun situation, and I can see them both getting involved here and having such a blast. I love, love, love the ending image of them on the roof, smug with satisfaction while watching from the roof, and then merrily jaunting off again for the next adventure. BEST.