Series: Small Gods
Pairings: Mmm… no.
Warnings: Intense thirst? More theological stuff, but it's not nearly as prevalent as it was in American Gods. And, uh, Kaito talking to a tortoise. That talks back.
A/N: Weeks later and I am still blown away by this book. It is seriously my favorite Discworld installment of all time, which might have something to do with the amazing blend of humor and beauty inherent in this book. It's heavy on the theology theory, the need for rituals versus the true meaning of belief, how the gods need people just as much (if not more) as the people need gods… but in this theory is the absolutely gorgeous development of the relationship between Brutha and Om that culminates at the climax of the book with Om declaring boomingly that Brutha is his and, oh gosh, there's even a fist fight among the gods that begins with a cornucopia to the head and that silly little newt god with 51 followers and his explanation to one of them about what war is… Just. Read it people. You are absolutely missing out until you do.
Drawing in the Sand
Om was drawing in the sand again.
"You… do not… belo… well, yes, I know I don't belong here, Mr. Tortoise, I would have thought that was quite obvious from the way I dress alone, but you don't have to be so blunt about it, you know, I'm a delicate youth, you could crush my feelings quite easily if you make me feel like I'm not welcome and – ah. Om. Om, sorry, but there's no call for that sort of language you know, Mr. Tortoise is a perfectly good name and, to be fair, you didn't exactly introduce yourself, did you?" The young boy that Om was writing for was crouched down in the sand next to him, pale skin and dark hair and eyes a very specific shade of the sky skating attentively over each painfully formed letter, remarkably patient and understanding, considering the circumstances.
That whole sticky business concerning belief, Om thought sourly, would have proven an awful lot less sticky if the rest of Omnia had had even half the willingness to accept the unlikely as this stranger to his lands.
It was a pity, really. Because this boy wasn't a believer, Om couldn't speak to him; it was the first time in years that he had actually assumed this old, modest form. Curiously enough, the fact that he had appeared before the boy as a tortoise suggested that he was more likely to believe in a remarkably communicative quadruped than an omniscient, omnipotent god. Strange little human, Om thought to himself, and began to write in the sand again.
How did you get here? Om wrote, ponderously slow.
The boy reached up to scratch the back of his neck which was, undoubtedly burned and peeling beneath the unforgiving desert sun. He made a small sound of discomfiture but answered Om as casually as if he were somewhere significantly cooler, perhaps being pampered. It would have been interesting to see how he fared with something like the iron turtle, if it wasn't such an abominable practice and hadn't been so recently converted into a bread oven.
"If I knew that," the boy mused, "then I would very likely have some idea of how to reverse the process, and we wouldn't be here for you to ask me the question in the first place. Although, taking into consideration your rather unique presence, there is a very strong chance that it had something to do with that tortoise shaped pendant I stole."
Pendant? Om finally settled on, rather than what might have struck others as the rather more obvious point of censure, 'stole', but Om had a remarkably strong distaste for pendants that had existed for nearly as long as the item itself, with no clear distinction as to why, and a tortoise shaped one sounded like exactly the sort of ridiculous notion that scheming Dibbler might come up with to make a bit of profit off the prophet on the sly. Brutha might have given him that awful disappointed look of his that he did so well (like he wasn't the god he thought he was, which was unfair, he thought, because Brutha had learned that fairly early on in their partnership anyway), but he wasn't here – was probably busy tending to those silly melons – and Om didn't have to play good Samaritan, putting aside the fact, of course, that this was precisely what he had done, stopping to speak with the boy at all.
The kid had a nice shape to him mind, besides, open to all sorts of things and sharp. Om genuinely liked smart people; there were so few of them anymore.
"Yeah." The boy sighed, settling down more comfortably in the sand and shielding a yawn with the back of his hand. "I think I'm swearing off jewelry entirely after all of this is done – first Pandora, then the demon possessed necklace and now this? More trouble then they're worth. Now." A sudden spark of mischief entered his eyes and he grinned. "Stealing all of Hakuba's underwear and transplanting it with the tantei-han's and vice-versa is still a viable option."
Om didn't even bother to write anything this time, just swept his tail from side to side in an impatient manner and stared at the young thief with his beady little tortoise eyes.
He wrinkled his nose in distaste as the epiphany seemed to dawn slowly across his face. "Except that would mean touching both of their underwear and that's not… just forget I even said it, would you?" He pleaded, even going so far as to clench his hands in front of him
No problem, Om wrote. We all do or say things that we regret sometimes. It's part of being alive. Except that Om wasn't, in the truest sense of the words, alive, was he? It was still difficult for him to remember sometimes, when he got to talking with Brutha, or when he'd just eaten a really good lettuce leaf. He'd spend so long crawling along the earth with the rest of them that he'd all but forgotten what it felt like to scorn them from above. It was impossible to tell still at this point whether or not that was a good thing. I rode an eagle once. He added contemplatively at the end.
"Did you really?" The boy said, eyes wide and lips twitching upward in amusement. "And you regretted that, did you?"
Om thought about it seriously before he answered. Not as such, no, not regretted, exactly. It was necessary for the situation at hand. But it was a rather foolish maneuver, just the same. Absolutely terrifying. There was a strange sort of singing in the kid's head as he wrote. A sensation that, when he stood stock still – just the faintest quivering in his tail – and focused entirely on it, felt almost exactly like flying.
"I'm sure the poor eagle was scarred for life." He remarked wryly, laughter trailing off into a pitiful coughing spell that had Om wondering fitfully how long it had been since the boy had had something to drink.
I can assure you, it won't try eating anymore tortoises. Om drew, in the most stoic manner that he could manage. Then he began to worry. If this was a few years ago I could probably have done something for you myself. He told the boy, already casting about in his mind to call Brutha here to help get him within the city, properly fed and watered and, hopefully, back on his way home (Brutha set down the hoe and obediently set out from the citadel Om's bidding, leaving his various attendees and personal guards to quietly throw a fit at their Cenobriarch's carelessness and run after him). But reverence is never what it used to be and I'd be all the more likely to send you somewhere awful and awkward at this point so it's best if we don't attempt it at all. The Historians might have some idea what to do with you though. He hurried to add, when the boy began to frown.
The next spate of coughs were weak and dry. Om snapped irritably at Brutha to hurry. "And how do I find the Historians?"
I'll see what I can do, Om wrote.