----------------"Not a pet, He said."---------------- . Male . Bisexual . Otherkin. Lokean . 28. ----------------------------------------------------------------- Just another semi-devotional, semi-art-sketch-dump blog. Will be partially filled with art, writings and works made for/about Him.
Deities are radiant by nature. That is not to say that They glow or emit light; perhaps some of them do. He does. Figuratively. But sometimes also literally.
Deities are radiant by nature because They have a presence that fills a space to bursting, crowding into every nook and corner, like light spilt from a bonfire built in too-small a room.
They are incapable of being ignored.
Yet it is easy to forget this, if you are often in the company of one; if His eyes on you is a comfortable weight you bear (is honored to bear), if His laugh and His touch is what grounds you, if His simply being is what lights fierce joy at your core. It is easy to forget what it’s like without it. Without Him.
Sometimes He disappears for days, weeks even, if His errands or duties call for it. And it is in these times you feel it most acutely; is reminded of what it was like before Him. The room is suddenly too big, too quiet.
There is nothing to do in these moments but wait. You go about your routine, ever faithful, ever determined to prove that you can carry on without His worrying; that you will not be a burden to Him. Though you think about Him all the time. You are not pining.
He is a wild god. You know this, as certain as you know you cannot tame fire. Yet you cannot control the stirrings in your heart. How you wish you could have Him for yourself; to shelter and to hold and to treasure. How you could share Him not with the world. How you wish. Oh, do you wish. Yet these are blasphemous thoughts; so you hide them in the deepest, darkest depths of yourself, locked away and kept even from Him. But He knows anyway.
You offer a silent prayer for Him: Keep safe. Keep safe. May He slip out of trouble always, and may fortune and success ever follow His steps. Keep safe.
It is a little silly, because He is your god, and your prayer would be to Him, for Him. He would probably laugh at you, when He hears it (has heard it), but you do not care. Anything to keep Him safe and bring Him back into your arms.
And so you wait; for His golden laughter and His warm touches and His heavy gaze. For His feather-light kisses and His fingers threaded through yours and His weight in your lap. In those moments, His eyes tell you He knows how wholly and utterly He holds you captive.
He was sitting on the floor of his smithy, tiny hammer in idle large paws, lump of silver in lap and a barely formed design in mind, when his god walks in. Sváss knows (can feel Lop’s presence; gods are radiant by nature) before he even hears Him; yet he was given no chance to turn when the deity promptly buries His face in His hound’s shoulder; a dead weight.
Sváss hesitates, then: …my lord?
When the god does not answer, the beast chances turning his head, breath rustling a lock of flame-red hair. Inhale, and Sváss’ nose tells him all: Lop smells like blood, charring, and death.
-your brother?
The god nods, or tries to. It was nigh a tremble, but Sváss catches it all the same.
Lop’s brother, Wod, is a god and king; and like all symbols of puissance, commands respect from those whom He leads: mortals and divine alike. Respect oft comes hand in hand with power, and there are many, many ways to attain thus; not all are savory. People abhor thieves, liars, usurpers or murderers, yet eagerly do they reap the sweet fruits borne from their foes brought low. Wod cannot be seen trudging knee-deep in the gutter if He is to remain god king; yet filth does not itself clean. Lop is no god king.
The tokota lays down his tools and metals, and gently, gently he shifts, allows his forearm to catch and cushion his god as the latter slides languorously down his shoulder, into his lap. And there he holds Him, cradled as if a treasure (is a treasure) to his chest.
Lop turns, buries His face in warmth; hands reaching out, grasps knuckle-white in soft, speckled fur and the god curls, tries to disappear amidst the wall of fur that is His husband.
Nothing is to be said in moments like these, so Sváss is golden. Tenderly he lifts his love, slips his own tail beneath Him to pillow the god. There are rhythmic tremors in the deity’s shoulders, tiny hitches of breath and the beast feels warmth and wetness spread against his fur where Lop’s face lies. The fingers are claws, digging into him and he does not mind. Sváss bends, kisses his love’s head, runs a comforting paw down His back, then sits and listens and holds as a god falls apart in his arms.
The forge fire burns low, splutters, and diminishes. All fires need tending, Lop had told the hound once, when he was still green to blacksmithing. Yet there will be warmth still in the smithy for a while longer; claws of frigid air has yet to come a-knocking, and even then, the beast’s thick pelt is enough to keep at bay the most gelid of winters. And so Sváss ignores the world and tends to his most precious flame: the one he now holds in the hearth of his chest.
When Lop is still again, when tremors no longer wreck His form and the rise and fall of His shoulders is even, His hound bids Him turn, bids Him unfold with a gentle nudge of a muzzle, and the god obliges. There are cuts and old blood at the corner of the deity’s mouth, and streaks of wetness newly-dried upon His cheeks; His robes are sullied and singed at the edges, and peeking out from under His collar, a marring of black-and-blue. The hound scrunches up his brows, pushes the tunic aside and beholds the hand-shaped bruise forming at the junction of his master’s shoulder.
Sváss’ hackles rise with his ire, but Lop barks out a wheezing, resigned laugh, says: “-don’t bother. It’s but a grip too heavy. My brother can be… persuasive.”
The hound remembers (has read it in books), and knows. His god was never one good with pain, unlike His peers, and They use this against Him. Choler churns uselessly in his gut and he swallows it down; has more important tasks at hand than simmer. Delicately then, does he gather his love to his chest, a precious burden, and sets off for the temple’s inner chambers. Lop dangles, trusts, questions not His husband as the latter makes for their healing ward; does not protest when Sváss uncorks the vial of Golden Fruit’s essence (the very fruits He aided to steal millenniums ago) and pours a few drops more than necessary in His mouth. Sváss fusses over his mate and Lop allows it, basks in it; knows His husband well enough (too well) to know it would go no other way.
The bruise fades, as does the cuts on His mouth, and Lop grants His hound a smile, brittle.
Sváss stares but for a moment, and then he is laving away the tear-stains and old blood, with peppered kisses and a warm, warm tongue. His lord smells of many things: of acquiescence and exhaustion and hurt, and Sváss aches to wash them all away; so he does.
Down the halls, past the numerous chambers (too many to count) does he carry his lord. Steam embraces them as Sváss opens the door to the bathhouse; the susurrus of dripping water is both at once comforting and deafening.
The pool is warm when he steps in; stair after stair he walks, until warmth engulfs his haunches, reaches his waist and chest. It is here that he finally allows the water to souse his god, and thoroughly: robes, cape, boots and all.
Lop sighs, a drawn out and content thing; then shifts and leans His head on His hound, eyes fluttering close. The beast allows his master to soak a moment, then with the aid of buoyancy, balances the god with one paw while reaching for Castile and a wash cloth with the other.
With gentleness he lathers his lord, with care run paw pads through his love’s hair; tenderly does he douse with clean water his god, and rinse. With a soft tug and a query, sought permission and is granted thus, he peels away tunic and garments and fabric, until nought is left between him and his god except the press of skin on fur and their mingled breaths.
He washes. Breathes reverence unto freckled skin; presses worship against pinpricked lips; murmurs and croons and hymns: My lord, my lord, my lord-
And so it is with devotion, with piety, with fervor that he coaxes the god back to vigor.
-
When fatigue and dolor and ache is cleansed from frame, when left is ash and grime afloat the erstwhile pristine pool (the hound will apologize to the hired hands tomorrow for the mess), they sit before the hearth, the beast with his fur still damp, and the god a-swathed in his lap. Sváss has brewed for his lord a clever mix of hot, cream milk with a dash of honey and spiced mead, which the deity now cups with both hands in a drinking horn. Lop takes long sips, then sighs and settles back into the sea of quilt and fur, lashes low and a restful smile upon honeyed lips.
The hound considers cleaning that too with his tongue, then thinks better of it, and concedes for a chaste kiss upon the crown of his god. When he draws back, Lop is looking up at him with a sly, knowing smile (gods can read minds) and Sváss has the gall to be flustered. Ah, the hound thinks, He is Himself again.
The god frees a hand, blanket falling loose of His bared shoulder (a beautiful cacophony of freckles), then reaches and pulls His husband down. Lop tastes like sugar and smells of cinnamon, and Sváss craves, wants more (never enough), and his god indulges him. They do not say anything of import for a time.
It is when Sváss leans and sighs, gentle paws an ever steady presence on His waist, that the god says apropos to nothing: “-he didn’t allow me a weapon.”
The hound pauses, asks: Why not?
“He said it was too conspicuous; that I’ll give the guise away. I told him I could always charm it to the size of an acorn, but he refused, convinced me it was but a scouting and none else; and when I argued, he, uh- well, my brother always did have a firm grip.” The god shrugs, absently cupping His own shoulder. Sváss winces.
The hound knows that his god is no fighter, and as such had kept none of the legendary weapons He had presented as gifts to the other gods from days past. Surely borrowing even a single one was not too much to ask?
“So like the fool that I was, I went. Right after I stepped through the doors I found the giants waiting for me. ‘Come to steal the birds, thief?’ they said, and I knew then the true reason Wod had sent me. They had somehow gotten a hold of Gin and Nin, and my brother wants them back. He knows I dare not return without his precious birds.”
Wait, so Wod knew? It is not a scouting mission?
Lop shakes His head no.
-and He sends you empty handed?
The god’s smile was all daggers, His eyes brighter than even the fire in front of them. “Ah, what trust in my skills my brother must vest in me, to think I am able to best his enemies with naught but the clothes on my back. I should be flattered, if not for the inkling that he might have done so out of concern that my failure would land yet another weapon in the hands of his foes.”
Lop is difficult to look at in this moment; the air is almost incandescent, and the fire crackles loudly. Sváss does the only thing he can think of: he wraps his paws more firmly around his love in what he hopes is a comforting gesture. His god sighs, takes a long swig from the horn.
What happened, then? How did you escape?
“They made a grab for me, but then I was a swift, darting between their blows. As a bat I made for their dungeons, slipping past their guards, and found Gin and Nin trussed and flipped, like poultry to the slaughter. I tried to charm them into smaller objects to slip the tether, but the rope was enchanted and held fast no matter what I tried. There was nothing around that I could charm into a knife, so as a rat I bit through the bindings. The stupid birds wouldn’t stop fighting me.”
Ah, that explains the cuts on His face, thought Sváss, picturing the scene in his mind’s eyes. Could you not change yourself into a knife?
Lop laughs, but not unkindly, “I could, but who would wield me?”
Good point. The hound finds that he has a lot to learn about magic.
“The rope was stronger than I’d expected, and just as I bit through the last fiber, my enemies were upon me with a bag. The last I saw was Gin and Nin fleeing through the high window without even a backwards glance. The ungrateful pests.”
Maybe they did not know it was you?
“Oh they did. They were cursing my name the entire time I was gnawing away at their bindings. And my teeth might have slipped and nipped them a few times…”
Sváss grunts in amusement and the god grins.
What then?
“They threw me in the bag and I found I was not able to take other forms. It was another enchanted artifact made to hold shapechangers; and just as I began to despair for being possibly locked up for moons in a chest again, I remembered I still had this,” the god reaches into the folds of the quilt and pulls out the pendant He is wearing: a pure silver charm crafted in the likeness of a complete snake; scales, belly and all.
The hound knows of this artifact his god wears, has never seen Him without it. Curiously, it is not cited in any of the books or myths or scrolls, and when asked, Lop would have a strange look in His eyes, before saying it was a more recent gift. The god has mentioned that it carries a powerful spell which blesses the wearer with the sharp reflexes of a serpent, and the ability to always slither out of trouble.
Lop now traces a finger along the curved spine of the snake, says: “I was able to escape the confines of the bag with the help of this; though my captors discovered me right after, and I had to make a break for it, in any way I can.”
The beast waits, but the god says no more, empties His horn with a tilt of His head; then curls knees to chest and stares ahead at nothing.
There is a reason why Lop is the only god who can speak with giants without enmity; why in Their patriarchal pantheon, He alone goes by His mother’s bloodline. One does not choose his father; though Sváss is uncertain if his god would have chosen differently, if He could. Lop has a natural penchant for fire, and He had smelt of charring and death upon return. The hound wonders how many perished were His kin.
It is not your fault.
“I know.” There is a hint of self-depreciation in His voice, and then the god is visibly shaking it off, is done with feeling broken. He will get back at His brother another time; for now, He wants to forget.
“Tell me, boy, what have you been up to all these while?” the deity stretches, leans backwards and sprawls in His husband’s lap.
(Thinking about you. Missing you.) Uh- I was planning my next project. Though, I have yet to come up with a design… It was not exactly a lie, but the mirth in his god’s eyes says He saw through it all the same. The hound’s ears droop self-consciously. The quilt has loosened around Lop’s careless movements, and now an expanse of milky skin speckled with a million dark stars is laid out before him, fabric barely concealing modesty- (don’t look, don’t look don’t look don’t.look.)
Lop smiles a terrible smile, says “Then allow me to be your… inspiration,” shifts His leg, and Sváss fails.
Then the night is a haze of laughter and passion; is forgiveness and devotion; is acceptance, is all-encompassing, is lover and his beloved.
It is in the midst of this, that Sváss finally grasps the design with which he has been seeking.
.
.
.
It takes Sváss a moon to properly draft it, and another to craft into existence his design. When it is done, he gifts his lord the fruit of his labor: a small, leather-wrapped bundle cupped in large paws and offered on knelt stifles and a bowed head.
“What’s this?” says his god.
The hound answers: My inspiration.
Lop reaches a hand, not for the gift, but to run fingers through the fur and mane of His ever-devoted. The beast purrs, but holds his place. Not until his lord has taken from him that which he has toiled over, does he deem it proper to rise.
Unwraps, and the god finds in it a most curious thing: a tiny, tiny dagger that appears no more than a trinket. Hardly bigger than His palm, it could easily fit perhaps, between a hawk’s talons or in a fish’s maw. Beneath its dainty veneer, it hums power. Deceptive.
Lop smiles a little too archly as He recognizes the charm woven into the blade.
This is ‘Hundkyss’, Says Sváss, Its loyalty lies with you, and will never draw harm or pain from you; it will seek the blood of those who wishes you ill. In your hands, it can be shaped and bent and even broken, and made whole again by the mere touch of your lips.
The god toys with His new gift, running it along slender fingers; true to the words of His hound, the blade, though sharp, deals not a single scratch upon His hand (refuses to hurt Him), care not how recklessly He handles it. Intrigued, He presses the dagger point-first into His palm. The blade bends. He presses harder. The blade snaps. Cupping the fragments of His now broken dagger, the deity brings it to His mouth, presses an almost tender kiss to the shards. The dagger is at once whole again; not a dent or blemish speaks it ever being broken.
Lop turns, flings the weapon at a whetstone on Sváss’ smithing bench. It pierces, skewers, then shatters the whetstone, embedding itself into the wood below with a dense thud. Sváss retrieves it for his master, who stands wearing a wolfish grin.
"It is a fine blade. Most deftly crafted," says He as He caresses the dagger, and Sváss tries (and fails) to subdue the pride in his own grin. But then: “Tell me, boy, about the spell you imbued in its make. I am very much curious...” the last few words were whispered almost risquély, and Sváss stalls. Somewhere in the recess of his mind, the beast chastises himself; should have known better than think his lover of a god would not notice.
The magic plied in forging Hundkyss involved an age-old ritual; one that the hound had chanced upon reading in the old scrolls in Lop’s library some moons ago. The theory of it is simple enough for even those without a natural flair in magic, what with it being… an instinct innate in every living creature. The implementation though, was what really proved a challenge, to say nothing of the coyness of the ritual itself. To not put too fine a point on it, the actual forging of the dagger’s construct was not where the problem lies; it was in the mustering of energy to charge the spell that was truly, well, awkward. If one had to explain this in any other way, with metaphors if you will, it would be similar (if directly in contrast), to the theory of curses: if immense ill will is required to back a truly potent curse, then it is intense love and passion that Sváss need arouse for his purpose. And there really is only one way to go about it. The hound had locked the doors to his smithy and shut all the windows. He was not going to chance having someone walk in on him in such a… compromising position. Yet despite all his painstaking precautions, it seems his god still knew.
It is... it is as you see it, my lord. It was all Sváss could do to not drown himself from mortification. He wonders vaguely if it were possible to do so in his slack tub. Then he wonders if Lop would object to it, or grant him that mercy. No, knowing Him, his lord would enjoy every moment of his torment, as He clearly already is. The spell is uh- charged in the em-, the-, uh- Oh why wasn’t he reincarnated as a rock??
“I wasn’t asking about the build of it,” a board, salacious grin on his lord’s face, and Sváss audibly gulps. “I want to know how you went about charging it. Tell me, did you hide yourself away in your smithy when you-”
My lord! I-
“Is it I you pictured at the forefront of your mind when you were-”
My lord-! (yes)
“Did you use your paws or are you flexible enough to use your mout-”
MY LORD, PLEASE-
The hound flails, caught between wanting to cover his lord’s mouth and covering his own ears. Images of his previous activities surfaced unbidden in his mind: how he had held the blade in one paw (contact is essential to charging, the scroll had read), how it had nicked him when things became too… heated; how in the end he had placed the weapon between his teeth to free up both his paws; how he almost lost his tongue when it did hit- (gods can read minds stop thinking stop thinking-) The slack tub seems very inviting right about now. Maybe he should just walk over and-
And Lop chooses this moment to burst out laughing. It is a genuine and true laughter, and it carries not a shred of contempt or mockery. It does not sting. Though Sváss’ skin continues to burn beneath his fur; and he pouts still, if but for the show of it.
Alas, the god has had His fun and decides to take pity on His miserable husband; takes him by the collar of his mane and reels him in, kisses, and says: “My silly boy, you need not be shy. I am god of many things ergi, I will not judge you for wielding seiðr, least still for you hast done such to craft this gift of mine.”
The hound pauses, insists: I am not embarrassed of using seiðr, or of being ergi, my lord. If these are titles of my lord’s, if these are crafts not beneath my lord to use, then they are not beneath me. (His god has always borne the brunt of ridicule from His fellow divines for this very conduct; but it will not happen here, not with him; he makes sure of it.) I was only feeling bashful because of the more intimate aspects of the ritual. It is not something I am yet accustomed to do.
Lop smiles, meaningful; recognizes the notion and weight behind His hound’s words, of his acceptance, then says: “But surely this is not the first time you’ve thought of me while touching yoursel-”
-then the god barely has time to prevent His husband from dunking his own head into the slack tub. More laughter, and Sváss allows his god to drag him away from the smithy (if a tad reluctant), into the lazy afternoon sun of the courtyard. One of the resident feathered beasts, a stormy-grey and brown corvidae, blinks nap-muddled eyes at them from his perch, and yawns.
“Thank you,” Lop says as they strolled, “Your gift will serve me well.”
Caught off guard, the hound stares for a moment before coming to himself. I… you’re welcome, my lord. I can only hope it will be as useful to you as the pendant you wear.
“Oh, I know that it will be,” then He pauses, reads His husband and realises: “You are… jealous that I choose to wear this.”
No. (yes)
The god snorts.
…it is just that, I am envious of he who crafted it for you; a treasure which my lord holds so dear. I… wish to be able to do the same.
Now it is Lop’s turn to stare. A slow smile and a chuckle graces His lips, and the god draws close, is on tip-toes so that He can whisper into His husband’s ears: “You already did. Who did you think made this pendant, lifetimes ago?”
Had Sváss been able to, he would have uttered words of surprise, would have questions upon questions for his lord; but then Lop reaches for him.
His lord’s lips are soft, are scarred and pin-pricked, tastes like wilderness and smells like hearth fire, like home, and it is perfect.
Done for the Halloween-themed prompt; a spin-off of the all-time favorite classic Fairy Tale.
His Lordship would make a terribly, terribly alluring wolf. We are all like children in the woods when it comes to these shifty deities. Fresh flowers for the picking.
Bonus silly little ‘aftermath’ pic of the above. (Warn: M x M )
Semi-devotional and symbolic ficlet written for His Lordship, under The Svass and Lop Project. Be warned: there is gratuitous butchering of kennings.
“-I don’t see why not. I’m a little bit of everything.” the god answers, spreading His arms from His body, palms up: a gesture of here is me.
It is easy to believe that, what with this being Lop after all, and Sváss did. Yet it is one thing for a god to be able to do something, and another entirely of others the same. Sváss has no delusions of grandeur. He knows his place in this lifetime, and it is not in the smithy. A tokota is a mount and companion; a hunter, guard and shepherd at best. These clumsy bear paws are no hands of a craftsman. He tells his god as much, but the deity only laughs.
“Boy, what are my kennings? Can you repeat them?”
Sváss scrunches up his brows, perplexed at this sudden request. It has nothing to do with the topic at hand, but Lop always was unpredictable.
He does as bidden though; recalls what he has read, what he understands, and says:
Luck God, Hearth God, Cunning-wise God
Scar-lipped, Flame-haired, Silver-tongued God
Vulture’s Path, Hawk’s Child, Raven God’s Friend
Wolf’s Father, Snake’s Sire, Mother of Trolls
Blood-brother, Arm’s Burden, Hurler’s Travel Mate
Giant’s Spawn, Needle’s Son, Father of Monsters
Stinging Fly, Biting Flea, Jewelry-thieving Seal
Fine Falcon, Harmful Crow, Mare of Shining Flanks
Sly Fox, Quick Serpent, Salmon with the Narrow End
Heart-eater, Net-weaver, Shearer of Golden Locks
Sky Treader, Gift Bringer, Mind Tester of the Gods
Otter-slayer, Curse Giver, Thief of the Golden Fruit
Trickster, Shape Changer, The Unquiet Thought
Roarer, Flyter, Speaker of Harsh Truths
Liar, Slanderer, Originator of Deceit
Wildfire, Forge Fire, Blood-fire in Our Veins
Dog Star, Burning Brand, Torch of Summer Days
World Breaker, End Bringer, Helmsman at the Nails
And here Sváss pauses, hesitant to put to voice words that he has pondered over, kennings that he has weaved himself. He was not so sure his own rendition would do his god justice. Lop looks to him with an air of both curious inquiry and knowing encouragement, eyes and smile coaxing the hound to continue. A deep breath, and he does:
Ingenious God, Creative God, God of Inspiration
Spontaneous God, Relentless God, God of Motivation
Fixer God, Enabler God, Breaker of Limitations
Witty God, Charming God, God of Mischief-making
Freckled God, Lithe God, God of Lure and Flirting
Handsome God, Pleasing God, God of Striking Beauty
Gentle God, Loving God, Patron of the Broken
Chest-spark, Heart-fire, Deity of Passion
Beloved God, Most Trusted God, Fulltrui to my Devotion
My Guardian, My Mentor, Keeper of My Mind
My Lover, My Wife, Owner of Heart Mine
Treasured God, Most Precious God, Jewel of My Life
He Who Owns My Soul
The Only God I Follow
My Love, My Life, My Lop
By now a wide (scarred) smile has graced Lop’s features; His eyes were a-twinkling with mirth, and He says: “Are those my kennings, or is this a maiden-song meant to woo me?”
At this Sváss flushes, in as much a beast covered in fur can, and fumbles with his speech. Lop barks a laugh and takes His hound behind the jaws, pulls him into a kiss, effectively drowning out any words His hound and husband might have uttered.
“I like it.” The god says, genuinely, when they part. Sváss says nothing, buries his face in his mate’s chest.
“It proves my point, you know,” continues the god, after a moment more of quiet, contented cuddling.
A pause, before the hound answers: I don’t see how?
“Well, it proves that you can be more than you deem yourself to be, even in this life. You say you’re no craftsman, yet here you are crafting me new titles.”
Putting to words that which is true, is no craft. Says the hound from the crook of his god’s arms, though he could not quite help the smile threatening to crinkle his muzzle.
“Then here I put to truth, titles that you are and will be,” Lop declares, leaning down and ghosting His breath in His hound’s ear: “My Love, My Hound, My Smith, My Maiden-song Writer.”
Sváss sputters and his god laughs; a genuine, sincere thing that sets the hound’s heart aflutter and a pleasant warmth down his gut. Sváss minds not bearing the brunt of the jest if it meant listening to his god’s laughter.
Amidst the merrymaking, the hound thinks to himself: perhaps tomorrow he will try the smithy yet.
Another semi-devotional and symbolic ficlet written for His Lordship, under The Svass and Lop Project.
When you first laid eyes on Him, you thought Him strange. His hair is bright like blood; His eyes are shifty and slitted (it makes you think of those sly, fluffy creatures with brush tails and narrow muzzles); His skin is speckled with innumerous flecks, like dirt clinging to the white coats of your littermates; you notice that His mouth has a neat line of pin-pricked scars, and His smile is charming and genuine and dangerous above all else. You think He is the most beautiful creature you ever saw.
When He picked you up, when He held you level to His eyes, you knew. And when He smiled, you realized He knows that you knew.
You didn’t understand words yet, but you understood when He spoke to your elder. He wanted you. Up till then you never thought you could know joy like you did in that moment.
You were always careful, always obedient, always listened. You did what you were told, you knew your place. Compared to your littermates, you were the epitome of discipline, a model pup. You bit your elder when she pulled you from His arms.
You spend the next few hours whining your discontent.
And all through the night.
And the following nights too.
Your elder shut you in a basket. You did not regret your actions like you were expected to. Instead, you fast.
He snuck into the camp that night. He brought you food: a raw piece of elk. You were still too young, your teeth too soft, so He chews it for you. You took the pieces eagerly from His lips, fasting all but forgotten. You fall asleep in His arms and dreamt of fire for the first time.
The next day your elder gave you to Him. She looked mighty pleased, holding four very large pups you’ve never seen before: an unexpected gift of sheer luck. He feigns surprise when she places you in His arms; you suspect He has everything to do with it.
He names you.
Upon the back of a great, feathered beast was how you left your tribe and all that you knew behind. You should have been terrified, but all you felt was wonder. You burrow a little deeper into His arms.
There is a temple built high, high above ground, nigh invisible to mortal eyes. It sits on one of the branches of the giant ash tree. It is there He sets you down. He calls it home. It is yours now too.
You learn that there are other inhabitants: hired hands and great beasts that walk or fly. You have barely begun exploring before one of them tries to eat you. You watch as He grinds the horned creature’s face into the dirt with His boot. You knew from the eyes of the rest that none shall dare again. You allow yourself to feel just a little important.
He raises you, but not as you were accustomed to. He does not set a bowl on the floor for you. Your meals are taken at His table, in His lap, from His mouth. When you are old enough to chew your own meat, He allows you a seat next to Him. You do not eat before He does, though; that is a rule you insist on keeping, and He indulges you.
You do not sleep on straw-strewn floors, nor on fur-lined carpets. Your place is on His chest, in His arms. When you grow to be too big for this, He sleeps on yours.
He teaches you the runes, and later, how to read and write them. Of course the first thing you chose to write is His name.
From that moment on, you spend hours upon hours sieving through His library: every scroll, book and tome, every tapestry, painting, every map and sketch. You have never known a world as big and wondrous as this.
It was through books of myths and legends that you first come to learn about gods. It speaks of unparalleled powers, unimaginable feats, valiant heroics, gallantry. Yet somehow all you could think of was fire-red hair, gentle hands, scar-lipped smiles. You do not know what this means.
You find His name in the most unlikeliest of places: a children’s mythology book. You devour it faster than wildfire.
You found that you did not like the story (why was He the ‘evil’ one?) You pick up another, hoping the tale would differ if written by another’s hands. By the end of the third book, you only felt worse.
You learn His true identity. Somehow this does not surprise you as much as you thought it would.
You learn what He has done, what He can do. You understood then why sometimes others look to Him with caution bordering on fear. For the first time in your life, you are unsure about Him.
He knows you’ve read it. How could He not? It was He who granted you access to the library. It was He who taught you how to read. He gave you the knowledge. The key. He was waiting. He was there at the threshold of the door when you looked up from the book. You saw His retreating form, a flutter of a sleeve, a flash of flaming locks. You find yourself relieved at His exit, then irate at yourself for having felt thus. His presence was always a comfort, His departure a pain. You wonder when this had changed.
For the first time since arriving at the temple, you do not sleep against Him at night. Rest did not come easy; when it did, you dream of your old tribe.
You wake the following morning, a fur cape draped over your form. You did not need to ask to know whose it was.
You think of the things He’s done for you; the way He have always treated you. Then you think of His actions in the myths. It makes no sense and your confusion only fuels your anger.
You decide to ask Him directly; to confront Him and demand the truth. It is rude and you’re overstepping your boundaries; you know this, but you don’t care.
You cannot find Him anywhere.
You learn from the horned creature (the two of you have grown close, and you now call him ‘brother’) that He left early in the morning, on the backs of one of His feathered beasts. Some part of you is relieved; the other part hates you for being relieved.
You tell yourself you weren’t ready anyway. Then you wondered if He knew this, and gave you a wide berth.
You have nothing left to do but to retreat to your books. It is the only other connection to Him that you have. You realize abruptly that you miss Him, and it is ridiculous because it’s barely been a full day. You leave the library hastily.
There is food on the table at your seat, where you would normally dine with Him. You do not touch it. You convince yourself it’s because you weren’t hungry. The truth is that you do not want to eat before He does.
Up until then, you did not realize time could be slow, that waiting could be agony. You also realize that this is the longest you’ve been without Him, and the knowledge only worsens the longing. You do not sleep at all that night.
You pick up the books again. This time, you focus on what’s been done to Him rather than what He’s done. There was an age when His lips weren’t scarred. The tales take on a new light, and for the first time, you see.
You wait.
He does not come back.
The food has gone bad. The books are worn and dog-eared, flipped through and pored over an uncountable number of times. Except to wait at the courtyard, you do not leave the library. You sleep curled around His cape and books, your nose pressed against an open-page: the only picture of Him in the entire book. It does not look anything like Him at all.
Belatedly, you recall reading that gods can hear pleas. You make your first prayer to Him.
He returns in a frenzy of feathers, in loud, noisy wing beats. You are upon Him before you even remember moving, and His yelp of surprise and laughter is golden and you miss it and you miss Him and you want it all it is not enough you want Him-
When you finally calmed down enough to look upon Him proper, you realize: He was always the same. Words in a tale, stories from a book, myths, legends, they do not tell you what you already know; and you know Him. Intimately. His deeds do not change what He is to you, what you feel about Him.
You realize abruptly that you love Him. This truth is both frightening and liberating.
He smiles at you, and your eyes linger upon those pin-pricked scars. You think of the tales and your heart twinges. You want nothing but to shield Him from all the hurt in the world. It is an absurd thought because He is a god; you know this but you can’t help yourself. He pulls you down (you are now taller than Him; have been for a while) and kisses you square on the muzzle. You wonder briefly if gods can read minds. You realize too that if He could yours, it would not bother you.
You see it in His eyes, understood then that He has been watching, waiting; He wanted to know, needed to know what you would do if you knew Him. Where there was a hint of uncertainty (and perhaps even fear) in those irises, you now see no small amount of relief and, dare you say, affection. You wrap your paws around His frame and kiss Him back.
You wonder secretly if it’s not too much to ask Him to love you too.
Why me? You ask Him one day. He smiles but says nothing. Instead He hands you an old parchment: it’s another story, another tale from a myth; one that was not in the books. Forgotten, or perhaps, left out. It tells of a boy who was hunted by a giant; who was saved only by the cunning and wits of a third god. This story does not paint Him in a poor light, unlike the rest. You like the tale very much. You wonder if that’s why He kept it from you.
He watches you as you read it. When you look up, you meet His eyes and see expectation and… something else. You tell Him you liked the story. He smiles, but it does not quite reach His eyes. In time, He says, and kisses you on the brow. You cannot help feel like you have disappointed Him somehow.
It is many moons later, with His sleeping form draped over your chest (you always choose to sleep on your back, just so He may be most comfortable), with His head pillowed at your throat, when you dream of it: you were not as you are now; not a beast, but an old blacksmith. A man. He came to see you, to ask about your sons. You recognized Him, of course you did; He was your wife. He was surprised that you knew, was able to see through His guise of eight winters as a maiden. How could you not, you said, you have always known. He was the same, even if different in face and form. From the moment He first saved you, you knew you would recognize Him anywhere. He looked upon you with fondness in His eyes (it is how He’s always looked at you; you will realize this when you wake), and made a promise that bound your wryd to His, and Him yours. Like tangled strings. He marked you as His.
You awoke with a cry and wetness in your eyes. It jerks Him from His slumber (if you weren’t already brimming with emotions, you would have found His half-lid eyes and rest-mussed hair most adorable). He rubs sleep from His face with His wrist and asks you whatever was the matter.
You call Him by her name.
You never knew a god could cry.
There were always those days when the light is just right, that out of the corner of your eyes, you can almost see a most peculiar red string. It seems to run from you to Him. Or perhaps from Him to you.
You now know why.
For those who might be curious, the tale with the giant and the boy can be read here (it is a re-telling of Lokatattur). The tale of the blacksmith (sequel to the former story) can be read here.
Semi-devotional and symbolic ficlet written for His Lordship, under The Svass and Lop Project. Please do not remove the text. The image-only version is HERE.
I have failed you. This was the first sentence out of Sváss' muzzle, the moment the coughing and heaving stopped being wet and choked with pain.
His god was sat, sprawled but a few paces away from the collapsed tokota, breath heavy but not for the same reason. His fiery tresses were plastered to His face, His eyes a little wild from worry. His sleeves were muddy, and He was wet from the waist down. Overall the deity was no worse for wear, especially compared to His half-drowned companion.
This had been a simple task: a first solo expedition for the large houndbear, to bring back what he could that which he deemed useful; materials, scraps, perhaps some firewood. It had been a simple task. Up until he chose to cross the river on that fallen pine trunk. Gnawed out and hollowed, it gave way beneath his heavy paws; and desperate to salvage his loot, the tokota had swum after it, heedless of the danger. It was not before hitting the rapids that the gravity of his mistake fully sank in.
The god had come immediately to his call of distress. Yet even so, the bedraggled beast was by then too cold, too beaten, too exhausted to do much but cling helplessly to the outstretched hands.
.
"I'm not losing you," the god had snarled. "Not yet. Not like this-" And perhaps the note of anguish in his lord's tone was what found strength in the tokota for a final heave.
And now they sat, panting, the god's eyes on His mate and His mate's eyes on anywhere but He.
I'm sorry. Ears flattened and head bowed, the tokota could not face his master. I am useless. It was but a simple task; one he was unable to accomplish despite. He is a failure, useless, worthl-
"Don't," the god cuts in. "Do not." An emphasis.
The beast ducks his head and stumbles to his feet on shaky knees, tries to turn away-
In a flash, his god was upon him, one hand digging into his scruff. The hold itself was not forceful, not restraining; and if he tried, the tokota could easily have shaken loose. Yet it may just as well be an iron grip. The hound would not, could not, bring himself to deny his lord.
The deity reached another hand down to tip the beast's head up to His own.
"Look at me." Almost a command; Sváss obeys, albeit hesitant.
"You do not hide. Not from me. Never from me."
My lord...
The hand presses down, insistent, and the hound yields. Sváss bares his throat and belly to his lord and mate, tail tucked to his middle. A dominance ritual; though the tokota suspects done not for its intended purpose, but an excuse to stop his fleeing. Both of them knew the hound would never challenge the master.
Still, he protests. -but my lord, you deserve not one who fails you.
"Pray tell, if it had been one of my brothers and not I, who came to your aid just now and they succeed where I have not, would you now have me replaced? Would you prostrate yourself before them and claim them your new lord?"
My lord, I would never-
"Then why do you think me capable of such?" The tone is playful, yet sigh-laden. "I do sometimes wonder if I should be insulted by your lack of faith in me."
The tokota's tail tip wags once, twice; a sheepish display. My lord, my faith in you is ever unwavering; it is in me where you place yours that I fail to see the wisdom of. That and besides, you are a god. It is different.
"Not quite so different. There are always apostates abound. In fact, many are especially fond of renouncing my name." Sváss felt the fingers in his scruff twitch, then relax noticeably. Deliberate. Somehow that was worse than if the deity had tightened His grip.
Not I, my lord, never I. It is to you whom I swear fealty; my loyalty and faith reside in no other god but you.
"Not even my brother, Lord of the gods?"
Not even He.
"You are mine, and mine only?" If the tokota could but see his lord's eyes in this instance, there he would find a glint of possessive hunger in the flickering, blue-fire depths. The sight, rather than terrify, would have instead kindled a strange flame in the beast’s gut.
In entirety. Was the houndbear's answer.
The god smiles. The grip in his scruff does tighten now.
"Then I will not have you down-talk yourself. So long as it is my presence you crave in your moments of peril, so long as it is my name on your tongue in your throes of ecstasy, so long as I am your god, you do not insult that which I claim as mine own.”
The hand on his scruff disappears, and Sváss chances tilting his head to look, only to be met with arms around his neck and the hot press of a face against his throat. The hound had a moment to think now He's wet from the waist up too before he's closing his eyes and settling back against the ground, deity upon his chest. A forepaw lifts, hesitant, then settles gently across the back of his god.
His lord sighs, murmurs into the wet fur, "I wasn't ready," pulls back far enough to look the hound in the eye, "I wasn't ready to lose you yet." And there it was: the same questing look for any semblance of the hound’s recollection; the tendrils of longing for a thousand lifetimes’ memories, a subtle probing of do you remember?
This was not the first time the tokota has been looked upon in this manner by his lord. The weight of that gaze is terrible, and Sváss feels a fraction too tiny, a piece too small to be whole. His lord sees in him a full story, lifetimes upon lifetimes of tales told, yet he feels no more than a page torn from a lost book: incomplete.
But he dares not look away; has learnt that if he did, the veiled injured look on his god’s face was a spear through his very core. Sváss holds the gaze. I’m here. You will never lose me, my lord.
The deity smiles, a slow, wistful thing; leans in and presses lips to the brow of the tokota, right between the eyes and on the bridge of the hound’s muzzle. The kiss was feather-light, and it carried the weight of a thousand oaths given, and a thousand more taken. The hound feels it reverberate through his soul, and shudders.
They remain like this for a moment too long to be considered chaste.
When the god finally pulls away, there was a smear of muddy imprint on the corner of His mouth, gift of Sváss' bedraggled state.
The tokota does not think, does not seek permission (does not need to) before he's leaning forward and swiping a warm tongue upon his love’s mouth, washing the dirt away. His god barks out a laugh, breathless, and opens up to His mate’s ministrations.
The tokota swears silently to himself then, that he will (but not for his own sake) fight on and live fiercely through whatever means necessary, until the day his god is ready for him to die.
The god had come immediately to his call of distress. Yet even so, the bedraggled beast was by then too cold, too beaten, too exhausted to do much but cling helplessly to the outstretched hands.
“I’m not losing you,” the god had snarled. “Not yet. Not like this-” And perhaps the note of anguish in his lord’s tone was what found strength in the tokota for a final heave.
A 200 word drabble written for this project.
Can be read alongside this piece and its sequel, since they’re somewhat relevant and inspired by one another.
"Beautiful, isn't it?" the god said, tracing flames in the air. A tiny spark zips haphazardly between His palms, shoot up and explodes with a tiny pop; a miniature firework for an audience of two.
The tokota hums, pulls his master further against his own chest with gentle paws around the waist. Obligingly, the deity leans back and relaxes into the warm fur.
"I should teach you," the god decides, on a whim.
I cannot wield magic. The tokota reminds Him. I'm not built for it.
"Not this lifetime, no." replies the deity. "Perhaps in another cycle, once you are mine again."
The large beast says nothing. There is no suitable response, and the silence stretches on.
A second spark forms between His palms, and the deity subconsciously darts a tongue out to wet His lips, concentrating on the flame. His mate follows the path of that pink tongue with eager eyes, lingering on the wet shimmer upon pinpoint scars. The spark bursts into another shower of flame. The brightness momentarily bathes them in golden light.
"Beautiful, isn't it?" The god asks again, His smile adazzle.
Mhm. The tokota agrees, looking not at the same flame as his master. Beautiful.
Originally, I had not intended to post any of these here, since it was less devotional in nature but rather, more art and whimsical storytelling.
Yet after thinking it through, I suppose they’re all in a way, gifts to Him; and since He is indeed the main focus in these pictures and stories, it’s relevant enough to share. Besides, due to the amount of work and changes He’s brought into my life, He’s left me reeling while trying to achieve the goals He’s set for me. And though I’m enjoying every moment of it and my devotion for Him is stronger than ever (and hope to remain so, if not more), it has also sadly, left me no real time to maintain this blog. So instead of only posting devotional posts, I thought to perhaps share the most recent project I’ve picked up, which also has Him at the center of it.
I recently joined an Art Roleplay Group which focuses on drawing different prompts and given quests. Their world lore revolves around the idea of the bond between handler/riders and their large, bear-dog mounts.
Without getting into too much details, the project I picked up is this: I'd request permission from Him to design Him a character that is heavily based on Him, which will in turn serve as the rider/handler, and I would myself acquire and design a mount in representation of myself. The two characters I would then draw and write stories of, based on the given prompts and my own inspirations and whims.
So far, the above works are what I have come up with. There will be more soon.
There’s actually a bit of a story and lesson to go with this:
Like the idiot that I am, every single year I’ll forget it’s July until He’s already restless for a few days. I’m surprised He’s tolerated my cluelessness thus far. I’m the most terrible devotee, I’m sorry :’D
After having realized it’s His month, I set about trying to find the most perfect and grand idea to put into art. It’s a gift for His Highness, so it’s gotta be perfect, no? Can’t just doodle anything, nope nope.
The thing was, that gravity of work I put upon myself inadvertently threw me into an art block. “This wouldn’t do, that is too trivial, this isn’t good enough, omfg why can’t I do something better, this is rubbish of an idea.” And in doing so, I forgot some of the most important lessons He’s taught me in art: Just do. Don’t think.
From my personal experience (and the experience of some others as well), while Loki knows how to enjoy big, expensive, elaborate gifts like any other deity, He seems to appreciate and sometimes maybe even prefer(?) small but consistent gestures and thoughts more so. A little gift every now and then to show Him that He’s on your mind, rather than a gigantic present every once in a blue moon. And somehow I’ve forgotten this entirely.
Something ‘new’ and ‘entirely outside of my comfort zone’ is what He always pushes me to do in art, and so, with all of that in mind, this pic was born.
I have not the simplest idea of what I was doing or trying to achieve with this picture; I was practically flying blind. There was no planning whatsoever: the posture was the result of a circle and a single squiggly line, upon which I immediately began to do fur textures? Following that are colours and then lineart, which ended in shadows and highlights? It is truly chaotic. The result is by no means ‘grand’, but it was one hell of an experience; and to be frank, very very fun. Maybe that was His purpose all along.
Either way, I am rather proud of the result, and I hope that it makes up for my lateness in contributing to this month of July.
This is done in your honor, my Lord. I hope you like it.
OOT: While I was writing His name in runes in the picture, He was making quite a racket at the altar. At first I attributed it to maybe His excitement at my finally finishing up a gift. It was not until 5 minutes later that I realized I accidentally wrote His name as ‘Koki.’
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