milliways_bar | (no subject)

(no subject)

Jack is carving today, outside under the trees with a view of the new grave. He is humming to himself.

Under his hands the block of wood is taking on a curving horn-shape, with a texture as if it were woven from reeds. There are almost no shavings on the ground.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

"No, they're simpler--but I want this to look right and I haven't done it for a long time. First I give it shape, a place for the magic to focus . . . and then tomorrow--" He stops and grins. "Tomorrow I'll show you. Mustn't ruin the surprise."

"I have yet to complain about any of your surprises. I will be patient." He grins back.

Jack looks up long enough to smile at him. "You've yet to see my entire repitoire," he says mysteriously and then laughs.

The leaves in the tree overhead turn a richer, deeper green.

"Is that a promise or a warning?" He laughs with him, enjoying the levity.

"A promise, my love. A promise."

"I look forward to it." He smiles again, watching the carving.

"I spoke to my friend Catherine today. I told her about you."

"Was she shocked and horrified?" He flicks a bit of sawdust at Gil.

"Surprised to a certain degree, but supportive. She has been a good friend to me for many years. Though you can probably expect an interrogation from her as to your intentions when she meets you." He bats the sawdust back.

"Whatever shall I tell her," Jack says, widening his eyes. He laughs again and blows sawdust from the carving.

"That you do not intend to offer me in the place of a virgin sacrifice would probably ease her mind," he retorts dryly, enjoying the sound of Jack's laughter.

"I don't do human sacrifices," Jack says with an air of superiority.

" . . . not since the late neolithic period anyway."

"That's one worry off my mind."

"And since you're not a virgin . . ." He raises an eyebrow at him.

"You know why so many gods required virgin sacrifices? There's power in virginity. It's some deep magic right there.

"But mine has always been more live-giving than life-taking. For many centuries women left me offerings of their menstrual blood or their afterbirth."

He is not going red. He's simply sitting in a sunny area.

"Many mythological scholars have theorized along those lines," he nods, "though the thought of a human sacrifice in any respect that involves death is one I personally find objectionable."

"What great offering to give a god than his enemy, or a prime example of his creation?" Jack says with a shrug. "We weren't so bound by nicities back then. Things like the Geneva Convention would boggle someone like Ramses the Great or Boadicea."

"What right would I have to demand a fellow to make such a sacrifice?" he counters carefully. "If anything, I would rather see myself killed than anyone else. But I do understand."

"If the chieftain or the shaman said the god demanded a sacrifice, sacrifices were made. They were different times. Lack of proper sacrifices could mean the sun wouldn't rise or the winter would never end.

"But it often was the best of the tribe, the fiercest warrior, the most beautiful maiden. It's not a sacrifice unless it's something you truly miss."

Not something they could ever agree upon, for they are from very different cultural backgrounds.

Intellectually however, "I see what you mean."

Jack carves for a moment. "You must find me terribly barbaric."

"Not barbaric. Different. I am reminding myself to walk softly here--I cannot judge people by my cultural standards. And I refuse to judge you, Jack."

"Thank you," Jack says quietly.

"I never asked for a life in my time. Those were younger, rougher gods, mostly.

"Which is not to say at times lives were offered," he adds with a frown.

"You did not dictate those actions, Jack. That was not your fault." His voice has gone quiet.

"I know." He smiles at Gil. "Perhaps that's why it was easy to forget me--my requests were small and my effects subtle. I never wanted golden temples like Zeus or the beating hearts of my enemies like the Aztec crowd."

"True, but I doubt you are abhorred in my time the way the Aztecs are," he counters gently, "by those who do remember you."

"I'm a garden ornament." He blows off more sawdust and studies the carving critically. "Or grafted into Wicca, which could be worse."