Chapter Text
Peter huffed in frustration as the notes he played on the harp were as irritating as a full-body rash. He shoved himself off his stool and stomped over to his sitar and plucked the strings. He gritted his teeth as another atrocious sound came from the instrument. There was a song in his head that floated just beyond his grasp. It pleaded for him to breathe it into existence. He heard it whisper along his ears, yet whenever he picked up an instrument to play, the wrong sound came out.
It had been like this for days, and while other deities would think a few days nothing, for Peter days without creating new music was torture. He was a god of sound—the god of music. To go a day without stringing notes together would be like a mortal not breathing for minutes on end.
Peter took a breath and looked about his room of instruments. He waited for the moment that one would stand out to him and beckon him to it, but all of his instruments—his tools—were little more than carcasses collecting dust.
“I sense your frustration, my son.” Ego, Peter’s father and a god of creation, formed from the shadows of Peter’s room. He had taken on a form similar to Peter’s, appearing as an older human man with still quite a bit of youth and energy. His eyes appeared like that of terran men, but there was still a shimmer to his gaze that was an echo of his true eyes.
Ego surveyed the room that Peter had let fallen dark after his first few days of struggling to compose the song that danced through his head like a nymph.
Ego strode up to Peter and rested his hand on Peter’s shoulder. “This world of ours that I have created quakes with your frustration and cries out in sympathy.”
Peter huffed, not believing his father for a moment. The planet that they lived on was one of Ego’s creation and followed Ego’s will. It would not react sympathetically to Peter’s emotions, unless his father willed it so.
And if Ego were willing the planet to respond to Peter, then Ego was up to something, and Peter was not keen on being manipulated.
“I’m telling you the truth.” Ego dropped his hand from Peter’s shoulder. He looked forlornly toward the balcony then back at Peter. With a soft yet sad smile, Ego nodded at the balcony then strolled over to it.
Peter sighed and followed his father.
Night had fallen on the planet, yet from balcony of his palace, Peter could see the mountains and rivers crafted by his father in the distance. The black sky shined with silver light, and Peter felt a tug of inspiration, but the notes that came to him leaped on one another—dog piling—making it impossible for him to discern the music that wished to be born.
The stars in the sky were not the same ones that had been there the previous night.
“You’ve moved us,” Peter stated. Annoyance at having not been consulted on the move itched under Peter’s skin, but he kept his words to himself. It wasn’t unusual for Ego to move their home from time to time. Peter was just feeling a little more irritable due to his lack of creative output, and he refused to take it out on his father.
Ego smiled and gestured at the night sky. “Stay out here for a little while, and I promise you will see something that will at the very least entertain you, if not inspire you.”
Peter crossed his arms and rested them on the balcony as he leaned forward. “Sure thing, Dad.”
Ego was not perturbed by Peter’s sarcasm in the slightest. He patted Peter’s shoulder one last time as he promised Peter that he would not be disappointed as long as he waited just a tad. Ego then broke contact with Peter. When he did, his physical manifestation sparkled and faded until it had vanished.
Peter let out a long breath as he peered at the sky. He and his father had very different opinions on what was interesting, but at that point, Peter was so desperate for something to come along and punch the music out of him that he was willing to play along with his father’s machinations.
A swarm of lights swirled in the eastern sky.
Peter lifted his head, his attention piqued.
The lights drew near. They twinkled and swirled, and carried with them a joyous laugh.
It wasn’t until the lights hovered just a little aways from Peter that he could see that the lights were the souls of mortals, and dancing in the center of them was a figure dressed in a red and gold cloak who wore a white fox mask with red painted marks. The man was in constant movement. He pranced on the balls of feet, and danced from one soul to the next, teasing them with touches and gentle pushes onward.
The souls slowed down and stopped above Peter.
The fox-man paused in his dance amongst the stars and souls. Two black holes made up the eyes of the mask, and those eyes studied Peter. The man cocked his head for a moment then straightened. With a laugh, he flew to the front of the souls and waved them onward, encouraging them once again with his dance and touches.
Needing only the man’s encouragement, the souls followed the fox-man through the sky and away from Peter and his home.
Peter watched until the last soul was out of sight.
Alone, he sucked in a deep breath.
Clarity hit him, and he knew exactly what notes he wished to play and with what instruments. He rushed into his room and seated himself at the grand piano. Slow, soft notes dripped from his fingertips then flowed into a torrent of shifting sounds of happiness and wonder. His newfound melody was just the beginnings of a symphony.
Peter had not joined his father for breakfast the following morning. His head was overflowing with sounds, but whereas before he couldn’t bring his music to life, now he struggled to decide which music he wished to play. He jumped from instrument to instrument, as he shifted between songs. He did not have the patience to eat that morning, especially when, unlike mortals, it wasn’t necessary for him to eat multiple times in one day.
However, the act of having breakfast with his father was routine, so he was not surprised when Ego appeared in his room hours later.
Ego grinned as he seated himself on the piano bench.
Peter strummed a guitar before setting the guitar down and jumping to the drums.
“So the procession of dead inspired you after all,” Ego said.
“You could say that.” Peter drummed out a lax rhythm then stopped. The hours he’d spent crafting music that morning had been filled with thoughts of the fox-man who had led the souls through the sky. “What was up with the fox guy?”
Ego frowned and tilted his head. For a beat, Ego’s human-like eyes flickered into black orbs that looked like the night sky, then returned to their human-like appearance. “Ah! Anthony, or Tony as I hear he likes to be called now.” Ego chuckled. “He would be Death’s son. A god like yourself; however, he has grown fond of playing reaper. I’ve heard that he likes to wear masks as he leads the dead to their final resting place.”
“Tony,” Peter repeated, getting a feel for the name on his lips.
Ego nodded. “He’s known for guiding the souls through this area. I am happy you got to see the souls he had gathered. I’ve always found the procession of the dead to be a beautiful sight. I’m glad in the end you found it so too.”
Peter moved away from his drums. He stroked his fingers along the strings of his pedal harp. The souls had been nice to look at, but Peter would be lying if he said that they had been the source of his inspiration. Tony’s graceful movements as he played with the souls and guided them had been what had intrigued him and given him clarity.
“It really helped.” Peter looked to his father. “We’ll be staying here for some time, right?”
“The universe needs music, and for there to be music you must be inspired.” Ego chuckled. “I’d be a rather cruel god if I took you away from your inspiration so soon.”
Peter didn’t comment. Instead he picked up his flute and began to work on a song that could entrance the dead, and perhaps a god-turned reaper too.