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“I don’t think that Phastos likes me.”
Sprite shot him an amused glance from the corner of her eye, distracted away from her floating hands creating little renditions of myths dancing across the stone slab they were perched on, one of many arranged around as humans mingled amongst each other, “Don’t worry about him, he’s always a little uptight when he’s working.”
Ikaris nodded at her words, storing them away in the file under the inventor’s name, and tried not to show his discomfort as a few humans brushed closer, gasping in awe at Sprite’s illusions. There were so many of them, dancing and laughing and talking to each other, and sure Ikaris had encountered gatherings of humans before - except, that was when they were terrified and there were deviants running around and Ikaris could do that . This? He didn’t know what to do with this.
“Relax,” Sprite said, kicking him in the shin which really ouch that hurt - were friends supposed to hurt each other? “They don’t bite.”
But Ikaris knew that, of course. If they bit, surely Sersi wouldn’t be as fond of them as she was, would she?
A small, disdaining scoff sounded behind them, a voice he’d heard just earlier in the evening, “no the little ones definitely do.”
Sprite’s eyebrows rose steadily on her forehead, smile curling mockingly across her cheeks. She shifted her weight to her arm, twisted her torso around. Ikaris turned in his seat quickly.
“Oh wow,” Sprite whistled in a long, sarcastic drawl, “you really did make it, Phastos, what a surprise. We were really starting to think death was imminent the moment you stepped out of your lab.”
Phastos indeed stood there, arms hanging by his sides, expression droll, “haha, very funny Sprite.”
Sprite preened smugly, and quickly sent a burst of fireworks into the air to entertain a group of impatient children waiting a few feet away, “so what made you ditch your butt?”
“My boat ,” Phastos snapped with a roll of his eyes, and Ikaris refrained from interrupting to either defend Sprite for making a small mistake, or eagerly agree with Phastos that mistaking it for a butt was stupid very stupid and Ikaris couldn’t believe she would do that.
Luckily for his dignity, his attention was pulled away by the sight of Sersi in the middle of the circle of dancers, head thrown back mid laugh, dressed in traditional clothing like all the other women. She was so very beautiful, he thought.
To the side of his face, Phastos stepped up a bit, said rather pointedly, “I kept on getting pestered, figured it was telling me something.”
The dance was really quite something, Ikaris could admit to himself. Well, he’d never seen the appeal before but then again he’d never really attended one of these celebrations before either.
“Was it Ikaris? I bet it was Ikaris,” Sprite guffawed, nudged Ikaris’ side with a sharp elbow, “he’s under the impression you hate him.”
“I don’t hate him,” Phastos voice drifted by and that was a relief, really it was. Ikaris didn’t like making enemies. His shoulders relaxed a bit for the first time that evening, as the dancers turned, switching up the rhythm to their beating steps against the ground.
And Sersi, everything Sersi did was mesmerizing. She seemed to glow amongst the fleeting mortal blood around her, twirling, lifting her knee in a little jump, clapping her hands and swirling them around her. Her dark hair was pinned up by her ears, thick and glossy and catching the light bouncing off the heavy golden rings dangling from her ears. She wore beads around her neck, a headdress atop her head, pleated in gold like a goddess.
“He’s dense,” Sprite said, poked Ikaris in the ribs, “you’re dense. How long were you going to wait to introduce yourself anyway?”
Ikaris blinked, and turned his head in surprise, “sorry?”
She rolled her eyes hard, “probably forever, forget it,” and shoved a wooden container filled with some sort of liquid into his hands. Ikaris took it, if only to keep it from falling and spilling all over the floor. It was slightly bitter smelling, but with a sweet undertone. Kind of like Sprite.
Phastos snorted, and quite suddenly, Ikaris found a very small, angry face in his space,
“You did not just say that,” Sprite snarled shrilly, teeth bared like a wild animal.
“I-” Ikaris started, and then stopped, a little stumped. Did she mean to fight him? But surely not, Sprite was a thinker not a fighter. Ikaris could beat her, “I did not mean to insult.”
“Oh didn’t you,” Sprite laughed a bit meanly, though she didn’t look truly furious, “look what i’m doing for you, trying to loosen you up and give you presents and you compare me to a beverage.”
Something glinted in her eyes then, warm gold flickering along her fingers like fine thread, “you know if Kingo did that, I’d have already-”
“Oh hey Sersi!” Phastos’ voice raised loudly over the babble of noise, waving a hand with false cheer. When Sprite paused to glance over, he arched a brow at Ikaris as though saying your welcome.
Ikaris was already looking back at his fellow eternal. Sersi was indeed picking her way over, hands grasping at the fabrics of her skirt to keep it from sweeping the ground, a bright smile adorning her face.
“Hey!” she said breathlessly, flushed cheeks and sparkling eyes, “I didn’t expect to see you here, Phastos.”
“Ah, well, you know-”
“Neither did any of us,” Sprite muttered under her breath, ignoring the scowl sent her way, and then smirked slyly, “guess who else decided to gift us with their presence, Sersi?”
Ikaris’ breath halted in his lungs as he was suddenly subject to the full weight of Sersi’s attention. If possible, she brightened even further, practically glowing in happiness,
“Ikaris,” she greeted, kind face softening like he was something special to her despite the fact that he’s been barely around her, “it’s so lovely to see you here.”
A stone settled in his gut, “hello, Sersi.”
Phastos coughed behind him, sharp and lingering like he was trying not to laugh.
“He’s been making real efforts at socializing lately,” Sprite bragged, then fluttered her lashes, a coy peer of her eyes upwards, “all for you Sersi.”
Ikaris tensed, feeling the muscle seizing up in his neck as panic made heat crawl up his ears. He suddenly understood why the smaller eternal went around kicking people in the shins, if the urge to kick her back was anything to go by.
Sersi either ignored the mockery, or didn’t pick up on it, “I knew you’d come around to everyone, Ikaris,” she beamed, “though you should really be doing it for yourself too, you know. Everyone’s wanted to know you beyond the battlefield.”
Ikaris was kind of starting to see the appeal as well. Sprite seemed to like him and Phastos was kind enough, and it was nice. To talk with them.
At least, Ikaris was starting to see the consequences of not talking to them sooner. It seemed that while he was too focused on deviants and death, everyone else was using the pockets of free time between missions to introduce themselves without him there to monitor. But there wasn’t really anything to monitor, and even if there was, it was clear that Ikaris was out of his depth.
Really, out of his depth. He didn’t like it.
“So you’ve gotten to know everyone’s names now?” Phastos jabbed humorously.
“Oh buddy ,” Sprite cackled, “how many years have we been here?”
Sersi’s hands went to her hips, and Ikaris braced himself for the sharp end of her tongue. He knew it wasn’t good that he didn’t know everyone he really did. In his defense, he didn’t think it was necessary exactly, and he was busy fighting deviants. Protecting people. Humans. Sersi. What mattered.
Instead, Sersi tapped her foot at Sprite and Phastos, “be nice.”
The two snickered to themselves, and Ikaris smiled at her, pleased when she smiled back.
“Do you need any more introductions?” she asked kindly, and Ikaris shook his head quickly,
“No, don’t trouble yourself.”
“I don’t believe you,” Sprite claimed, climbing to her feet so that she was taller than all of them, standing on their stone slab, “also, are you drinking that or not?”
Ikaris glanced back down to the container still in his grasp, and shook his head. Sprite shrugged and took it back. She passed it around the group, finally taking a large swig herself before setting it down and pointed an accusing finger right between Ikaris’ eyes, “list everyone.”
Cross eyed, he leaned back a bit, “ah, well-”
“So you can’t do it,” Phastos said, and Ikaris scowled at him,
“Wait. I know everyone. Sersi, Phastos, Sprite. Thena…”
Ikaris tilted his chin, grinned at them, “Ajak, Gilgamesh, Kingo, Makkari.”
It was silent for a moment, before Sersi piped up gently, “and Druig.”
“Who?”
Sprite sniggered quietly behind a hand and Phastos let out a long sigh through his nose.
“The last member of our team,” Sersi clarified earnestly, placing a hand on Ikaris’ elbow lightly, “he controls minds.”
Discomfort shifted unpleasantly in Ikaris’ stomach, “can he control ours?”
“I’ve never asked.”
“He never has, at least,” Phastos shrugged, “usually he just broods in the corner of the room.”
The silent one, Ikaris thought. When he voiced this aloud, Sprite smirked, “nice descriptions you’ve got there. You have that for everybody?”
Ikaris thought it best he didn’t tell her that she’d been the small and orange haired one.
“It’s accurate enough,” Phastos considered, “I’m sure he didn’t say anything for over a year.”
“He’s just reticent,” Sersi defended, and Sprite tittered,
“Already so alike, you both.”
“Antisocial, a little dickish,” Phastos offered.
“Though he’s more teenage angst than you are,” Sprite assured, which was odd coming from someone with the body of a twelve year old.
Ikaris stared, unsure whether to be offended but feeling his hackles rise nonetheless, “and what am I, then?”
She made a face, “obsessed with work, mid life crisis, no friends, kicked puppy.”
Now he was offended.
Before he could retort, Sersi’s hand tightened on his arm and she leaned toward him, “I think you’d really get along,” she insisted.
Well, Ikaris supposed, he was trying to make friends. And if Sersi thought so, maybe it was true. He trusted Sersi.
“Where is he?”
“Who knows,” Sprite said, “and good luck looking.”
—
Ikaris found him a mile outside, where the sounds of the party were distant and muffled, barely whispers in the sluggish breeze of the warm evening.
Druig was facing away from him, watching a few workers building some sort of house-like structure. At the center was a statue, a young woman with braided hair and a worldly set to her shoulders. A god, roughly cut, vaguely resembling one of the eternals.
Without looking backwards, Druig stated quietly, “they wanted a way to show their gratitude after Makkari took the schoolchildren away from the Deviant attack last week.”
He was built youthfully, dark hair brushing his forehead, full cheeks, hands clasped behind his back woodenly. He turned his head slightly, angular blue eyes dragging backwards, lips quirking in a thin smirk, “hello, Ikaris.”
Ikaris cleared his throat awkwardly, straightening his shoulders and assuming a similar stiff posture, “did you mind control them to that?”
He almost winced with how accusing it came out, how the demand rattled in his own mind and the way Druig’s expression fell closed and flat. The reticent eternal looked away again, and when he spoke again, his tone had lost some of its faraway, introspective warmth, “you’re very opinionated, m’lord.”
His smile was back, but a little more unforgiving, lips pronouncing a Sumerian word that Ikaris did not know. Know-nothing , his mind supplied, and his entire body startled, eyes darting towards his fellow eternals own, edges stained in gold.
“That- whatever you did, did not help disabuse my opinions,” Ikaris pointed out warily.
Druig’s chin tilted, but he didn’t look at him, “at least now you’ll know when the locals are laughing at you.”
“Is that supposed to be an apology?”
“If that is what you are looking for,” Druig shrugged, “my apologies, m’lord, my abilities slip and your mind was already searching for an explanation from mine.”
Ikaris blinked once, thrown. He wasn’t expecting an actual apology, not with the careless way Sprite and Phastos jabbed and jeered and kicked him in the shins.
“Phastos said you didn’t speak for the first year of our mission.”
Druig turned towards him then, unreadable in his expression but with a solemn air to him. It was a strange contrast with his young face and timeless eyes. He had much of the same effect as Sprite in her twelve year old body.
“There are a lot of people in this world, Ikaris,” Druig said, “it is a very loud, full place. I imagined, at the time, that no one would be able to hear me even if I did add to the noise.”
A breeze blew a cold chill down Ikaris’ spine.
They stayed silent for a few minutes.
Eventually, Druig jerked his chin towards the workers, “the humans are quite clever, aren’t they?”
Ikaris frowned, “they are just humans.”
“I didn’t find them very interesting either,” Druig agreed distantly, “but as we spend our time helping them, I’ve found that…they are quite philosophical beings, kind and clever, and their culture is something not even Phastos could create.”
Ikaris didn’t know what to say to that, so he didn’t respond at all. Druig smirked at him, “Underestimating them does not help them, Ikaris.”
“I protect them from the Deviants. That is all my purpose is- not appreciating or philosophizing or- or attempting to be a species that I am not.”
Ikaris wasn’t exactly sure why he felt frustrated with his fellow eternal, why anger, hot and sparking, sizzled under his skin. Sersi loved the humans too, and he was not angry or frustrated or contemptuous with her for growing attached. Druig’s smile widened knowingly, showing teeth, “so attached to a purpose not sought and explored for yourself, Ikaris. Why are you so afraid of mind control when your mind is not free?”
Ikaris’ jaw clenched tightly, “you are not allowed.”
Druig nodded, “that is where we differ, I guess. You are afraid of having no purpose, and I already have none.”
“We all have a purpose, Druig,” Ikaris snapped, hands clenching, “it is Arishem’s will. That is our purpose.”
Druig turned his back silently, “that is what I have been told.”
Ikaris wasn’t sure he liked this boy, with his piercing words, pensive and all smugness in the curve of his mouth. He wanted to shake him.
“That is the truth.”
Druig nodded absently, but there was a stubborn willfulness to his stance that made Ikaris feel all kinds of on edge, “so it was your faith that kept you from everyone else for the past twenty years.”
“No one but Sersi seems to want to forgive me,” Ikaris admitted after a moment.
“You’re a mindlessly loyal soldier, Ikaris,” Druig scoffed, and Ikaris drew up defensively, “you could hardly help it,” then, mockingly, “a god has no time for the ants it saves.”
“We are not gods, Druig,” Ikaris said tightly, eyes going back to the statue of Makkari and the temple.
“ I am not a god,” Druig corrected, and this conversation was taking Ikaris in circles. He really did not know what to do with this eternal.
“You know,” Druig said, “if you started thinking of the rest of us as family instead of soldiers, and the humans as people instead of casualties, you might be happier.”
“Family” Ikaris repeated, the word awkward in his mouth, ill fitting like it was not meant to be there.
“You’re my brother,” Druig shrugged, shoulders slouching a bit downwards toward the end, almost shy if Ikaris hadn’t learned how infuriatingly smug the other eternal was, “and to you I am a pawn. How does that work?”
Skin prickling all over like it had been rubbed raw with sand, Ikaris turned around and walked away. Despite attempting to keep his steps even, his breath measured, the air felt hot in his lungs and his ears buzzed.
No, he really did not like this Druig. Brother or not.