Chapter Text
When the archangels were built, the first two were given power to shape, while the second two were given power to create. The oldest shaped a Heaven cold and orderly; the second tore into the designs of their Creator, perverted beings and laws down to their cores. The third, hoping to follow the first, created beings that would heal beyond any reason, whether the hurt one wanted it or not.
The fourth wanted nothing to do with his role once the first two were finished, and not even the third was enough to make him stay. But the urge to create remained, and finally, in one last act of desperation to expunge the past, the fourth reached out and formed beings. His only wish was for these creatures to help, somewhere and somehow. But he gave them no mission beyond that. The fourth knew what the others had done, the pain they’d caused. He couldn’t risk making the same mistake.
So the creatures found their own mission, and in time forgot who their creator was. That was alright—the fourth had no need for thanks or prayer (at least not from them). But no matter how hard you try to walk away from something you built, it will call to you in need.
And the fourth answered that call.
1786, Pennsylvania
Alanna kept it together until she’d kissed Abigail goodnight and sang her a lullaby. She was grateful that the girl had imagined her the size of a brownie, like the stories from back in the Old Country. It made it easier for her to fit in the cramped closet.
Once she went outside, hoping to see the father coming back and be able to move Abby in time, she flung herself on the ground and burst into tears.
Alanna was young for a zanna, one of the first born in this new land. Abigail was her first child, and she’d been so excited. Her mother was retired now, but she’d taught Alanna everything she knew about taking care of lost children, helping them to find their own strength, and finally how to say goodbye.
Full of hope, Alanna had obeyed Abigail’s call, shaping herself small, and found herself face to face with a child cowering under a table, bruises covering her small face.
Abigail was five. Her mother was dead, the baby that killed her lying sobbing in a filthy cot. Sometimes in the day Abigail would try to take care of the baby, rock her tiny brother and feed him from the little they had.
At night, when the father came home, Abigail would try to hide the baby. Hide herself.
Alanna wanted to fight the man so badly, but she couldn’t. It was the rules. Zanna didn’t fight. They couldn’t affect the real world enough that the child would become suspicious. So Alanna tried to distract Abigail, find her food in the woods and bandages for her arms, but the berries were often stepped on and the bandages ripped off in the father’s drunken rage.
Alanna lifted her face to the sky. Unlike the humans, zanna knew that there were many gods, yet they belonged to none. Of course they were polite and gave thanks when it was due, but the gods treated the zanna like children themselves. Alanna had never minded. Now, though, she brought her hands together the way Abigail did.
“Please,” she begged. “If anyone is listening, help me save these children. They need help; they’re just babies.”
There was no answer; the stars were silent. Alanna bowed her head.
“What’s the trouble, sweetheart?”
Alanna spun around. A man—no, it was a god, he gave off power that felt like crackling lightning and smelled of spun sugar—stood not far from her. “What do you need?” he asked.
Alanna immediately lowered herself to her knees, but the god just picked her up, holding her in his hands. He was only a little bit taller than her mother, with golden hair and eyes that sparkled in the starlight. “What do you need?” he repeated.
“I need help,” Alanna whispered.
“Tell me,” the god said firmly.
So she told him everything.
“Why can’t you run this monster off?” he asked when she was done.
“I don’t have the power,” Alanna admitted. “Even if it wasn’t against our rules, I am not strong enough. I’m young, and Abigail is weak. She cannot imagine me powerful, because she doesn’t know what that feels like.”
“No, and how could she?” The god murmured. He was still holding Alanna. “Tell you what—I’ll help the kids out, but you’ve got to promise to let me do it my way.”
Alanna shivered. There was something dark in his voice, something that rang of vengeance…no. Of judgement. What if she was making a mistake?
Then she heard the father’s horse, bearing its master back from the village tavern, and she knew that no mistake could be worse than doing nothing.
“Don’t hurt the children,” she pleaded.
The god smiled. “You have my word. Now take them and hide.” He put her gently down and cracked his knuckles. “This won’t be pretty.”
Crouched in the bushes, Alanna perched on top of the sleeping baby. Abigail was curled up under the bush, also sleeping. Alanna listened, but there was only silence.
Finally, the god came back, face expressionless. He took the baby from her with gentle hands, and the two of them walked back to the house. The god snapped his fingers, and the crib became clean and soft. Abigail’s closet bed changed too, big enough for a child of five to lie down. A doll was propped on the pillow.
“Don’t worry, the people that are coming tomorrow will see this place for what it was,” the god said as Alanna tucked Abigail in. “These two deserve a soft bed tonight.”
Alanna didn’t answer for a moment. “What will happen?”
“Their mother has a sister out West,” the god answered. “They will take the children, raise them well. They’ve always wanted children of their own.”
Alanna smiled. “Thank you so much.” She paused, heart sinking. “What may I offer you for payment?”
The god’s smile flashed. “You kidding? This is kinda my gig, sweetheart. Happy to help.” He stood and walked to the door. “You know, there is one thing you could do for me.”
“Name it,” Alanna answered instantly.
“Tell the others about me. I won’t always be the solution, but I’ll help out if need be.” The god started to walk out.
“Wait! Tell me your name.”
The god turned, and for a minute Alanna swore she saw the shadows on the wall change, six large shapes appearing by the god’s shoulders. Then he winked, and they vanished.
“Call me Trickster. That’s as good a name as any other.”
True to the god’s word, the next day people took Abigail and her brother away. Alanna went with them, because Abigail was still scared of big people and trains and worried about the journey’s end. Alanna stayed until Abigail said Mommy and Daddy without fear and her brother was given the name Alexander, a real name for the first time. Then Alanna said goodbye, because Abigail was safe now.
But she never forgot.
And word spread among the zanna that there was a name you could call when your child couldn’t be soothed with words or protected with cheer. When the worst happened, you could call out for the god, and he would come. He always came, offered solutions when there were alternatives, and dealing out his own punishment when not.
Mr. Trickster, they called him.
Zanna were polite creatures.