CHAPTER TWO
Gabriel did not receive many prayers these days. Well, not to Loki; there was always a steady stream of prayers to the Messenger of God, humans being clueless to the fact he'd basically done the angelic-equivalent of running away from home aaaages ago. But it wasn't like he actually listened to any of those prayers. Mostly. There was the occasional truly desperate prayer that he'd answer but those were more the type where Loki could deliver some just desserts, so they probably didn't count (being an angel was boring anyway– pagans had so much more fun).
Most of the prayers directed to Loki these days were from eccentric Wiccans, the odd hunter every now and then, an occasional demon-witch (they tended to end up very dead when he got a look at their disgusting souls), the rare demon (who he disliked even more then demon-witches and so ended up even deader), rebellious teenagers wanting vengeance rained down upon their classmates or parents or siblings, one of his fellow gods or goddesses or– very, very, very rarely– someone who was desperate enough for the delivery of justice or punishment that they either actually managed to convince themselves Tricksters could exist to deliver it or they just had nothing else left to believe in.
The prayer he was receiving, the one aimed at Loki, was definitely from a human yet it was startlingly strong in both its absolute conviction in the belief that he existed– a hunter, maybe?– and bizarrely pure, despite the grief-rage-hatred-hatred-hatred burning through the words.
It was an old ritual that took him a moment to recognize– the pronunciation of old Norse was very nearly flawless which made him wonder if it was some sort of academic studying Norse pantheons, one who had perhaps stumbled across some evidence during their studies that made them believe 'Loki' was more then just a myth.
Well, there was no point in wondering when he could just go straight to the source, he decided cheerfully. Focusing on where he could feel the altar (he had to commend the thoroughness of his possible future disciple) he transported himself to it, careful to make himself invisible to the room's occupants and to scan first for any sort of trap– he couldn't see any– before turning to his maybe-new worshipper. And then he almost became visible again in pure shock.
A tiny slip of a girl, probably not even fifty pounds soaking wet, was kneeling before a small, homemade altar. She had a head of the craziest curls he'd ever seen– they were literally pure chaos and the part of him that thrived on chaos wanted to tangle his fingers in them, but that was probably bordering on the Bad Touch zone, because had he mentioned that the kid looked like she was in preschool?
Wide-eyed, Gabriel scanned the room again. It was a child's bedroom, very bereft of toys but absolutely cluttered with mythology books seemingly piled on every surface and the floors, as well as a large selection of Greek tragedies that he was pretty sure she was supposed to be too young to actually understand.
Crossing over to the small, child-sized desk he quietly flipped open the spiral notebook sitting on top of one of the book stacks and came across a very long list of Tricksters that Gabriel doubted even he could have named off the top of his head, it was just that thorough. Continuing to flick through the notebook, his disbelief grew with each new page that revealed detailed, handwritten entries on each of the Tricksters, including their strengths, weaknesses, references to particular myths, legends and plays they were present in, references to academic papers written about said myths, legends and plays and her own shockingly detailed character analysis on each of them.
It... it was almost a bit disturbing, actually, but Gabriel was impressed (something not easy to achieve) by the sheer level of effort and detail the girl had put into her research; she certainly hadn't gone summoning him all half-cocked like most rebellious teenagers seeking some sort of lame vengeance for some petty perceived wrong did. Also, Gabriel found himself experiencing a great deal of smugness that out of pretty much all the Tricksters out there, she had chosen him.
Putting the notebook back in its place, Gabriel walked over to the homemade altar and crouched beside the girl whose head was still bowed. She wasn't praying anymore, but she seemed comfortable kneeling in front of the altar she had created.
Curious as to what had driven the little girl to the extreme measures she'd taken, Gabriel shed his Trickster disguise just enough to let out a smidgen of the Archangel he really was peek through to allow him to see the souls of those around him. His eyes then widened again in surprise at the newly revealed soul before him.
If a soul could cry then this soul would be weeping a never-ending ocean of tears. Hermione Jane Granger, like most young children, had a Pure soul, but where most kids had souls that were still whole and largely undamaged by their life experiences, Hermione's had been marred by her overwhelming grief and rage. There would likely always be a scar across her soul's brilliance, but Gabriel personally thought it would look all the better for it.
Perfection was just so boring and he'd always had a thing for the pretty, broken ones, the survivors (and he meant that in a very not-creepy way– he had a thing for jack russels too and that didn't mean he wanted to do sick things to them either).
Turning away from the beautiful, wounded soul of Hermione Granger, Gabriel focused his attention, at last, to the altar. A plain white candle burned steadily and to one side of it there was a stack of surprisingly good quality chocolate– he definitely approved of the offering– and on the other side... the reason she was praying to him, the reason that she was petitioning to a Trickster god.
Gabriel only had to open his mind, to tune into the pagan powers he'd crafted around himself and brush his invisible fingers against the items provided to let the information flow in. He then had to bite back the urge to start smiting things as the tragic tale of Clytemnestra "Ness" Jill Granger unfolded, playing out in his mind. The photo, the hair, the newspaper clipping... and a child's nightgown, light purple with silver bows, the soft fabric now permanently stained rust-red.
As Gabriel touched the nightgown he saw through Hermione's eyes the night that the young girl found her sister's body. He saw how she made part of the door explode under her frantic fists, how she fell into red soaked water while trying to pull her sister out of the tub, how she tangled her limbs with Clytemnestra's so desperately that her face ended up under the water's surface as her father tried pulling his two daughters out and she ended up with a mouthful of her dead sister's blood.
Gabriel yanked his hand back, reeling. Despite not needing to breathe, his lungs felt bizarrely tight. It was hardly the most awful thing he'd seen– far from it, actually; World War II in particular had showed him just how despicably, disgustingly cruel humans could be to each other– but something about it was resonating with him, rattling through him. Perhaps it was witnessing it so viscerally through Hermione's eyes that had affected him?
Oh, he realised, and was hit with the sudden urge to face-palm. Right. He was an idiot, wasn't he? Of course he'd feel it so strongly– this little girl, this beautiful, broken little soul, was one of his. Hermione Granger had pledged herself to him, had vowed her servitude in exchange for him doing what he did best– delivering Just Desserts. It had been centuries since he'd had a true disciple, the fledgling bond between pagan god and worshipper a fragile, flickering thing and yet steely in Hermione's belief-belief-determination-grief-trust-hate-love-Ness-Ness-Ness-belief.
Well, he didn't intend to disappoint.
Gabriel knelt beside the girl again and gently touched her forehead with the tip of his finger. Sleep he urged, catching the small child as her eyes closed and she bonelessly slumped forwards. He could have transported her to her bed with a click of his fingers but instead he lifted her up and held her in his arms, carrying her over to the bed. She was one of his now, or she would be when he fulfilled her petition, and Gabriel took care of what was his. He carefully tucked her in, allowing himself to pet her chaotic curls as he did so, and used just enough grace on the child to ensure she would have nothing but sweet dreams.
Turning back to the altar, Gabriel clicked his fingers, making the chocolate vanish back to his current house and replacing the candle with one that was identical but with wax that wouldn't melt and accidentally burn down her house. He hesitated over the four items she'd provided and ended up only taking the obituary, wanting to leave his little worshipper with the kinder of her mementos. After another moment of hesitation, he removed all the blood from the nightgown and used a brief flare of grace to purify it.
He was about to depart when he realised he'd almost forgot to leave his signature behind and clicked his fingers, making a scatter of colourful Hershey wrappers appear beside the altar, as well as creating a small pile of lollies to leave on her pillow.
Satisfied (for now, at least– he hadn't forgotten the exploding door), Gabriel stretched his six wings and prepared to go weed out every person responsible for the suffering of Clytemnestra Granger and make them pay.
::
Hermione woke up confused and disorientated. She was still in her clothes but she was somehow lying down horizontal on her bed, despite the last thing she remembered was kneeling by the altar and feeling oddly at peace for the first time since that night... and were those lollies on her pillow, close enough to her face they were almost touching her nose?
She sat bolt upright, staring wide-eyed at the colorful candy piled neatly next to where her head had been, somehow all of them still in their precarious position despite the jolting of the mattress that her movements had caused. Still wide-eyed, Hermione turned to her altar and almost fell out of her bed in her shock.
The chocolate offerings were gone! They were actually gone! And there were candy wrappers left behind– and the newspaper clipping had had vanished– and– and– and– her heart stuttered a little as she saw her nightie had not only been cleaned of the dried blood but looked just as it had when her mother had first bought it for her.
Her legs felt too shaky to hold her up so Hermione remained sitting on the bed, her heart swelling with more emotions then she could name. Tears blurred her vision and she hiccupped back sobs as she brought her hands together, bowing over in the direction of her altar.
'Thank you, Loki'