Snippet #1135101

Danse Mors self-consciously folds his arms to hide the crude marks. He was not ashamed at his scars, but at the perpetrator of them. His host was so obsessed with Death and yet when he came to call, he changed his mind. Yet another pet peeve about humans that irked him so was their inconsistency. A sentence in Limbo would teach that little snot a lesson. How he missed Limbo, the sweet middle of nothingness and something-ness and the respect given to him by its mournful residents. He acknowledged Cassius’ attempt at being civil, to keep herself free.

However as Maisie opens her mouth to berate them, Danse was struck with rage. He opened his mouth to spit venom but Cassius had taken the challenge and with vigor. One had to be impressed that despite the imprisonment and emaciation, the goddess had not lost her bite. He stood up, bringing himself to his full height as Cassius devolved into sputtering hysterics. He leaned over towards Maisie, casting a long shadow over the crying goddess. With a twisted smile, he spoke, “You may find it effortless to be in these meat sacks, little magpie, but not everyone here can contain their magnanimous power into a form so weak and small,” He reached out to lift her chin so that she could not hide from him. “I hardly think you a god at all, more a manifestation of a human’s suffering; a coping mechanism. Try to be a little considerate then, shall you, for gods that knew a time of great silence,”

He turned away from Maisie, leaving her to her tears. He looked to Quagmire, appreciating, for once, his point of view. “You’re lucky you reacted so well to your own origin, if we can even call it that… But for some, it was traumatic. And for a few, the creation of the universe continues to aggravate that trauma. I know you can’t understand that; the emotional implications of life but don’t discount its place,” Danse surprised himself with his own sense of calm but Quagmire’s exposition had stirred something deep within. It took him a moment to name it but once he did, he saw it as guilt. He could still remember the blotches, the unformed space, and the suffocation. The relentless stirring of some unnamed thing, he couldn’t stand it and so he didn’t; he fought against it; sought to end it. And somehow he did; took something into nothing but as he did, it felt like an explosion, a growing awareness of more things. The more he ended, the more began. Even now, he wondered if he was not accidently responsible for creation. When humans spoke of the Big Bang, he felt an eternal pang of guilt.