brutha

I’ve been seeing a few posts about how much Bitty would have loved Bey at the half time show, and don’t get me wrong, as a southern boy and beyhive member I’m sure it gave him life, but like, ahem, Formation is Beyonce’s #blackgirlmagic ANTHEM?!? Like can you imagine Nursey and Ransom getting dOWN to it like no one else on the team could understand? I’m sure Nursey is OBSESSED with the video, and Ransom is Canadian and Nigerian but I bet living in the states, he’s got an appreciation for the connections that form being a brutha playing such a white guy sport, yknow? Also that body positivity too tho (baby hairs, afros, beyonce says negro like eight times, like this song got me through my whole life i s2g). So yeah you guys, I bet Bitty LOVED Formation and is gonna stay up late buying tickets to her concert (as am I) but seriously. Bitty has every right to enjoy that song as a ‘woke southern bro, but that ain’t who it’s for. 

Also Georgia fucking goin OFF to this in her office at the Falconer’s HQ after hours w/o a care in the world. That. 

“nobody asked for this”

More small gods fic, because irl one person actually did ask for this

Brutha’s rooms were often mistaken for the head of staff’s by new employees at the Citadel. It wasn’t that Brutha was particularly given to deny himself luxuries for the sake of denying himself luxuries, it was just that his idea of a luxury was still stalled out somewhere around “mattress” and “mirror”. The room was alive and rich with gifts from friends: a silver lamp brought back by Urn from the Sto Plains, a Hersheban carpet bought from a vendor who mistook Brutha for a wandering monk, lovely sturdy blankets from staff members who often forgot the Cenobiarch wasn’t one of their grandchildren, and the mirror—Om’s one and only gift to his prophet.

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Can we talk about Brutha?

Brutha, who walked through the desert, carrying an injured man. Brutha, who knew Vorbis was a murderer, an Inquisitor, a cold torturer of men. Brutha, who saw Vorbis injured on the beach and, knowing the apathy of the desert, carried him on his own back.

Let’s talk about Brutha who was betrayed by the man he trusted entirely, the same man he carried through the desert. Brutha, the true prophet, who spoke to his god every day and knew Vorbis for what he was.

Brutha, who knew his god walked with him every day in the desert. And when he looked back he saw only one set of footprints in the sand, because when things got really difficult he carried his god. Under the arm not supporting Vorbis.

Brutha, who was thrashed to within an inch of his life at the word of the very man he protected and carried through the desert. Brutha, bleeding and hurting and chained to the iron turtle, with the oven under his back getting hotter all the time—he looked up into the merciless gaze of Vorbis and, knowing Om would smite him, did not gloat. “I’m sorry,” he said, and he meant it. Brutha, who was slow and stupid, illiterate, unworthy, looked into the face of his torturer, his killer, and promised justice. But he wasn’t glad of it. He was sorry.

Brutha, who loved his god and strove to be his moral superior. Brutha, who carried his god through the wilderness, fed and nurtured his god when all others shunned him, who gave his god commandments not on stone tablets but on a murmur. Brutha, who promised his god life everlasting if his god believed in him.

Brutha, who was slow and stupid and simple, who knew that an army of ten thousand could not save Omnia from the wrath of her neighbors, but perhaps one man would be enough.

Brutha, who would not die for his god but he would live for him. He would live for him every day, busily, and teach others to do the same. Who filled each day to the brim until, at last, he died. Quietly.

Brutha, who walked with Death into the black desert, setting out on a journey to find Judgement. Brutha, who saw Vorbis there. Cruel, tyrannical, calculating Vorbis, so small and helpless after a near infinity on the cold, lightless dune, the man who not only killed but forced others to kill gladly. And Brutha looked upon this shell of a man, and lifted him up to carry him through the desert once again, leaving behind only one trail of footprints.

Brutha

Brutha’s body toppled forward almost gracefully, smacking into the table. The bowl overturned, and ‘gruel dripped down on to the floor.
And then Brutha stood up, without a second glance at his corpse.
“Hah. I wasn’t expecting you,” he said.
Death stopped leaning against the wall.
HOW FORTUNATE YOU WERE.
“But there’s still such a lot to be done …”
YES. THERE ALWAYS IS.

Brutha followed the gaunt figure through the wall where, instead of the privy that occupied the far side in normal space, there was …
… black sand.
The light was brilliant, crystalline, in a black sky filled with stars.
“Ah. There really is a desert. Does everyone get this?” said Brutha.
WHO KNOWS?
“And what is at the end of the desert?”
JUDGEMENT.
Brutha considered this.
“Which end?”
Death grinned and stepped aside.

What Brutha had thought vas a rock in the sand was a hunched figure, sitting clutching its knees. It looked paralyzed with fear.
He stared.
“Vorbis?” he said.
He looked at Death.
“But Vorbis died a hundred years ago!”
YES. HE HAD TO WALK IT ALL ALONE. ALL ALONE WITH HIMSELF. IF HE DARED.
“He’s been here for a hundred years?”
POSSIBLY NOT. TIME IS DIFFERENT HERE. IT IS … MORE PERSONAL.
“Ah. You mean a hundred years can pass like a few seconds?”
A HUNDRED YEARS CAN PASS LIKE INFINITY.
The black-on-black eyes stared imploringly at Brutha, who reached out automatically, without thinking … and then hesitated.
HE WAS A MURDERER, said Death. AND A CREATOR OF MURDERERS. A TORTURER. WITHOUT PASSION. CRUEL. CALLOUS. COMPASSIONLESS.
“Yes. I know. He’s Vorbis,” said Brutha. Vorbis changed people. Sometimes he changed them into dead people. But he always changed them. That was his triumph.
He sighed.
“But I’m me,” he said.

Vorbis stood up, uncertainly, and followed Brutha across the desert. Death watched them walk away.
—  the ending of SMALL GODS