As their carriage ambled along the untrodden road towards Snowdrop Village, a courier whizzed in through the side of the vehicle, landing in Momo’s land with a plop. She looked at it quizzically; she was just about to inspect Lione’s letter before its intrusion, but given it could be a message from Sumire, she put the envelope aside and took a look at the parchment instead.
Congratulations! For showcasing an unparalleled amount of artistry in your dance choreography, not to mention avoiding death while doing so, your Minor Class, [Artist], has been upgraded to Level 3. Yes, you still have that class, best you not forget about it!
You have gained the skill [Patron of the Arts]
[Patron of the Arts]: Sensing your appreciation for the arts, artists naturally gravitate towards you; you can more easily convince great artists and muses to let you browse their collections, enter their homes, meet their friends, or teach you skills.
Yawnica, Goddess of the Arts, has also bestowed upon you a Blessing for your victory in a much regarded dance competition.
[Blessing of An Artist’s Eye For Detail]: For 24 hours, you are able to detect oddities in the world that others would not.
“Oddities in the world…” Momo repeated aloud. “What is that supposed to mean?”
“Like a beardless dwarf,” Grimli added helpfully. “Or a spider with seven legs instead a’ eight.”
“Uh huh.”
“Or a bard who refuses to sing,” Grimli said with astonishment, as if this was the most inconceivable thing to him, out of all the possible inconceiveabilities. “I heard a legend about that once. About an undead bard named Oreo whose throat went dry after he lost his wife Euridititties. Couldn’t bring himself to sing a single note.”
Momo nearly choked on her own spit.
“Oreo and Euridititties?”
“A strange pair, aren’t they?”
He must mean Orpheus and Eurydice, Momo thought, staring at him speechlessly. She couldn't decide what was more unnerving to her – that earthly Greek myth had managed to successfully permeate through the Nether, or that the game of telephone it played to get here was so severe that its resulting version would be enough to anger the Gods back home.
“Pray that never happens to your dear Grimli, won’t you, your highness?” Grimli said, batting his eyelashes. “You have a more direct connection to the Nether than any other I’ve come across in my days, I’m sure you could make a few quick calls to secure the fate of my feeble throat.”
Momo sighed, holding her face in her hands. “If I could call up the Nether so easily, I promise there are other things I’d ask about first.”
Grimli looked aghast. Momo immediately felt bad.
“Kidding, Grimli,” she lied. “Of course I’d ask Morgana about your vocal chords.”
—
When Momo had visualized a place named Snowdrop Village, she had seen something out of a Mario Kart level – cheerful snowmen, icy roads paved with the occasional banana peel. Some place merry and buoyant, where Christmas, or the Aloysian equivalent, was celebrated year-round.
As it turned out, Snowdrop was quite like a rotting apple wrapped in paper and bows. As the carriage came to a jolting stop at the end of the unpaved road, Momo and Grimli were immediately greeted by an assortment of drunk men dressed in costume. They were wearing fleecy, snow white garments and cloud-like hats. Silver-tipped teeth stuck out of their mouths.
“O’welcome to Snowdrop, Ms. Momo, we heard you’d be coming,” one of these faux-jolly fellows greeted her, shaking her hand firmly. “I’m sure you’d be happy to pay tribute to the Goddess Guinevere?”
The man stuck out a tin can and jostled it, coins rattling about inside.
“Um…” Momo trailed off, knowing she was being scammed but not entirely sure what to do about it. She wasn’t used to this type of shakedown scheme; the men looked more like street performers than Nam’Dalian crooks. “I haven’t heard of that goddess before, sorry. What’s her domain?”
“Why, you don’t know about the finest goddess of the pantheon? The creator of snow and rain and sleet, fury and wrath and the seasons?” another man chimed in, aghast. “Just for that disgrace alone, you should make an urgent tribute, less you want to face Guinevere’s wrath.”
Grimli snorted, pulling a paper bill out of his pouch and stuffing it into the open can. It was a one hundred gold bill, and the men went positively dizzy with excitement, immediately tearing into each other about their share of the spoils. While they were distracted, Grimli waved to the carriage driver.
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“I’ll pay you triple your regular fee to transport my vehicle somewhere safe and nondescript,” Grimli proposed hastily, folding his arms over the front-passenger window. “And don’t think about running off with it, or else you won’t get the other half of the payment, you hear?”
The driver took a look at Grimli’s palm, counting the bills. With a gruff nod, he was on his way, tugging the dwarven monstrosity behind him. Grimli let out a relieved breath.
“Come on, your highness,” he said, pulling Momo’s sleeve and beckoning her towards the town. “Let’s get on with it before I run out of all the coin I took off those Magelegs groupies.”
—
“What is this place?” Momo mumbled.
The drunk men turned out to be the rule, not the exception. Nearly every resident of Snowdrop Village wore the same assortment of ivory clothing – distended vests, puffy joggers, boots with icicles jutting out of the outsole; only their celebration of this Guinevere never quite seemed genuine. It was more like a front in fear of possible divine retribution.
“Have you really never heard of Guinevere?” Grimli said, surprised.
“Not once.”
“Hm. Close as you are to Morgana, I’m surprised she never brought her up,” he said, turning the corner towards the center of town, where a seven foot statue of the goddess stood, shining in marble. “She was one of the first goddesses that Morgana created, born of her desire for change in the despairing stillness of the void.”
“Created?” Momo’s eyes bulged. She had forgotten that Kyros was not Morgana’s only experiment. It was a crazy thing to conceptualize, really, that every other god and goddess in existence at some point stemmed from her; that Morgana was the beating heart of everything, the seed of dozens upon dozens of wayward deities.
“O’course, created. That’s the power of Nether, ain’t it? To create life, take it away, et cetera,” Grimli said, making an obscene gesture with his hands that attempted to signify such a process. “Plus, it wasn’t like she had much else to do. Quite a lonely place the Nether was in those days. Especially after her pet cat ran off, poor godly lass.”
Momo winced in memory, recalling the museum exhibit she attended not long ago. Of course, before there was a pantheon, before Morgana thought to dismember herself to create others, there was simply a woman, a child, really – lonely and abandoned. A person who tore herself apart to make a few friends. And in her time of need, the fabric of the universe untying itself like a shoddy knit sweater, those friends left her just like she was eons before.
Alone.
Momo felt a thrash of sick, nauseating sadness just thinking about it.
But she had done something about it, Momo reminded herself. She promoted Valerica for a reason. The Necromage was somewhere up there – or down there, or wherever – helping her mend the seams of reality.
“She's not so lonely these days,” Momo said, imagining Sera, Valerica, and the elusive Azrael all working together like a team of preschoolers attempting to finish a class project on time. “I’m sure she has plenty of stuff to distract her from the – how did you put it – despairing stillness of the void.”
“Ah, that’s for certain, lass,” Grimli said. “And she’s got us to watch over as well. Can’t have her mortal chickens running out of their coop. But that’s what she’s got you for, of course. You’re her very own heavenly appointed farm dog.”
Momo laughed. In his own weird way, he was right. Valerica was doing her part, now Momo just had to do hers. Redeem the name of the goddess to the very race she had mothered: the easily pliable, hateful, indifferent mortals. Momo never thought she’d view the human race in that way, but it was hard not to, knowing Morgana the way she did now. There was something about the woman – the Goddess – that Momo felt oddly, unexplainably protective of, as if she was her own ailing mother.
Momo tightly coiled her hands into fists, her thoughts suddenly drifting to her family back on Earth. She shoved the memories down as best she could, letting the sounds of the boisterous town square wash over her; hawkers shelling raincoats and snowboots yelled out to them, advertising their weathered wares, but Momo’s subconscious was attacking her like wasps, images of her mother and her father and her brother swarming her.
“You okay there, your highness?” Grimli asked, giving her a pitying expression as they walked. “I didn’t mean to scare you with all that talk. If you get any paler, people’ll think you’re a walking vampire. Maybe we should take a seat and sweat out the cold.”
“I’m fine,” she lied, schooling her mouth into a line. “Let’s just get to the event area.”
She wasn’t fine, of course. As much as she tried to resist it, thoughts of her family had been stinging like bees for days, sneaking into her subconscious like ants through cracked plaster. Something about Devola and Trent felt like the universe had held a mirror to her worst moments; played back a reel of failed daughterhood.
There was no denying it – Momo had been a raging disappointment back on Earth. A failing art student with crippling social anxiety who never called home. Never sent a greeting card on Chuseok. Never texted back. Her dad would always check in, every Sunday, seven PM on the dot, but she had been too embarrassed to say anything in return. Every message he sent ended in Read.
She knew it hurt his feelings, but she couldn't bring herself to do anything different. It wasn’t malicious – it was the opposite. She had wanted nothing more to exist like a perfect figment in his imagination. Forever the eight year old girl whose art he pinned on the fridge. Reality had a way of ruining perfect things like that, so she stopped letting it, one missed text after the next.
But it didn’t end up mattering, did it? Eventually, she was gone. Teleported. Transported. Just like that. No SMS message that your daughter just transmigrated to a new world, you’ll probably never see her again. Would he have preferred knowing she was a failure to not knowing her at all?
She took a shaky breath in. She could see the sign marking their visit in the distance, a welcome tent for Queen Momo and Associates. Just keep walking.
After all, it was here, on Alois, where she could change things. Where she could get her second chance. And hey, maybe myths and legends of Momo’s feats would travel through the webs of Nether like the tale of Orpheus and Eurydice had, landing in her parent’s old kitchen; maybe they’d smile as they talked about her, not knowing it was her they were talking about; laugh as they retold the story of Coco, Queen of Boloysius.
“What a silly name,” her mother would probably comment, and her dad would shake his head, saying “every name means something to someone.”
A wet, boiling heat bubbled in Momo’s throat. She rubbed at her eyes and swallowed it down.
For now, she had to focus on what was right in front of her. Learn about the new family she had landed in, odd and disastrous as it was, so she could better protect them.
She knew one thing – she wouldn’t be a letdown twice.
“Grimli,” Momo said, voice shaky but decisive. “I want you to tell me everything you know about Morgana and Guinevere.