The Virtues' Magecraft

Page 84: The Inheritance of The Meek

Atlas smiled and handed Kafka, just after appearing from nowhere. "Arnold wants to speak with you," he said.

Kafka had grown accustomed to the sudden appearances of the Titan of Space, and was no longer shocked. He accepted the cigarette with a scoff, thinking of the months he had spent on the compound of the Eagles' Fortress, waiting under the hope Arnold Norr had instilled in him that he would use for a greater purpose. Kafka had to repeat to himself that his stay in that Fortress was of his own free will, and that Arnold's words didn't incur a threat, but a partnership.

Even on the days he regretted his careless choice to join the Golden Dawn, he found himself unable to leave from the simple joy that came with watching the others work. After all, he was able to watch unity inspired into all Worldy species as they worked for one common goal: destruction. It warmed his heart and reminded him of his brothers.

Truth be told, he hadn't seen or heard from Arnold at all since that fateful day he was brought there, the day of the vicious battle of the forest. He hadn't even had the opportunity to use his magic at all, purely out of fear that if he were ever caught he would be blasted to smithereens by another magic user.

These people weren't police officers or soldiers, but volunteer warriors that fought for death's sake. Even if he tried his best, he wouldn't survive against a swarm of the Golden Dawn's fighters.

Kafka locked eyes with Atlas as his cigarette ignited. "I know you've been watching me these past months. Did Arnold give you that job?"

Atlas wasn't focused on what Kafka had spoken. He lifted Kafka's chin and squeezed his cheekbones. "Five months here and you haven't gained a single pound of muscle or fat. That says plenty about you. But at least you don't indulge in gluttony."

Kafka swallowed his dry saliva and tried to ignore the coldness of Atlas' touch. "Are you going to take me to Arnold?"

"If the meek want to inherit the earth, they'll have to wait in line. It's our turn this time." It was finally then that he released Kafka from his cold and clammy hands, before turning away and guiding Kafka down a path of dark and cold stones.

Reaching the office of Arnold Norr was a matter of a single minute, even without the use of Atlas' magic. They entered his room of plastered and painted walls and headed for his desk shrouded by books and papers of maps and circles of magic.

Atlas shoved Kafka forward and motioned at him to sit before the desk of the Vice-Commander.

"You're human, correct?" Arnold asked, yet to look up from the book he read, flipping between each set of pages every couple seconds or so. Kafka knew Asgardians were naturally the most intelligent and intellectually gifted of the Worldly people, but uncovering and understanding and storing new information at such a rapid rate...

Kafka supposed Arnold wasn't the Vice-Commander simply for his natural talent at killing. "Uh, yes. Yes, sir," he stammered out, almost having forgotten of the question.

"Good. This story has its origin on your world," Arnold responded, his head still in his books, leaving Atlas and Kafka to stare at nothing other than his head of shaggy white hair. "What call you tell me of the Box of Pandora?"

"Huh?"

Atlas burst into a chortle, while Arnold explained. "I asked your Titan friend here, but being a Demon-Born, he never lived the life of a normal human. He knows nothing," he said, fiddling through an assortment of papers, before finally looking up and greeting Kafka with a pair of gleaming eyes of gold and a crystal white smile. He was as pale as always. "Well?"

"Well... All I know is that it's a myth–" The human was interrupted by Atlas clearing his throat. He turned back and stared at the Titan standing behind him. "Right."