Of Gods and Mortals

Chapter 5.

You silently, and very sarcastically, thanked whichever of the gods your parent might be for this lethal encounter.

Lars had rolled over onto his furry behind and gently touched all the bruises on his face and chest and arms, checking for broken appendages. Every little poke and prod he made elicited an "ow!" or caused him to bleat in surprising pain.

You, however, were being tended to for your karpoi bite.

Note: Karpoi bites are a lot like baby shark bites. And baby sharks, though they're babies, are still terrifying if they come at you with sharp pearly whites bared.

It's teeth had gone in pretty far to the backside of your right calf, where all the muscle was. After you pulled up your pant leg, you significantly paled at the sight. Two curved rows of bloody puncture wounds decorated your leg like a string of morbid Christmas lights. Your father gently dabbed the wound (which was burning quite a bit, mind you) with a stack of tissues he found in the glove box.

"You have to be more careful," he chided, brow furrowed in worry. "Everything you do is now going to be even more dangerous."

Lars scooted over to sit beside you in the grass, your father passing him his backpack. He started to dig inside, placing his flute on the ground.

"So, serious question: is that supposed to sound like a you're scratching a fork on a ceramic plate?" You asked, picking up the twisted piece of wood.

Lars was still digging around in his bag, but you could see the tips of his ears turn bright red in shame. "No, it's not," he sighed, slowing his search a bit. "I'm the only satyr that can't play. It's a travesty."

"Are all satyrs put through, like, woodland creature band camp?" You asked, grimacing as you flexed your heal and stretched your punctured skin.

"No," he huffed, pulling out a small plastic baggy and a canteen. He looked like a cooked goat dinner with his cheeks so red and his nose crinkled. Maybe that's why Mega-John found him so appetizing.

"Satyrs are supposed to be able to play music to connect with nature." He said the words like he was doing an overdramatic reading of Shakespeare. "Pan, the satyr god of the wild, created the pan flute, for the gods' sakes! A satyr that can't play music is like a fish that can't swim."

You took a moment to ponder that. If Lars was looked down upon just because he couldn't spit some tunes on a hollow stick, you didn't want to know what the consequences were for being a demigod with no godly attributes.

"Maybe whatever you play does work," you suggested, leaning back in the grass. "Maybe your music magic is the power to deafen your enemies with screeching renditions of nursery rhymes. You never know."

"Thanks, that makes me feel like I'm on top of the world," he said, laughing the slightest bit. He pulled out a small brownie from the baggy he carried and held it to your lips.

"What's this?" You reeled your head back a bit and crossed your eyes to inspect the brownie. It didn't have a distinct smell, nor any attributes that offset your opinion that it was just a regular snack. But after all that happened today, you didn't want to let anything deceive you.

"Ambrosia," was his answer as he promptly shoved it past your lips. "You'll feel better if you eat this. But only this much."

The small cube hit your tongue and you took a bite. You had to pause, because the flavor of your favorite food immediately burst across your pallet.

"Okay," you nodded to yourself, swallowing the cube. "I figured it out. This is that Willy Wonka gum that changes into full-course meals."

Warmth spread down your esophagus all the way down to your stomach, then down your right hip and leg until the feeling hit your calf. The pain began to subside.