The One Where Svarog Files a Complaint

Can Sleep sleep? And if so, who grants him sleep? Himself? Or someone else? And if Sleep sleeps, what does he dream of? Does he dream at all? Does he have nightmares? Nobody knows. But Sleep certainly dwells in a state that resembles sleep. Unbearable stillness, half-closed eyelids and just lasting. Maybe it’s meditation. Maybe waiting. Or maybe he’s just trying hard to remember something.

Whatever it was, the booming “Sleep!” that thundered from the corridor cruelly tore him out of that state. He barely had time to register it, to open his eyes, and already the carved doors to his hall were crashing off the wall, forced open by an enormous figure.

“Svarog, how good to see you” said Sleep courteously, ignoring - or failing to realise (which is highly likely) - the fury radiating from the god of fire and blacksmithing. Svarog did not stop in the doorway; with that same fiery fury he crossed the distance between himself and Sleep, and roared.

“Have you gone completely senile in your old age? What have you done with my protégé?”

“Old age? I am immortal, I shall never grow old, Svarog” Sleep replied, indignant at such an insolent insinuation. Only after a moment did he remember that the deity had asked him another question as well, and his face took on an expression of sincere surprise.

“Your protégé? What protégé?”

“Tim” Svarog replied, his lips tightening with irritation. As if it weren’t enough that Sleep had had the nerve to get his hands on his protégé, he didn’t even seem to know who he had.

“Dim?” Sleep repeated, wondering for a moment whether that name meant anything to him. And since it meant absolutely nothing, he turned his head towards Drzemota, who until then had been sitting quietly in the corner, savouring that brief moment of happiness when nobody was aware of her presence and nobody wanted anything from her. Sadly, like everything good in life, this moment too was brutally and prematurely cut short. Drzemota rose and took her place behind Sleep’s throne before she answered, “My lord, your prisoner.” When Svarog heard these words, for a moment Sleep learned exactly why he was the deity of fire - his gaze seemed to burn, and his skin radiated a heat so far beyond every known measure of warmth that Norn, despite pondering the metaphor for a solid quarter of an hour, found nothing that struck her as ADEQUATE. And Norn is good at metaphors. And hyperbole. And exaggeration in general. Especially of her own virtues.

Did the scorching outburst put Sleep off? Fill him with dread? Terrify him?

Hardly.

Sleep will be Sleep.

He looked at Svarog in genuine surprise, as if he really didn’t understand what the god was on about (because in essence he didn’t). But Sleep was a forbearing deity, even in the face of other deities, so he spoke calmly.

“Svarog, I get the impression you are slightly displeased.”

“Slightly? You’ve imprisoned my protégé! I am furious!”

“Your protégé? That boy is your protégé, truly?” In answer Svarog nodded, and Sleep’s expression changed, taking on an even gentler, more compassionate tone.

“Ah… My sincere condolences. It must have been terribly hard on you.” If Sleep’s compassionate face soothed Svarog’s nerves for even a fraction of a second, those two sentences rekindled the fire of his anger.

“What do you mean?” he asked, not yet entirely certain what exactly he was furious about, and the god of dreams answered in a tone that sounded as though he were explaining something obvious to a child.

“Well, I mean that it is a completely hopeless case.”

“HOPELESS? Do you even know who you’re talking about?!”

Drzemota allowed herself a quiet sigh, knowing the answer to that question perfectly well. Sleep absolutely did not know who he was talking about, and his ignorance, coupled with his good-natured obliviousness, was steering this conversation straight into the arms of a conflict that could end in another war of the gods. Sleep did not catch Drzemota’s sigh, though even if it had reached his ears, he probably wouldn’t have interpreted it correctly.

“Yes, of course. Dim, the unbearable boy. The sounds he made savaged my soul, drowning out the harmonious, soothing melodies of my apostle. But what can one expect of a musician whose patron is the god of blacksmithing - perhaps I judged him hastily. What were you thinking, Svarog, taking a musician under your patronage?”

The deity’s ears turned red, and his whole mighty frame was an emanation of pure, unchecked fury. Had Sleep possessed even a shred of common sense, he would have covered before that wrathful aura. Svarog spoke, forcing himself to stay calm, though his voice trembled.

“First of all, it’s not Dim, it’s Tim. Henson. Second, savaged your soul? The sounds he forges on his guitar are clean, precise and technically perfect. Just because you can’t see virtuosity even when it’s standing right in front of you doesn’t mean it isn’t there. That is why I granted him my blessing. He treats his instrument with respect and coaxes the very best out of it. He is like a blacksmith who has a guitar instead of a hammer, and forges melodies instead of swords.”

“I asked him whether he had been granted a divine talent; he said it was only hard work.”

“Oh, they always think it’s work, you know that perfectly well. Do you think your protégé really believes it was your blessing that gave him all those skills?”

“How can you question it? My boy is my first and most faithful worshipper. He has none of that nonsense about study and hard work in his head” Sleep bristled, his blind faith in his emissary such as would put many a religious fanatic to shame. He looked at Svarog with good-natured pity, seeing in him not a furious deity but rather a poor little godling burdened with a blessing bestowed on the wrong man. “And that huge hat of his… what’s that about?” he asked, more intrigued by the musician’s fashion choices than by his technical virtuosity, which he still sincerely doubted.

“I don’t know. I didn’t ask. Some things are better not known” Svarog replied out of reflex, then shook his head and asked indignantly, “Seriously? The hat is what you’re picking on? Your emissary runs around smeared in paint, in a mask and a cape!”

“An artistic decision” Sleep answered confidently, though had Svarog decided to press the matter and ask what exactly that artistic decision meant, Sleep wouldn’t have had the faintest idea. Svarog sighed, realising that once again he had bounced off the impassive wall that was Sleep, who defeated every deity with ease by means of his innate talent for ignoring everything that didn’t suit him.

“Never mind. I want you to release him at once.”

“Oh, you know I can’t. We have those… what were they called, Drzemota?”

“Procedures, my lord” Drzemota chimed in politely, casting an apologetic glance in Svarog’s direction.

“Precisely, procedures. The hearing will be held tomorrow at twelve. You may of course speak in your protégé’s defence. The ever-impartial judges will deliver the verdict” said Sleep in a tone that made it perfectly clear that as far as he was concerned the matter was already settled. Svarog sighed.

“I’ll be there. What’s the charges?”

“Earslaughter.”