Morpheus. Osiris. Wine. If that's not a recipe for legend, I don't know what is.
One is the wine of your dreams, the other the wine of Heaven. As choices go, you could have worse options.
The Son of the Western Sky had come a long way, and from meager beginnings. He was born in a sun-blasted hovel, where the ground cracked and baked all day, then steamed all night. His people survived, barely, by draining cacti and using the husks for shade. If the Sun was not dangerous enough, they were stalked constantly by the hyenas of the wastes, bandits from the North, and all manner of other predation. By the time the Son of the Western Sky reached adolescence, they’d been hunted almost to extinction. But the Son was special, and he’d been toughened by his birthright. The heat didn’t harry him as it did the others, and he knew no fear of fang or sword. He learned many secrets of life and adventure from a traveler with whom he shared the secrets of desert survival, a stranger from a strange land with strange manners and stranger skills, and before long the Son had become the unquestioned champion of his tribe.
And many a grand adventure he’d had; slaying the Great Serpent of the Sands. Reforging the Sunburnt Blade. Wrestling the Sun Yeti. It was this pedigree of thrilling heroics that had led him here, to the pinnacle of the ancient Aztec Temple of the Sun and the Moon. It was here, the legends said, he could find the wine that would forever sate his people’s thirst. And, indeed, upon completing the final trial of the temple, he had arrived to find a bottle of wine. And a second. And beside them each, the Gods of his tribe.
On the left stood Osiris, the God of the Afterlife. His eyes burned with a brilliance the Son felt must have blinded him, if only Osiris had willed it, and his garb seemed not to be of thread and down, but of the fibers of sunlight itself and the feathers of the Phoenix.
“Son of the Western Sky, you know who I am, keeper of your people’s spirits, shepherd of the soul. You have journeyed far, and accomplished much, and I am here to bless you with a mighty beverage. Lively and alluring, she boasts a big, sweet nose of smoked meats and black currant liquor. Endowed, fleshy, and full, possessed of legendary purity and depth. She is a salve for the wounds of the Sun, and a wife for the soul.”
On the other side of the podium loomed mighty Morpheus, the God of Dreams. Shrouded in his Cloak of Sleep and Shadow, he seemed to exist without being, to live without breathing.
“Son of the Western Sky, you know who I am, king sleep and lord of the realm of dreams and nightmares. From my fields sprout ambition, fantasy, and inspiration. You have lived a life beyond the ken of even the most fevered imaginings of most, and your reward sits before you: charmed with good freshness, structured for precision and definition, and loaded with dark fruits and chocolate, lingering with a long dark cherry and blueberry finish.”
In unison, the two Gods spoke: “And now, you must choose.”
The Son of the Western Sky didn’t much like that, so he grabbed both bottles, and leaped off the pyramid. As he plummeted towards the Earth, the Gods felt sure that the headstrong hero had met his end. But to their surprise, he gripped his cape, pulled it taught, and began to glide, nay, to fly, off into safety, bottles safely tucked in his belt.
For what Osiris and Morpheus did not know the name of that traveler, the one who so long ago had been the Son’s tutor.
His name was Mortimer The Flying Woot Monkey.
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