meridian_rose

Title: Literally vs Metaphorically
Fandom: Original (c: Helena/metafiction verse)
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 530
Prompt: For the

trope_bingo prompt "metafiction"
Summary: The self-aware characters come across a character who represents an aspect of their author
Content Notes: No standard warnings apply.

The warrior flexed his muscles, an arrogant grin on his face. "No one can beat me. I'm on a winning streak."

The bored stallholder nodded, polishing a shield with a blank expression.

The warrior threw back his head and laughed. "I have beaten every champion in seven cities! I have defeated every opponent I have come across! I am on a winning streak! I am literally on fire!"

There was a flash and the warrior was engulfed in flames. He screamed and began running around in circles. People yelled and got out of his way while a few more practically minded citizens brought over blankets to try and smother the flames. A woman threw a jar of liquid over the warrior but it only seemed to make things worse. A hefty man clutching a rug tackled the unfortunate warrior and they both ended up rolling around in the dust.

The heroes stayed back, out of the way, and as such were best placed to see one person who was not at all surprised or disturbed by the spectacle. A fine looking woman with long, russet, hair sat on an empty table and laughed. Helena tugged at Sullivan's arm. "Look."

"Look at the woman finding this all very amusing?"

"Not just any woman. Look at her robes. She's a goddess," Darcy said.

The cloth of the robes shimmered, the blue shifting into aqua, then forest green, then back again. Sullivan raised an eyebrow. "Who is she? Goddess of Setting Things On Fire?"

"I think she's Lingua, goddess of language," Helena said reverently. "She really hates people who say literally when they mean metaphorically. Also, people who say vice-a-versa and supposably."

"What's wrong with sup-" Sullivan began, but Darcy clapped a hand over his mouth.

The warrior was still on the floor, moaning, merely smouldering now as people continued to beat him enthusiastically with blankets and rugs. Darcy released his grip on Sullivan.

"So that's how she punishes people?" Sullivan studied the goddess, who was rocking backwards and forwards in delight, her many bangles jangling. "What if I say something like I am literally rich?"

Darcy sighed. "You can't trick a deity. You, especially, cannot trick a deity."

Sullivan pouted. Helena was still gazing at the goddess.

"They say the goddess Lingua is an aspect of…" Helena pointed to the sky, meaning the Creator, their author. Sullivan had the decency to look a little more respectful.

"So that's what She looks like?" Sullivan began to preen.

"I doubt it. There might be some similarities but Lingua would be an idealized representation. It's a rare woman would create an avatar of any sort that reflected her true form and all its flaws." Helena sighed. "You're men, you wouldn't understand."

"She created us all," Darcy put in. "We are male, but we are still of her design."

Helena glared at him.

Lingua jumped down from the table, shook out her robes, and clapped her hands together. She disappeared in a cloud of white smoke. Nearby the warrior sat up, singed, but not terribly hurt. It seemed Lingua had wanted to teach him a lesson rather than harm him. Helena doubted the lesson would stick.