by Ruby Dixon
"Not much longer, my friend," Aron says, his voice a whisper against my hair.
Aw. He thinks we're friends now. It's a nice thing to hear right before I die. I struggle awake despite the mountain of effort and manage to open my eyes. The storm clouds roll overhead, highlighting Aron's unearthly beauty.
"Look," he tells me. "Shelter."
It takes everything I have to turn my head, but when I do, I see…grass, like a green carpet. In the distance, there are small bushes and neat rows of what looks like a tended field. Off atop a distant cliff there's a tiny building with a plume of smoke rising from the chimney.
Huh. We've reached the edge of the Dirtlands.
I must have drowsed off, because the next thing I know, I open my eyes and the house is right in front of us. Come to think of it, it looks less like a house and more like an old timey church, complete with long stone walls and straw roof. I don't care, though. As long as they have food and water, I'll sleep on a church floor.
Aron, being Aron, goes up to the heavy wooden door of the church and kicks it. "Open up," he calls out in that imperious voice of his. I want to tell him that's not exactly how you ask for a place to stay for the night, but I'm too tired. I just rest my head on his shoulder and try not to think about how dry my throat is. He looks down at me with alarm and gives me a rough jostle. "You are not allowed to die."
"Sure," I tell him faintly, even as the door opens.
It's a man, dressed in gray robes, his white hair parted down the middle and hanging in two long braids on either side of his face. Even though I'm struggling to stay conscious, there's no mistaking how pale the weathered face gets as he sees Aron. He immediately drops to his knees and bows his head. "My Lord of Storms. It is an honor."
"Good," Aron says curtly, pushing inside. "My anchor is dying. She needs help."
"Whatever I have is yours," the man stammers. "Is she injured?"
"Hungry," Aron says.
"Thirsty," I manage to croak out. I am hungry, but my throat hurts so much that I think I might die in the next minute if I don't get a drink.
"Of course. Just a moment." He scurries off, disappearing behind a shelf and I hear a clatter of pots and pans.
Aron glances around and gives a haughty sniff at our surroundings. "I suppose this will do for a day."
Like we're flooded with choices.
I fight my heavy eyelids and peer around, too. It's not a church after all, but a library. Books of all shapes and sizes line the walls, shelves groaning with the weight of them. There are books in stacks in the middle of the room, along the walls, and covering every surface imaginable. It's not dusty, just cluttered. The place is dark inside, lit only by a few small lanterns, and off to one side there's a large table with parchment, ink, and a book open in front of it. Whoever this guy is, it looks like he's the one writing the books.
Aron heads deeper into the place, moving past shelves and knocking over stacks of books as he goes. I bite back a protest, because it seems wrong to bother this solitary man…but on the other hand, I feel so awful that I'm not sure I care. At the back of the building, past another massive stack of books that topples as he moves through, there's a small cot, the bed neatly made. Aron lays me down on it even as the monk—because he has to be a monk—scurries in with a pitcher of water and a bit of bread and cheese.
"This is all you have?" Aron scowls as the monk moves to my side and scoops a simple clay cup into the pitcher, then offers it to me.
"I apologize, Lord, but I live simply," the monk says. He's not disturbed by Aron's words, his serene expression unruffled.
I take the cup from his hands, sucking the water down greedily. It's the best thing I've ever had, and it's gone far too soon. I drink it all and hold the cup out for more.
"You should drink it slowly," the monk begins, only to be interrupted by Aron again.
"Give her all that she wants," he snaps, crossing his arms over his chest. "I cannot have her dying."
The monk sighs, dips another cup, and gives it to me. I hesitate, because Aron seems to be in a real mood, but I'm so thirsty I can't pass up the water. I gulp it down, and a third cup when he hands it to me. He offers me bread, but I skip it—too dry—in favor of the cheese, and gnaw on it for a moment. The taste is sharp and overwhelming, but I eat it anyhow.
Aron's just watching me carefully, not eating or drinking. He has to be hungry and thirsty, too. When the monk gives me another cup of water, I nod at Aron. "You should drink something," I tell him around a mouthful of cheese. I don't miss the way the monk's eyebrows go down, as if surprised by my offer. Maybe he expects me to be as big a dick as Aron is.
"Unnecessary," the god says, watching me closely. "You drink it."
My stomach's starting to cramp and I feel a sweat breaking out on my forehead. I put down the cheese and lift the cup to my lips. I don't feel so good. I want to drink, and I want to throw up, too. "Um," I say, and then my mouth floods with saliva. Oh. Oh no.
With a kind expression, the monk holds up the nearly empty pitcher, offering it to me. I snatch it from his hands and manage to tuck it under my chin just before I vomit up all the water I just drank.
Off to the side, Aron makes a sound of disgust. "Mortals."
The monk pats my knee as I puke a second round. "I thought that might happen if you drank too much. I will bring you something to clean off with, my dear, and some tea to settle your stomach."
I watch in surprise as he beams a serene smile at Aron and then heads off to what must be his kitchen once more.
Aron lifts his chin at me. "Stay there. Rest until you feel better."
No one has to tell me twice. I set down the pitcher, lie back on the blankets, and allow myself to pass the fuck out.
I wake up the next morning with a big hand stroking my hair, my face smushed against a hard chest, and my arm (and leg) flung over someone.
Er.
I look up groggily and it's Aron. I'm not surprised, but I am a little bewildered.
"Your hair needs a washing," is all he says.
"I'm sure I would have put it higher on the priority scale if I would have known you were going to climb into bed with me," I mutter, struggling to sit upright.
He snorts. "No, you wouldn't have."
"You're right, I wouldn't have." I scrub a hand over my face and sit on the edge of the cot, a little unnerved that he’s pressed up against me. "Why are you in bed with me?"
"It's clear to me that you get into trouble wherever you go, so I'm keeping a close eye on you. You're not leaving my sight again."
"Great," I say without enthusiasm. I squint at him because even as he gets out of the bed, his muscles are rippling and his hair perfect and yet he looks…off. Tired. "Did you sleep?"
"I need no sleep."
"Really? Because you look tired to me."
He gives me another imperious look. "I did not ask you."
All righty then. I yawn and push my hair off my head. He's not wrong. After the dump to the ground when we fled the Citadel, my hair's caked in all kinds of filth and sweat. I've probably still got crystals tangled into it. Still…he was petting it. As if he liked it, or me. For someone that professes to find me annoying, he let me sleep sprawled on top of him all night, all without sleeping on his own.
Aron puts his hands on his hips and frowns at his surroundings. "Where is the mortal that lives here?" He cups a hand to his mouth, all imperious god once again. "Mortal! We have need of you."
I cringe. "Aron, don't. That's rude. I'm sure we can find our way around…" I let my words trail off because the monk comes scurrying in, his long robes flapping around his legs, his weird braids bouncing on his shoulders. He's got a big tray of food—fruit, cheese, nuts, more bread—and a pitcher.
"Good morning," he says, beaming at us. "I've brought food for your anchor, Lord of Storms. Do you require anything from me?" He sets the tray down on a nearby stack of books and plucks a cup from the tray, filling it and then offering it to me. "Dri
nk slowly this time, my dear. Your body needs time to recover."
I take the cup and sip it, even though I feel much better. Vaguely, I remember waking up in the middle of the night to have someone give me sips of water. I remember pale hands and a soothing voice offering encouragement, but when I look at the monk, his hands are brown and weathered. Hmmm.
"I need nothing," Aron says in a clipped voice. "Make sure my mortal gets her fill of food and drink and then she needs a bath." He stalks out from the shelves and his feet thud heavily against the creaking wooden floors. "I am going to scout the area to determine how safe it is. When I return, we will need clothing. Both of us."
"I have extra robes," the monk says in a cheery voice. "They are yours for the taking, as are my savings."
I cringe at that even as I sip the delicious, cold water. This guy sure is ready to give everything to Aron at a moment's notice. I worry we're going to ruin the poor guy's life just by dropping in and he's been so darn nice. I mean, we dropped in on Tadekha in a sense and look where she is now—at the bottom of a pile of rubble.
"Eat, eat," the monk tells me as he pushes a bread bowl into my hands. It's full of fruit wedges and nuts and cheese and all kinds of delicious things and I immediately tuck into it.
"Thank you," I tell him between mouthfuls as he putters around. Oh my god, I've never tasted anything better. I stuff my gob for a few minutes, and then I remember how awful it was to puke yesterday and force myself to slow down. I take small nibbles of food and wash them down with water as he bustles about in the room, straightening piles of books and putting things away while flicking excited glances in my direction. "What's your name?" I ask after a few minutes of this. "I'm Faith."
"You're what?" He turns and looks at me, eyes wide.
"Is that not a common name around here? It's pretty common where I'm from." I sound defensive even to my own ears. "It doesn't mean anything. It's just Faith."
"Fascinating," he tells me with a delighted smile. "And such a perfect name for an anchor to our esteemed Lord of Storms."
"I dunno," I say as I eat the world's biggest wedge of cheese and love every moment of it. "I'm pretty sure he thinks my name is 'mortal.'"
The monk just giggles at that. "You will have to forgive him. He is a god, after all, and not used to this plane or the ways of mortal people."
"Oh, I've been with the guy for a few days. Trust me when I say there's a lot of forgiving going on." I take another drink. "It's either that or murder him in his sleep."
The monk's eyes go wide as saucers. After a moment, he lets out another little giggle. "That is a joke, yes?"
"Yep."
He straightens a stack of big books across from the cot and then sits down on them like it's a stool, watching me with a fascinated expression. "My name is Omos. I am a humble monk who serves Magra, goddess of plenty.” He nods at us. “And now, it is an honor to serve you and Lord Aron, Faith. Whatever I have is yours."
"Hi, Omos. I have to admit I'm not from around here, so I'm a bit lost." I give him a faint smile. "It's nice to finally see a friendly face."
Compassion moves across the monk's features and he gives a heavy sigh, then nods. "It is a hard road you have chosen, to be an anchor."
"So you have met Aron," I joke. When he doesn't smile, I'm a little worried. He just looks troubled. "Can I admit something? I don't know what I signed up for. In fact, I don't know anything about any of this. It was either sign up to be Aron's anchor or die as a human sacrifice. I thought I'd take my chances with Aron, but the longer we're together, the more questions I have."
“Of course. I spoke with Lord Aron while you slept. I will do my best to help you both prepare for your journey.”
“Can you tell me how I get home?’
“I can try.” His lined face crinkles in a smile. "Where are you from? The coast? Glistentide?"
"Chicago?"
Omos's frown deepens and he gets to his feet. "I do not recognize the name." He moves to one of the shelves, his hand fluttering over it as I take another drink of water and eat. A moment later, he pulls out a rolled up parchment and spreads it on one end of the bed, and I realize it's a map. "Shago…Shago…"
I swallow hard and put a hand to my lips, murmuring around a mouthful of food. "You're not going to find it on that map. When I say I'm not from here, I mean I'm really, really not from here." I hesitate, watching his face. "I'm from another world entirely. I don't know how I got sucked here, but I went through a door in my world when I heard drums and I woke up on this side in a strange place." Omos watches me quietly, his eyes wide, and my heart sinks a little. "I know you don't believe me, or think I'm crazy—"
"No, not crazy, not at all." Omos jumps to his feet and races away, and I start to wonder if I'm the crazy one. He comes back a moment later with a heavy, thick book covered in red and gold, and sits down atop another stack of books. He pages through it, frowning to himself. "It's here somewhere."
"What is?"
He looks up at me. "Why, the tale of Queen Natasha. She came from another world and conquered the Fair Plains back before it became the kingdom of Yshrem. She ruled for thirty years…twenty? No, I'm pretty sure it's thirty." He frowns absently and flips through the book. "Maybe twenty-three…"
I put down the bit of fruit in my hand. "Natasha…she was from Earth?"
"Where?" He looks up at me, peering.
"Earth? That's where I'm from."
"I thought you said you were from Shago."
"No, no, I'm from the city of Chicago. State of Illinois. Country of the United States. Planet Earth."
"Oh. Goodness." He beams at me. "You'll have to tell me all that again later so I can record it. How very fascinating. This world is Aos, if you do not know. I have never heard of Earth.” He picks up the book and flips through it again. As for Natasha, it's not stated where she's from, just that she came from a place beyond all lands. She said it was another world, but there are varying theories on such things. From what I hear, she was a very good queen. Very learned. There are a few books about her, I think, but I don't have any in this library." He looks wistful. "They're probably all forgotten in some Yshremi library." He closes the book and smiles at me. "My point is that while it is unusual, it is not the first time I have heard of such a thing."
"That's amazing." I'm actually ready to cry I'm so relieved. Someone else has heard of my situation. "I thought I'd be stuck here forever. Do the books say if there's a way to get home?"
Omos blinks at me. "Go home? But you are Aron's anchor. You can't leave. Not until he ascends once more."
Obviously there's a piece of information or three that we're missing between us. "Ascends. Back to Heaven or wherever he's from?"
"The Aether, that's correct."
"Can you tell me more about this? Like why a god's been booted out of Heaven? And what we have to do to get him back there?"
"Oh goodness, yes. Of course." Omos clutches the book to his chest, looking rapturous. "This is the Anticipation. It's finally upon us once more. It's a time when the twelve minor gods must account for their sins to the High Father."
"So…this has happened before?"
"Twice before in recorded history, and it was foretold that it would come once more. We have always celebrated the Anticipation every year, but I don't think anyone truly expected it to happen now. These are troubling times."
For a man that lives in troubling times, he looks really darn pleased. "But you're not surprised. At least, you don't seem so."
"Me? No. I saw the moon fade like the prophecies foretold three days prior to the Anticipation and knew it'd be upon us."
"Prophecies?" When he gets to his feet, no doubt to look for another book, I grab his arm. "Wait. I don't care about the prophecies. Just keep telling me more about the Anticipation." If he goes to hunt for another book, I'm going to be here all damn day long and I'm finally getting answers. I don't want to be interrupted by anything at all. "What's this about accounting for sins? And the
re are twelve gods roaming the earth right now?"
He settles back down on his seat. "Well, no, not exactly. If this is going how the prophecies have told, then I imagine there are forty-four Aspects wandering about our lands."
Wait, forty-four? "I thought you said there were twelve gods? Aron—"
"Is an Aspect," Omos tells me, and gets to his feet again. "I have the perfect book to show you. I'll be right back."
I sigh and let him go, taking another large bite of food. Might as well eat. This could be a while.
22
I eat as I hear Omos puttering around in his books. He's humming to himself, and it's clear that even though he lives alone here, his books are all the company he needs. It's kind of sweet. An “Aha” comes from the far end of the building, and then the monk returns to my side a few moments later with another beautifully bound, oversized book. He sets it down on the bed and flips through it.
"The last time the gods were outcast in an Anticipation, there were forty-four Aspects cast down from the heavens. The High Father is pure and just, of course. He is immortal and eternal. The other gods are eternal but not immortal, since they were born of human parents."
"They were?" I'm surprised to hear that. Nothing about Aron seems all that…normal.
"Oh yes." He straightens and studies his shelves. "I have another book—"
"Let's just focus on this one," I tell him, patting the one on the bed with me. "So the forty-four are from humans…?"
"Twelve gods," Omos corrects. "Twelve born of humankind and lifted up to rule over them. Aron of the Cleaver is the Lord of Storms and Butcher God of Battle, but I'm sure you knew that." He carefully flips through pages and then smooths the book out, turning it toward me as he opens up to a two-page spread. "Here are the others."
There's a gorgeous diagram illustrated across the two pages, full of symbols and figures and swooping, swirling lettering that looks like it took a hundred years to draw. Unfortunately for me, it's all written in a language I don't read. "I can't make out any of this. I don't read your language, Omos. I'm sorry."