by Ruby Dixon
"Then make me wrist supports, Mr. Weapons Expert."
"Do I look like an armorer?"
I drop the staff again, toying with the heft of it. "You look like someone that wants to be hit in the head with a bat if we're asking me," I mutter.
He throws his head back and laughs. "You're very violent for one so soft, Faith. I like that."
His words make me flustered. I'm not sure if it's a compliment or not, since I just offered to knock him in the head, but he's a god of battle. Maybe that shit turns him on. "You're a very strange man, you know that?"
"Your first mistake is thinking I am a man," Aron tells me, and his eyes gleam with amusement, little sparks flicking in them and making me think of lightning.
Of course, seeing that makes me shiver, just a little. He's a god. Just because we joke around and he gets muddy like I do, it doesn't mean we're the same. Sometimes I forget. I'm so used to the electric charge when we touch I barely notice it anymore. I didn't notice it when I bathed him.
Good god, why am I always thinking of him naked? "I have far too many problems right now," I tell myself under my breath. "And all of them are named Aron." I shoot him a look, but he's still got that speculative, eyes-flashing-lightning expression on his face and I avert my gaze. "We should get going," I say loudly. "Just in case someone's coming after us."
"Indeed." He sounds thoughtful, but he doesn't move.
"I'll practice with my bat later," I tell him, and deliberately avoid eye contact, even when he moves closer to me. I focus on the branch itself, pretending to pick at a particularly knotty spot as he stands next to me, his gaze still fixed on my face…or my body. I wonder what he's thinking.
I wonder if he's going to touch me.
Goosebumps prickle up and down my arms as I remember that night in Tadekha's Citadel. The way I crawled all over his lap like a cock-hungry ho, begging for his dick. Is he thinking about that? Is me handling a weapon turning him on? I wait for him to say something, do something, and I keep prickling with awareness. I know he's watching me.
My stomach growls, the sound overloud in the early morning quiet.
Aron turns and walks away. "You have a few minutes to eat before we leave. I suggest you do so because I do not plan on stopping again."
35
Aron’s wrong of course. We do end up stopping again, though not for several hours.
The weather turns to a misty rain, which makes our clothing stick to our skin and everything damp. There’s a muddy, rutted road that cuts through the countryside, but we avoid it. Walking on it would probably be easier than creeping through the trees and bushes, which is what we’re currently doing since Katharn is still on the distant horizon, but every so often someone rides past on a horse, or in a wagon, and I don’t complain about hiking next to a road.
Even if Aron’s pretty clueless about some things, he’s right when it comes to keeping us safe.
Just when I’ve about hit my limit of walking for the day, a small farm comes into view on the horizon. It’s no more than a square cottage in the midst of an enormous plowed field, but Aron points to it. “That is where we’re going.”
“Sounds good.” I’m not so sure about his master plan of “steal horses and supplies” considering the place looks pretty bare to me, but he’s the one in charge, and I’m too tired to argue.
We pick our way through the barren fields, and I can’t help but notice that they’ve got the saddest-looking crops known to mankind. The ground here seems to be mostly rock and the plants are choked with mud and sludge and look wilted. My feet sink into the carefully tilled rows, messing up their symmetry and making me stagger behind Aron a good distance. Him, you’d think his feet were made of air. He doesn’t notice the mud, and even the rain doesn’t seem to be soaking him quite like it is me.
I hear him sigh heavily as he pauses. I catch up to him, about to retort that if he wants me to keep pace with him he needs to walk at a human speed, when I realize he’s not even looking in my direction. He’s looking ahead at the farmhouse, and so I stop at his side and gaze, too.
At first, I’m not entirely sure what we’re supposed to be looking at. It’s all foreign to me. The walls look like stone spackled with mud, and the roof is thatched hay. In the distance there’s a second shack that might be a stable of some kind, with a fat land-hippo chewing hay nearby, his legs encased in mud. Then I see them.
There’s a man and woman at the front of the cottage, their heads bent as they kneel in one of the puddles. They’re both incredibly thin and dirty, their clothes faded and poor. The woman clutches a swaddled baby to her breast and her belly is huge with another kid on the way. The man has both fists over his heart in Aron’s symbol, as if he’s holding an invisible axe to his chest.
Oh.
“Look,” I tell Aron brightly. “Superfans.”
He gives me a dark look and doesn’t move forward. Even as we stand there, the rain seems to pour down harder. They ignore the rain, but I can see the woman trembling as water drips down over her, and the baby starts to cry.
I glance at Aron. He looks highly annoyed, as if this has ruined all his plans. “Why aren’t we approaching?” I whisper, leaning in.
He leans back toward me, not taking his eyes off of the couple. “They know who I am.”
“Well, you don’t exactly blend,” I point out. Even now, my hair’s streaming water into my eyes but Aron looks only lightly misted upon and just as overwhelmingly sexy as ever. At least, he’s sexy until he opens his mouth. “And they don’t look all that dangerous.”
“They will tell others we have stopped by.”
“So tell them not to,” I whisper. “You’re a god. It’s clear that they’re scared of you.” The baby wails louder, but still Aron doesn’t move, just scowling in their direction.
“Please, my Lord of Storms,” the farmer calls out. “We are your faithful. Bless us.”
The hollow-eyed woman gives us a terrified look, clutching her baby tighter, and then leans forward, as if ready to prostrate herself in the mud but prevented by her big belly.
Oh boy. “Come on,” I tell Aron, grabbing him by the hand and ignoring the pleasurable little jolt of touch. “He’s coming,” I say to the couple. “Blessings for everybody around in exchange for dinner and someplace dry.”
“Faith,” Aron warns me.
I glare at him, even as I drag him forward. “New plan. Instead of stealing, why not let your adoring worshipers gift you with things? Or at least give us shelter and get out of the rain?”
“They could be dangerous.”
“They’re starving,” I point out to him, gesturing at the swampy field. “Look at this. They’re farmers. You think they’re rolling in dough with this crop here? I realize you’re arrogance personified, but they have a small baby and it’s getting wet.”
He glances over at the couple, who quiver in fear at his baleful look. “Very well. But if this is a trap, I shall be very displeased with you, Faith.”
“Fine. I will accept full blame if this turns out to be a sham,” I tell him. “Can we go inside now?”
“Please come in,” the man calls out, kneeling and putting his head to the mud despite the driving rain. “Let us honor you and your consort, Lord of Storms.”
I already like them. “Consort” is way better than “tart.” I give Aron another encouraging smile and he nods, squeezing my hand in acknowledgment as we head inside.
The woman casts me a grateful look as she struggles to her feet, dripping mud and rain, her baby wailing. Both she and her husband wait at the door, their eyes wide. I gesture that they should enter. “After you, please.”
“We cannot walk before a god,” the woman whispers, juggling her crying baby as she tries to make Aron’s symbol over her chest.
“You’re not. You’re just preparing the way for his comfort,” I reassure them, trying to make it sound as if they’re doing us a favor.
They look to Aron, and he gives a terse nod. “My c
onsort and I would sit at your fire.”
“Of course, my Lord of Storms. Whatever you need.” They’re super nervous, these two. Poor things look ready to fling themselves to the ground again, then think twice when Aron crosses his arms and head into the cottage itself.
I start to follow, but Aron puts a hand in front of me, indicating he should go first. He pulls out his sword, and I remember that everyone wants to kill us. Right. Better that the immortal guy goes in first. I wait as they all disappear inside for a long moment, rain splatting all over me, and then Aron finally appears in the doorway and nods, giving the all-clear.
Thank goodness.
I step inside, and it’s humid and smoky but there’s no more rain, so I’ll take it.
The interior of the cottage is clean, if dark. The floors are dirt, but there's a stone hearth along one wall that dominates the room and it has a cauldron of something that smells delicious bubbling over it. A wooden table sits across from the hearth, and herbs and dried roots hang in strings from the rafters. Off to one side, I can see a bed, and a second tiny room that has been set up for the baby, complete with cradle. There are barrels of goods and farm implements stacked in one corner, and everywhere there is clutter, but it seems cozy.
"Your home is lovely," I offer, sliding the hood of my sodden cloak off my head. It just feels good to get out of the rain.
Aron looks at me like I'm crazy, and the two farmers just duck their heads, still clearly frightened.
"We require supplies," Aron tells them imperiously. "Food and drink for travel. A mount. And my consort needs a bath."
"Dude, are you going to tell everyone we meet that I need a bath? You're going to give me a complex." I make a face at his back.
"I will until you stop smelling."
"I don't smell," I tell him, lifting my sleeve to my nose and inhaling. "I…oh god, okay, I still smell like sewer." Bile rises in my throat and I choke, waving a hand in the air. "Never mind."
Aron moves into the house and takes the best chair, the one by the fire that's probably for the pregnant woman. He sits on the edge of the seat and glares imperiously at the two terrified farmers who still stand in place. "Well? Will you be able to help us? Or do you work against me?"
"Never, Lord of Storms." The man drops to his knees and presses his forehead to the floor. "Please. We will give you whatever you need. Just…we ask for a blessing."
That's not the first time they've asked for a blessing, and I wonder what they're talking about. Aron ignores them, looking satisfied, and relaxes in the chair. "Get my consort her bath."
The woman jiggles her baby, casting me a worried look. "Of course. My soaps are poor," she begins.
"Hey, if you have soap, you're a step ahead of me." I try to seem as friendly as possible to make up for Aron. "And we totally appreciate it, even if it doesn't seem like it."
The man nods, racing outside and back into the rain. A moment later, he appears with a tub, and drops it in front of the fire.
Oh shit, am I supposed to bathe in front of everyone? I cast a worried look at Aron, but he's got his dagger out and is sharpening it by the fire. I'm not sure if that's him “relaxing” or if it's a subtle threat, but it's obvious he sees nothing wrong with this scenario. "I hate to be a pain, but can I bathe somewhere private?"
"My husband will not look upon your beauty," the woman says shyly, then tugs the cauldron off the fire with surprising strength and puts an empty pot on the hook.
Aron snorts, not looking up from his daggers.
I move to Aron's side and put my hand over his face, covering his mouth. "I'm a shy, delicate flower," I tell her with a wink. "And I'd rather some privacy if it's all the same to you. Ignore this man."
She gives us a startled look but nods.
Aron just calmly removes my hand from his mouth, as if women manhandle him every day, and then goes back to his dagger. "Do you have a sharpening stone I can use?"
"Of course," the man says, then hesitates. "Should I get water first or the stone?"
"I can get the water," I offer, "If you show me where it is." Heck, this poor woman's got a baby to juggle and her husband looks ready to fall over with exhaustion.
They give me horrified looks, as if the thought of me tending to myself is abhorrent. Aron just rolls his eyes.
"We will tend to you," the woman says. "Please, take your rest."
I feel guilty about that, given that she's very heavily pregnant and they're both underfed. But they look terrified at the thought of displeasing Aron, and he's clearly not going to make any effort, so I look around for a seat. There's a stool, but I want to leave that for her, so I move to Aron's side and plop in his lap. "Hope you don't mind if your smelly consort takes a load off, then."
His hands go to my waist and he leans in to murmur to me, "As long as I do not breathe deep, I am fine."
"Prince Charming," I tell him. "You're going to make me swoon with your flowery words."
Aron just chuckles low, pats my hip, and then we watch as the poor farm couple scurries to make Aron welcome.
36
It should feel good to have someone waiting on us after days and days of being run out of every place we go to by a frightened mob of god-killers, but I can't relax. I just feel sorry for these two, because it's clear that they're very poor and very tired. They're also very worried, if the looks the wife casts in our direction are any indication. I don't blame them for being worried. They don't look like they have much, and Aron wants to take what they do have to make our journey easier, and somehow that feels wrong to me. We'd totally screw them if we took their food and their one horse. Well, land-hippo. They do have a donkey, though, and I picture Aron on a donkey and immediately get the giggles.
"Your bath is ready, my lady," the woman eventually says and sinks to her knees, averting her gaze. She gestures at the baby's small room, hidden by a thin burlap drape. "Shall I attend to you?"
I'm about to say that it won't be necessary, but Aron pinches my hip and I guess I'm getting attended. Yay. Maybe I'm supposed to butter them up and find out what we can take, or just get information, or something. Whatever it is, I smile brightly. "That would be awesome, thanks."
We pull the curtain closed and I undress, then slip into the tub of water. As Aron and I sat by the fire, the husband and wife worked to heat water and bring more in to fill the small tub, and as a result, I have a very small sit bath with tepid water. I don’t complain, though, because I know they worked extra hard just to get this much done. “I appreciate you both opening your house to us.”
“We are faithful to the Lord of Storms,” she says quietly, taking my clothing. “I will have my husband rinse your clothing with fresh water.” She takes them with delicate fingers, and they must smell worse than I thought.
“We got trapped in the sewers,” I tell her, desperate to explain. “I don’t normally smell like that.”
Her smile is soft. “I suspected not.”
She leaves and I soap up the rag provided, scrubbing at my skin. On the other side of the curtain, I can hear the woman murmuring to her husband, while Aron scrape scrape scrapes and sharpens his many weapons. I wash, even though the soap cake is as hard as damn rock, but it smells like flowers and clean herbs.
After a few moments, the woman returns, juggling her baby over to her other hip. “Shall I wash your back for you, my lady?”
“What? Oh, no.” I can feel myself blushing, comparing this to my last bath. “I can do myself, thanks. You’ve got plenty on your hands already.” When she remains, hovering, I try to make this seem normal. “So what’s your name?”
"Me?" The woman looks surprised and then blushes, the color standing out on her thin, pale cheeks. "I am Vian. This is Anora." She shifts the baby in her arms.
"I'm Faith," I tell her, and I'm not surprised at the puzzled look on her face. I guess “Faith” isn't a name around here. "Thank you for opening your home to us."
"Of course," Vian says, and that hint of confu
sion returns to her voice, as if she's surprised anyone would dare not to.
"I know Aron can be a bit much at times."
"He is the Lord of Storms," she acknowledges. “He is allowed to be whatever he likes.” The look on her face is troubled. She glances at the curtain, and then edges closer to me, taking the cloth from my hands and washing my back even though I told her I didn't need it. I don't protest, just hug my knees to my chest and lean forward. "You're…not afraid of him?" Vian's voice is a low whisper as she moves the rag over my skin.
Afraid of Aron? Oddly enough, I've been afraid of everything in this world but him. It's been an awful week—oh god, has it only been a week?—but the one constant is that Aron is at my side. In that sense, I do have a buddy experiencing all this hell with me. So no, I've never been afraid of him, ever. But I think of that torch-wielding mob and Vian's fear and I wonder if it's smarter to foster that intimidation of Aron instead of friendliness. People that aren't afraid try to kill him. If the farmer and his wife view Aron as vulnerable, they could easily cut my throat to be rid of him.
Disturbed by that fact, I snatch the rag out of her hands and pretend to scrub my knees. "It's in our best interests to be together in all ways," I tell her, hoping that makes us sound like a unified front despite my earlier ribbing. "He commands and I serve." Yeah, that sounds appropriately humble, even if it chokes me to think he might possibly overhear that.
The answer seems to appease Vian, but she leans in closer, whispering in my ear. "Do you need deathwort?"
"Deathwort?" I echo, curious.
"For preventing pregnancy?"
Oh my lord. I look at Vian, her earnest face and pregnant belly, the child on her hip who's still probably nursing. I know she's being thoughtful and kind, but…just…oh my word. "I'm not with Aron like that."
Her brows furrow. "But he has chosen a female anchor. You are his consort."
"Well, yeah, but…" I don't finish the statement. What am I going to say? He's not trying to get his rocks off? Should he be? Is that what all the others do with their anchors? I think of Tadekha and her angelic servant, who knelt between her thighs and used her mouth with obvious enthusiasm. What do I say that won't make things worse? I decide to just leave it at that. "I'm good."