It was possible the fisherman was simply following hospitality laws, which were taken as seriously here as in Katoikos. Or maybe he was just curious. Either way, it was charming to have an ancient honor extended to him by a man who had no idea he was even doing it.
“My thanks,” Azaiah said. “But I won’t take your food from you. The offer is appreciated.”
“Sure,” the man said. He shrugged, then pushed his long, wet hair out of his face. He had a smile that made Azaiah want to smile, too. “Just, hmm. I asked my mates, yeah, I said, ‘Hey, who’s that up there on the beach, wearing that cape like it’s winter and it’s raining?’ and you know, funny thing… they didn’t know what I meant. Said maybe I’d been knocked in the head by a shark’s fin, or something. But that isn’t it, is it? Or was I, and you’re here to bring me somewhere?”
The man’s way of speaking was almost like song. Azaiah was so caught in the rhythm, it took a moment to parse what he’d heard. He squinted at the man, trying to understand why he could see Azaiah when the others didn’t. His soul burned perhaps a little brighter than those of his fellow fishermen, but he was not the beacon that Nyx was. He was not meant to be a ferryman, either. But there was something there, maybe, in the bloodline if not this man in particular.
“Nothing happened to you in the water,” Azaiah assured him. “And I was only watching. You were enjoying yourself. Contrary to what is said of me, I don’t exist simply to snuff out joy like a candle flame.”
The man’s eyes widened. “So you’re— Oh,fuck me, did I just damn my whole family to a thousand years serving in your undersea palace?”
The things people said of him were both mystifying and occasionally entertaining. Also wrong. “No, of course not. I do not curse anyone. I was simply walking by.”
“So, at any point of the day, you’re just hanging around?” The man whistled. “And you’re not going to curse my line for daring to offer you a fish?”
Azaiah smiled despite himself. Perhaps, if his mind weren’t caught by a soldier playing Winter in a tent, smelling of sweat and death and smoke, he would ask this handsome man to come with him for a night. “No. It was kind of you. I will remember the gesture.” A thought occurred to him. “The fish you would have given me. Find someone who needs it, and give it to them in my stead.” It made more sense, he figured, that a hungry mortal should have a meal, rather than a god who didn’t need to take food just because it was offered.
“Yeah, Lord of the Deep,” the man said, but what seemed to be his natural irreverence was back, and Azaiah couldn’t contain his chuckle.
“That isn’t me. That’s my sibling. You’ve seen him, I think. A dark shadow beneath the water that you all pretend you didn’t notice, or that you tell yourself is a fin from some smaller, insignificant creature.”
“You know how to fuck up a guy’s sleep, if you don’t mind my saying so,” the man said, and Azaiah understood how this man would enjoy the danger of his profession.
“It wasn’t my intention,” Azaiah promised. “But thank you. I must be going now. There is somewhere I am meant to be.”
The man whistled. “Poor bastard. But hey, I made Death himself laugh today. And I’ll give the fish to Donal. He’s been home sick the last two days, even if it’s only because he ate old crab soup and drank too much ale. Uh. If that’s who you’re going to see—”
“It isn’t,” Azaiah assured him.
“My name’s Duncan,” the man informed him, though Azaiah hadn’t asked. “I live in a wee village up north called Tondara. Rains all the time, so I like coming down here for some sun, you know?”
“Duncan of Tondara,” Azaiah said with a slight bow. “Enjoy your sunshine.”
“Will do. Hey, if you know my name, can I know yours?”
Azaiah drew his hood over his head, heard the sound of thunder and the chatter of the others as they headed in with their boards, their spears, their nets full of fish. “Yes. One day, each of you will know me. But not today. Farewell, Duncan of Tondara. May your nets be full.”
Duncan of Tondara waved and went jogging back to his friends, shouting, “It was aghost,” and Azaiah decided he liked him, this Duncan, but he had no desire to call him back and ask him for a different sort of offering.
As Azaiah headed toward the temple in Kallistos, he thought about Nyx and their game before he’d left. There had been that touch on his hand. Remembering it made Azaiah shiver, desire pulsing through him as he thought about what it might have been like to have Nyx beneath him there, the smoke from the pyres lingering on the air. Plenty of others surely fucked in their tents that night, driving out grief through sex, or dominance and submission, or both.
But Azaiah hadn’t done that, and he was glad of it, even though he wanted Nyx. There had been something sweet about their embrace, when Nyx turned to him for comfort. That only happened when someone was dying—not with the living, after he’d taken someone they loved. The memory of Nyx’s tears on his skin lingered more than the touch of Nyx’s fingers or the look he’d given Azaiah when he’d asked if Azaiah had taken lovers.
It was raining by the time Azaiah found his sister’s temple. Nothing supernatural, only a simple storm. Pallas’s temple was nestled in grassy hills overlooking a sparkling blue lake with an island in the center that held a little grotto. Azaiah was muddy and soaking wet when he walked into the temple’s main room, and a couple of attendants rushed toward him, likely offended at how messy he was.
“Leave it,” a voice called out as the attendants fussed over him. “I’ll take care of him. Brother, hello! It’s been some time. This is a social call, I’m guessing?”
Pallas, the goddess of art, came swanning in a few moments later. She was a tall woman with long hair in vibrant shades of red, yellow, blue, and green. She was of an indeterminate age, with a girlish laugh and a smile that made her seem as youthful as a maiden, but from some angles she appeared older, more like a woman in her prime.
“Yes. I came only for a visit. Sister, hello.” Azaiah pushed the hood off his head, aware he was dripping water everywhere, but she didn’t seem to mind as he kissed her on both cheeks.
“You’re freezing, Azaiah. Please, go to my chambers and make yourself warm and presentable. I’ll launder your cloak for you.”
Azaiah thanked her and went off to her rooms at the back of the temple. Unlike Azaiah, Pallas was visible to all mortals, though only some recognized her as a goddess, while others thought of her as a patron who gave them a place to create in peace. Either way, as he sought out a warm bath and fresh clothing, he noticed the temple seemed less crowded than it had on his last visit. He took off his clothes and climbed into a scented marble tub, and a few moments later, two giggling priestesses brought him water, fruit, and a comb for his hair. They left with his clothing and boots, though Azaiah knew that was less about Pallas making him comfortable and more that she didn’t like untidiness in her space.
He drank the water and ate the fruit, though he didn’t need to, and used most of the bath items on offer. If he’d wanted, he could have gone to the river and returned clean enough, but it wasn’t always a bad thing, enjoying human luxury. Ares had told him, hadn’t they, that he should keep his connection to humanity strong.
It was still raining when Azaiah finished his bath, and he let the two priestesses braid his hair into a crown and dress him in a ridiculous white chiton with roses sewn into the hem. He put the soft leather sandals on his feet and tied the ribbons that went halfway up his calves, and of course there were a few baubles that the priestesses insisted Lady Pallas wanted him to have. A silver circlet with a blown glass rose for his brow. A pair of dangling earrings with gems the same color as his eyes. A belt that reminded him of the one he’d worn the day he went to the altar, made of soft velvet rope, though this one was dark green to match the stems on the roses that decorated the chiton. The entire ensemble reminded him of being prepared for a sacrifice. Still, he was in Art’s house, and it was only polite to let these blushing young muses drape him in what were, he imagined, paste jewels. She didn’t care for their worth, Pallas. Only whether they sparkled in the light.
