Page 87 of Storm Front
That would not be until Aleks was ready, Azaiah hoped. Aleks deserved a life withhiscompanions, a mortal life before his immortal one, and that was the one gift Azaiah could give the man who would come after him. Azaiah had promised, though he’d also told Aleks that if the rains came to Arktos for more than a day, Aleks might have to take over sooner rather than later.
Aleks, who wanted nothing more than to be with his lovers, had agreed. Despite how hard it would be for him, even with the knowledge his Elena and Evander could be his companions, Aleks had agreed to take over if Azaiah felt himself lost to the corruption. With the compassion that was so much a part of him, Aleks had asked, “Are you sure it’s too late? What if something changes?”
“I have hoped, over hundreds of years, that it would. But what you saw, with the river, here? It will be worse than that if I am corrupted. Not the lack of a river, but too much of one. The world will drown, and all life with it.”
“Oh.” Aleks had chewed on his bottom lip. “Maybe you could try and tell him that?”
Of course he would suggest that, this man who let no obstacle stop him. It was why he was a wonderful choice, and Azaiah felt a sense of satisfaction in knowing that while he might have to leave Glaive behind for good, Aleks would carry out the duties he was given with grace and kindness.
“You have helped stave off my corruption by healing its source. I lost my companion here, before this place was a desert, because hatred was stronger than love. But it has been restored, my ferryman, because of you. Love and compassion and empathy, these are the things you bring. These are what my river was meant to carry. But to find my companion, or the man I’d hoped would be that for me… the rains will come if I lose myself, and I fear what will happen to the world if I do.”
“Then if that happens, I’ll take you home,” Aleks said.
“Ah, but you know what that means, don’t you, my kind ferryman? That you will leave mortality behind, and your partners will have to do the same if they wish to join you.”
“They can stay. I mean, it’ll suck, but if I can show up and bother them and, uh, you know.” Aleks cleared his throat, waving a hand. “Look, I wouldn’t have Elena at all if she’d died when she fell. Same with Evander. So if I have to be their ghostly, hot god husband, so be it.”
Azaiah was very fond of Aleks. Perhaps this was how Nyx had felt about his niece and his nephew, he thought. It was similar to the way he loved his siblings, and he was glad once more that he’d found Aleks in Lukos and chosen him to carry the scythe. His would be a long walk, just as Azaiah’s own had been.
Even if he waited the course of a human’s life, or three humans’, his remaining time was short. He wondered what he would find when he crossed the river. Whether, when the time came, he would be afraid, or intrigued, or if the sadness he carried about Nyx would cross with him, following him into whatever came next.
He would have to tell his siblings. Get ready to bid them farewell. Perhaps a party. Arwyn loved those. Perhaps they could convince Ares to wake from their slumber and join them. Azaiah would miss them all when he left this world for the next. He did not know whether he would see them again.
He was on his way to visit Astra when he answered the call of a ferryman traveling with a troupe of dancers in Kallistos. Now that some of his corruption had faded, the storm clouds weren’t as pervasive, and while he knew he couldn’t linger or they’d eventually converge, it was nice to sit beneath a bright sky and watch the troupe rehearse. It was a welcome change, feeling like himself again.
Azaiah was sitting on the grass, leaning back on his hands and enjoying the show, when a shadow loomed over him. It wasn’t Jimmy, his ferryman—though Jimmy had noticed him with a wave and a quick smile after he’d taken the soul to the river—as Azaiah didn’t want to interrupt the practice. Since Jimmy was the only one here who should have been able to see him, he didn’t think much of it… but the shadow did not pass, and a voice said gruffly, “So, you’re real.”
He looked up and saw a man dressed in heavy boots and a kilt, with bright turquoise eyes and a ring in his brow. He was smoking a clove cigarette, and he nodded at Azaiah. “I know you. I set up bells to keep you out, and they started ringing. Been happening a lot lately. You after a mercenary?”
Azaiah blinked. “A mercenary?”
“Yeah. A couple came through here. Three. Well, two and one who thinks he’s a storyteller. Mind if I sit down?”
As the man settled himself on the grass, Azaiah noticed something strange. His soul was not the color of a normal flame, but a dark oil slick of a thing, like fire that ignites on water. Something was holding him here, something that tethered him to humanity long past when he should have been allowed to move on. “Your soul, dancer,” Azaiah said, concerned.
“I know. Was wondering if you’d notice.” The man sent a sly glance at him. “I don’t suppose I could ask you to murder someone for me?”
“You may ask, but it won’t be done. I take souls across the river. I do not send them to wait for the boat.”
“Poetic. My name’s Cillian. Can I know yours, or will I get cursed? Again.”
Azaiah tilted his head. “Azaiah. And who cursed you?”
Cillian smiled grimly, but he didn’t answer. “Azaiah, then. You’re Death?”
“I am.” Azaiah saw the dark, thorned vines that were wrapped about Cillian’s soul, anchoring him to the earth. “Who is it you would like murdered?”
“Well. Not me. I don’t know if I can die or not, but if you’re here for me, I’m going to fight you.” Cillian took a drag off his clove. “I have something to do, first.”
“I am not here to take anyone,” Azaiah said. “I like the dancing.”
“Huh. Who would’ve thought.” Cillian stared at the smoke drifting lazily into the air. “People think you’re the most terrifying thing in the world, but you’re not. No offense.”
“That is the opposite of offensive. I don’t want to be terrifying. I am supposed to be a release.”
“Yeah, the Gentle Boatman, right? Well. You seem all right, but some of your kind…” Cillian’s face twisted, but he didn’t finish the thought, opting for another drag off his clove.
Azaiah had been trying to place the strangely familiar scent of him since Cillian sat down, and it finally occurred to him what it was. Cillian smelled like rotted fruit and spoiled ink, a combination Azaiah hadn’t encountered in quite some time.
