Bound to the battle god

21

The next day, I'm so hungry and thirsty I'm delirious. It takes everything I have to move one foot in front of the other, and even that I'm doing badly. Aron has to haul me along by one arm, dragging me beside him all morning. The sun gets high in the sky and then it's too much to do even that. I'm panting and not sweating despite the heat, which I know is a bad thing. I need water and shade and rest…and there just isn't any.

Eventually, Aron realizes that I'm not being lazy as much as being “collapse” and hauls me into his arms. He carries me as he walks down the road. "You are not allowed to die, Faith," he tells me sternly.

I give him a weak thumbs up. "I'll keep that in mind."

He frowns down at me. "Put your arms around my neck. You are sliding out of my grip."

"I really don't want to," I begin, but he gives me a hard jiggle and I have no choice but to do so. I'm burning up and touching him just makes everything hotter and more miserable. Sunstroke, I bet. There's no shade and I'd give anything for a drink. "You might have to get yourself a new anchor," I tell him woozily, the world tilting. I'm so tired.

"I will not." He gives me another hard jostle. "Wake up."

"Asshole. Let me sleep through this misery." He shakes me again, until my teeth are clenched with frustration and I have to knot my fingers against his collar to keep my grip there. "I hate you."

"You think I care? You are here to serve me, and yet here I am, carrying you because you are too lazy to walk." His words are dickish as fuck, but he says them in a quiet, calm ma

I don't know what to make of that. Or of him at all. Damn arrogant prick. I wish I'd been found by the god of cupcakes or kittens instead of the arrogant god of battle. And storms.

Wait.

"Aron," I gasp, clutching at him. Blackness fades in and out of my vision, and I'm so overheated it feels like I'm going to die. "Can you make it rain?"

"You wish a storm? Why?"

"I need a drink," I whimper at him. I know I'm whining, but I don't care. "Please. I'll do anything."

He sighs and holds me close against his chest. "I forget how fragile you mortals are." For a moment, I think his voice sounds curiously gentle, but that has to be the heatstroke talking. But then thunder crashes overhead and clouds roll in. The terrible sun that feels as if it's baking me like a potato disappears, and a moment later, a downpour drenches the skies.

The temperature changes immediately, so quickly that it sends a sharp pain through my head. I gasp as cold, wet rain pounds my skin and soaks me, washing away dirt and heat and all the terrible things of the day. Even so, it’s wet and refreshing and I don’t care how much it makes my head hurt. I moan and tilt my face back, catching the rain in my mouth.

"Better, little mortal?"

"Thank you," I gasp, and then drink more. I cup my hands to drink as much as I can, and then collapse back against his chest, exhausted.

The downside of rain is that after it fades away, the air is humid and sticky once more. My wispy gauze dress is soaked, and I suck on the moisture there for another drink later, and then fall back against Aron's shoulder, unconscious. I want to tell him that I'm not normally such a wimp. That I can usually handle myself and I'm a decent hiker, but I don't have the energy.

This is what it feels like to be dying, I think. Strange how it came on that fast. Shouldn't it take a few days for me to die of thirst? But I feel like I'm at my end as it is, and Aron seems to think so, too.

"Not much farther," he tells me as I fade in and out of consciousness.

I'm pretty sure he's lying to me. That's all right. It's a nice lie.

Distantly, I hear the sound of thunder, and I feel more rain patter against my skin, but I'm too far gone in sleep to pay much attention. I want to wake up and thank him, but it feels like a huge effort, a mountain that I'm sitting at the base of, and it's much too far to climb.

"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 ca

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.

"U

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 u

"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."