by Ruby Dixon
“It is all right,” Solat says, and it is. Nothing much seems to matter here in the afterlife.
“Where are we?” I ask, curious as more people shuffle in.
“This is where the dead go when there is no body for us to be attached to any longer. We are between all webs. Between life, death, everything.” Solat shrugs. “So we wait.”
“Wait?” I echo.
“Wait for the god of death to return to his throne.”
I nod. “Can I wait with you guys?”
“Of course.”
We sit together in the gray, and it occurs to me that if I have no body to inhabit, I must have been burned, like all the others. I wonder if we stopped the war in Yshrem. I wonder if we saved lives. I guess it doesn’t matter one way or another. Death isn’t so bad. It’s just kind of…blah.
Time passes. It’s not so lonely with Solat and Vitar here. We talk some, but mostly we’re content to just sit in the fog and wait together. Eventually, a distant light flares, like a firework rising into the sky.
“What’s that?” I ask, pointing.
“One of the gods is re-ascending to the Aether,” Solat says. “Beautiful, isn’t it?”
I nod, thinking of Aron. “Was Aron’s star beautiful?”
“It was perfect.”
That makes me happy.
It’s hard to know just how long I sit with my friends. The gray is…endless. There’s no hunger, no need to eat or sleep, nothing to break up the endless time. I feel no boredom, no nothing. I’m just…waiting.
Then one day—or many days—later, a large man stalks through the sea of gray spirits that wander in the fog. He wears a long, black cloak, a heavy hood, and seems to be heading straight for us.
“Should we run?” I ask Vitar and Solat, but I can’t bring myself to care, not that much. Death does that to a person. I get no answer, and look around. They’re gone.
In fact, everyone’s gone.
Well, I guess that’s my answer.
I get to my ghost-feet, but the man is already standing in front of me. He lowers his hood.
This must be the god of death. His skin is deathly pale, his hair black as night. His brows are black slashes and his nose is big and would be overwhelming if it weren’t for the cloud of thick, loose waves that somehow break up the harshness of his features, and the softer line of his mouth. He’s missing an eye.
A green one.
“I know who you are,” I say, surprised. That surprise zings through me. It’s the first real, honest emotion I’ve felt since I died, and it feels…good. “You’re Rhagos, aren’t you? God of the Dead? Original owner of Aron’s left eye?”
He reaches up and touches my chin, and his hand doesn’t pass through me. Huh. He tilts my face up and studies it. “So this is Faithful.” His voice is deep and smooth, like rich chocolate.
“Nooo, this is Faith.” I point at my face.
“I was curious to see what made you so different from the others, but I see it now. You’re not afraid of us, are you?” He considers me. “You’re not worried about offending the gods.”
I shrug. “You’re not my gods.”
“Just so.” He smiles and offers me his hand. “At any rate, you belong to me.”
I hesitate. “That’s nice of you, but I’m pretty sure I belong to Aron.”
His smile broadens, as if my answer amuses him. “That bond was severed in death, Faithful. You are dead, thus you belong to me. Come. I have things to show you.”
I move to his side, but I avoid taking his hand, and that makes him smile wider. I cross my arms over my chest and when he starts to walk away, I walk faster to keep up. “Can my friends come?”
“No, they remain in the Field of the Forgotten until their god retrieves them. Their hearts are dedicated to another.”
For a moment, I wonder if I should stay with Vitar and Solat, but I have too many questions for this Rhagos guy. So I jog after him as he heads through the fog. “So, you’re back on your throne? Which Aspect won? Which Rhagos are you?”
He just looks at me. “Does it matter?”
“I guess not? But for the High Father to make such a big deal out of splitting your personalities, it seems weird to me that it’d all be forgotten the moment you return home. Like, my Aron? I’m pretty sure I can’t imagine him without arrogance. It’s part of who he is, you know? And that arrogance isn’t bad, not really. It just has to be tempered. He’s a good guy.” I try not to stare at the scar over Rhagos’s missing eye. “Well, sometimes he’s a good guy.”
“Mm. You talk a lot. I’m not used to the dead having so much to say.”
“Because they’re afraid of you?”
He nods. “Because of the places I can send them for eternal torment if they antagonize me.”
Is that a threat? “I guess it’s a good thing I’ve never heard of those places or I’d be shitting in my pants about now.” The fog parts, and a massive, ominous-looking palace rises from the middle of nowhere. It’s all black stone and darkness atop a rocky cliff, and overhead, the stars twinkle in the sky like thousands of pinpricks. I’m not entirely surprised to see a drawbridge drop down, and we step inside to more red and black gothic-looking decor. “Nice place.”
“I’m glad you approve, as you will be remaining here until the negotiations are over.” There’s a dark amusement in his voice.
“Negotiations?” I ask, curious.
But Rhagos ignores me. He waves a hand and a door at the end of the hall opens, and we head into a throne room. I don’t know if I’m supposed to keep following him or what, but I do. Inside the room is a large, uncomfortable-looking granite throne on a dais, a bajillion skulls lining the walls, and fire-lit sconces to provide more ominous lighting.
And between two pillars? There’s an enormous spiderweb that makes the pit of my stomach drop as Rhagos approaches it.
Not this shit again.
To my surprise, he waves a hand in the air and the web shimmers and a picture begins to form in the center. That’s…unexpected. “What is that?”
“It is my connection to the Aether, since I must spend my time here in the realm of the dead. It allows me to communicate with the other gods.”
“You can see the other gods?” I clutch his arm, full of longing. “Oh my god, can I see Aron? Please?”
He shrugs me off. There’s a look of shock on his hard face. “You dare to touch me?”
Like I care? I’m dead. What’s he going to do to me, condemn me to a thousand years without Aron? There’s nothing he can do that I’m not already prepared for. “I just…please, can I see him? I died and I don’t know if he ascended back to his home. I want to know if he’s still the same guy and if everything’s okay—”
Rhagos stares at me with that one green eye, his expression cold.
“Please,” I ask again, clasping my hands together. “I won’t ask for anything ever again.”
“Somehow I doubt that,” he says drily. “You truly love him? Aron of the Cleaver? Lord of Storms? Butcher God of Battle?”
I frown. “Everyone has flaws.”
He barks a laugh. “Flaws? Is that what we call them?”
“Look. He might not be your favorite person, but he’s been good to me. If he’s a little battle hungry, he’s just a guy devoted to his work. There’s nothing wrong with that. I love him. I even love his arrogance. I just…I need to know he’s okay.”
“He is a god. Why wouldn’t he be ‘okay’?” Rhagos gives me an imperious look.
I’m starting to think Arrogance might have won out in Rhagos, too. “Please.”
The god of death studies me for a long moment. Then, with an impatient flick of his hand, he gestures at the web and the shimmering gives a subtle shift. A second later, I see mismatched eyes under dark brows, and scars. I ache at the sight of him, all of my body full of yearning. My Aron. He’s so handsome.
The web “zooms” out and Aron’s moving, fighting as he swings his mighty axe, surrounded by men. It�
�s an enormous battlefield, full of swarming, fighting people and as I watch, Aron raises his axe and lets out another battle cry.
I press my hands to my mouth, horrified. “We didn’t stop the war?”
“Oh, you stopped the war.” The god’s voice is full of irony. “He started another.”
“What?”
Rhagos gives me another one of those fascinated looks, studying my face. “Aron ascended the moment you died. He was rather furious, because it seems he was unaware you had to die in order for him to return. He is laying siege to the Underworld.”
I clutch my throat, shocked. “Why?”
“You have to ask? It is because you are here and he refuses to let you go.”
Oh. Warmth floods through me. He said he wouldn’t forget me. It’s all I wanted. Now, I have a new want. A new yearning. I want to be with him. I don’t care if I have to spend my afterlife surrounded by a bunch of bloodthirsty warriors. As long as I’m with Aron, it’ll be the happiest forever-until-eternity. I turn to look at Rhagos, pleading in my eyes.
He simply studies me, like I’m something he can’t quite figure out. “I’m told he approached the High Father and demanded your return. That he shouted so angrily that storms flooded the mortal world for a month straight. Magra was quite displeased at his little tantrum.”
Aron’s fighting to get me back?
He approached the High Father?
I feel so warm and fuzzy. “God, I love that man.”
“Yes, you have said so.”
I send another pleading look to Rhagos. “Will you let me go to him? Please? I can make him stop.”
“Do you think I care? Let him fight. The dead are dead.” Rhagos shrugs. “He knows I will give you back, but only under very specific conditions.” He nods at my direction, and the web goes dark, the picture of Aron fading. “Take her away. There is time yet.”
Take me away? I look around, but suddenly invisible hands are on my arms, tugging me forward, and then I’m dragged out of Rhagos’s throne room and down a hall. I’m led deeper into the palace of the lord of the dead by his unseen servants, and then a door opens. The room I’m led into is opulent and lush—I’m guessing so Aron won’t be pissed that I’m being mistreated—but the doors shut behind me and click, and then I’m locked in.
I look around my new prison, but even this can’t stop the giddy rush in my heart.
Aron’s coming for me.
He’s storming the underworld. For me.
83
So I wait.
Impatiently.
It seems that whatever weird “between” I existed in is no longer the case—my hands are solid, my mind is sharp, and my stomach is hungry. Plates of food are offered up to me, appearing like magic in my room, and for a while I think I shouldn’t eat them. I remember stories of Persephone in the underworld and how she couldn’t leave after she ate one shitty pomegranate. This isn’t pomegranates, either. It’s fresh fruit, sure, but it’s also Yshremi sweetcakes and thick slabs of amazing-looking cheese. It’s roasted meats and breads, bowls of nuts, and it all smells so heavenly—and I’m so hungry—that my hunger strike lasts all of a day.
I mean, I’m already dead. Isn’t “being stuck in the underworld for the rest of my days” kind of a default at this point? So I eat. And I sleep in the big, fluffy bed. I bathe in the tub that shows up full of hot, steaming water, and I try not to think if the invisible servants are watching me scrub my girly parts. I wear fresh clothes, and I wait for Aron.
My Aron.
I’m bursting with love, and I can’t wait to touch him again. To hold him, to hear his sexy voice. I want to hear him laugh. I want to breathe in his scent. I want to bask in his presence.
He didn’t forget about me.
I’m just an anchor, a mortal, but he remembered me. I matter to him. That makes me so happy. My Aron wants me back at his side so much that he’s coming to the underworld to claim me. I can’t stop grinning.
One morning—at least, I assume it’s morning, since time is impossible to tell in the underworld—a trunk of clothing is delivered with the food. The hint seems pretty obvious to me, so I get dressed in the somber black gown trimmed with red. It’s better than the gray shift I was wearing, though I’m still not a fan of the color scheme. I take a few bites of food, and then an invisible hand touches my arm.
“What is it?” I ask.
I’m tugged at, indicating I should follow.
I get to my feet, take one last bite of food, and then brush my hands off. “Okay, but this better be good. Breakfast is sacred.”
The doors to my room open as I stand, and to my surprise, I’m staring right at the man I love.
Aron of the Cleaver.
Lord of Storms.
Butcher God of Battle.
He walks in, his axe sheathed on his back, and he wears studded armor that’s covered in blood, and thick, heavy boots. His hair is pulled back in its war-braid and he’s wearing an eyepatch.
He looks so fucking good.
I let out a squeal of happiness as his gaze locks onto me, and before he can say a thing, I launch myself into his arms.
Aron catches me. Of course he does. He’s amazing. He grabs me and holds my hips even as I fling my arms around his neck and my legs around his hips. His mouth crushes mine in the hardest, most delicious kiss ever, and lightning crackles between us.
I moan against his mouth. “Fuck, I missed you.”
“Faith,” he murmurs, biting gently at my lower lip. “I do not know whether I should throw you down on the bed and take you, or if I should put you over my knee and spank you.”
“Who says we can’t do both?” I ask him, breathless. I pepper his face with kisses. “Oh my god, Aron. I can’t believe it’s you. I’ve missed you so much.”
“Faith.” He kisses me back, equally as frantic. “Don’t you ever, ever do that again.”
“Do what?”
“Sacrifice yourself.”
“Spoiler, I’m already dead.” I nip at his jaw. God, I am so horny already. He growls low and I lift my head. “Wait. Am I dead? Did you make a deal with Rhagos?” I stare up at his face, at the eyepatch where a bright green eye used to be.
“Is it not obvious?” He gestures at the patch.
“Oh, Aron,” I say softly, caressing his cheek. I reach up and peek under the eyepatch, but he doesn’t push my hands away. Where his eye used to be is just a long, flat scar. It’s not grisly or gross, it’s just gone as if it was never there. He’s still handsome—maybe even more so like this—but I ache for his loss. “Are you sure?”
He grabs my chin between thumb and forefinger. “Faith. If you are asking me if one stolen eye is worth your life, then you are the most foolish mortal I have ever met.”
I bite my lip. “But I’m already dead, Aron. It had to happen. The Spidae told me.”
“I know,” he says grimly. “The moment I returned to the Keep of Storms, I immediately went to the Spidae and demanded that they work you into the web again. They said it had to happen. That anchors are the final sacrifice before one re-ascends.” His mouth curls with irritation even as he cups the back of my head and studies my face. “So I went to the High Father instead.”
I’m breathless at how much he’s done for me. Me. “You did?”
“I did. I told him that casting us out in an Anticipation every few centuries is a mistake. That we would retain our humanity far more if we were given an anchor constantly instead of just when we misbehave. That all of the gods have a companion at all times to keep us in touch with our human side.”
I gasp, clenching at the collar of his armor. “Does this mean—”
“You are my anchor. For now and forever.” His gaze is intently focused on my mouth, and he leans in and brushes his lips over mine with the softest of kisses. “As long as you are willing to serve as my anchor, you will be at my side for all time.”
“What does that mean, serve as your anchor?” I rub my thumb against his neck, ov
er where his pulse beats, hard and fast. Everything about him is hard and fast, and lordy, I love it.
“You give me perspective,” Aron says. “You tell me when I fuck up. You tell me when I am too ruthless. You are my humanity when I threaten to lose mine.”
“And what do I get out of this?”
“My love. Eternally.” With one arm locked around my waist, he takes the hand I have at his collar and presses his mouth to my palm. “You said a god cannot love, but you’re wrong. Ever since you left me, I have been hollow. I am not whole unless you’re at my side, Faith. Be with me? Forever?” He hesitates. “You’ll have to remain with me in the Keep of Storms on my personal plane, but if you like, we can also visit my temples and—”
“Yes,” I say quickly. “Yes to all of it. We can live in the sewers of Katharn if it means we’re together.”
Laughter rumbles up out of him. “We don’t have to go that far. But you accept?”
“Of course. I love you, Aron. I have always loved you.” I smile at him, at his beloved, wonderful face that even the eyepatch doesn’t mar. He’s just my big sexy pirate now. “I would do anything for you. That’s why I did what I did—I needed to make sure you were the last man standing. Does this mean we get our bond back?”
“All you have to do is take my hand,” he says, and offers it to me, palm up.
I slap my hand in his so fast that our palms smack. Lightning crackles.
The world flashes around us. Air swirls, and there’s a boom of thunder, and I swear it’s like riding a cyclone. I squeeze my eyes shut and hold onto Aron, his arms tight around me. My clothing whips around my body as I hold onto him, and I’m not entirely surprised to see that it looks like we’re standing in the middle of a hurricane, the wind so thick and fast and crackling with electricity that it makes my hair stand on end.
“This is how you travel?” I shout into the wind, clinging to his thick neck.
I feel his laughter rumble through my body and he presses his mouth to my skin even as we surge and the tornado seems to move faster. I hide my eyes against him, holding tight.
