“Huh.”
“She has a long tradition in the Scolate,” the soldier-priest confided, eyes on the wall of flickering candle flames. “Volakras and Miel and Urb all have their followers, of course. Deities of glory, martial prowess, death,” he clarified, glancing at Havec. “But war is hard and crime is unpleasant, and sometimes our people find it hard to find their way off the battlefield.”
Unsure how to take this, he said awkwardly, “This is her place?”
“This is a place. All are welcome here.”
“Does that bother you?” he asked curiously.
Finally he had managed to surprise the man, but his brows only rose a little, smile fading. “The individual who sweeps this floor changes over the years, but the need of those who come to pray remains the same.”
“So anyone can come here and pray to whatever?”
“Of course.”
“Even if they’re not, you know…”
“Unhappy?”
“Yeah.”
The soldier-priest studied him, and Havec almost thought he could hear all the questions running through his head as he discovered that, Avatethura Master or not, Havec was still mostly a foreigner who knew little of their ways. What he chose to say was, “If we had a temple to every god in every town, there would be nowhere left to live.”
He could think of no witty response and nodded, hoping it looked sage. He cast about for something else to say, something that would keep the man’s attention on him. “Which came first? The robe or the uniform?”
He laughed faintly, eyes turned briefly inward. “I was a chicken that broke from its shell already laying an egg. My mother served during the Philibrax Incursions. I grew up admiring her fiercely… and cleaning up after her, making sure the bills got paid. Trying to help her get her head on straight.”
“I’m sorry,” he muttered.
“You don’t take up a calling like this without expecting people to ask what you were thinking. It seemed worth it to help as I could.” A faint frown crossed his face, the first Havec had seen. “Then I got posted to a sleepy border town.”
“That must suck,” he said frankly.
“Will you look down on me if I confess that I sometimes get bored?”
“I’m bored and I’ve been here two days. I haven’t made it my life’s work to fight battles and helped fucked-up people who’ve seen too much blood.”
“Then again,” the man said, “you never know when the opportunity might present itself.”
Havec glanced at him sidelong and said nothing.
Suddenly somber, the soldier-priest said, “Mahudar wants me to warn you: smoothing away the scar tissue doesn’t mean the wound wasn’t there.”
“You think you’re going to fix me?” he asked curtly.
“No, but I would be honored to help.”
Havec had meant to make some cutting comment about how they could sit down over cups of tea and talk about the experience of being kidnapped and then held prisoner by a wicked giant until he felt better. The man took a step closer to him, though, and one of his knuckles grazed the back of his hand. He was close enough now that Havec could smell his sultry odor of metal-polish, incense, and sweat. He froze like a rodent in a hawk’s shadow, throat so tight he could barely breathe.
The man blinked, blinked again, and again Havec saw the there-and-gone vivid green of his goddess’s eyes. It might have been repellant, but he found it compelling. Neither of them were truly alone in their own heads, but this man had chosen it for the purpose of saving people no one else was willing to help. Havec didn’t really care that it was noble and selfless; it was daring, that was what interested him.
“My name is Farait, by the way.”
An innocuous statement, but the words were little more than a rumble in his chest. “Nice to meet you,” Havec answered witlessly, and his voice sounded strange to his own ears. He found himself wondering when the last time was he blinked.
“When you’re ready,” the man said, not specifying for what. “It may be easier with someone who expects nothing of you and understands you at least a little.”
“I’ll remember that,” Havec said shrilly. Then he fled.
As soon as he stood outside in the bracing cold, he stopped. His hands were shaking, and he leaned up against the building’s front while he caught his breath. He had thought he left the past in the past, he had thought he was ready to get out there and start with the business of living, and he’d been completely fucking wrong. Euphoria bloomed, such a sense of invigoration as he usually only felt in the midst of a fight. It was too much, clashing against the shocky anxiety that already filled him, and he bent over, puking bile and old tea into the dirty snow.
“Stop,” he moaned, bracing a hand on one knee as he scrubbed spittle off his lips. “Stop, please. That doesn’t always work.”
The giddy sensation began to drain away, leaving him weak and empty. He stood up straight, then staggered dizzily and almost sat down in the street. He slapped a hand against the barracks, propping himself up. Once the wash of gray receded from his vision, he took a step back and slumped against the building again, letting his head fall back.
“I know you meant well,” he mumbled, lips numb. “I know you were trying to help. It’s just…” He didn’t know what it was and gave up.
His heart began to speed up all over again and he had the suspicion that Kebbal was trying to ask him a question. He thought to wonder what it was like for the soldier-priest to communicate with his goddess, who wasn’t older than mortal life and might be capable of speech. The question led in awkward directions, and he put it quickly from his mind.
I’m perfectly fine, he said to his companion, making his thoughts as firm as he could. There’s nothing wrong, and Hot Priest didn’t do anything bad. He was just trying to help me understand something I needed to know.
And he had made his point: feeling good and being good weren’t quite the same. If he was this disturbed by a gentle tangential approach from a hot guy who dealt professionally with people like him, he needed a better plan. Kebbal couldn’t carry him; it could take away the fear but not the reasons he was afraid. No amount of no nightmares or bliss could miraculously help him to know how to be.
Once a bit of feeling returned to his limbs, he pushed himself off the building and crossed the square. When he stepped into the common room, he looked about in search of the girl, thinking they might have a talk. She already knew the score, so he wouldn’t have to admit to anything. And the girl had had a few boyfriends when she was off at university, maybe she could give him some insight into things like flirting, small-talk, and what to do when a guy talked at you in a smoky voice that made your knees shake.
Alas, what he found instead was Smooth Guy sitting before the fire with a book. Logically, there was nowhere it made more sense for him to be, but it had begun to feel like an ambush, running into the man every time he turned around. And he was increasingly wishing he was still back in that shrine kissing the man he’d just run from like a bitch.
Stomping over to the fire, he threw himself into the vacant chair. He didn’t see The Thing on his first cursory inspection, but it would be around here somewhere, lurking. “So what’s your plan?”
