A woman like this, with so much mental and spiritual substance, should be a chore to carry.
“We’re going to visit my son and offer him some comfort since it’s a new moon, and he suffers. I don’t give a damn how you treat him. If you’re kind, he’ll feel better. If you’re indifferent, he’ll be hurt and less likely to want you. And if you’re cruel when he is at his lowest, he’ll never speak to you again. Any of theseoutcomes will please me, because I care for you both, but I wantyoufor myself.”
Shadows swallow us, and we reappear in Chors’ lake cave, the spring where Nawie’s underground river is born. He lies on the water, his naked body buoyed up. I can count his ribs, and his cheekbones are sharp under his pale, almost translucent skin. He looks like a victim of a bieda’s starvation curse.
I dump Jaga in the sand, furious because I know this is where they fucked. He told me everything, and since I was Weles, I just managed not to bury him alive the way Mokosz did Jaga. It’s dangerous to come here as Woland, but this is my son’s sick chamber, the place that brings him comfort and ease when his body rebels against him. This is where I need to be.
And since Jaga doesn’t react to Weles… Here we are.
I’ll be on my best behavior, that is, I’ll do my damnedest not to murder them both.
Jaga heaves herself up to a sitting position, her unblinking stare sliding over Chors’ body. I take sick pleasure in knowing he’s at his least attractive tonight.Take it in, I think viciously.Look at what you fucked.
But when I turn to him, I sigh with pity. He doesn’t deserve this. He should be beautiful always, just as I made him. Happy. Powerful. Thriving.
“Hello,” Jaga murmurs, crawling closer to where the still water presses at the shore.
Chors doesn’t move his head, but his lips flutter with the quietest whisper. “Oh. You came.”
“She was brought,” I say, my voice calm with only an echo of a growl.
I don’t know how I manage to contain it all. Love for them both, jealousy so vicious, it curdles my blood, sadness, pity, heartbreak, and cruel, cruel hate.
“Why is this happening to you?” Jaga asks, her voice calm, for which I’m grateful.
Chors would hate it if she cried for him.
“Dadzbog’s curse,” I explain when he heaves a tired breath, his ribs flaring out in a horrifying display. “Can I tell her, son?”
“Yes. Please.”
I wave a hand, conjuring a seat for myself. I don’t bother with Jaga. She has enough magic to get a chair if she wants one.
“Chors was born as a being of night and water, but like all of us, he was shaped by mortal beliefs. Humans looked at the night sky and called on his name when they saw the moon until he and it became one. It’s called an emanation, since Chors doesn’t truly wander the sky every night—yet, the connection between them is unbreakable.”
Jaga presses her palm into the water, sifting her fingers through the sand, and the underground lake ripples as if in welcome. Chors sighs, sinking a bit lower. I breathe through affection and pain, clenching my fists until my claws pierce my skin.
“The same thing happened to Dadzbog. Perun made him of fire and light, and so, he became the god of the sun. There was always a certain rivalry between our sons. I made Chors first, and he was perfect. Perun made Dadzbog out of jealousy, not love, so jealousy is at the core of his heart to this day. He was far less beautiful than Chors. Perun is a decent creator, but not as good as me.”
“So it’s because of jealousy,” Jaga whispers, engrossed.
I push away an image forming under my eyelids of them here, together, happy. Of him kissing her skin, of her touching him.No.
“The sun is more powerful than the moon in human consciousness,” I say bitterly. “Its light is brighter, it gives heat and life. The moon is… A kind friend. A light guiding thelost at night. But not a force mortal lives depend on. Chors’ power diminished even more after Perun imprisoned me and made mortals afraid of the dark. His worship dwindled, since it naturally occurs at night. Meanwhile, Dadzbog grew in power.”
“And he was angry about Jutrzenka,” Chors whispers, a gentle wave wetting more sand.
I sigh, closing my eyes. “Ah, Jutrzenka. How stupid we were. Yes, jealous and angry, Dadzbog cornered Chors when I was imprisoned. He got to him during a new moon, when Chors naturally had less power, though he wasn’t as weak as now.
“They fought, and when Dadzbog won, he tied him up using chains of fire Swarog made for him. They burned through skin and muscle but stopped at bone. I never had my bones directly burned—a lack in my education—but Chors told me it’s like no other kind of pain.”
“It feels like the fire will always be there, white heat in your marrow. Unquenchable,” he whispers.
Jaga shudders. She sits cross-legged in the sand, her side to me, watching Chors and glancing at me when I speak. She’s not outraged or crying, as I would have expected the old Jaga to be when hearing about her lover’s torture, but she’s curious, at least.
“Chors has an affinity to silver. Just like water, silver likes him and gains magical potency in his light. Dadzbog used it to tattoo the curse onto his skin, mostly arms and torso, and because he used very strong, hate-filled magic, the curse isalmostimpossible to remove.”
“It is impossible,” Chors counters, his whisper a gentle susurration carrying over water.
