“I don’t know what a speedbump is.”
“It doesn’t matter. They’re people and you need to start giving a shit about them or else you’re never going home.”
In the darkness, he hmphs, an amused sound. “You have it all wrong, Elsie. I go back when my other aspects are dead. It doesn’t matter how good of a job I do.”
For a moment, I’m so angry I’m speechless.
“It doesn’t matter,” he continues in that bored tone. “None of it matters.”
Realization hits. I’m trying to treat him like a normal person. Like he has the same moral compass I do. He’s not going to understand until I show him, until I make people matter to him. And I keep forgetting he’s Apathy. It’s going to be harder for him to care about anything because it goes against his very nature. I need to stop being angry with him and start looking for solutions.
“You’re right. It might not matter if you help people…thistime.” I keep my voice gentle. “But you’ll keep being sent back on Anticipations because you haven’t learned your lessons. Is that what you want? You hate it here. You hate everything about this. I can’t imagine you want to go through this ordeal over and over again.”
He’s quiet, and I wonder if I’ve reached him.
“Do you hate it here, too?” he asks.
Now it’s my turn to be silent. I…don’t know how to answer. I’ve never thought of this world as “like” or “dislike.” It’s my only option. I made the choice to be here, even though there was really no choice at all. “I miss my brother. I worry about him and how he’s feeling. I left when he was getting sick again, and I keep wondering if Lachesis is good on her word or if she was stringing me along. I think about my jobs back home. The future I thought I was going to have. I’ve lost everything I knew. I’ve been thrust here to sleep on the road, get chased by soldiers, and get sick every time you lose your temper. How do you think I feel?”
“I imagine you resent me.”
I let out a frustrated breath. If only it were that simple. Resent him? Sometimes. Blame him for it? No.
He’s just a mass of contradictions. Sometimes he drives me crazy with the way he acts. And sometimes…I keep thinking about the times he’s held me. I daydream of what it would be like between us if we had the time to catch a breath.
I wonder what he’d be like if he wasn’t saddled with Apathy, and if he’d take me in his arms instead of making me wonder if I’ve imagined the times we’ve kissed. “I can’t afford to resent you, Kalos.”
My answer must piss him off. “Go to sleep,” is all he says.
It’sthe best sleep I’ve had in months.
Despite my difficulty falling asleep, I wake up refreshed and relaxed, with a smile on my face. There are no crazy dreams, no waking up screaming, no horses coming out of paintings.
I roll over in bed and look for Kalos in his seat by the fire, but his chair is empty, the fire still out. I sit up and put my boots on, and as I do, Omos enters the room. He smiles at me as he carries a mortar and pestle to a table covered in books and begins rearranging things to try and make a workspace.When the books are all stacked high, he pulls a bundle of herbs from one of the ceiling hooks and starts grinding them. “I hope I didn’t wake you.”
I finger-comb my tangled hair, stifling a yawn. I glance around the room, but there’s no sign of a sulky god. I don’t feel pain, though, so he must be close by. “It was time for me to get up. Where’s Kalos?”
“Out in the goat pen. He’s truly fond of them, you know. It changes everything I’ve heard about the Vulture God. I’m going to make a note of it in my diaries.”
“He does love a goat,” I admit. I wonder what he imagined Kalos to be like. I think of the temple back in Balsingra, the vultures, the warding signs everyone makes whenever he’s mentioned, and it makes me a little sad. He’s despised wherever he goes. He is disease, true, but he’s also got feelings in there. Somewhere. Deep, deep down.
Omos continues to grind herbs. “My lord asked me if I had clothes for you. Better clothes. Yours apparently offend his sensibilities. He said some very colorful things about them.”
Deeeeep, deep down.
I’m determined not to take offense, though. It’s too early in the morning. I get up and make my bed, tucking the blankets under the thin padding atop the cot. “He does enjoy nice clothing.”
“Oh, he didn’t ask for himself.” Omos glances over at me. “I confess I don’t have much more than some blankets and extra robes left behind by my brothers. Oh, and a few odds and ends left by travelers. They’re all in storage. You’re welcome to sew yourself something. Whatever I have is also yours. It is Magra’s way.”
Sewing. Another skill I’m helpless with. Back home, there’s just no need to sew unless you’re a hobbyist of some kind, and I never had the time to learn. Hell, I never had free time. I wastoo busy picking up extra shifts, enticed by the idea of overtime pay. “I’m pretty useless with a needle and thread.”
He chuckles. “Aren’t we all?”
He’s such a nice man. I want to hug him for how kind and understanding he is. I move toward the table where I’d sat to eat last night—there’s at least four tables scattered about the enormous, book-laden room, and each of them is covered with scrolls, maps, or tomes of some kind. There’s a new tray out this morning, with a new loaf of bread and a few pieces of fruit. I snatch up a small plum before I even think about it and take a bite. It bursts on my tongue, filling my mouth with sweetness.
Decent food, freely given. Omos is a saint among saints.
“You know, there’s a seamstress in Thornhill,” Omos continues. I don’t know if he feels the need to fill silence, or if he simply likes having an audience. “I’d suggest that you visit her if you need clothing but now is not a good time. She’s caught a little something.”
