Omos’s face softens. “That’s very kind of you.”
He sits down at the table and picks up a small wedge of cheese. I pour him a cup of fresh water that I retrieved from the well, because the least I can do is help when he’s letting us stay with him. Once he’s taken care of, I move back to Kalos’s side to check on him. There’s a stray lock of hair in his face, close to his staring eyes, and I gently brush it out of the way. I can’t resist giving his cheek a little caress as I do.
“I see why he is fond of you,” Omos says. “Your heart is full of empathy.”
Flattery for being a decent human being feels wrong. “Anyone would do this for another.”
“You would be surprised.”
I sit down on a stool, pulling my chair over near Kalos’s. I watch as Omos eats, trying to think of what to ask without seeming like I’m pumping him for information. I have a million questions about everything, but it’s obvious the monk is tired. “How are things in town?”
He brightens, cutting a slice off a small green apple as he does. “The woman I visited is doing much better. I am hopeful that the sickness won’t spread, but it’s difficult to say. I would normally say a prayer that she avoids Lord Kalos’s dread gaze, but, well…”
“I can assure you he’s not thinking about strangers and making them sick right now. It takes all that he has just to keep himself alive.”
Omos watches me as he eats. “I am very curious about him. And you.”
“We’re not all that interesting,” I admit. “I showed up here to serve him, and it feels like ever since, we’ve been on the run for one reason or another.”
“The Anticipation,” Omos says, nodding. “Not all want to see a god appear in their city.”
I can’t blame them, especially with the reputation Kalos has. Hell, their entire religion seems to be all about how they can avoid his attention. “It’s to be expected. I just…how long does this go on for? How long are we supposed to run?”
“No one can answer that except the Fates.”
“And the Anticipation? How long is it supposed to go on?”
He avoids looking at me. “Some have gone on for years. The longest was a decade.”
A freaking decade? A decade of hiding out from people who want to kill me? I blink, digesting his words. It sounds nightmarish, but what other options do we have other than to keep running? “I see.”
“Know that I will support you and the Vulture Lord in any way I can,” Omos says, tone kind. “My home is open to anyone who needs assistance. It is my Lady Magra’s way to share the bounty of the earth with others.”
And it’s Kalos’s way to spread disease and ruin. How long before we destroy Omos’s life, too?
The next morning,Kalos is still in a fugue state. I talk to him as I eat breakfast, chatting about nothing in particular as Omos picks through his books nearby. It’s raining outside, which means all the goats are huddled in the barn. The day is gloomyand quiet, with candles and the fireplace providing the only light inside the monastery.
My clothes need washing, the hem of my skirt filthy and muddy. I have my old dress, worn down to scraps, and change into it as I warm water over the fire and get a few slivers of soap from Omos and a scrubbing brush. He hands me herbs to put in the water to make it smell nice, too, and pulls a wooden rack near the fire so my clothes can dry through the day since we can’t hang them outside.
I stoke the fire as the water warms, then approach Kalos. I unbutton his shirt, leaning over the god. “Why don’t I do your laundry for you?” I whisper, my words soft and gentle. I don’t think he’s in pain when he’s like this, but you never know. I’d rather play it safe and choose kindness. “Let’s get you undressed and get some fresh clothes on you. It’ll make you feel better. There’s nothing nicer than clean clothes. Until then, you can sit here by the fire, wrapped in cozy blankets. Doesn’t that sound nice?”
I caress Kalos’s cheek and run my fingers over his skin as I pull his clothing off him, describing what I’m doing aloud. It’s not quite like undressing a mannequin. If I lift his arm, he doesn’t fight me, just raises it without protest. Getting his pants off is a little trickier, but I manage, and he’s left in nothing but a paper-thin pair of drawstring drawers that he must have gotten at Seth’s keep. I’m tempted to wash them on his behalf, but I don’t know how he’ll feel about that invasion of privacy. He’s not an invalid, and he’s got a lot of pride when he’s awake and cognizant. I opt to leave them, bundling warm blankets around his near-naked form once I’ve stripped him down.
I’m tempted to kiss his lips as I part but fight the urge.
As I pile the laundry in my arms, I notice Omos watching us out of the corner of his eye.
The next morning,the sun dawns bright and cheery, and Kalos is awake. He pokes me out of my sleep, leaning over my cot as I yawn and rub my eyes. “My shirt smells like weeds.”
“Your shirt smells like herbs,” I correct. “Good morning.”
“It’s wrinkled.”
“It is, but it’s nice and clean and probably feels good against your skin,” I counter, sitting up. “I see you’re back to yourself. Feeling better?”
He fusses with the cuff of his sleeve and shrugs. “Thank you. For cleaning it.” He pauses. “I still don’t like the wrinkles.”
“I’ll see if Omos has a suggestion on how to prevent them,” I say easily. I’m used to Kalos being grumpy over small things. It’s not that the shirt really bothers him. It’s that he doesn’t know how to express himself or start a conversation. This is just him noticing his laundry. “If you want to take it off, I can probably find you a monk robe to wear.”
