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So this is… a god? Fitzgerald could laugh, and cry at the same time. Not because he’s the offering, but rather, maybe because, they’re so… normal. No, once he looks closer, they’re more than normal. It feels like a clever defense mechanism. Unless someone looked closer, it’s only a human in the woods, not something to look twice at. No wonder no one could find the deity that balances life and death here, huh? They look at him, curious, just as a child might do.
It also seems they’re both too prideful to speak first. Finally, this person sighs and opens their mouth, lips like pomegranates in the fall. “And what are you looking at?” This makes it seem like Fitzgerald is in the wrong. Had he not been forced here, all but knocked out and dragged and left behind by cowards who dare not see their own object of worship? How did he know this is the deity anyway? Simply kneeling about a dark green bed of flowers, tending to their bush. He just knows, that’s all, because he has an eye for the beautiful.
“I should ask what you’re doing first.” He offers, haughty already, though his voice is a little dry. Maybe he’s being a little presumptuous, but he’s certain of it. When has he ever been wrong? “Hm?”
They look at him, finally, and all his suspicions are confirmed. It’s not the light in pale blue eyes, rather what’s behind them, something to do with the pupils like dots placed with a pen. Unreal. “I’m just doing my job.” As they stand up, it’s like the branches refuse to let them go. “And you?” Smiling deceptively, they ask, so casually and calmly.
Fitzgerald fixes his tie unpleasantly with one finger. “I’m sure you have an idea of it.” Their eyes are piercing, and they seem to think of it for a moment. Deceptively human. No wonder the legends of fae are so prominent in this part of the world. “Maybe,” they respond, admitting it with a funny expression of a predator unable to hold back their smile, “May I have your name?”
“My name is Francis Scott Key Fitzgerald,” he enunciates clearly, loudly and proudly, “and that is what you may
call
me.” With a smug grin; though this person raises a hand of a human to their face and stifles a light laugh.
“I won’t steal your name, you know. Maybe your soul, but that’s what the other person is for.” They wave a hand as if brushing that off. “That’s a long name. I think I’ll call you Fitzgerald, is that okay?”
“That is acceptable.”
Of course, Fitzgerald acts this way with this thing, too. In every room he enters, he makes the rules. This is a forest, roofs of green leaves and golden light pouring in warm green through the thick branches and overgrowing tall trees, but same difference, right? However, his confidence seems to amuse the being, as their smile takes a different shape, and a strange expression crosses their face. There is something about their eyes that he’s too distracted by the clear pond clarity of them to see.
“Fitzgerald,” they hum, and it’s like a song, “it’s been a while since I’ve seen… a living human talk.” That makes sense. As the life-giver who lives amongst the forest and the creatures, wisplike or corporeal, they must not see a lot of normal humans, or ones that can talk. And Fitzgerald has a feeling he might be one of the braver humans to be offered to a… God. It's shameful for all those cowards.
Putting a hand on his hip, he shrugs. They should get to business soon. An offering, a sacrifice, a gift in exchange for their blessing. A bribe at its core. Nathaniel instructed him to not call a divine exchange something as vulgar as human corruption, but isn't it? With or without divinity, it's a case of corruption. Hardly free from political motives, but it is beneficial to the economy if Fitzgerald’s life nourishes the land.
“Are you honored to meet me?” He asks, raising an eyebrow. He’s unsure whether to even describe this person with human characteristics. Though they have a definite shape, it’s hard to imagine… depth to it, perhaps? They feel less and more than real at the same time.
The
blonde-seeming
entity, then, cocks their head to the side. “Hm? Sure! I’m very happy to meet you, Fitzgerald. You’re very observant.” They point out. It’s true. It serves true that they revealed themselves to him. Such deities should surely be able to do just about anything, but logically, it would make sense that all of them would be able to hide from human eyes? The reason he was sent, somewhere he barely recalls the path to. What a strange place.
“Hm,” he acknowledges, not once faltering, “of course.” He does not intend to falter. Sent as a sacrifice, offering, bribe (he can hear Nathaniel’s voice in his head), whatever, Fitzgerald does not intend to do anything but survive. A deity of life, what will they do with his death? His mind? Maybe his soul? Whatever it is, he completely intends to survive. That’s all, at this moment; however, he would be eagerly looking for any benefits he can reap from this encounter.
From the way they have their hands behind their back and lightly shift on the heels of their feet, Fitzgerald has a notion that they are somewhat familiar with humans; or this is simply a weakness of the flesh that they inhabit. This also implies that they are of flesh. That’s a completely different story. Skin, veins, blood and bone, that’s ephemeral. It’s fitting, ironically, that an immortal god that’s kept the world afloat for eternity (perhaps only the human world) has the appearance of fragility.
“Fitzgerald,” they taste on their tongue, in thought, “what do you take me for?”
Hm? “I take you for what you are, and how you prove yourself.” They take light steps towards him. Though there’s not a single spot where the sunlight can completely penetrate the lush vegetation, it’s like they are coming further into the light. In the shadows of a warm summer-green forest where spring never ends, they seemed perhaps less real beneath a darker grove of tree crowns. It’s so warm, but so cool. It’s not uncomfortable. It simply is. They are…
Barefoot on the untouched grass that barely bends beneath human(?) weight, they don’t make it clearer just how real they are at all. In fact, it’s even more confusing. The lighting is so strange, where the sun cannot burn. There’s a different sort of burning, a scalding smile on reddish lips in contrast to skin that’s
almost
milky, rather less like paper but more like chalk, naturally warm; and yet like a chalk coloring, there’s a thin shallow quality to their visage. The shadows fall wrong.
Still, they’re beautiful, and Fitzgerald for a moment understands the thrum of heart strings when the moth sees a lamp burning and crackling with electricity in the night beneath the moon.
“And what should I call
you
?”
They think for a moment. “Do you really need to know? How long will you live?”
Fitzgerald knows the answer to this question. He says something, that makes this person’s eyebrows raise. They raise their arms like a human, deftly placing hands correctly, a proper way to cross one’s arms. He stares at the light sheen of thin hair over them, the typical norm, barely noticeable. He looks back up- not that he needs to. They’re around a foot shorter than him. Whatever they are, whatever they do, really, they really have the details down.
“...That’s a pretty good answer. I’m impressed.”
“I can tell.” Fitzgerald acknowledges casually.
The pause lingers because they both know what comes next. The deity breaks it this time. “Fitzgerald,” they use no honorifics or titles; maybe because they don’t know any? Or more likely, they find human titles too below themselves, “what do you even think I’ll do with you? I’m a being of life. And I am alive.”
It feels like a lie, even though it’s true. “Anything, whatever, I don’t really care for what doesn’t concern me, unless it does; and you admit you do need me for something.”
“Need… that’s a strong word.” Surprisingly, they’re also pretty knowledgeable about things like this. Just what sort of life does an icon lead? There’s just that
quality
in every perfectly timed expression that makes Fitzgerald believe further and further that there’s something extremely uncanny in “someone” completely normal, maybe except for the haunting beauty that’s possessed them. “I don’t need human sacrifices to live, you know.”
“How would I know?” He challenges, not at all bothered still.
They laugh openly this time, and it sounds so real that it’s recorded. it sounds nothing short of music played on an instrument he's never heard in a mortal hand; but it's still a simple human melody. They laugh, and it sounds normal, just silky and lovely, maybe a bit like bells; but it doesn’t twinkle like Zelda’s. Something closer to Nathaniel’s rare chuckles behind her sleeve. “Alright, alright, I’ll give you that. But, I never understood why you sent the deities human sacrifices. If they want, they can have all the ‘offerings’ they want.”
That makes sense. “A friend of mine suggested that they remind you gods,” he says the word with a skeptical acceptance, “of times that change.” A pause to let them register it and react accordingly. “But how would either of us know, hm?” They look at him, carefully dissecting him with wide eyes that all but shimmer with this eternally green-golden sun.
“The times that change…
“Because summer is over.” They conclude to themselves, seeming a little sad. “What a shame.” Interesting. They remind him of Nathaniel, like the sky does in its absence of gray clouds. “You seem to have a lot on your mind, Fitzgerald. Are you always like this?”
They ask, curious. They haven’t properly talked to a human in a long time; and it’s not like they meet humans that speak and think anyway. Blessings to the dying and weak when fortune is on the mortal’s side means wounded, faint things, and giving life anew with souls that have yet to learn to speak is the typical business.
“I’m offended that you even ask that, but I’ll let it go,” Fitzgerald huffs, “I am always myself, and I never lie if it doesn’t benefit me.” That’s an incredibly honest statement. Most people are cowering, most offerings already half-dead or unable to even stand. Yet here he is, standing straight and tall, haughty and arrogant. Seriously, what does he think he is to showcase all this confidence to something like them, who for all he knows could reap the life they gave him in the first place.
“That’s nice; you’re so honest!” It’s nice… that he’s so entertaining. They should really get on with it now, right? No use stalling, because in winter even these woods will sink into a dark sleep. But there’s no reason to think they like Fitzgerald at all. In fact, if they were of the same existence, they’re pretty sure they’d hate him to the core. The fun part is that they’re not; they’re the one sitting higher above a mortal who lives for only the blink of an eye to them.
Fitzgerald can probably see it too, by now. “Hah- now then, what do you plan to do with me, your grace?”
Grace… hm, that’s also something like a title, but it’s completely effaced in sarcasm and dripping with superiority. Who really is superior between the two of them? Keeping a delicate smile on their face, they take a few more steps closer until they’re barely a foot apart. They raise a hand- where to? Fitzgerald grabs their wrist with a surprisingly firm grip that an average living being wouldn’t be able to break out of easily.
“Mm?”
Very strong. The limits of the body they have would naturally threaten to break within it. It’s curious. But
they’re
not that way, so they can feel a detached sense of pain in muscles and nerves, sharper around the middle of this limb, the bone inside.
“What do you plan to do?” He repeats, a little more serious than before; he did always seem serious, but he seems to mean it this time. Fitzgerald, arrogant and confident, who might think he’s the king of the world. Of course he’s wary of them trying to touch him.
“Mmm, I guess there’s no harm in telling you about it.” They let him keep his safety grip on their wrist. “Truth be told, there’s no strict rules or regimen about this. I reckon it really just started because of um, what was it… the sacrificial lamb thing?” They fake most of their confusion, but it is true; it sounds unreasonable for one innocent to be the carrier of everyone else’s sin. They aren’t a deity who weighs virtue and desire. They are far more just, and they control nothing in some ways. Fate is unavoidable to mortals.
“Usually, when we’re offered people like you… it’s a little weird. You aren’t exactly a lamb, are you?”
Fitzgerald scoffs. “I’d believe not. I find that a little boring.”
“Of course.” They nod. “Whatever, not like it matters. Everything dies at some point, as long as they’re alive.” How sentimental they’re feeling this summer. Maybe it’s the dead hare in the grass today, signaling before even Fitzgerald’s appearance that it was the end of this year’s season of flourish and gold. “It’s to renew our own senses of life. So that I don’t forget that I’m alive, too.”
Something goes through Fitzgerald’s sharply-set eyes; there are slight shadows underneath, a line of age or stress whatever it may be too. They’re unaware of humans’ standards of beauty. But to them, he’s attractive as he is; the fading strands in his golden hair and all. He feels a little too young to have such features, but how would they be able to judge? It’s just a rarity to see a human who’s grown gray sent to this grassy land in between life and death. More often than not, young adults or children, tired and abused, too sad to speak, begging for release.
“So I’m some sort of sustenance for you?” He raises an eyebrow accusingly.
They hum. “Of course not. I don’t need sustenance. To me, you are something like… a rare treat, to reward me, or make me feel better.” That’s something they can understand, with or without confirmation. Something easy.
“That sounds a lot better than trivial nutrition.” He agrees. And he pushes their arm back. “But I intend to live.”
Ah, that’s pretty obvious. They let their arm become limp, and Fitzgerald frees it. Now, what to do would be to take it and massage their wrists, the human skin having turned red and threatened to bruise. Instead, they look for a moment too long at the inner skin of their wrist as all the weakness is swallowed up by the power inside of it, and the smooth color returns easily. And finally, they spare Fitzgerald a glance again. “You’re not dead yet.”
“I will not die for a very long time.” He asserts.
“How so?”
“Let’s make some sort of deal. Let me go, and I’ll bring you someone else, something else, whatever that is that you’ll desire. I can find you anything you need.” Cocky? They observe his expression, very serious. By now, the left hand that restrained their right should feel it, the rejuvenation in the sheerest of layers. “Just give me some time; I’m sure you have enough of that, right?”
Oh, they would
abhor
Fitzgerald had they both been humans, deities, or if their roles were swapped; no doubt about it. They despise the thought itself. “I have more than enough, Fitzgerald.” They affirm, pleased. “But it’s a shame, because I don’t want anything. There’s nothing for me to want.” They are not a being to
want
. They exist to give. And they give and give and the proof of it rests beneath their feet, rich green lands quietly humming with insects and fungi, shot up trees and the birds watching with bated breaths.
“So you are free of all those sinful desires of flesh?” He asks, half-mocking. They wonder about this. Maybe. “I don’t need food, I don’t need sleep, I don’t need to carry on with my species.” They list casually, “so I guess I am.”
“Just because you don’t need to doesn’t mean you don’t want to.”
…
“Do you intend to seduce me?”
Fitzgerald always looks like he takes everything so seriously, considers everything seriously even if it’s an obvious joke. “What, do you want to be seduced? I suppose I can offer you that if you’re so interested.” Because obviously, deities wouldn’t be interested in money. Even if he had his future wealth now, he doesn’t doubt they could simply walk into town and take anything they pleased if they couldn’t just create them for themselves.
The deity, who looks astonishingly humble in the wear of a farmer, worn shirt and all, suddenly looks a lot more irritating than they did a few minutes ago. What happened in that time? Unbeknownst to Fitzgerald, when their entire existence teems with life and birth, in a place that barely exists; of course he would feel a lot more lively, having touched them so carelessly. Maybe their loneliness had gotten to them, because the human’s body caught the spark of their little excitement.
Another airy laugh like drinkable light, they look him up and down. Fitzgerald is pretty confident in his looks. Confidence is key, after all. Not that this being probably really cares about what humans look like. Maybe they do. Who knows, and who cares? Their form is like that. Did they create it themselves? Did they pick out features they liked? Or something else…?
“Hmm, are you interested?”
Two people, both irredeemably arrogant, sinfully arrogant, playing just so carefully that they keep poking at the other. How does this even happen? In the presence of a god, one of life nonetheless, a human would be on his knees. And in the presence of such an ambitious human, a god would not be so “patient”. Taking turns making irrational jabs… who’s really at the disadvantage here? Perhaps it’s the coiled heat of desire in their human vessel, ironically affected by the blessing of life just as Fitzgerald.
“No need to lie; your body gives it away.” They cheerily point out, removing the hand that was on his arm (since when?) and glancing down for a moment enough that they can both take in the tent formed in his pants. Formal ones, wildly out of place here. In Fitzgerald’s defense, he dresses tidily at all times, not just on Sundays. And in Fitzgerald’s defense, it’s not his fault exactly, is it? “Are you turned on by this?”
They say with a hint of mocking, but even more curiously they feel what must be a similar way to Fitzgerald right now, hot between their legs and a twisting anticipation in their chest. As expected, he’s not as bothered as he should be about something like this. “And if I am, what would you do?” He has a point. “What, now
you’re
interested.” …Their bickering is becoming a little petty.
“You’re so disrespectful, Fitzgerald. I was just going to offer you some help with that.” It’s not very different for humans, though they definitely have a lot of variety because of their upright bodies and flexible angles. They must have a lot of fun. Oh, they’re almost
jealous
. With a grin bordering on a sneer, they make no other move because they certainly won’t be the one begging.
He considers this carefully with his cold eyes filled with a golden ambition. “Help from a god? I wonder what I did in my past life.” Were they any more human, they might have taken him seriously. But they can hear the skepticism and faithless cynicism right between his thin lips. Hands behind their back innocently, they shrug with a musical note. “I did mention I intended to leave, right?”
“Of course! You know, you said it about a hundred times.” A good use of exaggerations. If this deity so wanted to, they could have pinned him to the ground, restrained his wrists with the tendrils of the trees and their roots and had their way; they wouldn’t even need to touch either of them, just watch him writhe and squirm. And as alluring as that seems to be able to take what is rightfully theirs after they make him limp with exhaustion, collect the liveliness in his soul… “If you
can
bring me someone else for me, I don’t mind.”
And just because, they look down again. His face is tinted red, it’s a cute trait of humans that they can’t manifest for their cool body. Like their other half, ironically, their body is hardly warm either. Soon, they’ll see them again. And they focus back on FItzgerald, who looks a little unconvinced. “Come on, I’m not lying to you!”
His expression makes them even more apprehensive. Is that the word…? Seriously, what kind of human is this? He looks only slightly out of the ordinary, but the most eccentric part of him is how confident he is, and how stupidly brave he acts. And so, with no one more interesting to have known, they can’t help but feel upset that this loneliness will return. Humans are much easier to talk to, and much better to act as than gods, who have nothing in their husks.
“Hmm, maybe you want the first offer before I let you off?” He raises a hand, so inviting. “Leave with a little blessing to prove your survival?~”
Fitzgerald huffs, staring daggers; the deity’s scorching smile with those vacantly bright eyes say enough to him. “You are very arrogant.”
…
It’s a primal instinct, that at once they all but lunge for each other’s throats. An annoyingly malicious god, intent on making every second unbearable; an annoyingly arrogant human, intent on surviving. They both taste Fitzgerald’s blood on teeth and tongue, a tang of iron in between saliva hot and cold. Every part of them is too cold to handle carelessly. It’s so unexpected of this sort of entity who represents the thriving of warmth and blood.
They do have to stand on their tiptoes to reach Fitzgerald’s tall stature and grab onto his formal shirt, maybe a few hundred years-younger descendant of their own. The earth responds to its god’s need and a conveniently placed tendril in the ground trips him as he staggers back in their own fervency. His breath leaves his lungs as he falls back; still the grass is strangely soft. Though cold, this person’s body from behind their clothes pressed against his sends more heat down his spine.
His hands fly to their waist, holding them down and close. He lets out a moan as their hips jerk down in surprise. Running his palm down the sides of their torso, friction leading up until he can feel the softness of his ass in the air as they kneel over his lap. For a moment, they hold their breath, and then exhale sharply, icy fingers on his face only leading him to shudder when their thumbs place on his neck. Saliva drools from the corner of his lips a mix of both; the person on top of him pulls away for a moment as Fitzgerald pulls his hand back and tugs at his tie.
They don’t seem to mind watching, wide eyes following every move of his fingers as he frees each button down, to give himself some breathing room. Now, when they place a hand on his chest, he shivers, back arching just a little. It must be instinct that gods have. Maybe they just know. Maybe humans are made in the image of gods, and not the other way around that they imagine deities with their own faces. Supporting themselves with one hand on the grass that pleasantly dragged over his pecs to slide down to the ground, they lean down again to press their mouth with pink lips just slightly patched red with his blood to his jaw, just next to his ear and their breath catches ungodly.
“What-” he pants, swallowing a lot of saliva down, “-am I supposed to call you?”
A pause, as they think about it, as he runs his hands down their legs, feeling their slender thighs. “I don’t have anything like a name. So, call me the name of the person you love, I guess.” They smirk next to his ear, and sit on his lap as he still clings to their legs. They can feel his boner right on the front of his pants. Fitzgerald groans when they innocuously adjust their seat. The name of someone he loves… would they be pleased to hear it? Whatever the case, there’s no chance.
Fitzgerald realizes he feels even more restless than he was less than a few minutes ago. He’s panting, sweat forming at the edge of his hairline, and even though his partner is cool to the touch, everywhere they do touch feels inflamed. On the side of his face, there’s a sprout of flowers that wasn’t there when he toppled backwards, right where his spit drooled.
“This is good,” they sigh in that silken voice, lightly moving their hips against the prominent tent, “Fitzgerald.” As they continue to give him those small flashes of pleasure like that, feeling more and more aroused, Fitzgerald reaches to his belt and they only look down at his hand like an amused god would, at his struggling. Maybe they don’t know how it works. Maybe they do, considering there’s a belt over their pants too; but he doesn’t especially care, desperate to feel proper touch.
The sound of the zipper, and the god assists him from there, pulling down his boxers to free his dick. He earns a pleasantly surprised sound from them- and moans a lot more loudly than he intended as their touch reaches sensitive skin, hot and hardened with need. “Oh, how nice.” Their hand is small and just barely their fingers reach around the thick base. “You really…” Their palm presses against his cock, and he realizes just why exactly his arousal spiked so randomly, and not just because of any anxiety as he feels like he could cum just with that hold when it’s so cold he squirms, “needed my help, huh?”
“Ugh- fuck…!” His nails dig into the grass out of nothing else to find. They run the tips of their fingers lightly across his length, and precum dribbles from the slit at the top. The deity looks with great interest when it runs down their hand; and they take it as invitation to continue to tease his cock that twitches with every slight movement. Their skin is so
cold
but there’s something so
hot
emanating from their entire being that it’s only unbearably the border between pain and pleasure.
They slowly part their fingers and spread them over his girth, his index deftly stroking the head of his member, wiping up the light fluid. “So close? Hold on, come on.” His touch becomes suspended. Sucking in air through his teeth, Fitzgerald forces himself to calm down no matter how hard it feels, his heart skipping several beats, his legs twitching involuntarily. After an agonizingly long second, they seem to be satisfied. “Good job. Just hold on for a bit more.” They lie smoothly, and continue to stroke his dick slowly and lightly, only so often applying any sort of strength.
“You… come on.” He complains, running a hand through his hair, raising his head a little with great difficulty. It’s even harder to hold it in when their touch is so cold, his cock twitching at attention with every shift in the air, yet still eager and dripping with precum. “Aren’t you being a little cruel, old sport?”
They perk up, a faint look of confusion on an innocent face otherwise of the fact their hand is threatening to drive him over the edge at any second. “Old sport-?” Ah, that’s what they don’t understand. “It’s- I’ll explain later.” Fitzgerald pants, barely able to think straight as he is now. They look down at him, thinking for a moment.
“Well, if you insist, I did say I would help.”
That sounds promising; but the cold disappears, and warm summer air is dry on his member. He’s about to complain again when he sees his divine partner deftly inch their modest pants to their legs they raise above his form. For Fitzgerald, their weight, much smaller, is no problem; in fact, it’s a little pleasant to feel a little more pressure on an aching body. With only some struggle to stay atop him, the jeans are pulled off their ankles.
When they make themselves comfortable on his stomach again, Fitzgerald hisses, because
all
their body is cold- he closes his eyes tight as his own shudders to get used to it. There’s a wetness on his navel that wasn’t there before in the opening of his shirt. Before he has to hazard an eager guess, before he can even open his eyes again, there’s unbearably pleasant slickness, cool and with a thick consistency pressed against his cock.
And as if to reward him even more, the god moans breathily, but they’re much more in control of themselves than Fitzgerald is. He opens his eyes, the sky is hidden behind a cover of leaves and nature sings her song just a little lower, but in such a way that he can hear it in his bones; here, in these woods between worlds. The sentiment leaves his mind with a hitched gasp and a brief moment of surprise. Obscured by his own member, red and slick, he can see the glistening cunt of the god.
This is the sort of place that one finds in a dream. And it feels like he’s so much more alive than the burning star he always lived as when he watches, captivated, pink lips take his cock inch by inch, swallowing him up slowly, unevenly- they bite the back of their index finger curled between rows of pearly teeth, nothing so synthetic as pure white, eyes with long eyelashes half-lidded fluttering. And there’s such a sudden heat that he almost blacks out; his entire body electric and an orgasmic cry to complement.
It’s their turn to shiver at the rush of warmth through an icy body. As much as Fitzgerald was enjoying it, they were a little concerned as his lips turned white (maybe from biting down so hard). It took a little effort, but now they’re the same temperature. That’s nothing, and, that is what the sacrifices are for. They don’t need them, but having their lives in their personal regimen and not the domain of eternal flowing life, they can perform a bit more than the miracle of birth and rebirth.
Fitzgerald’s cum spills hot and they emit soft gasps and sighs as his much-teased cock finally releases a load inside them. The season for mating is almost over, in the warmth of summer… if their body was still human, and not a reflection of someone who had passed these woods, maybe a hundred, maybe several hundred years ago, someone who was offered because of their sin. How could they forget their name? It’s been so long. They remember Margaret’s name, of course, because how could they not?
Softly heaving, they slowly rock their hips, because Fitzgerald is still hard, and they still haven’t gotten to climax yet. The human pants, exhausted. Thick, white cum trickles down their thighs, mixing with a thinner, clearer fluid that secretes from their body, almost perfectly human, almost a perfect host, almost a perfect puppet to walk around in.
“Who did you think of, Fitzgerald?” They whisper, grinning, eyelashes wet. This human, who swallows a load of saliva, he wipes his sweat with great effort. It’s definitely easier now, that they’re both warm-blooded. He runs his hand lazily over their thigh, as if checking if they really are warm and hot now.
“I didn’t need to think of anyone.” He says, voice only a little rough. To the deity, it sounds very pleasant. His breathing is still labored, and he pauses for a moment as they slightly increase speed. “I have you, don’t I?”
…
Nathaniel Hawthorne is the sole mourner of a sacrifice. Of course she is. Francis had no parents, no family, and no friends who were as brave as him. Ah, well, except one who stands by her, hand on his hip, pouting.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Mark.” She amends once more, a little impatient. “But his body and soul are passed and we cannot take what we owe the gods.”
He huffs. “I still don’t believe Scott is dead. He’ll come back alive, even if it costs him an arm an’ a leg.” ‘Mark Twain’ insists, firmly and with a clear mind. “He has a lotta stuff he didn’t finish, an’ you of all people know he ain’t ever dyin’ to somethin’ like gods an’ religion!”
Of course… his friend shares his opinions on the deities they worship. Nathaniel has grown to tolerate them, after all, she believes in things that she’s never seen, only felt in her heart. If others feel in her heart that her faith is untrue… that is faith too, and faith is the only way she can survive. Sighing, she unclasps her hands from prayer. There’s no coming back from sacrifice, one that he caused himself.
“I sure will miss ‘im though.” He finally says something reasonable. Nathaniel looks toward him, bug eyed and big mouthed, to share some condolences just as the door slams open to the private room.
…
“Nathaniel, old sport, what are you so shocked for? Oh, Mark, you made it. Excellent, I have just the news you’re looking for, I’ll tell you right away.”
There’s a definite change in the air, and a change in Francis’s eyes, his skin. The silver strand that she’d noticed painstakingly this morning is gone, and the sunkenness of his face has completely disappeared. She can’t believe her eyes, truly, genuinely, that he is alive. She watches Mark bound up to him and grab him in a hug, affectionately chattering away about how sad Nathaniel was, how she was wrong, how weird he feels-
Her heart breaks a little, for reasons that she can’t exactly put a finger on as well as she does on the sharp tip of her cross. Francis looks up from Mark, unbothered, looking as smug as usual. He looks his age now, and not ten years older. The bruises that should be on his wrists are gone, and there’s roses in his face as if he’s gotten
younger
, even- at thirty-two, he looks as good as twenty, unlike the harrowingly tired person that he was, his brilliance burning his body up.
His movements feel more animated. There’s the scent of the woods in town in the night. Nathaniel’s haunt, this room in the darkest corner of the church, feels as bright as day.
“Nathaniel?”
The skin breaks, as she’s forced to admit it.
“Step away from him, Mr. Mark.”
“I told ya jus’ Mark is fine- hey, what’re ya doin’- Hey, Nathaniel!” His eyes become wider, and he lets go of his friend just to take a careful step back.
“Nathaniel, what
ever
are you doing?” Francis calls, somehow surprised at this turn of events.
…seriously, the person who was offered to the gods, he’s shocked that when he returns, all
wrong
and
bright
and with a light in his eyes she hasn’t seen properly in years-
He’s surprised that she uses her gift from God Himself-?
…”I am alive, Nathaniel, you can feel and see me.” He insists, ducking behind a table.
“You have been sent to the deity of life and rebirth, of course you’re alive.” She hisses, sounding very fed up. “It’s true that you are
too
alive. You’re blinded by abundance, and God can no longer touch you when His subject has poisoned you with too much love.” Another streak of her blood pierces the wall.
Francis yelps, though he knows it won’t hurt him as much if he
was
hit. “Nathaniel, don’t be ridiculous! I’ve met them, your deity-” for a second, her eyebrows knit tightly, “-love, though, I don’t think they’re capable of loving anyone, much less giving
me
any…” He murmurs, remembering the scorchingly fake smile, saccharine voice and near perfectly deceptive body, “and
they
sent me back in
exchange
for something!”
Her hand shakes ever so slightly. “Even if that is true…”
“When has he ever lied?!” Mark chirps, just to be silenced by a look sharper than the cross.
“Even if that is true, I cannot allow you to exist in this way, as this…
insult
to your own mortality!” She curses, more furious than before. “To let you die now, wouldn’t it be a
mercy
?” She pleads, not so sure in herself.
Francis chews his bottom lip, perfectly healed.
“Nathaniel,” he starts, and from her expression he can see that it’s his last chance to reason with this person, before it’s too late and the darkness here devours her whole. “I promised another audience with your deity.” It’s very quiet now, right after she gasps and holds her breath. “It would be unwise… to upset that littl- that person.”
…
“No?”
…
“So Nathaniel’s comin’ with us? Damn, yer gonna sacrifice her, jus’ like that?”
“Of course not, Mark. Have you never heard of extended negotiations?”
“That makes sense. As long as I’m not gunna be eaten alive.”
“I rather think you’d enjoy taking my place…”
“Huh? What was that?”
“Nothing, Mark.”
...
Elsewhere, in the night, the moon becomes shy of a faint glowing beneath a canopy of trees growing thicker than before, her own light becoming something even more beautiful than all her followers the stars...
The same way, Margaret, is dressed in clothes of a long time ago, that they have reflected onto this vessel. Margaret, they come alive as the butterflies rest their wings for the last time and short-lived herbs wither slowly. Autumn is coming, after all, and summer is almost over. Yet still, they see that...
"Margaret," a silky voice calls, awaiting them with a smile more sincere than anything else in their existence in this realm, "I've missed you."
Their lilac eyes cast on the figure of the human from centuries ago, whose eyes have been emptied and filled with light, whose blood is chilled like death and whose face has become hauntingly perfect. Almost perfect. This deity, whose strawberry brown hair falls in waves down their shoulders, frowns at the scent of this clearing, at the flowers growing where their other half awaits them.
"Tsk, what did you do this time?"
The straw-haired other, they smile mischievously.