Two years into the Ruin

*

THE FOREST had come alive that morning. Warm air carried the soft hum of insects. There were faint snorts, the crunch of branches, the bristling of leaves. Near their hut, Eris found the bushes had been trampled.

A bear, or boar perhaps.

Akul promised to teach her to hunt and so they set off toward the forest.

"When you see their eyes, clearly, Eris, that's when you shoot."

Eris nodded, though her eyes remained on the sky, tracking the bird as it flew across the barren blue-gray. She didn't recognize what kind of bird it was - gray feathers, medium-sized. It was not a songbird, she knew, as the world had lost its songs.

The bird circled overhead, as if overly cautious, scouring the forest floor for predators. Eventually, it landed, swooping through the canopy to rest on a branch not twenty paces away.

Eris lifted her arm and pulled her elbow back. Her fingers tightened around the bowstring. At one time, she might have thought it capable of snapping. But Akul had made the string, and the bow, and it would not break. Not in Eris's hands.

The bird began preening itself, its black beak dipping beneath its wing to tug free loose pin feathers.

Eris stood with a tight stomach and a strong stance. With power in her fingers, she drew the arrow back, the rough cuts of Akul's whittling biting into her palm.

She breathed in the forest air and noticed only the faintest whiff of rot. It still smelled fresh in the hills, of grass and green and good soil.

The bird raised its head, and Eris saw the colors wreathing its neck. Red, purple, and blue, each worn like a necklace. Then she saw the bird's eyes, and they were the blue-green of the sea.

She lowered her arm and the bow. The arrow slipped, stabbing the ground at her feet, sending dirt and moss flying around her ankles.

The bird let out a startled chirp, its eyes darting around. Deciding the ground was no longer safe, it sought refuge in the sky, as though it knew the sky was safe, the sky would not rot away.

"I can't," she said, kicking a clump of blackened moss. "Not when I see their faces."

Leaned against a tall oak, Akul moved, his steps effortless as he came to where Eris stood.

"When you impart death," he said, staring coolly into the distance, "you cannot look away."

She faced him. He looked withered again. Wrinkled and dulled and closed off. A god unwilling to mingle with the world.

Eris wanted to reach out and grab his hand, offering what little comfort she could, but Akul's touch was scorching, and she feared it as much as she desired it.

He had not touched her until she asked him to, and when he had, on those nights in their cabin, she had needed his heat. Craved it. It was the only thing capable of keeping away the chill, of keeping all her parts together. But in the morning, he withdrew, and so went his warmth. It ebbed and flowed, at the mercy of his moon, and Eris could do nothing but wait out the tide.

"You remember then?" she asked quietly. She needn't speak loud for Akul to listen.

He turned, his long black braid glittering as it caught a stream of sunlight breaking through the canopy. The light had been further away, where the rot had caused the trees to thin, but standing next to Akul, Eris knew the world seemed to adjust, to bend over itself, eager in its desire to be closer to him. So was the power of a god.

Akul nodded. "It's the least I can do."

He held her gaze and Eris felt like she was prey, pierced by Akul's arrow, unable to move and afraid of death.

Her cheeks heated and she gave a small smile, though she wasn't sure it was as lovely as what a god deserved. But she still wanted to unburden Akul, if only a bit. "Let's continue to hunt." Her voice hid the despair coiling around her heart. "This morning I heard the crunch of leaves. And we passed by a damaged tree trunk. An animal has sharpened their horns here. Maybe they also made their home here."

"Eris." He slipped his hand over hers and she hadn't realized how cold she'd been until she felt his warmth. "Do not force yourself to–"

She brought his fingers to her mouth, kissing each of his knuckles. She craved the Akul that bedded her at night, to be present come daybreak. To know both the moon and the sun. "Does a bride not deserve to know their husband better?"

Akul smiled faintly as he made to rid his hand of hers. Eris held on, tighter, stronger. "Please, let me know you."

"I am Death. What more is there to know?"

She shook her head. "You are more. You are Akul. You are my husband. You have witnessed the world's birth. You have welcomed millions into Greenworld." She worked her fingers between his and took a step. Akul hesitantly followed. "You like hunting, and it frustrates you how miserable I am at it. You offered to teach me because you are kind. Because Akul, my husband, is kind." She took another step, Akul filling up the space at her side so they walked together. Eris squeezed his hand. "Please continue to teach me to hunt. I promise to do better."

His gaze bounced from one tree to another. "The animals are–"

"You wince when I make stew out of roots." Glancing up at him, her smile widened, and she felt it might stretch on forever, like the sky. "And you hate the teas I make when I am heavy-handed with the sap." Akul gaped. Eris chuckled. "Teach me to track and hunt, and perhaps we'll sup on meat tonight. Do you like meat, Akul?"

Akul gave a reassuring squeeze. "I do." He smiled, and though the leaves shaded their path, sunlight crawled along the ground, finding its way to him. He dazzled at the center of that pool of corroded gold, and Eris, so near to him, dazzled too.

*

"Gentle steps, they must never know you're coming."

Eris crouched among the sparse undergrowth, careful where she walked. A quick snap or crunch could scare off their quarry. Akul needn't be as prudent, as his footfalls were naturally silenced, no more a calm stream flowing over a bed of river rock.

The stag remained twenty paces out, between two trees, head dipping low as it nudged the soil aside, looking for fresh roots.

Eris hid in the shadow of an oak. Akul was behind her, hands around her wrists. When he spoke, his hair grazed her neck, and caused her cheeks to burn. He raised her arms and the bow she held. "Prey must not know it is prey until it is too late."

She breathed in, and the air was scented with him. With sunlight, and greenery, and salt. All the things forgotten in her world, but bountiful in his. Greenworld remained alive, even though it was reserved for the dead.

The stag raised its head, sunlight speared on its many antlered head. Dark eyes scoured the woods. A frost of breath puffed out from wet, dirt-stained nostrils.

"What if," Eris dared to speak, Akul's hands steady on her own, though his thumb had trailed over her knuckle to settle on the underside of her wrist. He must have felt her pulse racing. "What if the prey knows its prey? What if I haven't done enough to silence my coming?"

The stag's ears twitched, its tail swishing aside the leaves of a Mesci bush. The leaves had once been copper, and crushed up, were good for soothing burns. But this bush had grown brown and shriveled, and the stag's tail had knocked down what few leaves had remained on its branches.

The stag returned its attention to the ground.

"The prey will run." His voice caressed her neck, his thumb tracing a circle on her wrist.

Eris's mouth grew tight as she tried to focus. "Will it always run or will–"

"If it doesn't, it lies in wait. No one is above being made prey."

At this Eris's tilted her head and chuckled softly. "Except for a god."

Akul frowned. "No, even gods."

They watched the stag more, rutting around in the dirt before coming up, mouthfuls of yellowed roots clenched between its teeth. Its tail had stopped swishing, and its ears laid flat against its scalp.

"Now," Akul whispered.

Eris felt strength in her arms and fingers. In the way she pulled the bowstring. She envisioned the arrow hitting the stag's heart, Akul's elation at her success. She saw them seated around a fire, sharing a meal of roasted meat, then a passionate night in bed.

A good end to a good day.

But then she felt a sharp pain in her stomach and she lurched forward, the bow falling out of her hands. The stag jerked its head in their direction, its eyes finding them among the shadows. It bolted, sprinting between trees and bounding over shrubs, until it had disappeared into the forest.

Eris continued to writhe on the ground, holding her stomach. Something sour wormed its way up her throat.

Akul was on his knees, his hands roaming over her body, frantically seeking out the source of her pain.

She rolled on her side, lifted herself on an elbow and vomited.

Akul's eyes widened. "Eris–"

That morning's root stew splattered against the ground, half-digested chunks of orimsi covering tree roots and tangles of creeping moss.

"Eris–"

She was no longer on the ground, hunched over and expelling her guts, but in Akul's arms, her head resting over his heart. With weak fingers, she clasped his robes.

And for the first time, she heard worry in his voice.

"I will get you home. Hold on."

Eris tried to tell him not to worry, but she feared opening her mouth, should she vomit again. Instead, she let herself be carried, the world around her going hazy. Before dipping into darkness, she glimpsed Akul's face. The paleness of his skin, the sheen of sweat that had overtaken his godly luster. The way his eyes darkened a little every time he dipped his head down to glance at her. He was not Akul god of death then. He was Akul, her husband, and he loved her.

And knowing that, she finally gave herself permission to love him back.

*

Her stomach was a roiling sea, her head a brushfire.

She woke, a cold cloth stuck to her forehead. Eris laid in bed, blankets stacked over her. Akul knelt on the floor, concentrating on a fire. He'd rested a clay pot over the flames. Something sweet permeated their hut.

Sap, Eris knew.

"Akul." Her voice was in fragments, broken by all the tatters in her throat.

But he heard her. And before she could blink, he was at her side, clinging to her hand.

"You're awake." He gave a smile though it was frail and far less radiant than usual. "Good. I'm making tea. The one you taught me." His gaze flickered back to the pot. "Sap, kelp and–" His voice trailed off, and he glanced up, his eyes steady on the rafters of their roof.

"And bonemeal," Eris finished for him.

He sighed. "Yes, that's it." He got up, shuffled to the other side of the hut, his footsteps heavy and echoing. "We still have some, yes?" His hands turned over vial after vial Eris had laid out on a table. He picked up each, inspecting what lay inside - ground beetle shells, flower husks, dried seeds, pollen. He raised one. "Is this–"

Eris forced herself upright. "Akul, I am not dying."

He placed the vial down. "I'm aware. I just–"

"Then why do you act as though I am?" She summoned him to her and he dutifully came over, sitting on the edge of the bed.

He clasped his hands in his lap, hung his head. Another sigh fell from his lips. "I have known death," he set his gaze on her, and in that moment, Eris saw herself the center of his world, Akul bending and warping to meet her, "but I have never known loss."

Tears came to Eris's eyes.

Akul turned his head. "I'm not so much a god, as I am a pitiable man. And now you see me for what I am."

"I do," she said, eyes glistening. She understood. Why Akul had pulled away. Why he kept his distance. He was a sad god, a broken god. A scared god. Feared and revered, unloved and detested.

If no one has loved death, she thought, I shall be the first.

She reached for him, resting her hand over his. "Thank you for showing me who you really are."

"You do not hate it?" He lifted his head, and stared into her eyes. Cautious and optimistic they were for her words to ring true, but frightened too to find them threaded through with lies.

She shook her head and smiled. "I think I love it."

Akul smiled back, and in the gloom of their hut, it was radiant. He raised a hand and gently wiped her cheek.

"I am not sick," Eris said again. Akul studied her face. "But I am with child."

Akul's eyes widened, his gaze flitting to her stomach before returning to her face. Eris laughed at all the expressions she had coaxed from him that day.

"A child?"

"Yes. I wasn't sure at first, but I remembered Mama's teachings. All the early symptoms and well, I'm certain."

Akul moved toward her, reached out, and rested a hand on her stomach.

"Promise me," she said softly, as the crackle of the fire faded, and the low hum of insects settled in their ears. "That you will not gift her with your blessings. That she will live a mortal life."

His fingers tensed, his eyes meeting hers again. "A daughter?"

Eris nodded. "Please, Akul. Promise me our daughter will have a mortal life."

He glanced at Eris's stomach, the pulse of new life under his fingertips. He moved away, grabbed his bride's hand, lifted it to his mouth, and planted a tender kiss on each knuckle. "I promise," he said, sweetly, though his eyes were dark, and his smile flickered, "she will know mortality."

Eris placed her hand on top of his. "Thank you."