Chapter 25
Chapter Twenty-Five
Ethram reads. He’s stretched on the sofa, and the small, bent-page book he’s reading is one he hasn’t looked at in years. He’s trying to read and also trying to organise his thoughts into something coherent, which isn’t going as well as he’d hoped.
It has been almost a year since Ky fell through his kitchen door. A strange, troubling year. A perfect, glowing year, only he can’t shake the feeling time is running out.
The winter has fallen with a whisper of snow, and the mornings drape frost over the slumbering garden. Ethram sleeps curled in the clasp of Ky’s arms, soaking in the warmth of his body, and wakes with his skin nettle-sore from aether.
Ky is different these days. Ethram whispers his name sometimes, just to call that glowing blaze of silver light into his eyes.
To see the way his shadow ripples like water.
Sometimes, in the reflection of a night-dark window, he sees a glimmer of movement, of something silver and swift darting through the air.
Ethram’s mind shies from thinking of Ky as a man, now he knows what he truly is. But he is never not a man, all the same. He hisses when his fingers brush the hot part of the kettle. He licks spilt jam from his wrist. He tuts when the snails get into his kale.
“You look distracted, dear heart,” says Ky. He’s in his armchair, all languid repose. He’s reading too, a thin volume that Ethram blinks at before he frowns.
“Where did you find that?”
“At the bottom of a pile of books,” says Ky. “I moved that old stack in the bedroom. I should build you another set of shelves, perhaps. You’ve run out.”
“I suppose I have,” he allows. There are books stacked next to his desk, too, that rival it in height. He hadn’t noticed the pile growing. “Do you like poetry?”
“I do,” says Ky. “And this Lydas particularly suits my tastes.”
“Why am I not surprised?” he mutters, and Ky laughs. “Perhaps you find it nostalgic.”
“There is that. Though I find the translation poor, to be honest.” Ky tilts his head, contemplating him. “I still cannot remember details, but this feels familiar. I must have enjoyed the festivals once.”
“May I ask—” starts Ethram, then stops. He shifts, marking his place in his book with his finger. “When you were living, the springs flowed by your will. Then you died, and they still flowed. And then you were…resurrected—”
“Hardly. I escaped death. It’s different.”
“Right. Well, you escaped. And only then did the springs stop flowing. Why?”
“I am a way-keeper. In life, I existed both in the river and on the banks—this world—at once. In death, I became fractured. A scale here, a scale there. An echo, a reflection. But there was enough of me gathered in the river for the balance to be kept, even though the ancient pathways of the dead were destroyed.” He smiles, that fey light flickering through his eyes.
“Well, almost. They were not entirely destroyed, were they, dear heart?”
Those wretched archives. And this wretched creature, with his many words making little sense.
Ethram digs his fingers into his temple, kneading.
He’s been thinking about the story Ky told him, and he doesn’t like the implications.
“These creatures that are chasing you…you think they might be the remains of those who were killed when they murdered you?”
“Perhaps. Or perhaps they are what was left of me. I was right, I think, that they are what is left when a god dies. When I died. I know I am not whole, after all. There are too many pieces scattered.” He looks unconcerned by this.
Ethram is uncomfortable when his books and notes are scattered out of order and reason. He cannot fathom missing pieces of himself in such a way. “How can you be so calm about it?”
Ky turns a page in his book. “What is to be done? I am not a crooked window or a broken gate. There is no simple way to mend me. Ah, but next year? Who can say? Perhaps the year after. Like a heron waiting for a meal, my heart. We must be patient. Tell me, what are you reading, if not poetry?”
Not the neatest subject change, but Ethram allows it. “Town records of festival plans from last century.”
“Your interest in such things is charming,” Ky says. He’s smiling over the book of poetry. “And yet you celebrate no festivals yourself.”
“My village had scant few rituals or festivals, so it isn’t a habit of mine. We only ever did a yearly fire night, praying for the sea to allow us our lives. It was rather grim, truth be told. No celebrations to be seen.”
“Is that why you study the festivals, then? Curiosity?”
“I find it fascinating. It wasn’t until I stayed in the Gardens that I realised that people still believed in the old ways beyond tradition, truly believed that the rituals were important.
” He tips his head back, closes his eyes.
The fire is crackling calmly between them.
“Can’t say I ever thought there was something to believe in, truly. ”
“No?” Ky is very amused. “And now?”
“I’d be a fool not to believe now,” he says. “But I don’t think I’ll ever be a follower of such things. Do you wish to celebrate the festivals?”
There’s a sound of movement, and then a weight drapes over him.
He looks to see Ky sitting on the floor beside the sofa, resting his arm over Ethram’s chest. “Spring’s Dawn, Midsummer, Autumn’s Rest, Midwinter.
I’d like to honour those. And perhaps we might observe some of the minor ones, if it doesn’t put you out. ”
The four largest festivals are the ones that divide the year into quarters, and are easily agreed upon. Even minor festivals are not really a hardship to commit to. Not if it is for Ky. “Then we shall,” says Ethram, and leans in to kiss him.
“You are a strange creature,” says Ky, when they part.
Ethram can’t help but laugh. It’s loud in the quiet parlour, and he lets it be. “That’s rich, coming from you.”
Ky lays his head on Ethram’s chest, and Ethram runs his hand through his hair. It slips through his fingers like water.
“You are the strangest thing I have ever known,” says Ethram, and he feels his smile fade. “But it would be stranger still to never have known you at all.”
“Your window would still leak,” mutters Ky. “And you’d be living in a bramble patch.”
All true, Ethram thinks. He’d be cold and alone and overgrown in brambles, and what a misery that would be, after all.