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When Shiro wakes up, Keith is not beside him.
Shiro’s nose twitches unhappily, noting the lack of warmth resting on his belly. He stretches out his limbs, turning long and furless, and directs his gaze to the usual spot in their sunless cave.
Keith is still praying. Perhaps it’s a habit that will fade in time; Keith is now no more in need of answers from gods than food and drink and air.
But still, each morning, he sits on his heels, slowly but without a show of ceremony, and closes his eyes.
He does not mutter or strike himself or even move his lips. It’s one of the few times Keith is perfectly still, as serene as a frozen pond, and Shiro watches: the dark hair that’s tumbled down over his shoulders, with a silver streak much like Shiro’s, dangling over his forehead. The closed eyes, which are now deep purple, the color of a broken-open geode, glinting even in the dark. The expanse of pale flesh, hidden by only a fur-lined cloak, black as night. Keith does not feel the cold—how can he?—but human modesty dies hard.
It doesn’t stop him from curling up against Shiro in the night, yet he still does not know what Keith is to him, exactly, though Shiro knows other gods have taken disciples, companions, warm bodies—or future sacrifices, like another tool in the belt.
Shiro recalls that night often, of Keith bare as the day he was born, daring despite the bite of cold and death, bargaining to change his life, and admired him for it. Yet he told himself not to get attached—after all, many died in the trials.
Keith had lived.
(There was a time where Shiro simply wouldn’t die, either. He had been stricken with almost every imaginable ailment, had felt Death’s breath in his face more than once, and continued to live.)
Keith finally finishes his prayers and opens his eyes, slowly, like a mountain cat’s.
“You’re awake,” he says, shifting in place.
“Yes,” Shiro replies.
Keith stands, swiping imaginary dust from his knees and bare feet, the hem of his cloak brushing against the floor.
Shiro remembers the third night, Keith’s body immobile in the middle of the circle of trees, his lips and fingertips blue and bloodless amongst the snow. The wind had stilled, and crystals of ice lingered in the air, and Shiro recalled his own trial, pain increasing by degrees until he felt no more, until his tongue dried from hanging out of his mouth, until the colors that danced across the sky bloomed into images that overwhelmed his eyes.
Then, the snow began to smoke, the sky becoming a roiling gray, settling into powdery ash, light and shadow chasing each other in the moonlight. Shiro then took off his own cloak to sweep over Keith’s no longer shivering shoulders, and like slipping into a steaming bath, Keith’s flesh slowly turned a deep, flushed pink.
His lips had parted, revealing a hint of sharpened teeth, and whispered Shiro’s name, and Shiro had thought in words that were not quite his: He has an indomitable spirit, he will live despite you, though he will never forsake you. Beware, for you have been given a gift, one that you may not entirely deserve…
Curiosity overcomes him. “Who do you pray to?”
And what do you have to be afraid of? He wonders, though even many, many years later, his tormentors turned to dust, he sometimes wakes up with the old fear that they're coming for him to lead him out into the arena—dragged out in chains, or worse, willingly.
"What am I?" Keith asks instead.
The abruptness surprises Shiro, and he finds himself bristling defensively. "What do you mean?"
Keith seems to hesitate. "I do not quite understand. What I saw, what I heard... I know I'm no longer human."
"No," Shiro says bluntly.
"So I have to take sacrifices?" Keith asks, drawing his cloak further along his body. Like you.
Shiro inclines his head. "There will come a time where you will simply want to survive.”
He cannot say honestly that the sacrifices weigh on him; often, he forgets their faces and remembers only the power that sustained him through the years. Humans have a talent for forgetting, as do gods.
And one day they will forget him. This village has been reliable, but it will not always be so. He's not very afraid; sometimes, he welcomes it, the eternal slumber.
Yet even in these early days, he can't bear the thought of it happening to Keith.
“I don’t want them,” Keith says. He looks more beautiful than ever, pale and ethereal, yet with a human-like flush to his cheeks; it makes Shiro very much aware that there’s flesh. He imagines Keith bare before him again, willingly. It’s a persistent thought that excites and disturbs him, how much he desires it, mating under the moonlight and stars.
"You are not a mortal anymore," Shiro says sharply. "You pledged yourself to me, and you withstood what so many have failed. Are you regretting it?"
Keith's eyes harden. "No. Do you no longer want me?”
Shiro is quiet. “I do,” he admits.
"Sometimes I do not know," Keith says. He looks down at his hands, now clean and smooth as freshly fallen snow. "I'm used to others not expecting much of me, or too much. But you have not given me orders or... I know the tales. I do not know whether I am your apostle or bedwarmer or champion—"
Shiro snarls at the word.
"No," he growls, fangs bared. "Not you. You are my first. I had no other."
Keith leans in, unflinching. “Then teach me,” he demands. “Teach me to survive in this world, and the rules so that we may break them.”
In the stillness, Shiro hears a branch snap, like a lightning strike. "I will," he vows.