Chapter Text
George's eyes shot open as his whole body jolted violently. He sat up and sighed heavily, rubbing his eyes and willing the visions behind his eyes away.
He could still see it though, the bloody battle fields, swords — broken and intact — strewn about on the ground, and one man left standing at the end of it all. He could still see him so clearly, blonde hair, green eyes, a bloodied hunting cloak, and a large axe that almost looks purple in the light. He shivered a little bit at the memory and flopped back in bed, just staring at the ceiling. What the hell was going on with him? This was the third time this week he had that dream. He had considered going to the priest but that would just as likely have him exorcised, run out of town or even killed.
He sighed heavily and swung his legs over the side of the bed, heaving himself up and out of bed. He looked out the window and into the village below, the only lights being from the lamps on the streets for travelers passing through, at this time of night not even the taverns were open, the town was dead.
George bit his lip and cinched his sleeping pants tighter, before throwing his thick cloak over his shoulders, briefly snuggling into the soft fur that lined the inside and peaked out from the tops. He got ready quickly and quietly, sure he was alone in the house but the walls were not the thickest in the world and he did not need anyone asking him questions. He left the house with practiced quietness from years of having to be silent, years of having to learn when to make a sound and when to disappear completely. At the door, he glanced at the table and assessed the silver and steel dagger for a moment before grabbing it, and strapping it to his thigh. He opened the door and shivered at the breeze that billowed through. He took a deep breath of the fresh air and stepped out into the misty night...or morning at this point. He took the familiar stroll through the town, weaving in and out of the alleyways, petting the occasional stray animal he came across until the looming building of the church came into view.
The building itself wasn't much to look at, a tall building made from stone, darkened from age and weather; the feeling the building gave George on the other hand, it was hard to describe; George never felt right when he was inside for a service, it never felt like he was praying to the right person, but it was a safe place he often went to to think.
George pushed the door open enough for him to slide in and let it slam shut behind him, the creeping morning light gave just enough light to make the space creepy as all hell.
He huffed and flopped down in one of the pews, staring ahead at the altar filled with offerings and gifts for their god. It was full of wine, coins, some food, different offerings for different prayers.
George knew this religion front to back, he's lived it his whole life, and not once did he ever feel like he was speaking to anyone, he never felt moved by their god, no matter how much of himself he put in his prayers, he knew that the person they were praying to wasn't listening to them.
He folded his hands and bowed his head.
It was weird, praying to a god that felt hollow, but it was what he knew he had to do, so he prayed, hoping that the real god would hear him.
He prayed for his continued health.
He prayed for prosperity for his village and the health of their king.
The wind blew against the building and he prayed for someone to shield him from it.
With heated cheeks he asked for someone to bring him the sunlight that had been missing from his life as of late, for someone who would understand what his job entailed and would willingly travel with him.
He prayed for someone to show him love.
The door to the church opened and shut with a whisper. George lifted his head and turned to the person, expecting to see the priest, or someone from the village, but instead he saw a man. He was wearing a hunting cloak with an axe peeking over his shoulder and George caught the silver shine of a dagger or a sword at his hip. They both remained silent, George watched the stranger as he looked up at the stained glass and tapestries adorning the high ceilings of the church.
“Hello, are you a traveler?” He asked, hand sliding down to rest on the hilt of the dagger.
The stranger didn't respond for a moment, just kept looking up at the walls. “Most of this is wrong, did you know?”
“I’m sorry?”
“This,” he gestured vaguely and turned to George fully, in the dawning light he could make out fluffy blonde hair and the faint outline of facial features contorted into an amused smile, “it's all wrong, I certainly don't remember those three being there anyways.”
The stranger smiled and walked up beside George, sitting down next to him.
“Don't mock the religion of my people.” He scoffed
“But not yours.”
There was something about the man, he didn't seem right, he didn't seem human, he looked human enough. Now that he was closer George could see the finer details of his face, he could see his green eyes, two faint scars — one bisecting one half of his mouth and the other over his eye and slitting his eyebrow, he was lucky it missed the eye.
“Who are you?” George demanded.
“Call me Clay.”
The stranger — Clay — turned back to the altar, staring up at the depiction of the great war. They sat in silence for a moment and George released his grip on his dagger when Clay began to speak.
“And at the end of it all, there stood one man, and beside him rose those who stood by his side and fought for what they knew was right and what they knew was just. They threw a hand up in the air and let out a roar so loud the neighboring towns could hear it, and at the end of it all they turned to the man who gathered them all together, the man who was their leader and their friend.
“They all fell to their knees in front of him and prayed to the man turned god who brought them enlightenment and gave them all a second chance after being cast away from the society that deemed them useless.”
George stared at him with a bit of shock, a perfect recitation, no hesitation, not one incorrect line.
“Can you tell me where that's from, George?”
George flicked his head to Clay, he hadn't told him his name, and yet he knew it. George started trying to figure out who or what the man was.
“The end of the great war between our god and those who sought to have his people killed.”
“Correct, but tell me how this one sounds.
“And at the end of it all, there stood one man in the battlefield. He walked over the piled up bodies of those that fell and leapt over the rivers of blood that flowed all around him, he searched for anyone who was left alive, there was no one left, so the man walked up onto the hill and looked out at the setting sun. He raised his head up to the sky and screamed, he screamed so loud it rolled off the hills…” Clay swallowed heavily and clenched his fists in his lap.
They were both silent for a moment as the words echoed around in George's head, an almost beat for beat retelling of the dreams he’s been plagued with. Clay turned to him and waited until George looked up at him, only when they locked eyes did he speak.
“Tell me George, was that accurate to what you’ve seen?” Clay asked, eyes blazing, daring for George to lie to his face.
George did not respond right away, weighing his options with this man who knew too much both about him and of the history of his people, there were two possibilities, a god, or a demon. George settled on demon and chose not to answer directly.
“How do you know that I see things?”
Clay only smiled and shrugged. “The same way I know you have a knife strapped to your thigh.”
George grit his teeth and popped the knife out of it's holster. “What's a demon doing in the house of a god?”
Clay laughed softly and reached down to his thigh where George knew his knife was. George moved quicker, swung a leg over his lap and pinned his thighs and hand there. He pressed his knife to the man's neck, not at all above killing in a church, wouldn't particularly be the first time. Clay only smiled at him, a weirdly amused and fond smile that made George's stomach turn over pleasantly.
“I wasn't going to do anything, just take off the weapons.”
George hesitated a moment before he reached down and unlatched the holster on Clay’s thigh himself, tossing it into the pews behind him.
Clay raised an eyebrow and smiled, raising a hand to unlatch the axe at his back. “Will you do the honours or shall I?”
George rolled his eyes and took the axe from him, it was lighter than he expected but the weight was pleasant in his hands. He took a bit more care to set it down on the pew beside the dagger.
Clay smiled and hummed softly at the care George took with the axe and the sound sent something pleasant running through him. Clay gently took the wrist that still held the knife to his throat and carefully moved it away. George bit his lip and turned the hilt to Clay, a show of trust in a way.
Clay assessed the dagger for a moment and let the fingers that wrapped around George's wrist gently trace up his hand to wrap around the knife. He took it and leaned forward to set it aside with the others. The movement jostled George enough for him to squeeze his thighs and put a hand on Clay’s shoulder, Clays hand tightened on his waist — wait, when did he… George's mind trailed off a little as Clay settled back into a comfortable position, his thumb rubbing mindless circles on George's side.
God he didn't want to get off, he should most definitely get off, but it felt...nice, he liked the weight of his hand on his hip and the feeling of just...him. With the slightest bit of disappointment, George carefully slid off his lap and went back to his spot.
“Do you ever question it sometimes?” Clay asked once they had settled.
“What do you mean?”
“Everything,” he gestured, “the stories, the people, the faces.” He laughed softly and shook his head, “it sounds strange but after a while you just stop recognizing them, time changes things and after a while they're unrecognizable from the original.”
George looked over at him and actually looked. Clay’s face was pensive and sad, he took his time to take in his features, the slope of his nose, the set of his mouth, his posture, all of him. Then it finally hit him. Clay was the man he’d been seeing in his dreams.
He clenched his fists and took a breath. “Who are you, Clay?”
The man smiled softly and nodded, looking down at his lap, he looked pleased. “The very god whose house you stand in.”
They sat in silence for a while as George processed it. The very god whose house they were standing in. That’s what he was seeing in his dreams, memories, history.
“Why are you here now? Why me?”
“Because you're the only one who actually prayed to me.”
George opened his mouth but was cut off. “I know your doubts, and you're right the god your people pray to is hollow, they pray to a shadow of me, a twisted and mangled corpse.” He spat bitterly, but his eyes were sad as they glared ahead.
“What makes me different to them?”
Clay looked over at him and gave him a kind and grateful smile. “You prayed to me.”
George felt warm all over as he stared at Clay’s gentle look, the pure adoration in his eyes and how genuinely overjoyed he was. “What about the dreams? What are those about?”
Clay’s shoulders dropped a little, and that spark behind his eyes died out. “Right, that, I don't know how it happens or why but every once in a while someone starts getting them and I feel when they do, I think it makes them a prophet or whatever, I go and check it out sometimes, chat with them and whatever,” his voice dropped a little, “they never take it well, I usually end up taking it away and then leave them alone.” He shrugged and sank a little in his seat.
“Is that why you came?”
“Partially, I also heard your prayers...well the loudest of them anyways, you've been hard to find.”
Health.
Prosperity.
Protection.
Love.
George's face heated dangerously and he looked down at his hands. “You heard all of them?”
“Every single one.” He smiled and laid his hand, palm up, on George's knee. “I can show you what could happen if you let me fulfill them, or I could leave you alone, your choice.”
George looked at his hand and really weighed out his options, he could decline and go back to his life as it was, a nomadic life, bouncing around from town to town, job to job, and nothing would change, he would be alone; he could accept and live a life with someone who cared for him, someone who would be alright with never truly settling down.
He slid his hand in Clay’s and laced their fingers. Clay squeezed his hand a little and images exploded behind his eyes, they were brief and non specific, but they were what he wanted, a happy life of traveling, moving around but having home in each other, him and...and Clay.
The images stopped and Clay slackened his hand. George didn't release it though, he just stared at them, heavily considering it. The visions were brief but they made him feel happy, the happiest he’s felt in years. A small part of his brain was telling him that it could be a lie, but in his chest he knew that they were truthful, maybe it was the whole prophet thing, maybe it was intuition but in the end if he accepted and Clay was true to his word, he would be happy, if he lied, he would be dead. In the end no one would miss him, no one would mourn him, he had absolutely nothing to lose and everything to gain. Plus it helped that Clay was cute.
“Yes.”
“Really?”
George nodded and looked up at him with a small smile. “Yes.”
Clay’s eyes shone with tears and he pulled him in for a tight hug, burying his face in George's neck as the other wrapped his arms around him and squeezed tightly.
“Come on now, what kind of god cries?” He joked, moving Clay’s head back to look at him. He cupped his cheek and gently wiped his tears away.
“The real kind.”
They sat there for a while, just looking at each other before George slid his hand to the back of Clay’s head and tangled his fingers in his hair. “Can I kiss you?”
“Please.”
They met in the middle, a gentle and caring kiss that had both of them warming up on the inside. They pulled away and Clay pressed their foreheads together. “Let me gather my things and we can be gone by sunrise.”
Clay smiled and laughed softly. “There’s no rush, we have all the time in the world.” He whispered softly
George felt something else click, another piece of the puzzle sliding into place.
“Do you mean…”
“Yes.”
“Did you do it?”
“No, comes with the visions and all that, kind of a package, I can just as easily take it away if you don't want it.” He smiled, but George saw the fear in his eyes, the defeat. And he tried to search his body for any apprehension, anything to say that this was bad, but he didn't find anything.
“No, it's perfect, the old myths said that the gods prophets lived so long as they did right? Only fitting.”
Prophet, in that sense, was a veiled name for a lover but they both knew that.
“I suppose you're right, shall we?”
They both stood, collected their discarded weapons and exited the church hand in hand, George with a companion who would love him truly, and Clay with someone he could worship.