Chapter Text
Eret doesn’t expect to be woken by a cat batting at her face, but such things are to be expected when a window is left open.
They stretch their body up, back arching and fingers curling into soft, worn sheets as the fluffy intruder continues to pat their noise with soft paws. He groans, blinking his eyes awake. The cat is white, with large yellow eyes and a smudge of dirt on it’s forehead. It meows pitifully and gives one last bat to her nose. Then makes itself content to sit with it’s tail curled over its paws on their chest.
“Where did you come from?” he mumbles.
A hand reaches up to offer fingers for the cat to sniff. Which it does, delicately, as if inspecting a flower. When it’s decided Eret’s good enough, the cat bumps her hand and rubs its face against her fingers. They absentmindedly stroke the cat, blinking the sleep out of their eyes slowly but surely. For now, the cat is content with petting. And that’s a good thing, given Eret’s head feels as if it’s still full of fluff.
All things considered, it’s not a bad way to wake up.
When he does get to his feet, spilling the cat from it’s perch, he’s already reaching for a small, somewhat chipped ceramic bowl he keeps on the bedside table for this exact purpose. Paws chase after feet as she dips into a small kitchen, walls painted bright yellow. A few plants hang from the ceiling, carefully tended to as both herbs and decoration, the only formal companions they keep.
Eret’s been living in this cozy seaside village far longer than most other places they’ve tried occupying. Long enough for plants to grow, long enough for the counter to be scorched from where an experiment involving blaze powder went awry. Long enough for the neighborhood strays to know his window, and know that he’s willing to spare food when he has it. She likes the cats, likes being able to take care of them with scraps of meat she’s stored away from hunts or the butcher shop when she can afford the prices. There’s a simple simplicity to this life of tending houseplants, feeding stray cats and taking on the occasional client to support their endeavors.
Of course, not all can appreciate this simple life, but Eret tries not to let those dark thoughts and memories tamper with what is looking to be a perfect morning.
They pull a jar of milk out and pour some into a mug, taking a bit of powdered cinnamon and slipping it into the milk before pulling for lumps of chocolate they keep in the cold chest. Carefully breaking a few pieces off, he lets them fall into the mug, tracing his fingers over the runes that have been carved into the ceramic. She pushes her magic to the surface of her skin, feeling a pleasant warmth tingle her fingers as the heat enchantment comes to life under her influence and the smell of warm hot chocolate fills the kitchen.
The white cat meows again, weaving it’s body between their legs. Eret laughs softly.
“Yes of course, don’t think I haven’t forgotten you yet either.”
They take a sip of the hot chocolate before setting the mug back on the counter and dips back into the cold chest. He knew there was a reason he kept a bit of the fish he’d eaten last night, tucked away. The scraps were too small for anyone his size to find satisfying, but they were more than enough for the cat still twining its body between her legs.
She carefully arranges the scraps of cod meat in the ceramic bowl, fetches a glass one and works the water pump up and down a few times until enough has come out to fill it to the top. Then they take both bowls and set them on the tiled floor of the kitchen, much to the white cats delight. It begins purring immediately, devouring the cod meat happily, and lapping at the water he’s set out.
“There you go,” she says, smiling as she leans back against the counter.
They take another long sip of hot chocolate and glance out the smaller kitchen window resting just above the table. Here, the window has been propped open only the tiniest bit, not enough for a cat to slip through, but the smell of the sea mixes with that of basil, mint and chamomile, creating an interesting arrangement. He turns over in his mind, the list of chores that needs to be tended to. Laundry, general tidying up, a bit of food shopping. She wants to see if they finally have the thin, yew branches she wanted to buy last time she was at the market as well.
No clients though.
But Eret isn’t worried. Sooner or later, someone knocks on the door asking for a skilled sorcerer or they need someone who’s good with a bow. They’re patient. He has to be in this line of work.
When the cat is nearly halfway done with the bowl of cod scraps, Eret covers a bit of bread and slices a chunk off for herself, chewing thoughtfully as she runs down the shopping list. Eggs, another loaf of bread, perhaps some carrots and beets if she could manage it. Potatoes certainly. Apples, if they were on sale. He didn’t quite have enough coin for more chocolate—another job would add to that particular fund—but he had enough to afford what he needed and still save enough for rent and add to his savings.
The bread is getting a bit dry now—nearly a week old—but she hardly notices it with the hot chocolate. And when their breakfast is done, they simply place the mug in the metal basin set on the counter amidst other dirty dishes, collect the cats empty bowls and place them in their as well, and move back into the bedroom.
He pulls out a rich red skirt with tassels on the end and white embroidery near the edges, and a simpler olive green one to go underneath, tucking a white shirt into the skirts and making sure everything looks just so. She pulls a red scarf made of the same fabric as the red skirt and ties it over her head, letting her curls spill out in front of her eyes as usual.
Eret does not dress like the conventional, typical people of this town. Where those who primarily go by she/her don skirts and dresses and those who are known as he/him wear trousers and thin work shirts, or fine coats over well woven shirts. It might help them avoid the scrutiny and eventual pitchfork-and-torches routine that follows them no matter where they settle, regardless of how long, but to dress any other way feels like a lie. His people had always worn what they wanted. She will do the same.
They pick up a large woven basket, big enough to carry all that needs to be carried and slips a pouch of coins onto their belt, being sure to tie it tightly so no would-be thieves can simply yank it. She doesn’t worry about it being cut. The strings have been enchanted enough times to make it virtually impossible.
Slipping on well worn boots, they glance back at the white cat, who has padded after them, licking its lips.
“Do you wish to be my market companion today?” he asks, smiling a little.
The cat blinks and meows.
“Would you care for a ride or will your own two paws suffice?”
In response, the cat jumps on top of the basket, then curls up on top of the lid. Eret laughs.
“Fair enough.”
Before leaving the house, she runs her fingers over the bow that hangs near the door, a finely crafted yew bow with enough runes carved on it to probably kill a god. It isn’t like the other enchanted things in the house, where the words are there but none of the magic stored, this bow has been enchanted properly, with lapis dust to seal the magic and a gentle humming to go with it. Eret does not need to activate this one with their own power, it runs on magic already fortified inside.
His fathers bow. The last bit of him she has left.
Normally, they wouldn’t contemplate bringing it to the marketplace. To arm oneself in a town is to invite trouble. A petty thief at best, an armed guard looking for an excuse at worse. Still…he can’t help but feel he should take it, and the quiver that goes with it. It’s an odd gut feeling. One she hasn’t felt for awhile.
They run their fingers over it again, then curse under their breath and carefully sling the quiver across their back, the bow to go with it.
“I must be out of my mind,” he mutters to the cat, opening the door and stepping outside.
The cat of course, does not say anything. It merely flicks its tail and closes its eyes, settling down for a nap.
It’s not so much that Eret is a terrible neighbor.
She’s not even an awful member of the community.
Though the house they rent is too small for much more than a humble tangle of wild roses in the front plot of dirt, it’s kept tidy and is up on repairs. He’s not unkind to children that run through the streets, shows the proper respect for elders, and is not against helping his neighbors should they so call on him. In fact, her manners are impeccable. There is very little Eret does to actually make people hate them. Other than magic of course.
It’s the eyes, he supposes.
Creepy, white things. Devoid of pupils or irises. Makes it nearly impossible for a person to figure out where she’s looking. Some have even said they suck the emotion right out of their face.
Whatever the case, it’s alarming for the average human to live with a fey—particularly the kind Eret is—so peacefully. Though there hasn’t been a war for nearly three centuries, humans are a touchy sort. And very prejudiced against that which is different.
He’s mostly used to it.
Mostly.
Doesn’t make things any better at the market, when she’s inspecting apples and picks up on a string of conversation.
“Did you hear?” a woman whispers to another.
“What should I have heard?” the older of the two replies crossly.
She’s got a handkerchief tied over her head, bangs the only bit of hair exposed. An appropriate attire for an older matron, a woman with many children who is past her days of having more. The younger woman’s scarf is more like Eret’s. It’s tied lower down her head, keeping her hair neatly back into a ponytail.
“The villages along the mountain pass,” the woman continues. “They say they’re all gone.”
“Gone? How could villages possibly be gone?” the older woman says. “It isn’t like they can sprout legs and just walk away.”
“That’s just it, they didn’t leave,” the woman continues. “The people. They’re all dead.”
“Did a plague get them? Some kind of zombie hoard?”
She shakes her head and drops her tone, leaning closer to the older woman. “It was a god.”
The sentence makes a tingle run up Eret’s spine, even as they pick up one particularly good-looking red fruit and turns it over to check for bruises.
It’s been some time since a god was spotted among humans. Most keep to themselves, tending whatever aspect or pantheon they’re a part of. News of one interacting with humans means something new is going on.
Something big.
But as far as Eret knows, nothing truly drastic has happened in the past few decades.
Well, not since the—
It’s fine.
It’s fine.
Nothing’s happened in the past few decades.
Nothing at all.
He angles his long, pointed ear so it hears more clearly, keeping hold of the apple he’s picked up.
“What in the name of Prime could have angered a god like that?” the older woman says. “Did they forget a holiday?”
The younger shakes her head. “It wasn’t their god. They say a death god has gone rogue and is seeking villages and towns to burn and make the streets run red with blood.
They say he’s tall enough to reach the heavens and carries a weapon from the sea, and his skin is as cold as the moon.”
“Bah!” the old woman scoffs. “Tall tales told by merchants with too much liquor to loosen their tongues and make their minds run wild with fanciful frights. There’s nothing solid to it. Mark my words, it was just a particularly lucky zombie hoard. Everyone knows gods don’t meddle with mortals. Not anymore.”
“Still,” the woman insists. “Don’t you think there could be a chance? That a god really has gone rogue and is punishing people as he sees fit?”
“I think there’s more of a chance of that witch over there giving birth to a piglin than there is for a god going on a rampage,” the old woman says firmly. “At least with the witch, you can see it.”
Eret works very hard not to react at the woman looking at her. They collect three more apples and present them to the seller, slipping coins into his waiting hand before adding it to their basket. The cat makes a grumbling noise deep in its chest at its nap being disturbed but otherwise doesn’t react. There’s no more talk of a rampaging god after that, but the thought of it makes Eret’s mind turn, even as he walks into the bakery and looks at the loaves they have for sale.
In the days of old, a rampaging god wouldn’t have been odd or even uncommon.
Entire villages disappearing underneath an angry gods wrath, individual people being killed by their own foolishness after invoking something they did not quite understand. Priests driven mad by the roaring voices of a chorus they couldn’t explain.
All sorts of people believed in all sorts of gods and spirits.
Some prayed to Mojang, greatest of all the pantheons, under a practice focused solely on Creation and all that surrounded it. Others liked the younger Church Prime and it’s goddess, ever benevolent and thoughtful to her worshipers. Some older folk even prayed to Death Herself, oldest of the gods—older than even Mojang, for who could’ve existed before Creation than the very Void itself?—and almost everyone had at least laid a coin and crow feather on the chest of the recently deceased to pay for safe transportation from Her Angel.
With practices more limited—and entire villages less hasty to pledge themselves to one or two fickle aspect gods—rampages had grown rare. Almost unheard of. But surely something had killed those villages off. Whether it be a hoard like the old lady suspected or an actual god’s wrath.
There was a spell to find such things out, but it required a silver mirror and thyme, the one herb Eret did not have growing in her garden. Perhaps a quick stop to one of the other shops would produce some.
After they paid for the new loaf of bread, safely wrapped up in worn cotton, they stepped back outside onto the cobblestone streets, heels clicking against the ground. The wind has changed since he was inside, sky grown stormy and dark instead of the pale blue and golden light it had been before. She finds a spot in the road—a break between houses that shows the sea—and shades her eyes as she looks out at it all. Then widens them at the blackened mess of lightning and thunder that’s rolling in.
A storm is coming.