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Samothes pulls Hadrian aside once more with the casual inevitability of a god’s wishes. Their boat awaits, but Hella looks back with a knowing smirk, and so Hadrian follows Samothes to where his god guides him. His feet move from wooden dock to stone street to the ground cover of a cluster of junipers overlooking the bay. There is a rightness to the motion. It’s the sort of easy justification Hadrian swung his blade for when he was younger. His body knew what his god commanded. There was little else to it.
He is not surprised to find Samothes waiting for him, standing and watching the waves beat against the rocky crags of Aubade. Samothes had walked with Hadrian down to the docks, and after wishing the travelers well, had left to return to his work. Or so Hadrian had assumed.
He turns as Hadrian enters the grove’s shade and smiles his radiant smile, though his eyes do not lose the distant gaze. Hadrian’s chest tightens with the warmth of Samothes’ attention. He can still hardly believe that Samothes obliges him with his presence, let alone calls out to him.
“Hadrian,” Samothes smiles. “I’m glad to see you again.”
“I didn’t want to leave without... well, without saying goodbye again.” Samothes chuckles and beckons him over, and Hadrian goes and stands next to his god and looks out at the waves and the boat bobbing in the water below.
With a sigh, Samothes turns to face him and says simply, “There are many who await your return.”
“There are. My son... he’s going to be all grown up.”
Samothes stares out over the water at the encroaching storm. His eyes fill with something Hadrian can only describe as numbness. It’s the startling lack of sensation of a long-healed scar where the nerves never recovered. “They grow up fast,” he murmurs. He does not elaborate. Hadrian does not ask.
Soon Samothes’ eyes grow lighter, and he throws his head back to watch the terns circling high above the atoll. Hadrian is keenly aware of Samothes: each shift of his weight, each exhale, each rustle of the light fabric of his open robe against his broad chest. His shoulders still burn with the warmth of Samothes’ embrace when he found Hadrian earlier this afternoon. Why would Samothes have called him again? What more did he wish to tell? Or to receive?
Together they watch the thunderhead until Samothes speaks again. “I have something to ask of you.”
“Anything.”
Samothes laughs. “Haven’t you learned by now to be careful what you wish for?” Hadrian feels his face flush, and Samothes grins with the gentle humor that Hadrian has become familiar with over his years in Aubade. How strange the solemn Samothes of his church seems now.
“I spoke with my husband through his mask, the one your friend Lem carried with him.” Hadrian snaps his head towards Samothes. His god’s face is calm, and his tone casual, but Hadrian knows that the topic must not be an easy one. He reaches his hand out to Samothes but does not touch. He stays quiet.
Samothes continues, “He was as beautiful as the day we last spoke face-to-face. He’s always had such a grace about him, and such a presence, and I could feel the ghost of his touch even at such a distance. There was that old fury, yes, but time has softened us both for the better...” Samothes catches himself with a sheepish smile. “In short, we spoke of many things, and I’m glad I could explain my decision to protect Aubade. Even if it meant that our conversations could not continue.”
“But there is one thing I could not do through his ingenious mask. I told you that I would not be able to return to Hieron. That is still true. And when I said that what I got was for you to go back, I meant it. I thought...” He pauses. “If you are willing, Hadrian, I have a message for you to carry to my husband.”
Hadrian nods. Anything for Samothes, any direction he will give. Samothes is looking at him with such tenderness. If Hadrian thought himself worthy, he might call it love.
Samothes clasps Hadrian’s hand in his own, then reaches out to rest his other hand where Hadrian’s shoulder meets his neck. His palm is warm through the light fabric of Hadrian’s shirt, and Hadrian leans his head down to feel the heat on his cheek. He feels Samothes move his hand to caress his coarse beard, the sensation scratchy and startlingly physical. Hadrian leans into the touch, and Samothes hums and he stretches his fingers up Hadrian’s cheek and runs a calloused thumb over his lips.
Hadrian snaps his eyes to Samothes, closer now. Samothes pauses and flicks his eyes down to Hadrian’s lips and back up. The moment stretches. Hadrian’s thoughts are strangely quiet. He tries to think of a good reason to resist the comfort offered. He can’t.
“May I?”
Hadrian nods, and Samothes closes the distance. His lips are warm and sweet, and Hadrian wraps his arms around Samothes’ waist and feels the casual strength contained in Samothes’ form. He feels solid in a way that still comes as a surprise. Samothes tilts his head and kisses him again, their beards brushing, and Hadrian lets himself lean into Samothes’ kisses. How simple this worship is.
When they part, Samothes smiles wide, and Hadrian feels his own cheeks lift at the simple joy of his god’s pleasure.
“I trust you can pass the message along when you see my husband next?”
Hadrian nods, his mouth still heavy with the taste of Samothes. The message.
“I will. I don’t know if I can do it justice, but I’ll try.”
“Oh, Hadrian. I know you will convey it faithfully. You have always been so faithful.”
Samot did not arrive at the Last University how Hadrian expected. He had been at home when the messenger rushed to their door, stammering about Samot and a bomb and an emergency, and Hadrian had rushed into the University courtyard to meet Throndir carrying the limp body of his god’s husband. He’d cradled Samot’s bleeding body in his arms all the way to the infirmary. It had taken hours to wash the blood from underneath his fingernails. His gods have never seemed so physical, so breakable.
In those early days, Hadrian tended to Samot day and night. The god was lucid, but withdrawn and quick to tire. They spoke of family, of loss, of the future. There was never a right time for his message. Soon his other duties caught up to him, and he was busy again when Samot took up his old suite in the tower.
Samot’s call was always more subtle than his husband’s. Samothes gave orders. Samot gave suggestions. Often, Hadrian only realized their nature in retrospect. He wanted to please Samothes by carrying out his will. Samot will make him think his will is Hadrian’s own. And so, when Hadrian feels drawn to visit Samot, he delays. But soon his thoughts turn to Samothes and the star-stuff shield and the severed connection, and to Samot, alone in his tower room. Samothes trusted him with a message. He has never wanted to disobey his god.
One day after dinner Hadrian makes his way up the stone stairs of the tower, one by one. When he reaches the landing he sees the door illuminated by a low-burning candle. He expects a whiff of perfume, perhaps, but the wind of the stairway carries only the musty scent of ancient masonry and the damp spice of the coming spring air.
Samot will have sensed he’s here, Hadrian knows. But there is a way things must be done, a ritual, and so Hadrian raises his fist and knocks.
It feels like an old church. Like countless people have walked here before him, drawn by the same divinity he now follows.
The door opens with a heavy creak, and Hadrian jumps. He hadn’t realized his heart was beating so fast. Samot stands leaning against the doorframe, his smile calm and eyes sharp. The brilliant white of the star-stuff shines from the barely-closed scars on his face and neck, and Hadrian follows their lines down the open collar of his shirt and along his arms and hands. There is ink on his fingers.
“Hadrian, how good of you to stop by. Please, come in.”
“Thank you.” Hadrian nods and follows Samot across the threshold. The room is warm and inviting. A fire burns low in the hearth. Samot’s desk is covered with papers and open vials of ink. The portrait of Samot and a young boy with his golden hair and Samothes’ aquiline nose leans against the wall. Maelgwyn, Hadrian realizes.
Samot settles down on his settee and motions for Hadrian to take a seat. Hadrian finds he can’t bear to sit down. Can he really do this? His arms hum with anticipation.
If Samot is fazed, he doesn’t show it. Instead he smiles up at Hadrian and asks, “Now, to what do I owe this pleasure?”
Now or never. “I have a message for you. From Samothes,” he stammers. Samot tilts his head, and Hadrian feels the full weight of the god’s attention settle on him. Even after all these years, it’s alarming. Hadrian wondered what Samothes told him through the mask and if they spoke about him.
Samot sighs out a laugh. “How like my husband to send me a gift with his messages,” he murmurs, and stretches out his palm. Hadrian stares down at his empty hands and shakes the thought aside. He steps towards Samot and extends his own hand. Samot places his delicate hand in Hadrian’s own. His skin is cold even in the warm room.
“He, um. He said that he couldn’t give this to you through the mask.” Samot stares up at him, then draws himself up. Hadrian reaches out his other hand to steady Samot, and Samot takes it with a sigh of relief. He stares up at Hadrian and furrows his brow.
“Well?” He’s standing so close. Hadrian breathes a shaky exhale. Before he can think, he moves his hand to Samot’s cheek, and Samot leans into his palm and closes his eyes. His cheekbone feels so light.
“I...” Hadrian begins, unsure of what to say. Samot’s eyes flutter open and he reaches up to press a shushing finger to Hadrian’s mouth. Instead Hadrian closes his mouth and leans down until he can feel Samot’s breath on his beard, then presses his lips to Samot’s waiting ones. His lips taste of wine and medicinal herbs, and the star-stuff scar that cuts across them feels sharp against Hadrian’s mouth.
When he pulls back, he’s breathing fast. He opens his eyes and finds Samot smirking up at him. “Surely my husband’s message was more thorough than that,” he murmurs, drawing his finger along Hadrian’s jaw.
“I don’t think I can do it justice,” Hadrian starts, “not like he could.” He stares down at Samot’s lips, reddening in the flickering light of the fire.
“Oh, Hadrian,” Samot whispers, “I’ve never wanted you to replace my husband. You serve him so well.” He strokes Hadrian’s beard, “You serve us so well.” He presses his lips up against Hadrian’s, and Hadrian tries to match the force of his passion. It’s startling to see Samot’s want so plainly, and to feel his thin frame pressed tight against Hadrian’s own.
Samot kisses like he’s savoring a fine meal. With each press of Samot’s lips, Hadrian feels as he drinks Samothes’ message in. He wonders if Samot can taste Samothes on him. He thinks of the wolfskin cloak and Samot’s offered hand and the warmth of Samothes’ love.
When they part, Samot’s eyes are full with bright joy and a radiant contentment. He pulls Hadrian close. “Thank you,” he murmurs, and Hadrian nods his chin against the top of Samot’s head. His curls are reappearing as his hair grows back.
“It was the least I could do.”
Samot laughs against his chest and murmurs, “It was a faithful message.” He seems reluctant to part, but soon stands tall and unwraps his arms from around Hadrian. Hadrian finds he misses his presence already. Still, he knows to leave when asked. He walks to the door and opens it. He has just stepped out when Samot calls back, “And Hadrian?”
Hadrian turns back to Samot, silhouetted in the doorframe by the hearth. “Yes?”
“If you have any more messages, you know where to find me.”
He closes the door before Hadrian can gather a response.