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It’s silent when he walks into the temple. Silent and cold, with wind whistling through the columns, but somehow creating no sound.
Costis has never considered himself a particularly devout man, though he regularly makes contributions and appearances in services of Miras and prays when he feels the need. Not lip service, it meant more than that, but not much more—habit given weight, but not thought of until a need arises. Miras’ altars and chapels are busy, loud, warm, not exactly welcoming because he doubts any holy site can be welcoming to anyone who isn’t a priest, but not foreboding. Stepping into the temple of the god of thieves feels…different. It’s empty. No fires lit, only candles at the entrance and around the altar, which is at the end of a corridor that feels a mile long even though it must be only a couple hundred feet.
It’s the silence that unnerves him the most, until he begins the walk to the altar, his stolen golden pocket watch pressing indents into his palm. Then, it’s the weight. A fuzzy drag on his limbs, an oppressive presence trying to bear him to the marble floor. It presses against his ribcage in particular, an odd squeezing that forces him to pant for breath, mouth falling open. The back of his neck burns as if he is being watched, though there is no one else there. There are no walls on the sides of the temple, and no back rooms for priests to come and go and live and work, because Eugenides has only one priest. There is only Costis, and the long walk to an altar littered with unguarded jewels, and the pressure at his shoulders, on his sides, against his tongue.
Sweat beads on his forehead, and the breeze cutting through the open columns soothes it at once, like a lover’s breath on overheated skin. He gets the urge to pray then, halfway there, unsure who he should be praying to. If he begged protection from Miras against the weight of Eugenides’ attention, would it be an insult? If he dropped to his knees and bowed his head to the god as he did to the king, would he be granted reprieve from whatever hold the god possessed of him? Or would that only be an invitation?
Another step. Another. Not long before he could reach out and leave his offering and retreat again. He doesn’t trust himself not to run. Movement at the corner of his eye makes him realize why the silence bothers him so much. A tiny open air temple near the palace at the heart of the city, just outside the larger temple district, with people and animals passing by going about their business as they would any other temple they were not dedicated to. He can see them, through the columns. Laughing, tripping, bleating, talking, buying and selling wares, chasing after pickpockets, stumbling drunk to make penance to the god of wine. He can’t hear anything. Nothing but his own labored breathing, and the pressure of the silence, his ears popping with it. His knees tremble. His feet weigh too much for him to lift. It hadn’t be warm, when he walked in, but now he could see his breath fogging in front of him, ragged, uneven. What could they see, those people walking past? Did they see him, the altar, the space between them, the whites of his blown-out eyes, rolling side to side like a panicked animal? Could they hear him struggling, lightheaded, gasping, his ribs expanding out into the invisible hand of a god they didn’t believe in?
A sudden line of heat at his back makes him freeze. The wind in the columns breathes lightly in his ear, burning. The pressure intensifies against his calves, his thighs, hips, back—the warmth curls around his ribs, the metaphor made real, but when his wide eyes roll down, there is nothing there. His right hand rises, slow and deliberate, without his input, a feel of phantom fingers lightly wrapped around his wrist. Shhhhh, he hears, or doesn’t hear, in his head or in his ear, he isn’t sure anymore, and another puff of heat blows, against his neck this time. An answering heat curls inside his belly and unfurling into his chest, as if he is being praised for a job well done. He wants to sink into it. He wants to run, all the way to the coast, and throw himself into the sea.
He does neither. He opens his hand and lets the pocket watch fall onto the altar, careless in its landing, standing out among the artful placement of gems and trinkets.
The pressure parts with another huff of heat and a silent hiss. The noise of the city still doesn’t penetrate the temple, but he can hear his heartbeat now, too fast and too unsteady, and it’s easier to breath. He staggers back from the altar and walks backward, faster with each step, until he backs himself into a column and stumbles, falls. His head cracks against the column, the pain grounding as his ass hits the floor. He barely catches himself on his hands before he’s scrambling up again and tearing out of the temple as fast as he can.
The sound of the city hits him like a cannonball as soon as his bare feet hit the cobblestone road again. He bends over, hands clutching at his knees beside the lockbox holding his sandals, trying not to wretch. He retrieves his shoes and jams his feet into them, managing a few shaky steps away from the temple before looking backward at it over his shoulder.
The roof and walls of the alcove where the altar is nestled should block all sunlight, but a glint of gold still winks at him, flashing, no care for the natural laws of the world. Mouth dry, Costis turns away, just missing the scorched-earth skin of the man watching him from the shadows behind a column, a smile crossing his lips.