Archive of Our Own

This is madness…!  

The thought thundered in Metzi’s head, his eyes widening in horror as one of his clanmates grabbed a crying child and tossed her into a hallowed alcove. Her tiny body crashed against the rock surface, and dust hovered. Yet, she didn’t lose consciousness, quickly regaining her wits to try to crawl out of the alcove before it was too late.

Their gazes met just before the rusty door slammed into her face.

A cracking sound resounded, deafening even amid the chaos. Metzi’s ears, which usually stood proudly atop his head, flattened against his scalp, the smell of blood wafting to his nostrils: the girl had been too close, and he feared busted lips and a broken nose. Maybe even broken cheekbones.

“Metzi!” his clanmate called, a warm smile on his lips. It sent shivers of disgust down his spine. “Stop daydreaming, and help us.”

“Help you…?” The words left a bad taste in his mouth.

“Well, duh!” His clanmate rolled his eyes, gesturing to the entrance of the cave, where comrades of theirs were dragging struggling humans inside. “We don’t have enough hands to catch all of these mongrels, if you hadn’t noticed yet.” He squinted, suspicion flashing across his face. “I don’t care what you think: we need as many offerings as possible if we want Tahoma to hear our plea. Without his blessing, we’re all going to die. Remember that.”

Another one of their clanmates, a little farther away, added for good measure, “Don’t you dare screw things up ‘cause of some sort of stupid sympathy! It’s either them or us!” 

“You heard her! Now, get your ass moving.”

Metzi pinched his lips, not answering. It didn’t matter to his clanmate, though. After saying his piece, he spun on his heels, making his way to the entrance to go help their brethren, alongside the woman who had just spoken.

Helping was an excuse. Beastmen didn’t need the whole clan to round up an unguarded caravan carrying frail humans. A few of them were more than enough. His clanmates simply wanted to enjoy the hunt; the swaying of their tails was betraying their inner thoughts.

Only once they were out of sight did Metzi lower his eyes to his hands, carefully opening them. He had been clenching his fists with too much strength, and his claws had dug bloody crescent moons into his palms. Still, he barely registered the stinging pain as he shifted his attention back to the wooden door. The little girl was banging against it. The old planks did nothing to muffle the sobbing, much less the screaming words he couldn’t quite comprehend.

It wasn’t a language he was familiar with.

But not understanding it didn’t mean he couldn’t feel the emotions in her voice, the despair, the pain, and the sorrow. Not speaking the same language didn’t make the girl any less of a person.

What did that change, though? Whether she was a living being capable of emotions and thoughts or not, it held no importance to his clan—not anymore, at the very least.

“What has the world come to…?”

No one answered him, and the question lingered.

***

The mug of ale almost broke in his hands, cracking under his fingers, as Metzi watched his people wolf down a feast and dance around a bonfire. The flames crackled in the quiet night, embers flying high, carried by the breeze. Joy had spread to all, and broad smiles were blooming on his clanmates’ lips, curving their eyes.

Even the kids twirled around their parents, clapping their hands and stomping their feet in delight, unaware that they were celebrating the incoming doom of innocent souls. They were simply overjoyed to be eating well after so long and didn’t understand the purpose of the feast. All they knew was that they could finally fill their bellies to the brim after months of rationing, as long as they sang and danced alongside the adults.   

Metzi felt his bowels twist into knots, loathing rising in the pit of his stomach at the sight. Fools. He silently scoffed. All of them.

Offering innocent souls to the God of Rain wouldn’t put an end to the drought. It had been proved time and again that superstitions of the past were exactly that, superstitions.

Yet, whenever the situation grew dire in his clan, his people fell back onto the old beliefs, the old ceremonies, in the hope that it would make things better. They disregarded what rationality and cold facts had brought to light throughout the years, reverting to ancient practices that involved powers stronger than what could be comprehended. That was the only way they knew how to cope and not break down in the face of the cruel reality.

The drought had extinguished the lives of too many people. The lack of fresh water had pushed some to drink from the sea, driving them insane. Food had been scarce, too. Prey were either dying of thirst or hunger, leaving only emaciated corpses behind, and plants had long dried up. There had been no new sprouts in months.

The land had become barren.

And here they are, these pathetic buffoons, throwing a feast and depleting our rations, so certain that the God of Rain will be accepting their offerings and let the rain pour down on them. Metzi resisted the urge to laugh out of derision. If the situation hadn’t been so desperate, and if lives hadn’t been in jeopardy, he could have mocked their idiocy to his heart’s content.

He couldn’t, though.

Not when the panicked face of the girl haunted him.

Desperation had turned his clanmates into mindless lunatics, and no matter what Metzi said, his words fell on deaf ears. No one was listening to him; no one cared about the people condemned to die tomorrow night, as long as it might save them.

“What’s with the long face?”

Metzi clenched his jaw at the familiar voice and lifted his golden eyes to meet Geidi’s, his clan head. He wore that usual gentle smile, one that hid the cruelty of his previous command.

If Metzi hadn’t known better… It was hard to believe that the kind-looking man had cold-bloodedly ordered the murders of a dozen people; children, women, and men, all confounded. The sacrificial ceremony was his idea, and everyone had gone along with it, praising his wisdom and insight.

Like many others, Metzi had respected Geidi for most of his life, as he was already the clan head when he was born. For as long as he could remember, he looked up to the man, vowing to be like him one day. His mother had laughed, and his father had ruffled his hair in approbation. Both of his parents enabled him in this endeavor, as they also held a deep respect for their clan head.

Everyone did.

Even though Metzi had revered Geidi for over two decades, it seemed to be an eternity ago. He knew he’d have most likely continued to bow to the man and follow him like a sheep had his eyes not been opened. His admiration had crumbled to dust when the drought began a year or so ago. The various decisions Geidi took over time didn’t align with Metzi’s values—values that the rest of his clan pretended to be upholding, too.

Now, when he looked at the man, all he could see was a monster wearing a beastman skin. Even the shape of his eyes reminded him of a snake’s, clashing with his jackal ears and tail.  

“…Do you really think Tahoma will be pleased with the sacrifice of innocent souls?” Metzi asked after a while had passed, not answering the man’s question. Anyone with a bit of a brain could tell why he was making the long face and not rejoicing with the rest of the clan.

Unlike them, he hadn’t shed his humanity and turned into a beast.

“Child,” Geidi sighed as he sat beside him, “why do you doubt? Of course, Tahoma will be pleased. What god wouldn’t be? Don’t worry, rain will be falling soon, and everything will go back to what it once was.” 

A snort escaped him as Metzi shook his head. He peered at his elder, scorn dancing in the depths of his eyes. It was utter bullshit.

To begin with, that wasn’t how offerings were chosen in the past. His tribe didn’t wake up one morning and decide to abduct strangers out of the blue. Offerings had always been members of the tribe, either a maiden or a young man, who was deemed good enough to serve a god and respond to their every need; these women and men were essentially condemned to an eternity of servitude and obedience. With that in mind, the previous clan heads were careful with whom they chose to be sacrificed, afraid to anger the divine being with unsatisfactory offerings. They wanted to get into a god’s good graces, not incur their ire.

But that part of the story, Geidi was ignoring it.

In the end, Metzi couldn’t resist and bit back, his voice dripping with disdain. “Then, dear clan head, tell me why Tahoma will be pleased with your offerings. I’m all ears.”

Geidi frowned, unable to hide his irritation. His mouth twitched, and Metzi’s cold smile deepened.

“Don’t ask stupid questions,” Geidi ultimately berated. “The gods love humans, so of course, they’re pleased when they are offered to them. It appeases their anger and puts them in a good mood.”

“Oh, really?” Metzi sneered, not hiding his disgust. “If gods truly adore humans, I wonder how pleased they will be with us killing their favorite beings.” His index finger tapped his mug, and he added before the words could sink in, “First of all, the gods and other high beings don’t care about us. Why would they? We’re nothing more than ants in their eyes. Do you care about ants? Would you care if ants brought you your favorite meal? Strangely enough, I doubt it.”

Metzi paused only to spit out, “Stop pinning your hopes on foolish legends of the past, and start thinking about relocalizing our tribe. Ancestral ground or not, it’s not worth dying for it.”

“Metzi!” Geidi shouted through gritted teeth, his upper lip lifting as he snarled, “Don’t be blasphemous!”

Blasphemous, huh? Metzi shrugged and brought his mug to his mouth, sipping on his ale. He smacked his lips, ever-so-slowly savoring the taste. Deep down, he knew it might very well be the last time he enjoyed it.

This little discussion with his clan head had only reinforced his belief that they were wrong, that his clan had lost his sanity. He glanced at his dancing clanmates once more, taking in the sight.

His mind was made up, whatever the price he’d have to pay may be.

***

The clinking of the chains resounded loudly in his makeshift cell, making his head throb in pain. Still, Metzi forced himself to sit. The restraints were digging into his flesh, tearing the skin. He eyed the cuts before leaning against the wall, a smile nevertheless lingering on his lips. The humans had managed to escape this forsaken place, most of them safe and sound. That was all that mattered to him.

***

Lifting his head, Metzi glanced at the starlit sky.

Tonight again, no clouds hung above, and the twin moons shone upon the cliff, shrouding everything in their pale light. The heat of the day hadn’t faded away yet and clung to his bruised skin, as did the salty air. It stung. Regardless, Metzi didn’t voice a word of complaint; the pain proved that he was alive, even if he didn’t have much time left. The night had settled, and the tide was rising, crashing against the rock down below. The clock was ticking. 

“You’re a fool,” Geidi muttered, disappointment coating his voice.

“Am I now?” Metzi chuckled, glancing over his shoulder to look at his clan head and the crowd gathered behind him.

Gone was the joy of yesterday, replaced by disbelief, anger, and sorrow. His clanmates could sacrifice unknown humans without batting an eye, but it was a whole other story when the offering was one of their own—Metzi had a hunch that was why they had wilfully ignored part of the oral tradition, only taking the bits they liked. His people hadn’t gone out of their way to attack a passing caravan for no reason, whatever excuse they might have.

Not like Metzi cared.

Either way, they were willing to bloody their hands for an uncertain outcome instead of braving the unknown land to the North and leave their tribal ground. They wanted to remain on these barren lands, so they had to live with the consequences of their own decisions, just like he had to face death for saving humans. They chose their paths, and he had chosen his.

He couldn’t even muster any feelings toward his weeping parents, his heart having grown cold. His father had been among those who drank to the looming deaths of the humans, while his mother sang praises to the gods, begging for them to look upon their tribe with mercy following their offerings.

They might have raised him, but now, they were no better than strangers in his eyes, people he didn’t recognize.

The breeze blew, tangling his long, untied hair, and the ceremonial robes fluttered around his body, the white of the cloth glaring on his caramel skin. The silvery jewelry adorning his neck, wrists, ankles, tail, and ears also clinkered, shining under the moonlight, just like the chains and shackles were.

Silence filled the crowd, yet Metzi’s jackal ears twitched. He seemed to have picked up some noise coming from the sea, something akin to a whistle or maybe the chirping of a flute, so he peered at the dark water hundreds of meters below.

There was nothing but the vast sea, however.

Was it my imagination?

Whether that was his imagination or not meant very little to him. His end wouldn’t change. If some of his clanmates were reluctant to conduct the ceremony with him as the offering, others didn’t share their hesitancy, or at least, not as much. They had gorged themselves on food yesterday with the promise that rain would soon grace them, and plants would grow again, with prey coming back to their hunting grounds. They ate without restraint.

Now, their rations wouldn’t even last a month.

They needed the rain back, and fast.  

Metzi let out a sigh, wondering when these hopeless fools would realize that even if it started to rain tonight, it would take time for the plants to sprout, and time for the prey to come back. A sacrificial ritual was not the solution. Still, he knew better than to argue his case and walked backward until he reached the edge of the cliff. One more step, and he would fall. But before jumping, he had one last thing to say.

His lips stretched into a smirk, his gaze growing icy. He had no pity left, not for these hypocrites. Maybe he did for the children, but the poor souls would have to suffer due to their parents’ foolishness. There was nothing he could do about that; as long as they remained in this dried-out territory, they would die.

“I hope you never leave this forsaken land.” His voice was ominous, and people’s shoulders tensed. “So all of you fools die of thirst and hunger.”

The next instant, Metzi let himself fall backward.

Whatever he said wouldn’t change his clanmates’ minds, as the madness had swallowed every bit of their rationality. He knew his words would be met with deaf ears or indignation, but that was fine with him. He just wanted to say them, so that when they started to fall like flies, dying on their ancestors’ land, they would remember him in their last moment, remember his words, and curse his name for bringing misfortune to their tribe.

Ah, the moons sure are pretty tonight. It was a fleeting thought that accompanied his fall. Metzi stared at the sky, even as his body hit the water, and pain radiated throughout his limbs, knocking the air out of his lungs.

The sea swallowed him, and everything blackened out.

The last thing he saw was the twinkling stars.

***

When Metzi came to, he let out a wince so shrill that it drilled his eardrums. He was unmistakably alive, the pain throbbing in his back proving that he had yet to kick the bucket, same for the splitting headache. It felt like his brain was trying to spill out of his skull or go down into his spinal cord.

Just kill me already…!

But death didn’t come, so Metzi pried his eyes open, forcing his aching body to sit. His back cracked, and pain shot through his spine up to his brain. He sucked in a deep breath, resisting the urge to let out a cry. He didn’t know where he was, and being noisy wouldn’t do, unless he wanted to attract unwanted attention.    

It took a moment for his blurry eyesight to clear up, and when he could finally take in his surroundings, he was left gobsmacked.

The sight that greeted him wasn’t anything Metzi had ever seen. He seemed to be in a bedroom, lying on a soft mattress, and ceiling-height glass windows acted as walls, allowing him to glimpse at the outside world, a world he wasn’t familiar with in the slightest. He might have dived into the sea many times to catch fish, but he had never lingered in its depths, and the creatures swimming outside didn’t appear to be the kind he’d have seen in the mortal realm. That, for example, looked like a sea dragon, a being only depicted in old tales and vaguely drawn in ancestral caverns. 

For a moment, Metzi grew entranced.

The bottom of the sea should be pitch-black, yet it wasn’t. Shining crystals stood tall in the white sand, casting a myriad of pale colors onto the creatures swimming around each other. Massive whales alongside small, colorful fish and long, dotted eels swirled in the clear water, just below the sea dragon. They seemed to be dancing for the divine creature, rejoicing in its presence amid their schools.

Beautiful. That was the only thought remaining in Metzi’s head. His mind unknowingly relaxed, and despite being in an unfamiliar and otherworldly land, he found himself smiling faintly.

Time seemed to halt until something shifted beside Metzi, drawing his attention back to the bed. He lowered his eyes, then momentarily forgot how to breathe.

The being lying beside him was mesmerizing, so ethereal that Metzi couldn’t find the right words to describe him. His silvery hair seemed to glimmer under the light, while pointy ears perked through the strands. His face was undoubtedly masculine, yet held a touch of femininity and elegance. The long eyelashes cast fan-like shadows on his cheeks, and redish teardrop birthmarks dotted the corners of his eyes. The color of his skin was akin to that of a pearl, also shimmering with pink and purple hues.

With the blankets pulled up to his waist, Metzi had a clear view of his powerful back and the silver scales climbing on his flanks.

Still, the drool trailing on his chin broke the ethereal image.

Metzi blinked, and the next instant, his eyes met his.

Again, he forgot how to breathe.

Those eyes seemed to behold a starlit sky. It was magnificent: the white of the eye was a dark purple dotted with twinkling stars. There were no irises and no pupils, just a piece of the universe.

“Hm? Awake already?”

Metzi was ever-so-grateful that he was sitting on the bed, and not standing beside it, or he feared his knees would have buckled up, dragging his body down on the floor to kneel. That voice carried an unfathomable authority, something that made him want to instinctively bow and worship the being by his side.

“You should sleep a little more,” the being yawned, tears gathering at the corner of his eyes, “your body was badly bruised by the fall, to the point I’m surprised you didn’t die on the spot.”

“W-who…?” Metzi’s voice was but a tremble. He couldn’t finish his sentence, however, and the unsaid words lingered. Did he even have the right to ask who this being was, to begin with?

“Hm? Who am I?” The being rolled over on his back to stretch, his gaze never leaving him. It allowed Metzi to glimpse at the scales climbing onto his rib cage, following the ribs like claws below the pectoral muscles. A chuckle resounded, the sound so clear and crisp it seemed to tickle Metzi from inside. It snatched him from his daze, only now realizing he had been staring at the man’s chest. “Hm, well, I’m just a bored god who has taken a liking to an ant. Noting more, nothing less.”

The teasing in his voice was unmistakable, leaving Metzi doubting his ears. It took a moment for his brain to comprehend the words.

“You can call me Tahoma, if you want.” The god winked as he got up, wrapping the blanket around his waist to hide his naked body. “That’s the name I believe your people gave me.”

Tahoma. The God of Rain.

It felt like his brain shut down, and no coherent thoughts could be formed. His mind turned into a chaotic mess. Nothing made sense.

Was this truly the god his people had sacrificed him to, or was this a dream of bad taste? But the pain was such that it made it impossible to brainwash himself into thinking he was sleeping. This was real; Metzi was in Tahoma’s chambers, sitting on his bed. 

“Why do you look so much in pain?” Tahoma frowned. “My servant was supposed to have applied a soothing ointment on you. Did he not?”

“Of course I did, master!” An indignant voice resounded. “It’s just that the ointment can’t appease everything, and it’s better not to dull the pain completely, or this kid might start to explore your lair without realizing his body is in no state to move around. Beastfolks are sturdy, but not that sturdy. Now, if you don’t mind, I’d love to help him wash up and change his clothes. I don’t think he wishes to remain in ceremonial robes longer than necessary. These things are so tacky and heavy!”

“What did you expect?” Tahoma snorted, his voice dripping with contempt. “These robes are made to be heavy, and certainly not light.”

The point of the ceremonial robes and jewelry was to drag down the offering to the bottom of the sea, after all. Even Metzi, a beastman of the jackal species, found them weighty, and walking to the cliff had been unpleasant, to say the least. Although right now, he could barely feel the weight pulling down on his shoulders—even the excruciating pain coursing through his body had abated under the shock of meeting a god.

***

Metzi peered at the god’s servant, not daring to utter a word as he busied himself in the room. The boy was trying not to show his disgust as he trashed the ceremonial robes, chains, cuffs, and jewelry into a basket.

The thing was, the servant’s face was expressive.

Very expressive.  

It was easy for Metzi to guess what the boy thought of the ceremonial outfit. Seething anger and deep sorrow alternated in the depths of his black eyes.

“I’ll be back right away!” The boy smiled at him, bowing slightly before turning on his heels, holding the basket as far away from his body as his short arms allowed.

Left alone in the gigantic bathroom, Metzi slowly sat in the bath, if that could be called a bath. The tank was as large as his hut, carved directly into the bedrock of the sea. Even though it had been chiseled, the surface was smooth under his buttocks and not rugged in the slightest. It was strangely comfortable to sit in.

The water was just the right temperature, too; not too warm and not too cold. A pleasant floral scent permeated the room, alongside steam and white bubbles.  

But no matter how calming the atmosphere was, and how drowsy it made him feel, Metzi couldn’t relax. Now that the God of Rain and his servant weren’t around to distract him, and the shock of meeting a divine being had receded, the gears in his mind had started to turn, and questions flooded his thoughts like a tidal wave.

How did he end up in a god’s lair, and how did he even survive that fall? Water wasn’t soft. Passing a certain height, it was like hitting the ground at full speed.

He felt it through his body, too, when he crashed into the sea.

Was his survival luck, or was it divine intervention?

Anyway, I wonder how many people can fit in this bath…?  The incongruous thought almost managed to snatch a chuckle out of him. The surreality of the situation had hit him hard, but it was slowly getting through to him. This was reality, and not a dream.  

“Is the temperature alright?” the servant asked, having returned. The sudden question snapped Metzi out of his thoughts—he hadn’t heard the boy’s footsteps despite his keen hearing. “I’m not used to serving mortals, so if I do something I shouldn’t, please tell me.”

The earnest expression on the boyish face stunned Metzi, and for an instant, he wasn’t sure what to say.  

“Doesn’t it bother you?” he tentatively probed, mustering the courage to force the words out. “To tend to my needs, I mean.”

“Why would it?” The servant tilted his head, his jellyfish-like hair falling to the side. The light of the bathroom reflected on his pale blue skin, making it shimmer like white sand under the sun. “It’s been so long since Master last had guests—well, welcomed guests. Anyway, he’s been sleeping for ages, too, and I’ve been tending to his quarters in solitude for a long time. Even if there are a lot of fish around, they’re not very smart, and it makes discussing a bit difficult. I was a bit bored, to be honest. And, erm…” 

The servant was starting to stutter, a darker shade of blue spreading to his cheeks. Metzi guessed that was a sign the boy was blushing.

“I see…” Metzi cleared his throat. “What’s your name?”

“My name?” The servant blinked. “I don’t have one.”

“You don’t?” It was Metzi’s turn to blink.

“I have no need for a name, as Master talks to me directly into my mind when he needs something.” Then, realization flashed across the boy’s face. “Right, you can’t talk to me through telepathy. Well, just call me Jelly. Some fish call me that sometimes.”

“…As in Jellyfish?”

“Yes!” The servant nodded before gesturing to Metzi’s hair. “Do you mind closing your eyes? I want to wash your hair, if that’s alright with you.”

“Sure… Just be careful around my ears. They’re ticklish.”

Being bathed by someone who looked half his age was a little awkward, but Metzi didn’t have it in him to refuse, not when Jelly seemed so happy about it. What was so great about washing his hair and cleaning his body, anyway? Metzi had no idea. Still, as long as it put the boy in a good mood, he wouldn’t say anything. He wasn’t sure he had the right to, to start with.  

Silence filled the room as small webbed hands massaged his scalp. It felt good. The pain was also dulled, as if the water held some analgesic property. His tense muscles loosened.

“Say,” Jelly’s soft voice reverberated, a hint of hesitation making it tremble, “why were you chosen as an offering? Oh, I don’t want to sound judgmental. It’s just that usually, it’s maidens and young men who are thrown in the sea, not a, erm, warrior like you. Sorry if that was improper to ask, you can—”

“It’s fine,” Metzi interrupted the boy’s apologies. “Let’s just say I decided to be a petulant child and not go along with the madness of my tribe. They wanted to toss into the sea a bunch of kids, women, and men from a human caravan they had raided, and I disagreed. I freed the lot during the night, and it didn’t sit well with my people.”

Metzi let out a mocking snort, remembering the fury on his clanmates’ faces. He had fought against comrades with whom he had shared life and death battles, just to give the humans enough time to escape. While his people lay on the ground, wasted from the ale they drank in celebration, Metzi had led the prisoners to the horses and helped the children climb onto them. The neighing and the stomping of hooves had alerted those on guard duty, and the rest was history.

“Long story short, I’m the replacement.”

Jelly hummed, his hands gently stroking a few strands of hair. “No wonder Master saved you then.”

“What do you mean?” The question left his mouth before he could think twice, and only after hearing it echo in the bathroom did Metzi realize what he had asked. His body stiffened. Still, he didn’t take his words back and instead waited for an answer, his heart threatening to leap to his throat. 

“Most gods don’t really care about offerings, and many find the practice distasteful, but Master, especially, hates sacrificial rituals.” Jelly started to rinse his hair, the soap flowing down to the water and spreading in a circle around Metzi. He barely registered it, though. “He doesn’t like seeing the corpses of humans littering the sea. Shipwrecks, he can understand and accept the sadness of such tragic fates, but offerings? He says it makes him sick. He can’t comprehend why mortals are always so eager to slaughter each other; so eager to kill someone else in the hopes of being rewarded for the innocent’s blood they’ve spilled. It makes no sense. Hm? Metzi? Are you alright?”  

“Yes, I’m fine, don’t worry,” Metzi responded, trying his best not to burst out laughing. His shoulders were trembling under the effort, and his ears were pressed flat against his head. “It’s nothing, really.”

After waking up in Tahoma’s chambers, Metzi had thought for an instant that perhaps Geidi had been right, that perhaps the God of Rain had accepted their offering and rain would be falling on their lands tonight. But maybe it wouldn’t, not when Tahoma was this displeased with the practice.  

Oh, my dear, foolish clanmates! It was becoming harder not to laugh. If only you knew…!

But they would never know, for the one person who had voiced his concerns over the sacrificial ritual had been thrown into the sea.

***

Metzi tugged on the light robe, trying to adjust it on his hips. It was tight around his waist, most likely because it had been fabricated with a slender build in mind, like Tahoma’s. The thing was, Metzi was a warrior, a beastman who had spent his life hunting, fishing, and fighting against other clans, and even if he had lost a few pounds due to the drought, lean muscles still covered his body from head to toes. The clothing also felt tight around his shoulders as the robe was tied on the nape of his neck, the back left open.

On the bright side, it allowed his tail to sway unhindered.

“It’s a bit small for you.” The melodious voice startled Metzi, who instinctively tightened the cloth belt around his waist. “It looks quite nice on you, though.”

With slow movements, Metzi turned around to face Tahoma. The god was leaning against the doorframe, his half-closed eyes sizing him up without an ounce of shame.

A burning sensation spread to his cheeks, and Metzi rubbed the nape of his neck. He usually wasn’t easily embarrassed, but he sure was bound to be, under that kind of intense gaze. It troubled him enough that it took him a moment to realize Tahoma’s eyes had shifted, now different from what they were when he had just woken up. They had a more human look to them, although the white was still pitch-black, and there were no pupils in those amethyst irises. They resembled moons hanging in a starless night sky.

“Jelly didn’t tie your hair?”

Jelly? Didn’t the boy say he had no need for a name—ah, I see. He’s been eavesdropping. Tahoma had most likely listened to the conversation Metzi had with his servant. Not like it bothered him, though. Trying to hide anything from a god was a useless endeavor. 

“No…?” Metzi shook his head.

“Mind if I do, then?” Tahoma smiled, and dimples appeared in his cheeks. He beckoned him to come closer, and Metzi complied, trying to ignore the conflicting emotions soaring in his chest. “You’re beautiful with your hair down, but it’s not very practical.”

The compliment was too sudden, and Metzi almost tripped over his own two feet, his mouth hanging agape. Sure, he had been called handsome by a few daring clanmates and the partners who had shared his bed, but never beautiful.

His reaction had the merit to draw a low chuckle from Tahoma.   

Metzi couldn’t look into the god’s eyes and swiftly turned around to allow him to tie his hair into a high ponytail, just behind his ears. Back into the mortal realm, it was easy to draw boundaries and define relationships with others. It was not so easy with a god.  He had no idea how to handle a god’s compliments, much less a god’s goodwill. What was he allowed to do, and what was he not?

The questions swirled into his mind as Tahoma’s long fingers pulled the strands of hair together, carefully avoiding his twitching ears.

“Don’t be so tense.” Tahoma laughed softly, his voice low and soothing. “Just behave as you would with your clanmates. I might be a god, but I don’t believe in the hierarchy your people have constructed. To begin with, my kind has no conception of reverence: everyone is on an equal footing. The deities ruling over flowers are as important as those ruling over astral bodies—even our servants are seen as beings deserving of the utmost respect, unlike what some of your kings and nobles might believe.”

The words didn’t help lessen the tension in his shoulders, and Metzi straightened his back instead, so straight that it felt like his spine had turned into a metal rod. He knew what Tahoma meant. In many kingdoms, servants were seen as mere objects, things without rights, and were handled as such. In most tribes, too, prisoners of war were treated no better than cattle.

“To us, mortals are just other beings living in the realm below, nothing more. Not ants, not offerings, not people to rule over. So…” Tahoma leaned over, and Metzi could feel his breath against his cheeks. “Don’t be on your toes around me. I don’t bite.” 

“You don’t bite?” Jelly said, holding a bottle of ointment in his hands. The water had washed the previous coating off Metzi’s skin, and the boy had insisted on applying another thin layer on his back, just before Metzi dressed up. “Rantun says you do, though? Last time, he told me to be careful around you when you drink, lest I get bitten.”

A hearty laugh resounded as Tahoma propped his chin on Metzi’s shoulder, passing an arm around his waist. The intimate gesture took Metzi aback, and he froze on the spot.

“Sweetie, that’s called a bad habit.” The god hummed, unbothered. “Alcohol makes my teeth itch…!”

“How can alcohol make your teeth itch…?” Jelly tilted his head.

“That’s my question, exactly!” An unfamiliar voice thundered from outside the bathroom, making Metzi flinch. It carried the same type of authority as Tahoma’s, and goosebumps spread on his skin. “Last time, you almost left a gaping hole in my cheek!”

With his heart drumming at his temples, Metzi dared to peek over his free shoulder at the newcomer, and his breath was taken away. He, like Tahoma, was an ethereal being. He mirrored the God of Rain, with the same pearl-like colored skin and mesmerizing eyes. Unlike Tahoma, however, his hair was pitch-black, shimmering like the starlit sky, and antlers stood proudly atop his head. He had a bigger build, too. Even more imposing than Metzi’s. 

“What are you doing here, Rantun?”

Rantun. The Moon God.

In counts and legends, he was often depicted in a deer form.

“Giving my congratulations?” The god cocked an eyebrow, lifting a jar of alcohol high above his head and dangling it. “You’ve never accepted an offering before, so…”

“Are you sure it’s not just an excuse to drink?”

“My friend,” Rantun sighed, “you’ve been asleep for a century! A century!” The god made a theatrical expression of terror, leaving Metzi speechless. “My drinking buddy was too busy napping to drink with me! I almost grew sober, almost.” The god’s expression shifted again, and he adopted puppy eyes. “Do you realize how horrifying that is?”

“Huh-uh.”

“Should I go prepare the living room, Master?” Jelly asked, apathetic to Rantun’s antics. “Metzi hasn’t eaten yet, so I was thinking of whipping up a few appetizers.”

“Oh, right, mortals love to eat.” Tahoma turned his attention to Metzi, craning his neck and leaning against his shoulder a bit more, trying to get a look at his face. “Do you like seafood?”

All Metzi could do was nod, his ability to speak gone.

***

Munching on a shrimp the size of his hand, Metzi peered at Rantun, who was licking his lips in delight, looking like a contented cat. Then, he curiously shifted his gaze to the jar carelessly abandoned on the low table. That thing seemed to be bottomless, considering the amount of alcohol both Rantun and Tahoma had gulped down. They have filled their cups at least a dozen times, drinking without restraint for the past hour or so.

Are gods drunkards…?  That was the question lingering in Metzi’s mind, suddenly feeling like beastfolk weren’t all that bad when it came down to their alcohol consumption. They could drink a lot, but certainly not that much.

He had been tempted to snatch a cup, but Jelly had warned him that this type of alcohol might be a little too strong for a mortal. For today, he’d have to do with water, but the servant had promised he’d find him alcohol he could safely drink later, to which both gods had cheered at, raising their cups high above their heads in a toast. Neither would say no to another drinking buddy, or so Rantun had said.

It was crystal clear that these two loved to drink.

Although… Was Metzi truly surprised? The legends of the past did mention that deities fancied good alcohol. It was the main reason behind the practice of offering one last drink to the sacrifice before dumping them into the sea—admittedly, because of his “treacherous” actions, Metzi didn’t even receive that courtesy.

Geidi was a cheapskate through and through.

“So.” Rantun smiled, propping his chin on his hand as he leaned over the low table. It drew Metzi’s attention back to reality. “How are you feeling? Have you acclimated to our realm?”

“Hum…” Metzi pushed down the nervousness and forced himself to speak. The Moon God seemed somewhat approachable, as much as a god could be. Speaking should be fine. “I’ve just woken up this morning, so…”

“You’ve just woken up?” Rantun repeated before throwing a questioning glance at Tahoma, who was slouching on the couch beside Metzi, his head resting on the beastman’s thighs, and his feet dangling on the other side of the couch. Metzi tried not to mind, but it was difficult to ignore the weight of the god’s head on his thighs. It was even harder to pretend he didn’t feel embarrassed when Tahoma snuggled against his sensitive tail, hugging it against his chest. 

A god was using him as a pillow, and Metzi didn’t know how that made him feel. Honored, maybe? Or only troubled? Hard to tell. 

“Tahoma,” Rantun pinched the bridge of his nose, “Don’t pretend to be deaf. Why has he only woken up today?”

“His body was badly bruised,” Tahoma consented to hum.

“So bruised it took you a week to heal him?”

Sorry, what? Metzi froze, with the juicy shrimp pressed against his lips. His brain was still trying to process the words when Tahoma spoke again, and something even more outrageous came out of his mouth.

“What did you expect?” Tahoma snorted. “His tribe's sacrificial ritual involves throwing the offering off a cliff into the sea. It’s a fall of a few hundred meters. The skin might not have split, but the majority of his organs still turned into mush after his body hit the water—his lungs also collapsed. If he were not a beastman, he’d have died a hundred times over.”

“Well, that’s brutal.” Rantun grimaced. “I miss the old days when they would leave the offerings in a hole in a mountain. It made it easier to pick them up.” A sigh left him as Rantun brought the cup of alcohol to his lips. His voice grew fainter when he added, “When they’re dead, there isn’t much we can do but bury their bodies.”

The words rang into Metzi’s ears.

He slowly lowered his eyes to look at Tahoma. The question lingered at the tip of his tongue for a moment, and time ticked until he mustered the courage to ask it, “Wasn’t the ointment the only care provided…?”

His answer was a smile. A charming, cunning smile.

“Of course not!” Jelly clarified for the god as he put a plate of clams onto the low table, pushing the jar to the side. “The ointment is the aftercare. It helps reduce the pain left by the forced healing of your organs, muscles, nerves, blood vessels, tendons, bones, and whatever other body parts there are to heal. Repairing a badly broken body is against the laws of the universe and would have been deemed inappropriate had you not been Master’s offering. But because you are, and Master has accepted you as such, he has the right to heal you. Otherwise, you’d have died.”

“Although healing is not my speciality,” Tahoma chortled.

“How surprising!” Rantun leaned over the table to poke the other god’s cheek. “You’re a god of weather, not a god of medicine. I’m already amazed you managed to patch him up when he was on the brink of death.”   

In response, Tahoma bit the offending finger, eliciting a cry of pain from Rantun. The scene played in slow-motion under Metzi’s eyes. He watched as Tahoma refused to let go, even as Rantun tried to retrieve his poor finger. It was a strange tug of war that left him at a loss for words. Not like he could have spoken anyway, as their conversation kept replaying in his mind like a broken record.

“You little…!” Rantun hissed. “I thought you needed more alcohol before your bad habit resurfaced! Taho, let go! Are you trying to sever my finger or something? Come on, you have sharp teeth! Ouch, ouch! Tahoma!”

The God of Rain was relentless in his attack, amusement curling his lips even as he bit harder on Rantun’s poor finger.

Metzi thought he heard a cracking sound.

He pretended not to have.

His mind was all over the place, so it was easy to do.

“Master!” Jelly scolded after Rantun’s umpteenth cry of pain. The servant stood beside the couch, his tiny fists resting on his hips. “You’re going to bloody Metzi’s robes, and he has just bathed. If you want to bite Rantun, do it on the other couch, not on Metzi’s thighs!”

Wait, that’s working? Metzi was left befuddled as Tahoma froze for an instant before ever-so-slowly opening his mouth to release Rantun’s finger. Row of teeth had cut through the Moon God’s skin, and black blood trickled down his finger. He was careful not to dirty Metzi’s clothing, however.

“Anyway,” Rantun glared at Tahoma, who was licking his lips, “what wish did you have to grant? The question is lingering on everyone’s lips.”

And Tahoma’s answer? None. He outright ignored him, humming a song instead. He gently swung his head left and right to the music beat that only he heard, his forehead bumping onto Metzi’s stomach every few seconds. When Rantun asked the question again, Tahoma began to hum louder.

…The divine being resting on his thighs, who was as old as the beginning of time, or so the legends say, was behaving like an entitled brat, destroying Metzi’s worldview. Although, admittedly, it had already been shattered to dust a few times in the past hour.

“Fine,” Rantun snorted, “I’ll ask Metzi then!”

Again, involving him in the conversation managed to draw a reaction out of the God of Rain. A pout, this time, and soon after, scoffing words came out of his mouth. Every syllable dripped with childish mischief and an unhidden malice.

“They asked for rain,” he giggled, “so it’s been raining ever since I’ve picked up my offering.”

“It’s been raining for a week? Nonstop?” Rantun clicked his tongue, frowning slightly. “Tahoma, the land can only take so much water. It’s going to end in a flood.”

“They wanted rain,” Tahoma’s smile grew sweet, sending shivers down Metzi’s spine, “and rain they have.”

Be careful for what you wish, for you might regret it. That was one warning that permeated every superstition, a warning that Geidi had willingly discarded, and one that Metzi hadn’t taken seriously, either. To begin with, he had doubted the existence of gods up to the moment he jumped down the cliff.

Now, though, it was hard to deny they existed, not when one was drinking like there was no tomorrow on the couch opposite his, and the other had borrowed his thighs.

Still, questions remained.

“Why have you answered their prayers this time?” Metzi asked with a tremble in his voice as he put down the shrimp on the table. He wasn’t hungry anymore and could only bite onto the unsaid words: Why had Tahoma answered my tribe’s prayers now when he’s been ignoring them for a year? 

The most likely answer didn’t please him. Metzi didn’t want to believe that the sacrificial ritual actually worked, especially not after Jelly had told him Tahoma loathed the practice.

Again, Metzi received no answer. All he got was a smile.

“Don’t worry, kid.” Rantun poured himself another cup, and his comforting voice echoed. “That idiot certainly didn’t grant these guys’ wishes because he wanted to; it’s the price to pay for accepting an offering.” Metzi frowned, and Rantun grinned, clarifying, “We, gods, have no obligations whatsoever to accept mortals’ offerings. Whenever possible, most of us will save the offerings when they haven’t been killed in those weird rituals of yours and bring them to a safe place, far from the people who had sacrificed them.” He paused to wink, lifting his cup to cheer. “But we will not accept them. ”

Slowly, Metzi started to connect the dots.

Jelly’s words rang into his head. Tahoma only had the right to heal him because he was his offering and had accepted him as such. Otherwise, bringing him back from the brink of death would have gone against the law of the universe. He didn’t know what that would do, but Metzi had a hunch that even gods had to follow rules, regardless of what mortals might believe.

Gods weren’t above everything.

Then, Rantun’s words had been insinuating that accepting an offering meant the god had to grant the wishes of those who had offered the sacrifice. It seemed to be a sort of balance.

In Metzi’s mind, that was disproportionate.

His life wasn’t worth making the rain fall onto the land.

“Say,” he heard his own voice reverberate into the room, “what does being accepted as your offering mean for me?”

Tahoma cocked an eyebrow, only to close his eyes and pretend to be sleeping, refusing to answer. For good measure, he even let out soft snores. His acting was too awful to comment on.

A tad exasperated, Metzi lifted his gaze to meet Rantun’s. At least one of them saw fit to explain things, even though Metzi had a hunch it was the alcohol speaking at times. Perhaps Rantun was not supposed to talk as much, but Metzi chased the thought away in a heartbeat. He wanted to know, even if he was not supposed to.

“Well,” Rantun’s voice trailed, “let’s just say that after being accepted as an offering, you’re not exactly mortal, although not exactly immortal, either.”

His heart thudded in his ears, disbelief creeping onto his face.

“You see, accepting an offering means sharing your essence with them, for they are yours to take care of. Not exactly as a servant, not exactly as a peer, but as someone who’s under your wings. Unlike what your legends tend to say, offerings aren’t playthings for gods to do whatever they want with.” Rantun shook his head, an unfathomable emotion passing through his face. “When we accept an offering, we have a sacred duty toward them. They are ours, but they are not objects. It’s a relationship where the god is as much bound to his offering as the offering is to their god.”

Metzi felt his mouth turn dry. He didn’t know what to say. This didn’t align with the oral tradition passed down in his tribe, or with any of the other tribes. The kingdoms had an even more twisted way of seeing the offerings’ duties and their purposes. Although in the end, they all had in common that one iron-clad rule: the gods would bestow upon them their favors after receiving offerings, but not any kind of offerings. Specific rules existed, each specific to the tribe or kingdom in question, but no matter the culture, they usually involved beautiful maidens, young men, or children.

Funny how offerings were seen as lesser beings by their peers, but not by gods. It drew a mocking scoff out of Metzi’s mouth.

Tell him, why had mortals been trying to apply their view of the world to gods again? Just how self-centered are we? It was ridiculous. Gods weren’t them; they didn’t think alike.

Well, I guess Gods, like mortals, can pass out from drinking one too many. Metzi smiled at the intrusive thought, gazing down onto Tahoma, who seemed to have fallen asleep at some point. His breathing was much shallower and steadier. He didn’t appear to be faking it anymore, and Metzi didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. On the bright side, he shouldn’t get bitten tonight, as long as Tahoma remained asleep, that is.

“Moon God, I— ”

“Rantun,” the god cut him off, “call me Rantun.”

Opening his mouth, Metzi wanted to protest. He couldn’t possibly address a god by his name. It was alright in his mind, but he would never dare to do so aloud. Yet, he swallowed his words of protest when his eyes met Rantun’s. They had shifted over the course of the evening, taking on a more mortal aspect to them, as Tahoma’s had. Without an infinity of black and sparkling dots to distract him, Metzi couldn’t fool himself into thinking that the gods thought of themselves as above him; the warmth in Rantun’s eyes was too striking. His smile might be teasing, but it was not mocking.

“Rantun, then.” The god nodded approvingly, and Metzi let out a discreet sigh of relief before continuing, “What does being bound to a god entail exactly? And what does being stuck between mortality and immortality mean?”

“Hm, to put it bluntly.” Rantun tapped his lips with his injured finger, as if searching for words a mortal would comprehend. “You won’t age or get sick, but can still die from a wound. Your body is mortal enough to get injured by mundane things, while your essence is closer to that of a divine being, thanks to being bound to your god. You do not need to eat or drink, but you will still feel the desire to. You’re closer to our kind without being a member of it. I mean, as gods, we don’t die, and only other gods can injure us. We don’t feel the desire to eat or drink, although we can enjoy it.” He shrugged, brushing the matter off. “Anyway, you will learn about all the little things that make us different over the years.”

Over the years.

Again, the words rang into his ears, and Metzi felt his heart clench in his chest. “Does that mean that I can stay here?”

“Well, of course?” Rantun quirked an eyebrow. “Where would you go if not here? Ah, don’t worry, if you want to leave, I doubt Tahoma will try to restrain you.” Metzi tensed, biting his bottom lip, but before he could say anything, Rantun continued with a playful tone, “Just expect him to follow you wherever you go. This dunce has never accepted an offering before. I don’t know what you did to catch his eye, but now that he has taken hold of you, he'll never let go. Gods tend to be possessive of their offerings. That bit is true.”

Metzi blinked before shaking his head, deciding not to comment on the possessive bit, “I didn’t do anything in particular. I simply decided to follow my conscience instead of my chieftain’s orders.”

“You make it sound easy,” Tahoma murmured, eyes still closed, and his voice drowsy, “but the choice you made wasn’t. Not falling for madness when all of those close to you, all of those you hold dear, have… If anything, it’s admirable. No one would have blamed you if you had gone with the flow and turned a blind eye.”

“Despair is no excuse to shed your humanity.” Metzi didn’t share the God of Rain’s opinion. “It’s all too easy to forget yourself and blame the devil’s whispers when, at the end of the day, you made your choices yourself, on your own terms and volition.”

“Then.” Tahoma opened one eye to peer at the beastman, leaning his head against his stomach, fiddling with his tail. It sent shivers through Metzi’s body, but he did not swat the mischievous hand away. “Are there people in your tribe you’d like to save? I know your wish was for them to die of thirst and hunger, but according to the rules, I had to grant their wish instead. So, I brought the rain to them. Only, too much water is no better than none at all, and they will drown in their foolishness if they do not leave their tribal grounds. Everything will soon be swept away by the river.”

The previously dried-up river encased his tribe in a half-circle, slithering through the area to fall down the cliff into the sea. It could only contain so much water, and Metzi could already visualize what would happen if a flash flood swallowed his tribal grounds. It had happened in the past, and records spoke of the disaster. Still, he had a hunch it would be nothing alike; one had happened naturally, the other bore the anger of a god.  

“We still have a bit of time left, enough to save a few people.”

Only, were there people Metzi wanted to spare?

That was a tricky question.

His weeping parents popped into his mind, but Metzi quickly discarded them. Neither deserved his pity. The only souls who did were the children, as they were too young to choose their paths on their own accord. They couldn’t think critically yet and could only follow their parents’ footsteps.

They shouldn’t have to bear the sins of the adults.

But even if Metzi spared them from the flood, then what? Without any adults around, who would take care of them? They would die sooner rather than later. The mountain wasn’t exactly friendly, and starved beasts now lived in its depths. Beastfolk or not, kids could not survive without the protection of their peers. They would either starve to death or die under some predators’ claws or maws.

Maybe a few lucky ones would survive and reach adulthood, but most would not. Reality had always been a cruel mistress.    

In the end, Metzi shook his head. “No, there’s no one.”

“Hm..” Tahoma closed his eye, pretending to go back to sleep.

“Not even the kids?” Rantun asked, his expression unfathomable.

“Saving them today just to have them killed later isn’t merciful, however cruel that might sound.” Metzi sighed, stretching an arm to take a clam and munch on it. Even if he was not particularly hungry, thanks to the heavy subject, keeping his mouth busy might help him distract his mind. “What’s the point of elongating someone's life if it’s only to make them suffer through an agonizing, slow death? And also…” Metzi’s eyes grew sorrowful. “Surviving while everyone else dies is nothing short of torture.”

A moment of silence fell, and Metzi smiled weakly. “Although ultimately, who am I to say whether someone should die or live, regardless of how hellish their life is? I am no god.”

“Don’t worry, child,” Rantun scoffed, snatching the jar on the table to drink directly out of it. “We, too, don’t have the answer to this question. Even gods of knowledge do not know everything, as emotions and feelings are not something written in stone.”  

Metzi would have liked an answer to that question, just to put his mind at ease, but maybe it was better if he didn’t get any.

The clam was squishy in his mouth as he slowly chewed on it, staring at the sleeping god on his thighs. He knew nothing of Tahoma. Whatever legends there might have been about him, he doubted any held any truth whatsoever. Mortals were talented at interpreting things the way that fit them best, just as Geidi had interpreted the sacrificial ritual however he wanted to respond to their tribe’s needs without breaking their moral standards.

Or at least, without breaking them enough that the guilt would make them stop in their tracks. His clan head made a compromise between past legends and today's morality.

Was Metzi any better than them, though? He went against his tribe for his own beliefs, so he didn’t know. In the end, he couldn’t tell if it had been wrong for them to try to sacrifice strangers to save themselves. What if the ritual had been proven to work? Would he have made another choice? The death of a few for the survival of many. Rationally, he could understand it. Emotionally, he couldn’t.

Well, Metzi had an eternity to think about it.

But for tonight, let him enjoy his meal and a glass of water.

END