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Blood is forbidden in holy places. Sacrifices are the only exception, and those are made only during the appropriate festivals. Blood runs foul and pollutes easily. Acts of violence are corrupting and forbidden. It is the ardent faith in the act of sacrifice that makes it acceptable; only as an act of devotion is it allowed.
It is not a day of worship, much less a festival date. So when Dream feels blood being spilled in his shrine, the rightful response should be offense. Still, there is a quiet thread of prayer running alongside it. That doesn’t de-pollute the act in question—this person’s faith is not strong enough—but nonetheless there has been an effort.
He focuses his divine sense into the idol within the shrine, and gradually everything comes into focus.
The visitor, whom he hesitates to call a devotee, is kneeling before him. He has never seen him before. His eyes are closed, his head bowed down, and Dream does not see blood anywhere.
Yet, he senses it. Curious, he stays to watch.
The thread of prayer runs unsteadily, the visitor obviously unpracticed. He listens for a while, and comes to the conclusion that the visitor has no idea what he wants. He prays for refuge, then prays for safe passage, swears to repent, then backtracks on his promise. Soon he has talked himself into silence. His face turns a bashful purple. He opens my eyes, and looks to the floor.
“I’m sorry. I don’t really know what I’m doing.” He shifts onto his haunches. It is then that Dream sees the dark stains on his clothes. It is then that he understands.
Bloodstains are almost impossible to discern from black cloth, but the unholy feeling is enough to confirm it.
As a god, Dream has many aspects. He is of the sun, of blazing fire, of sweet compassion, and of open sanctuary. He is also a god of healing.
The visitor lifts his gaze to the altar. His eyes linger on the offerings; fruit, pastries, honey.
It is a quiet night. If there were a storm, there would be more here taking sanctuary. There isn’t a storm, so the visitor remains alone. Still, the night is cold as ever. The meagre warmth from the altar candles would barely be enough to take the edge off the chill.
He is a god of fire, and a god of sanctuary.
Gently, Dream detaches himself from the idol, and manifests in the shrine behind the visitor. He takes heed to smooth the red-hot parts of his divinity over before speaking.
“Hello, sir.”
The visitor almost flinches, but stops himself. His cautious gaze turns onto Dream.
Dream gently smiles to put him at ease. “I am the caretaker of this shrine. May I ask what troubles you so?”
“No troubles.” He gets to his feet. Upon a closer look Dream sees the weariness woven into the lines in his face. Ah, the visitor lies so blatantly.
“Is that what brings you here so late?” Dream makes his way to the altar, and the visitor’s gaze follows him every step of the way. “Hardly anyone visits the sun god past dusk.”
The visitor flushes. “Well, I’ve never done this before.”
“Praying?” He doesn’t doubt it. There is almost no faith in his prayer at all. Some conviction, perhaps, but feeble belief. “But I’m sure he’ll answer your prayers regardless.”
As he speaks, he carefully examines the fruit on the nearest offering plate for what little he knows of spoilage. Behind him, there’s the faintest sigh, and the scrape of boots.
“I doubt it. I wasn’t that coherent. Maybe I wasted his time.”
“I daresay he has time to waste.” He scans a pear. Its surface gleams in the candlelight, and as he turns it over in his hands he finds it smooth save for a few soft spots that yield under his thumb. Does that make it inedible? He doesn’t know, but he won’t risk it. He sets it down, and scrutinises the apple beside it. “I don’t think I’ve seen you before. Have you come far?”
“You could say that.”
“Then you must be hungry. Here.” He turns to offer the apple.
The visitor, in turn, only stares at it with suspicion. Or perhaps mild scandal. “That’s an offering.”
“A fresh one, yes.”
The visitor’s incredulous gaze flicks from the apple to his face. “Isn’t that your god’s?”
“It’s not like he needs it.” He notes the ‘your’ in place of ‘our’, though it doesn’t tell him anything new. It has already been made abundantly clear that this visitor is not among his congregation.
After a beat, the visitor gestures to himself. “You want me to eat it?”
“If you’d like.”
“Won’t I be cursed?” But even then, after a pause the visitor reaches out anyway. His fingers brush against Dream’s for a moment, before they recede with the apple. He turns the apple over once or twice, then one final time, and bites into it: the crisp cuts through the air, and the sound satisfies Dream in the same way answering prayers do.
The visitor's worry is not entirely unfounded. The other gods certainly have spread curses for sins as minor as pilferage. But saying so would surely dissuade the visitor more, so Dream chooses to keep quiet on the matter.
Hesitantly and half-way through the apple, the visitor murmurs, “Well, thanks. I didn’t— I didn’t want to offend. Honestly, I don’t know what counts as taboo here.”
At the mention of taboo, Dream is reminded of the intolerable feeling flooding his shrine. The sensation has not lessened. If anything, now that he is standing so close to the visitor, it is easier to feel: a faint, persistent wrongness beneath the warmth of the candles.
He draws on his divine strengths to stay where he is and continue with the pretense of mortality. “You do not frequent shrines often, then.”
“Is it that obvious?” His mouth curves into a wry smile. “And here I was, thinking the cover of night would be sufficient cover.”
“Cover?” He finds he’s smiling too. “Were you planning to commit some inimical act?”
Then he laughs, though it is decidedly less full than the smile from a moment ago. “No. I simply— there would be no visitors, at night. Less people to witness a fish out of water.”
“You were lucky,” he muses. “Sometimes people come at night as well, though it's rare.”
Something dark reaches his eyes. “Ah, well, my plans haven’t been the best-prepared as of late. The loss of sleep seems to be catching up.”
Dream catches the flicker of something there before it is gone. Some shadow that seems almost at odds with the smile he dons a second later.
“Well, at least one part of the evening went according to plan.” He gives a small shrug, as though it is hardly worth explaining. “I’d have you to thank for that, caretaker.”
He looks past him, towards the shrine doors. The night beyond them is black and windless. The candles provide more light than heat. When he looks back, the visitor has taken another bite of the apple. When he speaks again, it is almost absent-minded. “I was hoping to put a little more distance between myself and where I was.”
As though the only thing that mattered was putting enough of it between himself and whatever lay behind him. The visitor is running from something.
“You have found somewhere quiet, at least.”
“For tonight.”
“You will not stay?”
The visitor turns the apple core slowly between his fingers. By now, there is little left but the stem and a few ragged remnants of flesh clinging stubbornly to the skin.
“I’d hate to put you in danger."
There is something almost absurd about it. The man has arrived at a shrine in the middle of the night, carrying blood on his clothes, exhausted yet determined enough to stumble through his first attempt of a prayer. Now he intends to walk back into the darkness with no destination in mind.
“You could stay.” Dream clears his throat, turning his attention towards the altar. “At least until morning. There is no reason to travel in the dark.”
“I’ve already stayed too long.”
His voice is quieter this time.
“You have nowhere to be,” he tries.
“I have nowhere I can go.”
With that, Dream doesn’t know what to say.
The visitor looks away. His hand idly turns the apple core over and over, the motion restless despite his otherwise composed demeanour. “Besides, I don't want to make a habit of taking advantage of your kindness.”
“Nonsense.”
The visitor gives him a dubious look, as though he is still not convinced.
“Still, if you are determined to leave, shall I at least choose some food for you to take on your journey?”
The visitor blinks. “Food?”
“You cannot very well travel on an empty stomach.” It is, Dream thinks, a poor attempt at compromise. He has already made up his mind that he would rather the stranger stay. Yet if he cannot persuade him to do that, then he must find some other way to see him safely on his way.
“I have the apple.”
“And now you have eaten it.”
The visitor glances down at the apple core still in his hand. His mouth twitches.
“I guess I could take something.”
Dream turns towards the offerings, perhaps a little too quickly. He lifts a small loaf of bread, weighs it in his palm, then sets it aside. The dried fruit comes next, followed by a handful of nuts. He considers each in turn, quietly sorting through what might survive a journey without spoiling.
“Bread would keep. There are dried fruits as well. And some pastries, though I would recommend eating those first.”
Something warm flickering briefly across his face.
“You really are determined to send me away fed.”
Dream smiles. “Someone has to make sure you don't starve on the road.”
“I'll manage.”
“I’m sure you will.” He sets the pastry with the bread and dried fruit, then reaches for another.
“Okay, really, it’s fine. I can find my own food, and I wouldn't want to take any more from you.”
He sighs softly. “You are remarkably troubled by one apple. Why do you fear the wrath of a god you don’t believe in?”
The visitor opens his mouth, then closes it again. His gaze drifts towards the altar, lingering on the candles. “I think it would be rather foolish to assume I'm right about everything.”
At that, Dream laughs. It is a small sound, warm and surprised, and the visitor's eyes flick back towards him. Humility is a virtue. It ought to be rewarded.
“Well, I can tell you this much. Consuming an offering off the altar is infinitely less of an offense than spilling blood in a shrine.”
The rustling stops.
Dream glances over his shoulder.
The visitor has gone very still. His attention, which had previously been fixed upon the pastry in his hands, has snapped entirely towards him. Nether of them speaks.
With that, he sets the pastry back onto the plate. “So I would not worry too much about the apple.”
When he turns again, whatever ease that had settled over the visitor’s features has vanished. His gaze lifts slowly towards Dream, then flickers to the doors. For a heartbeat, his expression is cold. There is the instinctive stillness of a man who has suddenly realised he may have been found out.
Dream chooses to ignore it and direct his attention downwards. Now that the matter of the offering has been settled, there is something he cannot quite ignore in this capacity.
“You are hurt.”
There is no response. His eyes remain fixed on Dream, watchful and unreadable. “No.”
His attention remains on the dark stains. “Another lie.”
The hand tightens around the apple core, the knuckles paling. “I’m fine.”
“You bleed.”
He waits. At last, the visitor lowers his gaze. “It isn't mine.”
The words fall quietly. Dream understands. The thought is followed by a colder one.
He could punish him.
There is a difference between arriving somewhere with blood on one's clothes and arriving somewhere with blood that does not belong to oneself. The latter suggests a proximity to violence that Dream cannot pretend not to recognise. This is not the blood of sacrifice. There is no festival, no prayer properly made, no devotion to sanctify it. Whatever happened outside these walls, it had been done by mortal hands for mortal reasons.
Worse still was its utterly profane nature. Blood spilled without sacrifice, violence committed without devotion, a life profaned for reasons that held no sanctity whatsoever.
As a god, Dream has many aspects. He is the sun, blazing and merciless in its clarity. There are things that cannot simply be forgiven. Such things fall within his purview no less than solace does. If judgment is what is required, he is more than capable of rendering it. The power is already there, resting beneath his skin, waiting only for his will.
For one brief moment, he considers it. Then the visitor shifts his weight. So wary. There is no bravado in him. Only a quiet wariness. And beneath that, exhaustion.
Dream lets the thought die.
“You’ve made quite a mess of yourself.”
Strangely, the visitor relaxes in turn. His shoulders lower a fraction, and some of that careful stillness leaves his body. As though he was bracing for something far harsher.
Perhaps he had. Dream thinks back to the moment before, and now the stillness seems more like the instinctive calculation of someone suddenly made aware of the danger standing before him. Perhaps, for a split second, Dream revealed too much of himself.
“Quite a mess,” the visitor echoes. He gives the stained cloth another cursory brush with his thumb. Then he sighs and leaves it be. It does not escape Dream’s notice that, though his gaze remains on his clothes, his attention has never truly left Dream.
He is trying, Dream thinks, to determine what manner of creature stands before him, and more importantly if that creature means him harm. The thought almost wounds him. There is something deeply disquieting about being regarded as a threat within a place made for refuge; Dream has always thought of himself as a giving god.
And so, he deliberately turns his back. He moves towards the washbasin at the rear of the shrine. He lifts the clay basin from its place beneath the shelf, and carries it towards the centre.
The water jug is heavier. Dream braces it against his hip as he pours, listening to the quiet, steady trickle as the basin slowly fills. He could have done it in an instant with his divinity, but he does not. Instead, he watches the water gather. A little more. Then a little more.
Dream could turn around. He could reassure himself that the visitor has not fled, or that he has not decided to attempt an attack. The act of vulnerability is just that, an act, but he shouldn’t cease it. He sets the jug down beside the basin and lets his hand linger briefly against its cool clay. Behind him, there is no sound of movement.
“You can wash here,” he says, stepping aside. “I'll give you some privacy.”
There is, of course, hardly any privacy to be had. The basin sits in plain view, with nothing more than the altar and a few shelves separating it from the rest of the shrine.
Dream means only that he will not look.
He can feel the visitor’s attention still fixed upon him, forever cautious. Perhaps he is waiting for some catch, some condition attached to the offer. He turns towards the altar and busies himself with the offerings, straightening one plate, then another. Then he adjusts the position of a candle whose flame needs no tending, giving the visitor time to decide what he wishes to do.
“Thank you, caretaker.”
Dream gives a small nod.
Behind him comes the soft splash of water. Then the faint rustle of fabric.
Dream does not turn. Instead, he lets his senses unfurl. The shrine first: the cool stone beneath his feet, the warmth of the flames, the faint stirring of air beneath the door. Then farther. Beyond the walls, across the surrounding streets and into the darkness beyond them. He listens for clamour and the voices of men searching from door to door.
No pursuit.
He extends his awareness a little farther, just to be certain that whatever the visitor has fled from, it has not followed him here. It is only then that Dream allows his senses to settle again, withdrawing them until only the quiet of the shrine remains.
By then, the sounds behind him have ceased.
He wonders whether the visitor is simply standing there, waiting for him to acknowledge him. There is something almost amusing about the thought. After all this effort to assure him that he would not be watched, Dream suspects turning around too soon might defeat the purpose.
“I'm done.”
There is a slight hesitation before the words, as though he’s uncertain whether he ought to have said anything at all.
Dream glances over his shoulder.
The visitor stands beside the basin, one hand resting against its edge. His clothes are still damp in places, darker where the water has soaked into the fabric. There is still caution in the way he carries himself, but it is no longer the rigid readiness of before. Some measure of trust has been earned.
He has understood, perhaps, that whatever Dream had momentarily considered doing, he has chosen not to do it.
“Better?”
“Much.” He straightens from the basin, though the movement is slower than it ought to be. Whatever reserve had carried him through the night seems to be running thin now that there is no immediate danger demanding his attention.
“You should rest.”
The visitor glances towards the doors. There is no mistaking the faint reluctance in the gesture.
“It's late,” he adds. “And you have nowhere you need to be.”
The visitor’s shoulders sink a little.
“I suppose I don't.”
Dream says nothing. He doesn’t want to frighten the admission away by making too much of it. But, secretly, he finds himself pleased.
“There is a bedroll in the back. I could roll it out for you, if you’re staying the night.” He gestures to the shadowed corner beyond the altar, where a low wooden bench sits against the wall, half-concealing the rolled mat beneath it.
The visitor does not immediately agree, but that is to be expected. Instead he looks around the shrine again.
There is, Dream realises, very little beyond what the shrine itself requires. Offerings arranged neatly across the altar. Candles. Incense. A few clay vessels for water and oil. A cupboard containing clean cloths and dried provisions for those seeking sanctuary. But none of the small disarray that comes with living somewhere; no signs that anyone spends their nights here beyond the bare necessities. There was only the bedroll.
Back when Dream was occupied elsewhere and could not devote himself to his shrines and temples as he does now, someone was needed to keep the doors open through the night. In those days, the bedroll was needed for them. Now, not so.
From behind him comes the quiet scrape of a boot against stone.
He crouches beside the bench and reaches underneath it, fingers finding the leather strap wound around the bedroll. He works the knot loose, then draws the roll out from the shadows. Dust stirs faintly beneath the bench.
“Is that where you usually sleep?”
Dream loosens the final fastening. The bedroll slips open with a soft rush of fabric.
“What makes you think that?”
He catches one end before it falls awkwardly against the floor, then shakes it once to free the last stubborn fold. The visitor gestures faintly towards it.
“Well, if it was intended for poor souls like me, I assume there would be more than one.”
He does not ask permission before reaching for the opposite edge, but he does hesitate just long enough for Dream to notice. He lets him take it. Together, they pull the bedroll flat.
“I don’t usually use it. I try not to sleep when I’m needed.” He’s already given himself the role of an imaginary caretaker, so might as well.
“How so?”
“There are always things to tend to.”
Dream lowers himself to one knee beside the bedroll, running his palm along its edge. The fabric has bunched slightly beneath their hands, and he smooths it flat, working the crease towards the corner until the bedding lies even against the stone.
“That sounds like a great deal of work for one person.”
“As one might say, a labour of love is hardly a labour.”
The visitor pauses, one hand still resting against the edge of the bedroll. There is the faintest shift in his expression. Something caught between amusement and curiosity.
“What an ardent believer you are.” The remark is delivered lightly, almost teasingly. Yet the visitor’s attention lingers, waiting to see what Dream will make of it.
His fingers smooth absentmindedly over the blanket. “I wouldn't keep doing it otherwise.”
The visitor shifts, lowering himself onto one knee beside the bedroll. He presses his palm against the woven surface, testing its give, then smooths the blanket once more where it has folded beneath him.
“You must be fond of your duties.”
“I am.” It’s certainly not a lie. But the smile that crosses the visitor’s face is bitter. How curious. “I gather you aren’t fond of yours.”
The visitor lets out a quiet laugh. “I guess there’s no point in pretending otherwise.” He shrugs. “Not that you could’ve been fooled for very long anyway.”
He smiles faintly. “I suppose not.”
The visitor joins him by the bedroll. Beyond them, everything is still. He can almost see the decision taking shape in his head, caught somewhere between staying and leaving.
“Of course, I don’t mean to pry,” Dream adds. “Whatever circumstances have brought you to this place are beyond my concern.”
The visitor snorts, though there is no real disdain in it. “If that were true, you would’ve chased me out before I even made it to the altar.”
“I didn't say I wasn't curious.”
That draws another quiet chuckle from him.
“At least you're honest.” The visitor shifts slightly, resting an elbow loosely against his knee as he studies Dream with an expression that is almost amused. “You really don't want to ask?”
He considers him. “I wouldn't want to make you uncomfortable.”
“So you do want to.”
He exhales a chuckle. “I must admit that I’m curious. But would you be willing to satisfy that curiosity?”
The visitor studies him for another moment.
“You probably already have a good idea.”
Dream's gaze drifts over him again. He takes in the disordered clothes and the remainder of the dark stains that speak more plainly than the visitor does. There sits an unmistakable suggestion of violence about him, yet it sits strangely against the quiet manner in which he has carried himself since his arrival.
It is incongruous. A contradiction.
“Judging by the state of you, I imagine it wasn't particularly pleasant.”
This time, the observation springs to the visitor a faint flush. “Sorry about that. I didn’t— I didn’t realise it was still on me.” He tugs at the edge of his sleeve, attempting to cover one of the worst stains, though the effort is rather futile.
The sight is so unexpectedly endearing that Dream finds the offense forgiven almost at once. He reaches out, almost without thinking, and gently catches the visitor’s hand before he can worry the fabric any further.
The visitor stills beneath his touch. Then he releases him.
“Well,” he says, “I suppose he can overlook it this once. Besides, I imagine you had other concerns.”
“That I did.” The visitor gives a small, rueful huff. “Some loose ends needed tying up. Still, I suppose I've had worse.”
“Were you attacked?”
“Something like that.”
He leaves it there, and for a good long while Dream thinks that’s all the truth he’ll get from him. Then he adds, almost conversationally, “It wasn't entirely one-sided.”
He shouldn’t laugh. Mortal conflict is a petty thing, and he has already inferred the fact of it. But something about the way he confesses it catches him off guard before he’s able to stifle the sense of amusement.
“My apologies,” he says. “I don't mean to make light of your misfortune.”
“I wouldn't call it misfortune.”
“No?”
“I got what I came for. Besides, I consider it my good fortune that I met you.”
Dream stills. He says it with such simple conviction that he finds himself at a loss for words.
Mercifully, the visitor does not press him for a response. Instead, he shifts his weight and settles more comfortably beside the bedroll.
“If I’m going to stay the night,” he says after a moment, “I should at least give you my name.”
Something seems to draw him upright. Just as he lifts his head, he gets his answer.
“You can call me Cross.”
Dream repeats it silently to himself. The name is strangely plain after everything else. He finds himself turning it over in his mind, wondering how many times it has been spoken in kindness, and how many in fury.
He wonders, too, how long it has been since Cross offered it so freely. If it is even his true name.
“Cross,” he says softly, testing the sound aloud.
Something in his posture eases at hearing it spoken. It is a curious change. Cross has been careful up until now; a name is a small thing, but a dangerous thing to give a stranger nonetheless.
Cross draws one knee up, resting his forearm loosely against it. The movement brings him nearer to the bedroll, though he makes no effort to close the remaining distance.
“You're quite certain you want to stay?”
“Should I change my mind?”
Dream carefully chooses his response, lest he chase the perceptive mortal away. “I've no wish to keep you here.”
“I’ve slept in stranger places.”
The corner of his mouth lifts, and with that, the matter seems settled.
He removes what remains of his boots and places them beside the wall, nudging them neatly together with the toe of one. His outer layer follows, carefully folded so that the bloodied portions are kept away from the cleaner fabric beneath.
Dream takes it from him. Or, rather, Cross relinquishes it, hands falling loosely into his lap. He lays it a little way off, where the fabric will not brush against the bedding.
“You should sleep.”
Cross glances towards him. “And where will you?”
“Someone has to keep watch.” He looks as though he means to object, but Dream speaks before he can. “If anyone comes looking, I can answer for myself. You… well, you might be somewhat harder to explain.”
“Unless they come looking for me.”
No one was looking for Cross. But the possibility of other people arriving remained. If someone came searching, there would be little difficulty in turning them away. A few words, perhaps, spoken with the appropriate authority. If necessary, he could feign ignorance with perfect ease.
The difficulty lay elsewhere: whether Cross would wish to remain once the danger had passed. And so, he responds cajolingly. “All the more reason for you to remain here. This place is under my care. While you remain, so are you.”
Cross is quiet. Dream wonders if he has said too much. It is an unusual position for them to have arrived at. They have known each other scarcely an hour. Still, he finds that he does not dislike the ease of it. There is no obsequious gratitude in it, no excessive deference.
“And what of my crimes, caretaker? What remedy could you afford me for them?”
“Dream.”
He pauses.
“What?”
“You can call me Dream.”
There is a small silence. His head tilts a fraction.
“Dream,” Cross repeats.
He finally lowers himself onto the bedroll, easing his head against the folded edge. For a while, he remains half-raised, as though some instinct still insists upon keeping him upright. Then he lets himself sink down. One hand settles over the blanket, fingers loosely curled into the fabric, while the other rests beside him.
Dream watches the last of his restless adjustments.
Cross closes his eyes.
For a while, he remains perfectly still, as though listening for something beyond the walls. Eventually, the tension in his shoulders begins to ebb, little by little, until even that vigilance becomes too much effort to maintain.
Dream waits.
Then, very quietly, he lets a little of his divinity seep into the room.
It is a tiny speck, like a single star in the vast universe. Not enough to overwhelm. Nothing so crude as a thrall forced upon an unwilling mind. He is careful, but he has to be careful still; he has to parse it down, holding back the immense weight until all that remains is a quieting of the senses.
It is then that he lets it settle around Cross. Around him, the air settles, not unlike the quiet before dawn. The hand curled into the blanket slowly relaxes.
Dream withdraws the second he’s certain Cross has slipped beyond wakefulness. There.
He leaves him to his rest.