Host of Sheets (shyan)

Chp. 7: Banter

The summer sun beats down on them both, sweat prickling at their temples. She's done looking at him, watching instead the slim sliver of her shadow with a vicious frown.

"You are not what I married," she says.

"Sure I am. Just what do you think is different?"

He gives her a warm smile he thinks she'll find comforting. It doesn't quite work, not this time. She shifts from foot to foot, her worn boots kicking up the dust.

"Maybe you're right then," she says. "Maybe I was mistaken with whom I married."

"That seems more credible," he agrees, amused. "But you love me anyway, don't you? Come with me. There's something I want to show you."

"...What did you do with the others? They never came back out. Their families, they're worried."

There was no time like the present. She would find out soon enough, anyway.

"They have every right to be. I murdered them. I was weak, but they were weaker still. I fed them to our god one by one and in return I have been blessed."

His words are confident, but his gaze darts around. They've been spending too much time out in the sunlight, where prying ears could linger. He reaches out to take her wrist.

"Come with me." He says again, "I know you are not a believer, but the things I can show you... I want you at my side."

He pulls and she follows him into the mine, her steps slow and timid. She'll follow, he know she will. She's always been loyal. They step through the smoke, the ashes stinging at their eyes and billowing hard enough to make the chains around them shiver.

Further, the smell of burning flesh makes her recoil, but he just holds her wrist tighter, pulling her through the muddy paths of the mine.
He loosens his grip just a little when she complains about the pain. Fragile thing.

They make it a few yards in when she suddenly pulls away, ripping her wrist from his grip. He starts to turn, but the movement's aborted when something cold and steel slams into the back of his head. A shovel; he can see it in her hands as he topples to the ground, dirty water soaking through his clothes as he turns his gaze blearily up at her. She stands, resolute.

"I already saw what's in there. I ain't going back in again. You can, if that's where you belong now. But don't you come back out again." Her fingers tighten on the handle. He can see his own blood glimmering on the edge. His vision swims in and out of focus.

"Y-you bitch, could've have killed me." He says instead.

She snorts. "Planned on it. You killed a lot more. I've heard the whispers of your little- it's a cult, that's what it is, don't lie to me."

"Not a cult-"

"-I said don't lie. You were planning on murderin' me in there. With all the others."

He ties to get back to his feet, but she grips the shovel tighter and points it at him like a sword, blunt edge of the metal against his throat.

"Don't move."

He grins. He can taste the blood on his teeth as it rolls down his face. It blinds him; he can't see her very well anymore.

"I was, I- I was going to feed you to the god of the mountain, and in return-"

"-Don't want to hear about it. Go then. Back into the mountain."

She takes a step back, towards the bright light of the entryway. He barely notices.

He leaves her then, turning back to the warm heart of the mountain, where he can feel its pulsing veins around him like a loving embrace. He has to crawl, on his hands and knees, he's much too dizzy to lift his head. He can see his own blood splattering on the stone, running down the back of his neck- it tickles at the hollow of his ear. It's too much, he needs to bandage it.