"Sure," I tell him faintly, even as the door opens.

It's a man, dressed in gray robes, his white hair parted down the middle and hanging in two long braids on either side of his face. Even though I'm struggling to stay conscious, there's no mistaking how pale the weathered face gets as he sees Aron. He immediately drops to his knees and bows his head. "My Lord of Storms. It is an honor."

"Good," Aron says curtly, pushing inside. "My anchor is dying. She needs help."

"Whatever I have is yours," the man stammers. "Is she injured?"

"Hungry," Aron says.

"Thirsty," I manage to croak out. I am hungry, but my throat hurts so much that I think I might die in the next minute if I don't get a drink.

"Of course. Just a moment." He scurries off, disappearing behind a shelf and I hear a clatter of pots and pans.

Aron glances around and gives a haughty sniff at our surroundings. "I suppose this will do for a day."

Like we're flooded with choices.

I fight my heavy eyelids and peer around, too. It's not a church after all, but a library. Books of all shapes and sizes line the walls, shelves groaning with the weight of them. There are books in stacks in the middle of the room, along the walls, and covering every surface imaginable. It's not dusty, just cluttered. The place is dark inside, lit only by a few small lanterns, and off to one side there's a large table with parchment, ink, and a book open in front of it. Whoever this guy is, it looks like he's the one writing the books.

Aron heads deeper into the place, moving past shelves and knocking over stacks of books as he goes. I bite back a protest, because it seems wrong to bother this solitary man…but on the other hand, I feel so awful that I'm not sure I care. At the back of the building, past another massive stack of books that topples as he moves through, there's a small cot, the bed neatly made. Aron lays me down on it even as the monk—because he has to be a monk—scurries in with a pitcher of water and a bit of bread and cheese.

"This is all you have?" Aron scowls as the monk moves to my side and scoops a simple clay cup into the pitcher, then offers it to me.

"I apologize, Lord, but I live simply," the monk says. He's not disturbed by Aron's words, his serene expression unruffled.

I take the cup from his hands, sucking the water down greedily. It's the best thing I've ever had, and it's gone far too soon. I drink it all and hold the cup out for more.

"You should drink it slowly," the monk begins, only to be interrupted by Aron again.

"Give her all that she wants," he snaps, crossing his arms over his chest. "I cannot have her dying."

The monk sighs, dips another cup, and gives it to me. I hesitate, because Aron seems to be in a real mood, but I'm so thirsty I can't pass up the water. I gulp it down, and a third cup when he hands it to me. He offers me bread, but I skip it—too dry—in favor of the cheese, and gnaw on it for a moment. The taste is sharp and overwhelming, but I eat it anyhow.

Aron's just watching me carefully, not eating or drinking. He has to be hungry and thirsty, too. When the monk gives me another cup of water, I nod at Aron. "You should drink something," I tell him around a mouthful of cheese. I don't miss the way the monk's eyebrows go down, as if surprised by my offer. Maybe he expects me to be as big a dick as Aron is.

"Unnecessary," the god says, watching me closely. "You drink it."

My stomach's starting to cramp and I feel a sweat breaking out on my forehead. I put down the cheese and lift the cup to my lips. I don't feel so good. I want to drink, and I want to throw up, too. "Um," I say, and then my mouth floods with saliva. Oh. Oh no.

With a kind expression, the monk holds up the nearly empty pitcher, offering it to me. I snatch it from his hands and manage to tuck it under my chin just before I vomit up all the water I just drank.

Off to the side, Aron makes a sound of disgust. "Mortals."

The monk pats my knee as I puke a second round. "I thought that might happen if you drank too much. I will bring you something to clean off with, my dear, and some tea to settle your stomach."

I watch in surprise as he beams a serene smile at Aron and then heads off to what must be his kitchen once more.

Aron lifts his chin at me. "Stay there. Rest until you feel better."

No one has to tell me twice. I set down the pitcher, lie back on the blankets, and allow myself to pass the fuck out.

I wake up the next morning with a big hand stroking my hair, my face smushed against a hard chest, and my arm (and leg) flung over someone.

Er.

I look up groggily and it's Aron. I'm not surprised, but I am a little bewildered.

"Your hair needs a washing," is all he says.

"I'm sure I would have put it higher on the priority scale if I would have known you were going to climb into bed with me," I mutter, struggling to sit upright.

He snorts. "No, you wouldn't have."

"You're right, I wouldn't have." I scrub a hand over my face and sit on the edge of the cot, a little unnerved that he’s pressed up against me. "Why are you in bed with me?"

"It's clear to me that you get into trouble wherever you go, so I'm keeping a close eye on you. You're not leaving my sight again."

"Great," I say without enthusiasm. I squint at him because even as he gets out of the bed, his muscles are rippling and his hair perfect and yet he looks…off. Tired. "Did you sleep?"

"I need no sleep."

"Really? Because you look tired to me."

He gives me another imperious look. "I did not ask you."

All righty then. I yawn and push my hair off my head. He's not wrong. After the dump to the ground when we fled the Citadel, my hair's caked in all kinds of filth and sweat. I've probably still got crystals tangled into it. Still…he was petting it. As if he liked it, or me. For someone that professes to find me annoying, he let me sleep sprawled on top of him all night, all without sleeping on his own.

Aron puts his hands on his hips and frowns at his surroundings. "Where is the mortal that lives here?" He cups a hand to his mouth, all imperious god once again. "Mortal! We have need of you."

I cringe. "Aron, don't. That's rude. I'm sure we can find our way around…" I let my words trail off because the monk comes scurrying in, his long robes flapping around his legs, his weird braids bouncing on his shoulders. He's got a big tray of food—fruit, cheese, nuts, more bread—and a pitcher.

"Good morning," he says, beaming at us. "I've brought food for your anchor, Lord of Storms. Do you require anything from me?" He sets the tray down on a nearby stack of books and plucks a cup from the tray, filling it and then offering it to me. "Drink slowly this time, my dear. Your body needs time to recover."

I take the cup and sip it, even though I feel much better. Vaguely, I remember waking up in the middle of the night to have someone give me sips of water. I remember pale hands and a soothing voice offering encouragement, but when I look at the monk, his hands are brown and weathered. Hmmm.

"I need nothing," Aron says in a clipped voice. "Make sure my mortal gets her fill of food and drink and then she needs a bath." He stalks out from the shelves and his feet thud heavily against the creaking wooden floors. "I am going to scout the area to determine how safe it is. When I return, we will need clothing. Both of us."