The Avatars -- Chapter 4: An End and a Beginning
Lehana bent her knees slightly so the waterline barely exposed her shoulders, fighting the urge to cross her arms across her chest. She was pretty sure the river was deep enough and fairly opaque, but if he didn't get lost within the next ten seconds...besides, she needed her hands free to scoop up rocks from the river bottom.
Her frigid voice was a startling contrast to her furiously-sparkling green eyes, now the color of pale mint. "Would you be so good as to turn your back–and, preferably, head in that direction until you reach Athens?" The trip was one that would take around five months by foot, provided that he could cross over some enormous mountains and an impassable river.
"It might be a vast improvement if you could also trouble yourself to pick your jaw–and the rest of you–up off the ground," she suggested much more politely than she felt.
Not quite ready to return to his senses, Notus got to his feet slowly, revealing his sometimes intimidating height, and let his night-blue gaze linger over the golden skin of her bared shoulders, the tempting curve of her neck, the attractive, full mouth that was currently pursed in a dark scowl. He was jolted back into the real world when a sharp stone whizzed past his ears.
"There's no need to get violent!" he protested, ducking as another one flew at his head. The first had been a warning, the second would have hit him square in the forehead had it not been for his excellent reflexes. ‘At least Boreas will be pleased...if he can get his head out of the clouds,' he thought sourly. ‘Women.'
"Yes, there is!" Lehana countered furiously.
The only thing he could think at the moment was that, gods above, she was absolutely gorgeous–beautiful, wild, and out for a healthy amount of his blood.
"I don't like men who spy on women in the woods while they're bathing and spend ten minutes ogling them!" she continued in an irate manner.
Notus held up his hands in a gesture of surrender. "Please, forgive me. It was a complete accident, and I am very sorry."
She snorted. He was slick, tall, and handsome, and at any other time, she would have been the one admiring his voice and body–had she not been convinced of his colossal stupidity and clumsiness. "I'm sure you are. Then kindly turn around!" she demanded.
"Well, I would," he shot back, "but do you really think I'm fool enough to turn my back when you're hurling rocks at me?" Sharp rocks, too. One had caught him across the cheek, and a few drops of blood were starting to ooze out of the smarting cut.
The rock throwing ceased immediately, and Notus shuffled around so he was facing the woods. Feeling incredibly stupid, he crossed his arms stiffly and tapped his foot on the ground. He rarely made such a fool out of himself, but there was something about this girl–woman, he amended–that got him riled up.
After a few minutes, during which he heard her hurrying into her clothes, she muttered, "Well, you have given me good reason to brand you a fool, falling on your face and gaping like an idiot. You have yet to prove to me that your intellect is superior to a worm's."
Notus spun around with a ferocious glare, but to his surprise, she had disappeared. Where had she gone? he wondered distractedly before spinning a wind that would take him back to Aeolia. The wench probably knew some secret routes through the forest, being a common woodcutter's daughter, most likely.
When both had left, a pale-colored flower lay at the river's edge where it had flown from Notus's hands to land safely on the ground. Had he still been holding it, the delicate pink flower would have been crushed in his fall. The single blossom, not fully opened yet but holding the promise of a precious bloom, was the only evidence that remained of their meeting.
~~~~~*~~~~~
Ayla stepped away from the bed, her eyes dry and unseeing. She ignored the sympathetic chatter of the other village women as they filed around to pay their respects. Some of them hugged her, but she only felt more like crying afterwards. Many of the women hung back, afraid of her status and unfamiliar with her because of the time she spent away from home. Another time she might have cared; now, she ignored them effortlessly now.
One woman tugged at her sleeve. "Ami, the healer, you must speak with him..."
"Later, Bia," Ayla replied distantly. There might be time later...and there might not.
Bia protested a minute longer, despite Ayla's stony expression, until a more understanding woman dragged her away.
They left, one by one, and she stood straight and tall to the end. Some of them, she knew, would gossip about her apparent callousness. She cared not. At last there were only the memories and herself left, and she wanted to drown herself in them until they saturated her mind.
Ayla lay down on the other bed, where she had slept only two or three days a year since she had been become an avatar. As her mother's only living family present, she would hold vigil that night, and the next morning, her mother would be burned. She did not want to think about her father, the only other living relative she knew her mother had.
It was cold, she realized dimly around midnight, but she did not rise to build a fire. The wood was stacked neatly in a pile, waiting to be lit, and as Ayla glanced around the little house, there were traces of efficient housekeeping all around. Her mother had instilled organization and a love of order in her beloved daughter, then given her up to another woman to raise–but not to claim, never to claim.
A soft rustling drew her attention, and she rose fluidly. Hermes stood before her in his winged cap and sandals, an expression of compassionate sorrow she was unused to seeing upon his handsome face. He had come to guide the deceased spirit down to the realm of Hades, and Ayla felt a desperate tugging at her heart when a ghostly-white form detached itself from the cloth-covered body.
As the transparent figure floated towards Hermes, it passed through Ayla's body, and she was bathed in the bittersweet remembrance of a gentle, sad-sweet smile and the sound of willow trees... Hermes was lit with the opalescent white glow, now in possession of the spirit. He reached out to Ayla and placed warm fingers against her chilled cheek, keeping the rule of silence. She closed her eyes and stepped away, slitting open her now-stinging eyes to watch as Hermes disappeared in the distance.
She then lay back down on the bed, curling into a small ball, still tearless. The entire night, Ayla's eyes stayed open, but she never noticed the catlike green eyes watching her from the shadows.
~~~~~*~~~~~
Dawn came sooner than she expected that day, trailing streamers of pure, rose-golden light behind her, and she rose stiffly from the bed. Ayla scattered a handful of sweet-smelling rose petals over the sheet that covered the shrunken, emaciated figure on the low, hard bed. White roses from her mother's garden that had always grown in shadow...bedtime stories by the light of a flickering candle...baking cookies the size of her mother's palm until they were crisp and golden, eaten piping hot once they were ready...
The other women would be here soon. Ayla shook herself, reminding herself that she had to keep her composure. Unlike when she resided on Olympus, she was not doing it to keep face. She was refraining from crying now, because she knew once she started, she would never stop. The pain was too fresh, and she was still locked into shocked acceptance. A different kind of pain would come all too soon: unbearable, and sharp as a knife.
Two muscular young men lifted her mother from the home where she had dwelled all her life and carried her to the waiting altar. Ayla followed at them, the head of a procession of black-gowned mourners. Once incense was scattered liberally on either side of the head and by the feet, Ayla stood apart from them as the fire was lit. It roared and crackled, flaming with a furious light, and she was reminded of Ares's similar nature, although it was Hephaestus who had given man fire. Her thoughts meandered here and there, going from Kassia, to Lehana, to Mehalia, to Rhoswen.
None of them knew where she was; she had rushed away the minute she had received news of her mother's death and Athena's permission to stay as long as she needed. Nevertheless, Ayla had specifically requested that her friends not be told of the reason for her absence. They usually shared all parts of their lives with each other, but Ayla knew they had enough grief to deal with. She did not want to subject them to her own, and she planned to be back on Mount Olympus by noon.
Suddenly, a heavy hand on her shoulder made her start and turn. Ayla looked straight into the dark blue eyes of someone she had thought she would never see again...
~~~~~*~~~~~
Zephyrus had joined the procession quietly, his usually-vivid robes the flowing, pure white robes of a healer today. Uncharacteristically silent and sorrowful, he turned his eyes upon the lonely figure who was so slender yet stood so straight. She was strong, he thought to himself, much stronger than any other mortal–and many gods–that he knew, despite her delicate frame. And, he knew now, intimately acquainted with the messenger god Hermes. She was intriguing...and she was grieving.
He watched as a rather short, unassuming man approached her, and then opened his eyes wide as he overheard their ensuing argument.
~~~~~*~~~~~
Ayla stiffened, speechless in outrage as she stared at the father who had been absent for most of her childhood.
"Daughter...I'm so...very sorry..."
She stared at him, her heart starting to pound and her breaths coming in quick succession.
"I tried very hard to come here–before–and yet..." He never finished his sentences; they trailed off airily, as incomplete as he had rendered her life.
"What are you doing here?" she asked coldly, wrenching away from him.
"Why–I've come for your mother's funeral, Ami. Come, let us mourn together," he said, taking her hand in his clammy one.
She stepped further away from him, her fists clenched at her side. "You have no right to be here, absolutely no right. How dare you–of all the times you could have come, it had to be this one?!"
He stared at her in complete incomprehension. "Ami, I loved your mother as I loved you."
"Liar!" She didn't care who was watching, how many curious, astonished, admonishing gazes were turned their way. Images of her mother's hurt pain from over the years flashed before her eyes. "You cared nothing for her, for me. You lied to her countless times, and you never kept your promises. She loved you, but she meant nothing to you."
"Ami, I understand your grief," he said carefully, moving closer, "but your mother was very sick towards the end. Whatever she told you–"
"She didn't need to tell me anything! I have eyes. You knew she was sick–Bia told me she sent you a message when she knew she was dying. She wanted to keep it from me, but when you knew there was no hope...you didn't even send for me! You kept me from her! I hate you! I hate you!!" she screamed, hammering at him with her fists as the tears streamed down her cheeks unheeded.
He stood motionless, and Zephyr strode forward. He would prefer that a native of the village intercede, but if no one was going to step forward, he would be damned if he stood aside and watched. "Are you her father?" he demanded.
"I–that is, she–"
Fuming at his ineptitude, Zephyr pried Ayla away from her father, ignoring her flailing arms. In a surprising burst of strength, she broke away from him, ran forward, and collapsed to her knees by the smoldering fire. All that was left of her mother were the ashes...not enough closure for her. Not closure when her scoundrel of a father felt he had the right to show up. Tears obscured her vision as she wept soundlessly, feeling as if an empty, echoing hole had opened in her heart.
Zephyr watched as the other villagers left the sobbing girl alone. Soon, only her father was left, and Zephyr had only to glare at him for a few seconds before he turned away and scuttled into a dingy-looking building. He said her name a few times, but she heeded him not.
Once the last remnants of the orange glow faded, he tried to help her to her feet. Her stumbling steps tore at his own heart, and he scooped her up and cradled her crumpled form against him. Ayla struggled for a few minutes until they reentered her home, whereupon he set her on the bed and she turned instantly towards the wall.
"Thank you. You don't have to stay," she told him, her voice hoarse and gravelly as she wiped away the last traces of her tears. She still shuddered uncontrollably under the thin blanket, and his fingertips twitched slightly to alter the air temperature.
"No," he agreed.
She sat up and faced him, her eyes huge and dark in her pale face. "I know what you must be thinking–and I am horrified at my behavior as well. I am not usually this–"
"Distraught?" Zephyr supplied gently. "It is entirely excusable."
"No, it is not. But he–my father is a scoundrel. He was married when he met my mother and deceived her into believing that he would marry her. I am illegitimate–a bastard," Ayla spat out, to get the bitter taste off her tongue.
He held up his hands. "You don't have to explain to me." His scorn for her father increased tenfold. The story was a familiar one; itinerant men away from home, lonely for company, sired bastards they were too ashamed to acknowledge and provide for. The children and their mothers bore the derision of their villages while the fathers walked off scot-free–often back to their lawful wives.
Ayla's cheeks burned at his pitying tone. She really had no idea why she had started telling him...to justify herself, perhaps. She lay down again and stared at the ceiling, her eyes feeling heavy and her eyelashes sticky.
The story was simple. Her father, an itinerant bard whose voice was barely passable, had come into their village. Ayla never understood how her sweet, gentle mother had fallen in love with such a fool, but apparently love made fools out of everyone. She had met her father five brief times over the course of ten years and disliked him instantly. He would never be someone who could earn the trust of an unwanted child.
Ayla had returned each winter from Olympus, and each time, her mother would ask her if she had heard from her father. The answer was always ‘no;' she had long given up lying to spare her mother's feelings. From the time she had begun to understand her philandering father–understand him enough to condemn him–she had done her best to make her mother see the detestable aspects of his character. It never worked, and she had died mourning that he had not been there beside her. Ayla would never forgive him for making her mother die feeling alone and unloved.
~~~~~*~~~~~
That night, Ayla rose from the bed and went outside to the well to wash her face. Zephyrus was nowhere to be seen, and she told herself firmly that she was relieved that he had gone. She didn't even know his name, but he was irritatingly perceptive.
Then she frowned. No mortal man she knew was so silent in his steps...she hadn't noticed his departure. When she returned, she was annoyed to find him waiting for her. Steeling herself to be polite, she said, "Thank you for your care. Of my mother. You must be the healer Bia spoke of." ‘And made eyes at,' she thought sourly. Empty-headed, self-absorbed Bia was a notorious flirt, and she had noticed how the young girls in the village stared at him adoringly.
"It is not necessary to thank me," he replied with a courtly bow. "You worried me–I was wondering where you had gone."
"I just went outside to the well for a few minutes. I assure you that I am not in need a keeper, nor am I responsible to you." She was surprised at the obstinate note in her voice.
"No, of course not."
"Don't patronize me," she added sharply.
Zephyr raised his eyebrows. "I was merely concerned. You are upset, naturally, and I did not want to leave you alone."
Ayla's temper flared when she saw the amusement in his eyes; he knew she didn't want him there. "I am perfectly fine. You can be assured I won't cause any more embarrassing scenes. In fact, I'll be leaving now."
"So soon? Are you sure you'll be all right? It is hard, I know, to lose a parent at any age." Her eyes narrowed. "I don't want your sympathy."
He nodded. "Then I shall be going as well."
She nodded back in satisfaction. Good. Once he left her in peace, she could enter Athena's temple and be summoned back to Olympus. She had been away long enough, and she was losing her characteristic composure. Such a thing would not do.
"Ami." She turned around instantly, and he smiled. "If you need me, all you have to do is call me."
Ayla turned on her heel, feeling the heat rise in her ceeks. Ridiculous. She didn't even know his name, and this infuriating man would never hear her on Olympus. Not that she would ever call him, of course.
‘My name is Zoisite.'
She spun around again, but he was gone.
~~~~~*~~~~~
AN: The next chapter, I assure you, will be more cheerful. Zephyr is–different, but don't worry. By the next meeting, he'll be established as a flirt ^^ and Ami won't be sad anymore ;; At least not openly. Hope the names aren't tripping anyone up! Zephyrus and the people of Ayla's village call her Ami, because it wasn't until she became an avatar that she was named Ayla. The reason that Ami's god isn't Hermes is because I didn't want her god to be male...to reword, it wouldn't have fit the plotline very well to have her serving a man; I preferred to have her serve a goddess, and Athena seemed like the best choice.
Three more couples to meet in much happier circumstances! We are trying to roll speedily along... Thanks for the support, everyone! I really appreciate it :)
~Ice
The Avatars
