Chapter Text
Martin’s stomach growls.
He tries to ignore it because he knows he does not have a lot of food left. Has he eaten yet today? He can’t remember on account of everything else that’s wrong. He’s cold, he’s tired, his calves have been burning for miles, his only remaining belongings are on his back, and, oh yeah, he’s fleeing for his life. This past week has not been his favourite, to say the least. However, at this second, his hunger is definitely the loudest of all his reasons to sulk.
At least the fleeing for his life bit has probably passed, so he stops walking and flops down on the grass for a break. The chilly dampness of the ground seeps through his trousers, but he needs the rest, and he may as well take a moment to mull over his options.
He has no good ones, at least, none that spring to mind. And the thing is, he knows. He knows exactly how stupid and desperate his actions have been since he was chosen, but the only more idiotic choice would have been accepting his fate.
A cacophony of imagined voices, sounding like the priests, his mother, and the nosey ladies in the town square, disagree. They insist he’s being immoral, selfish, a cowardly, weak-willed imbecile who doesn’t care if the rest of the village lives or dies. Perhaps he is, but he just couldn’t go through with it. The guilt is eating at him, of course it is—but at least he’s alive to feel it.
So, here he is: homeless, friendless, and godless.
He’s been trying not to dwell. It’s best to stick to the basics: he needs food and shelter, and for that he needs a job. He needs it to be somewhere where he will never be recognised on account of being a wanted man. By that standard, the fact that he’s in the middle of nowhere is a plus. So is the fact that he doesn’t know a soul who lives in this direction.
Hopefully, his recent change in looks will help. He’s dithered over presenting the way he wanted to for ages, but there was always something holding him back—his mother, the town’s reaction, always another excuse. But his mother was dead, and the town decided he’d be a good treat for their local god, so screw them. He’d cut his hair, pulled some of his father’s old clothes out of a trunk, and decided that whatever was going to happen next, he was going to face it as Martin.
Despite everything, it feels good; he feels like himself. If the town enforcers catch up with him, at least he will have gotten a taste of what that’s like before the end.
Still, he dreads what will happen when he arrives at his destination. Why should this mysterious Lord Magnus hire him anyway? He doesn’t even have a real reference. A suspicious stranger just pointed him in this direction, and like a desperate fool off he went. An animalistic, instinctive part of him wants to turn tail and run. But that would be even stupider than he’s already been. His little lump of cheese will not last for a return journey.
He debates eating it now, but holds off. He needs to make it last a little longer.
Maybe the danger has passed. For all the consequences for refusers are steep, he’s never known them to chase anyone this far. And, despite his moaning, the journey for the past several days has been idyllic, and it would be storybook perfect if it were only a few degrees warmer. The paved road is well maintained, passing through regions of grazing cattle and sheep and orderly rows of tilled earth, all ready for the spring planting. The air smells fresh. After a youth spent in an overcrowded town, where his most common sights were his mother’s sickroom and the cramped little shop where he had worked, this place should be a paradise. And yet the dread remains.
“Mooooo,” comes a noise from beside him, disturbing his thoughts. The large, impossibly fuzzy tan intruder looks hopefully at his knapsack, and Martin clutches the bag tightly. More curious now, the bull leans down to nose at it, and Martin nervously eyes the horns. But once he starts scratching the beast under the chin, it nuzzles in like a giant puppy. It accepts pats happily for a while as Martin wonders just how much it hurt to put that metal nose ring in.
Finally, he says, “Look, I’d love to give you a treat. I really would. But feeding you lot is the reason I have barely any food left in the first place.”
It doesn’t respond except to make a ridiculous face, tongue lolling out to the side. Martin mimics the look before glancing around, embarrassed that someone might have seen.
Those big, soft eyes stare at his, and he sighs.
“Fine. You win.” He digs around his bag for some crusts of bread and offers them palms up, enjoying the tickling sensation on his palms. Martin decides he might as well eat the last bit of cheese. It’s hard, yellow, and more than a bit dried out, and it does little to satisfy him. Now there is officially nothing edible left in the bag.
Also, the sun is now noticeably lower in the sky. He best move quickly. There is something wrong here, and he wants to be under a roof before dark.
He bids farewell to his new friend and trudges on.
He spends the next half hour climbing up a huge hill, his legs on fire after the first few minutes. At the top, he collapses for another break and gulps as he looks out at the newly revealed path ahead. The outline of a huge stone fortress, an honest-to-the-gods castle, lies ahead, looking for all the world like a page from a storybook. If his eyes aren’t deceiving him, there is even a moat. It’s the sort of place that rich travellers would line up to tour and marvel at the mysteries of the past, not the sort of place that Martin can imagine anyone living in.
He tries to picture it: his future place of employment. His future home. He gulps, but what can he do? It will probably be fine. They’ll just send him to work in the gardens or the kitchens or something. Someplace cosy, with simple, repetitive tasks he can’t possibly screw up. It will be fine.
Unless, of course, it won’t be.
The more he contemplates it, the weirder his encounter at the docks seems. He’d been overwhelmed by the bustle of unfamiliar activity but too intent on leaving the country on whatever boat would take him to pay much attention to the details.
On the surface it was simple enough. He’d asked a captain about a job, the man had said no, and then he suggested a place where Martin could find work: a completely logical sequence of events.
But the man had been interested in him, looking him up and down in a way no one did upon meeting Martin. Even Martin’s blatant lies about knowing his way around the ship hadn’t caused the man to tell him to get lost. (He’d tried to pass himself off as a sailor; poor, single passengers tended to become lunch for the gods of the deep.)
Distracted or not, he’d taken all the normal precautions — the man had been human. His hand had been solid. Clammy, but not ghostly cold. Martin had deliberately closed his eyes, and when he’d reopened them the stranger’s proportions remained unchanged. He’d born no odd insignias or marks of affiliation that Martin could perceive, had given off no blatant sign he was recruiting sacrifices, but his eyes…well, his eyes had given him pause. There was no glow or sheen in the flat, grey eyes, but they made Martin feel as if he were lost in a sea of fog.
Martin, although sceptical, had been ready to risk it, but Captain Lukas had another suggestion. He told Martin to try to find work away from the sea (away from the ancient being echoed in his eyes) in the household of an old friend of his.
“It’s a shame, really, but I owe him a favour. And you are perfect fit, Martin.” the man had said, not quite meeting his eyes. If the sentence had sent a shiver of dread through Martin, he had shaken it off.
So, yes, upon any reflection whatsoever, he realises Magnus Manor is almost certainly a trap. But there’s a fool’s chance that it isn’t, and a fool’s chance is all he has.
He sits on the road a while longer, thumbing through a book, unable to process any of the verses. Finally, when the golden afternoon sun shines right into his eyes, he pushes off the ground with a wince. If he wants to arrive before nightfall, he needs to move.
About an hour later, staring at yet another tidy field, Martin’s blood runs cold. Because, now that his brain has finally decided to work, the problem is obvious, so obvious that he can’t believe he missed it before.
People. That’s what’s wrong with this place. Where are all the people? These lands are tilled, the animals cared for, but he hasn’t seen a single farmer. No carts or carriages have passed him on the road, and for all the barns and silos he’s passed, there’s been not one smoking chimney, not one farmhouse.
He remembers thinking, when he was packing for this trip, that he needn’t bother packing too much food because he could pay or barter along the way. He’d looked the first few days, but as he had continued to see nothing, he’d just…forgotten.
Stupid child, the thought starts, sounding exactly like his mother. You’ve never been the most observant. You could never find anything I asked you to even if it was right in front of your face. It’s why your help was worse than no help at all.
Despite her having died six months ago, he finds himself painting on a familiar pained, forced smile.
“Well, mum,” he whispers under his breath, “At least I’ve finally left, just like you always wanted me to.”
She’d be furious at him, though. A devotee of the village god, she often wished to be chosen herself. She’d even told Martin, once, that if he ever was chosen, it would be the only worthwhile thing he could do in his life.
He shakes it off and trudges forward, squeezing out every step with forced optimism. His future has to be better, if only because his life cannot possibly get worse. Somewhere in this god-noticed castle, there will be someone who gives a damn whether he lives or dies.
But as he finally crosses the drawbridge at twilight and approaches, he sees an equally abandoned tableau. There are perfectly manicured grounds but no gardeners, and all of the curtains are tightly shut. He can see no sign of a servants’ entrance either, so he steels himself and goes to knock on the grand double doors, twice as tall as he is. The knockers are huge, brassy hoops in the shape of indistinct birds of prey with glaring eyes, and when he gingerly moves one against the wooden door one the resulting sound echoes metallically. The temperature plummets, and a small rock falls to his feet. Heart racing, he jumps back and looks around. But there’s no one there. It must just have gotten knocked loose.
He waits, stuck in an unwilling staring contest with those door knockers which judge him more every second. They gleam, clearly recently polished, and Martin wonders that they wouldn’t bite off the hand of any mortal who dared attempt such a feat.
Nerves dance in Martin’s stomach, and he almost hopes no one answers. But another part of him feels urged forward, although he cannot tell if that is from his desire for a warm place to sleep or some beckoning of the wood and rock itself.
Just as he’s about to leave, the doors swing open, taking his choice from him. A man in a well-tailored suit stares at him. He’s shorter than Martin, but somehow he feels as if the man is looking down at him from every possible angle. Just for a second, he thinks he sees…no. He shakes it off and blames it on the fatigue. Tongue tied, he just stands there for several moments.
“Can I help you?” the man asks. His tone is bland, professional, and uninterested, so Martin cannot for the life of him say why he finds him so off unnerving.
“Er, Captain Lukas sent me about a position here, sir.” Martin says, urging his voice not to squeak. He has no clue how to address a man of this status. “He said he owed you a favour?”
“Ah, yes,” the man says, suddenly much warmer. “Of course. Welcome to Magnus Hall. You are probably tired. Why don’t I show you your quarters? I’m sure you are tired, so we can discuss the details in the morning. ”
“That’s, er, generous, er…” Martin says, gulping.
“Lord Magnus will do,” the man replies. Martin cannot help but notice that Magnus does not even bother to ask his name. “Follow me.”
The man strides forward, and Martin struggles to keep up. He’s led through a maze of hallways, boggling at the literal suits of armour lining one of the walls.
“It’s a lovely place you have here,” he says.
“You think so?” Magnus says. “I would much prefer to move with the times, but it serves its purpose well enough. Either way, I spent most of the year travelling. I expect you will see little of me. ”
Every footstep lets off a reverberation of echoes and creaks as they continue down the halls. He’s waiting any second to be handed off to a butler or housekeeper, to the sort of person who deals with lowly new servants, but as far as he can tell, it’s only the two of them.
Which makes even less sense than finding the house completely empty. This definitely isn’t the sort of man who has ever done his own laundry or made his own tea.
“What, er, what is the position, exactly? Captain Lukas didn’t say,” Martin asks.
“All in good time. It can be complicated to explain. Don’t worry, though. I can see you will be very well suited for it,” the man says, pressing onward because Martin can get out any questions about what on earth that is supposed to mean.
Just as he’s decided that running like hell is the better part of valour, he hears a low, mournful creak, followed by a crash.
“Ah, that would be the drawbridge,” says Lord Magnus. Martin cannot escape the sensation that he is revelling in Martin’s barely concealed distress. “Not much further. Do keep up.”
The man picks up a candelabra and leads Martin down a rickety flight of stone steps. In the flickering candlelight, a flash of green glints in the man’s eyes, and Martin takes a step back, nearly tripping on the uneven stairs.
“I’m really sorry to have bothered you, but I don’t think this will work out,” Martin says. “I don’t think I’m particularly well suited for this position after all. I thank you for your time and consideration, but I think I will just be on my way as soon as the drawbridge is raised.”
The man ignores his stammering and keeps pressing forward through branching pathways, and Martin knows it is hopeless. He will never find his way out of this place if he tries to flee. Whatever fate awaits him, slow starvation in a pitch black labyrinth sounds worse.
“Er, are the servants quarters in the dungeons?” he asks as they walk past rows of cells. Playing dumb has worked for him many times in the past, even if things are getting past the point of plausible deniability. On either of their parts.
Maybe his village sent word. Maybe Lord Magnus is just planning on keeping him locked up until someone arrives to drag him back. Is that why the man didn’t bother asking his name?
“Don’t worry, I’m sure you will find your accommodations quite comfortable,” the man says. He puts an old metal key into a lock, and a huge, barred door swings inward. He gestures for Martin to go in. Martin stands rooted to the spot and finds himself pushed roughly to the ground. The door slams, and he struggles to his feet, palms smarting.
He turns towards the door, ready to start shouting, and…he is staring at a solid stone wall. There’s no sign of the man or even a door. For a moment he just stands there dumbly, taking in the floor to ceiling pattern of slate grey stone and white mortar. He touches the pads of his fingertips to the wall, half expecting it to vanish under his touch. It remains, a perfectly ordinary stone wall without a trace of an exit.
Then, the panic sets in.
He’s not sure how long he pounds on the stone with his fists. “Let me out,” he demands over and over, shouting until his voice grows hoarse. He pounds and gropes and scratches at the wall until his hands bleed, but the wall stubbornly remains a solid wall.
Panting, he takes a step back and tries to still the animal-like, frenzied terror.
“Right. Think, Martin, think. This isn’t getting you anywhere,” he mutters, and squeezes his eyes shut, taking a few deep breaths.
The first thing that hits him is the smell. He’s never smelled a dungeon, but if he had to imagine it, he would have imagined staleness: mould and rot, old hay and excrement. Instead, his mouth waters at the scents of a winter banquet — roasted meat and freshly baked bread, rich spices: cinnamon, sage, and clove. The only sound is a small stream of flowing water that echoes off the walls. Despite the fear, his stomach begs him to turn around, and he complies.
He opens his eyes.
“Whoa,” he says, and he soaks his surroundings in. The room he’s in is not a cell at all. It’s a huge rectangular room with a high ceiling, as large as the sacramental hall in his old town. You could fit his whole town in this place if everyone stood shoulder to shoulder. And it is outfitted as if in expectation of a royal guest.
Although the room lacks any windows, numerous candles and a roaring fireplace illuminate it, the end result somehow equally gloomy and cosy. Tapestries cover large portions of the wall, and Martin walks up to three near him, a triptych. The first image shows a bird-like creature, larger than a man, sleeping. A nondescript person approaches the mess of brilliant green feathers.
In the next image, the creature is awake. Eye spots have appeared on all the feathers, but when Martin looks closely, he can see they are not eyespots at all. They are actual eyes, glaring at the intruder. The creature's beak has snapped open at right angles, and then the being’s entire face has peeled back, revealing a huge black hole of an entrance that just barely resembles a mouth.
In the third, the intruder is waist-deep in the thing’s mouth, legs kicking.
Fuck. This is the home of a god. Has he really fled all this way just to meet the same fate he was running from? He’s run from his duty, from the only home he’s ever known, only to be fed to a strange god. A god who doesn’t ensure that everyone he’s ever known, every old woman and street child, has enough to get by. He’s still going to die, only now it will be for nothing. Or at least nothing he cares about.
He swallows back the nausea and continues looking around.
There is a large four poster bed in the closest corner to him, curtains pulled back, neatly made up with mounds of pillows and blankets in crisp white and deep forest green. It’s tempting to curl up in it, pull the blankets over his head, and collapse. He keeps walking.
Along one wall lies a marble fountain, deep enough for swimming, decorated with a bronze statue of a great bird spitting water from its mouth. Martin is suddenly hyper aware of his thirst, but again he resists.
Perhaps he’s in a room of temptations. He doesn’t know the rules of this particular god. Sure, he might have no hope. His local god is not particularly interested in anything but getting victims into its mouth as soon as possible. But sometimes, in the stories he’s heard, there is a test. A way to prove his worth. Maybe, he cannot be taken if he doesn’t eat or drink. Maybe, he can only be taken while he sleeps.
Maybe, being taken is seen as an honour for this god, and proving his worth is the worst thing he can do. There’s no way to tell.
An enormous wooden banquet table takes up the centre of the room, laden with golden platters and piled high with more food than Martin can conceive of. There are mounds of apples and pears arranged artistically atop tiered platters of pies and tarts of every sort, and Martin wonders how they have stayed good throughout the whole winter. Puddings larger than his head, decorated with nuts and dried fruits, gleam enticingly. Steaming silver tureens promise hearty, richly seasoned stews.
Two golden brown roasted fowl frame the centre. They rest on either side of an entire suckling pig, apple in mouth, nestled gently on a bed of roast carrots and potatoes. The apple nudges the piglet’s mouth up into a contented smile. It looks so cosy there, nestled into its bed. He almost envies the poor thing. It never knew the weight of responsibilities or dread for what the morning would bring. It never had to fear its own end. It just spent a few weeks peacefully suckling away, and then in an instant it was over.
Martin shakes himself. He must be beyond tired for such a line of thought to make sense.
Forcing himself to abandon the sweet smelling pork, he continues his exploration of the chamber, going to the rows of shelves on the far side of the room.
They puzzle him; there is no categorization Martin can think of. There are books. toys, jewellery, ribbons, and toiletry kits all jumbled up into little clusters. Some look ancient, and some look like something Martin himself might carry in his bag. There’s even a knife in one of the sets, bent out of shape and encrusted with gunk. And with each set of items…Martin swallows hard against the bile in his throat.
Each group of items lies carefully paired with something that looks like it came from a person: a lock of hair, a shard of bone, a tooth. Apparently, this bird god likes to keep mementoes. Is that all that will be left of Martin? His poetry book, knapsack, and a knucklebone, left to lie near a comb still filled with strands of a stranger’s hair. Something for the next sacrifice to ponder over in their last moments.
He steps around to the other side of one of the shelves and trips over something large and squishy. Regaining his balance, he looks down.
Fuck, he thinks as his knees almost give out. As he stares at the body, it takes several moments to remember to breathe.
Oh gods, that’s a corpse. That’s an actual corpse. The body is unkempt and painfully thin, as if its former occupant had been stuck in this prison for a long, long time. But no —that can’t be right. There’s no odour, no discoloured skin, so the death must be very recent.
He forces himself to crouch down. This poor fellow might hold some clue about this place. Martin gently pushes him onto his back for a better look, and he flops over without resistance.
He’s beautiful. Sure, he’s skin and bones and dirt, but despite it all, there is something about him that calls to Martin. He wishes he could have known him. As if in a trance, Martin reaches out to brush aside the long, dark hair, and to his shock, the man’s skin is warm. Alive. Hope floods him as he presses his fingers to the man’s neck, searching for a pulse.
He feels it, soft but regular, and now that he looks, he sees the slightest rise and fall of the man’s chest, even though he could swear the man had not been breathing mere moments ago. Martin gently pats his cheek, and when that fails to rouse him, he shakes him roughly by the shoulders. There’s no response.
“Hey, you! Can you hear me? Please, please wake up,” he shouts. Still nothing. In an attempt to get a better look at the man, Martin swoops him up and carries him to the bed.
“I don’t suppose you can explain all of this?” he jokes weakly as he sets him down. Blushing, he checks him over for injuries, adjusting his clothing as little as possible, but he can’t find any. “I’m sorry for taking liberties. I just need to know if there is anything I can do for you,” he explains as if the man could hear.
It’s weird. If anything, the man looks healthier than he did moments ago. His cheeks seem warmer, less ashen, his breaths a bit deeper. Maybe it’s a trick of the light.
“I understand wanting a nap, but this is really not the time,” he says, settling in on the bed to think.
Martin knows he isn’t the cleverest man alive, but so much here doesn’t add up. His working hypothesis is that he’s been placed here to feed some god. So far, so obvious, with the tapestries on the walls.
Yet from everything he has seen, and from the squirming mass of a god he’s gotten glimpses of twice a year in his old town, something is off. Gods are supposed to be gods of something, of some people — a city, farmers, those lost at sea. Sacrificial rituals require huge numbers of the god’s subjects to be present. Yet these lands were abandoned, save for this man and Lord Magnus. Wild, unbound gods who could snack on humanity at will were a relic of ancient times. So, if Martin is to be sacrificed to a god, who is he being sacrificed for?
Second, while he’s heard that some gods apparently like to play with their food, they’re hungry. When the worm god of his home eats, there is no hesitation.So, why was this man just left down here to rot?
Judging by the man’s haggard appearance, perhaps Martin was right to assume that the food and respite this place offers is a trap. Martin can see no other reason to prefer a hard, stone floor to the soft embrace of this bed. Had the man been resisting for ages, trying to eke out a few more weeks of life only to succumb to hunger himself?
Maybe Martin shouldn’t have moved them to the bed. Shit.
But still — how long did the man have to refuse? Was it a choice between a quick death after choosing comfort or a long, drawn out starvation? Because if that’s the case, Martin is tempted to pick the god rather than the hell this man’s clearly been through.
Martin’s brain is foggy, and he is struggling to keep his eyes open. Questions pile on top of questions, but he has no answers for any of them. He knows he should still be petrified, he is petrified, but he’s physically cannot keep going tonight.
He’s already on the bed, so he might as well sleep. Maybe after he wakes up (if he wakes up) he’ll have some better ideas. The bed’s the size of his old kitchen, so he hopes it isn’t too much of an impropriety to share with a stranger. Still, he places as much space between the two of them as possible and curls up right on the edge of the bed, so close that he worries he might fall off in the night.
“Goodnight, I guess,” he says, and soon enough his fears and questions dissolve into sleep.
The table lies empty save for a large golden platter which contains an enormous roast boar, smiling around an apple. Martin’s nervous, but he knows what to do. It’s what he’s meant to do, what he’s made for. All his life has led to this.
He pushes against the boar, but its fatty mass just wobbles in return. So, he climbs up on the table and pushes with all his might until finally the creature rolls and splatters to the ground. Exhausted, Martin lies down on the platter. It’s hard and cold, and yet when he tries to get comfortable, he cannot move. He can only stare at the stone ceiling and wait. That’s his place now.
“Hello there, little pig,” says a deep, amused voice. “Are you waiting for me?” Martin tries to speak, but he can’t.
“You are so close, but not quite perfect yet,” the man says, running a finger down his chest, the tone so much fonder than the words.
“Spread,” the man says, and Martin spreads his legs. “We can’t forget the stuffing, now can we?”
Time passes, and yet no time at all, and Martin’s cunt and arse are painfully full. It’s so good, and he tries to rub against the…whatever it is, but the man holds him back.
“Behave,” he says shortly, and Martin forces himself to comply, no matter how much he’s burning for any attention.
“And for the finishing touch,” the man says, placing an apple in Martin’s mouth. Martin bites down.
Then, all he knows is heat and the sound of fluttering feathers. Wet, squeezing, pulsing heat, starts at his toes and works its way up his body. He moans around the apple as his body convulses, on the verge of orgasm.
Then, all of a sudden he’s aware that this isn’t right.
He’s still aroused but now he’s scared, and it’s too much, so he starts to squirm, to struggle, yet the thing constraining him constricts more and more…
Martin shoots awake, becoming aware of several things in quick succession. His heart is pounding and there’s a dripping wetness between his legs. There’s also a weight on him, and remembering his dream, he panics and struggles to get away, but the weight clings in response.
Sharing the bed had been a mistake. The man from the previous night, still sleeping, has moved to cuddle Martin tightly, his arms squeezing around Martin’s waist. His mouth is open and pressed against Martin’s shoulder, and Martin can feel the drool and hot air. It takes several attempts to get up as the man just does not want to let go.
Shame floods Martin as he remembers the dream. What on earth was that about? he wonders. He wishes there were some private corner of this room, some place he could stick his hands down his pants and relieve his aching clit, but perhaps that would be a step too far. He should be trying to escape, not…enjoying the thought of being devoured.
Because while Martin does not know what’s wrong with his subconscious, he knows that the reality of the fate awaiting him would not be anything like that. He’s wondered about it before, whenever the ritual dates would come in his village, about how much burning agony those chosen must be in. Then, he always tried very hard to put it from his mind.
He walks the perimeter of the room again, but finds nothing new from last night. If this even is the next day—with no access to outside light, he has no clue what time it is. The food is still fresh and steaming hot, so maybe he didn’t sleep that long.
He supposes the best thing to do would be to try in earnest to wake the stranger. If he’s been here as long as it looks, he must have some answers for Martin.
The man’s so painfully thin, so his best bet would be to get some food into him. He fed his mother when she could barely stay conscious, and he can’t imagine that this would be much different.
He walks around the table, ignoring his own desperate stomach. The foods are unfortunately not ideal for this at all. Everything he sees is rich and decadent. Amazing looking, but what he wants is a weak broth. Something he knows the man can’t choke on. Finally, he decides to bring over a glass of spiced wine.
He sits on the bed, dips two fingers into the wine until they are reddish-purple and dripping, then gently presses his fingers to the man’s lips. It takes some work, but he finally gets his fingers into the man’s mouth. He pushes them in, just enough to touch the man’s tongue.
Then, the man latches down on his fingers and sucks, pulling them in all the way.
Martin tries to pull his fingers back, but the man just clenches down more. Still unconscious, his tongue swirls around Martin’s fingers as his lips slide up and down them.
“Hey, hey, get off,” Martin says, splaying his remaining fingers and pulling himself backwards. The man’s whole body moves with him, his mouth never leaving Martin’s hand. First, he drags himself up to a sitting position. Then, as Martin scrambles backwards on the bed, spilling the rest of the wine, he follows, causing both of them to fall back..
The man, still unresponsive to Martin’s shouts, lays on top of him as he continues his enthusiastic ministrations.
Martin, still flustered from his dream, takes a moment to wish that absolutely every bit of context around this situation were different.
The man’s eyes open, and they are a shining, glowing green —the same green of the bed and of the murals.
They are the eyes of a god.
Time freezes as they stare at each other, god and sacrifice, the god’s mouth still engulfing his fingers.
Shit, Martin thinks as he doubles his efforts to free his hand from the god’s hungry, eager mouth.