The hollow-eyed woman gives us a terrified look, clutching her baby tighter, and then leans forward, as if ready to prostrate herself in the mud but prevented by her big belly.
Oh boy. “Come on,” I tell Aron, grabbing him by the hand and ignoring the pleasurable little jolt of touch. “He’s coming,” I say to the couple. “Blessings for everybody around in exchange for dinner and someplace dry.”
“Faith,” Aron warns me.
I glare at him, even as I drag him forward. “New plan. Instead of stealing, why not let your adoring worshipers gift you with things? Or at least give us shelter and get out of the rain?”
“They could be dangerous.”
“They’re starving,” I point out to him, gesturing at the swampy field. “Look at this. They’re farmers. You think they’re rolling in dough with this crop here? I realize you’re arrogance personified, but they have a small baby and it’s getting wet.”
He glances over at the couple, who quiver in fear at his baleful look. “Very well. But if this is a trap, I shall be very displeased with you, Faith.”
“Fine. I will accept full blame if this turns out to be a sham,” I tell him. “Can we go inside now?”
“Please come in,” the man calls out, kneeling and putting his head to the mud despite the driving rain. “Let us honor you and your consort, Lord of Storms.”
I already like them. “Consort” is way better than “tart.” I give Aron another encouraging smile and he nods, squeezing my hand in acknowledgment as we head inside.
The woman casts me a grateful look as she struggles to her feet, dripping mud and rain, her baby wailing. Both she and her husband wait at the door, their eyes wide. I gesture that they should enter. “After you, please.”
“We cannot walk before a god,” the woman whispers, juggling her crying baby as she tries to make Aron’s symbol over her chest.
“You’re not. You’re just preparing the way for his comfort,” I reassure them, trying to make it sound as if they’re doing us a favor.
They look to Aron, and he gives a terse nod. “My consort and I would sit at your fire.”
“Of course, my Lord of Storms. Whatever you need.” They’re super nervous, these two. Poor things look ready to fling themselves to the ground again, then think twice when Aron crosses his arms and head into the cottage itself.
I start to follow, but Aron puts a hand in front of me, indicating he should go first. He pulls out his sword, and I remember that everyone wants to kill us. Right. Better that the immortal guy goes in first. I wait as they all disappear inside for a long moment, rain splatting all over me, and then Aron finally appears in the doorway and nods, giving the all-clear.
Thank goodness.
I step inside, and it’s humid and smoky but there’s no more rain, so I’ll take it.
The interior of the cottage is clean, if dark. The floors are dirt, but there's a stone hearth along one wall that dominates the room and it has a cauldron of something that smells delicious bubbling over it. A wooden table sits across from the hearth, and herbs and dried roots hang in strings from the rafters. Off to one side, I can see a bed, and a second tiny room that has been set up for the baby, complete with cradle. There are barrels of goods and farm implements stacked in one corner, and everywhere there is clutter, but it seems cozy.
"Your home is lovely," I offer, sliding the hood of my sodden cloak off my head. It just feels good to get out of the rain.
Aron looks at me like I'm crazy, and the two farmers just duck their heads, still clearly frightened.
"We require supplies," Aron tells them imperiously. "Food and drink for travel. A mount. And my consort needs a bath."
"Dude, are you going to tell everyone we meet that I need a bath? You're going to give me a complex." I make a face at his back.
"I will until you stop smelling."
"I don't smell," I tell him, lifting my sleeve to my nose and inhaling. "I…oh god, okay, I still smell like sewer." Bile rises in my throat and I choke, waving a hand in the air. "Never mind."
Aron moves into the house and takes the best chair, the one by the fire that's probably for the pregnant woman. He sits on the edge of the seat