dry my throat is. He looks down at me with alarm and gives me a rough jostle. "You are not allowed to die."
"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