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."
"I have extra robes," the monk says in a cheery voice. "They are yours for the taking, as are my savings."
I cringe at that even as I sip the delicious, cold water. This guy sure is ready to give everything to Aron at a moment's notice. I worry we're going to ruin the poor guy's life just by dropping in and he's been so darn nice. I mean, we dropped in on Tadekha in a sense and look where she is now—at the bottom of a pile of rubble.