[https://i.imgur.com/vpxOs43.jpg]

For the fifth time that night, Alvir found himself adjusting the bedding on the new straw mattress. A hot cauldron of rabbit-bone-and-chestnut stew bubbled merrily in the fireplace beside him. He briefly caught sight of the flames and turned away; nowadays, even firelight seemed to him as bright as the noonday sun.

Alvir crossed to the remains of the paralytic toxin that still lay atop his work station. He tidied them up, then checked his stores of mint, lavender, passionflower, and ginger to confirm for the third time that they were, indeed, stocked to the brim.

Having undeniably exhausted all other possible preoccupations, Alvir settled for the rocking chair, a small block of wood, and a whittling knife.

The warm glow of the fire danced across his rich bronze skin, a typical shade among the Aborasians. Tumbled waves of loose black hair cascaded down his forehead. His eyes were dark and expressive, just beginning to yield to the ravages of time in the faint web of lines at their outer corners.

The focus and precision required of his task pushed aside the gnawing unease. He gently maneuvered the blade across the wood, carving away delicate, curling strips. He worked cautiously, determined to hold the image of a pony in his mind and bring it into reality, as Jana had taught him. His wife had shown him the fundamentals of woodcarving, but he'd never quite gotten the feel for it that she had.

Thoughts of Jana overtook his mind again, and he lowered his work with a small, distressed sigh. He rose from his chair to stir the stew one last time.

What if every fanciful tale of the Blessed Ones were true, and the Heir had no need of his medicines? What if he'd been fussing all this time over nothing? Perhaps he'd be compelled to worship and adulate upon laying eyes on this being; perhaps he'd curse himself for daring to presume that a commoner such as he could ever improve upon what was, and had always been, perfect.

He snapped upright at the faint sound of approaching hoofbeats. Seconds later, he'd snatched the lit lantern from the table and tumbled out into the cool night.

An imposing figure, whose stature would have given pause to anyone but Alvir, climbed the winding path of the hill alongside a sturdy chestnut mare. A featureless bundle of ragged hair and slender limbs, wrapped in the folds of her cloak, slumped over the mare's neck. Clover snorted expectantly, and Alvir stepped forward to stroke her mane.

"Stopped by Laetera for additional supplies," Jana said, and glanced up at their new guest. "This one tore through a week's worth of provisions."

Alvir reached up to caress her face.

"You're not hurt?"

She covered his hand with her own. "Of course not."

"The toxin, did it work?"

"Aye, most of them lived. Though perhaps now, they'll wish they hadn't."

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Jana assisted the liberated prisoner with his dismount. Though he had to be sixteen, given the death year of Rava's previous incarnation, he was barely larger than a child, and hardly a divine one at that. No different from any other malnourished and mistreated youth whom Alvir had cared for in the past. All potential for reverence or awe dissolved like spun sugar in water.

"He needs food and a good scrubbing," he said briskly. "Any signs of illness?"

"Aside from starvation? Nothing I've seen in the past six days. But you're the specialist, dear husband."

Alvir reached for the boy to lead him inside, but he balked like a frightened animal and staggered backward against Jana. She carried him into the golden glow of their home while Alvir led Clover to the pen behind the cottage.

The boy slumped forward in his chair at the table, tightly gripping the hem of Jana's cloak around his shoulders. Alvir set a hot bowl of stew before him, whose savory aroma prompted him to raise his filthy head and sniff hopefully. One dark, almost violet eye emerged from the wild thicket of hair.

Jana was already deep into her own bowl, tearing off chunks of bread between contented slurps, paying little heed to the goings-on across from her.

Alvir dipped a spoon into the boy's stew, blew on it, and held it to his mouth. The boy flinched and retreated into the folds of the cloak, mumbling wordlessly. "You need nourishment," Alvir said gently. "I can restore your health and strength, but I need your help to do so. It's delicious, I assure you." He swallowed the spoonful himself.

The boy stared with an unblinking intensity. His eyes flickered to the spoon in Alvir's hand; he reached for it, and Alvir obliged.

The first bite was hesitant, but the following ones certainly weren't. Alvir smiled at the pure, childlike intensity on the boy's face as he devoured the stew, but his joy was tinged with bitterness as he considered the countless years in which this young prisoner had been denied the simple joys of a warm, filling meal.

By the time he finished, he and his section of the table were drenched. He wiped his mouth with the back of a grimy hand, which smeared a stripe of stew across his face. Jana had polished off her second serving.

"Go on up to bed," Alvir said to her. "You need rest."

"By your command," she said drily. She rose to her feet and stretched; her palms flattened against the ceiling as she yawned. "Settle him in, quickly. I've missed a certain someone's company these past few nights."

"He must be charming indeed, for you to pine so deeply."

She bent forward across the table and lightly pecked his lips. "Come upstairs, and I'll show you just how deeply I pined."

Alvir couldn't suppress a rising blush. Even a decade on, Jana could set him aflutter with barely an effort.

Yet tonight, the boy took precedence. She knew this and had chosen to tempt him anyway. What a cruel woman you are.

As Jana retreated upstairs, Alvir set about heating water for a bath. The boy remained motionless as he watched him work, and only when Alvir began lowering him into the wooden tub did he start to protest again, mewling and wriggling like a desperate wildcat.

This struggle of wills lasted through the remainder of the night, until at last the boy settled down in the then-tepid water. Alvir blinked exhaustion from his eyes as he gently scrubbed away years of accumulated grime from the boy's skin and hair. By the time he finished, the water in the bath was an ugly, opaque gray, and sunrise was upon them.

But the sight of his newly-clean charge was heartening. The boy's skin was sickly pale yet miraculously free of blemishes or sores, his hair--a rich gold beneath the filth--strikingly offset by ink-dark eyes. His features were hollowed and gaunt, but shaped with undeniable nobility.

So the tales were true, at least to some extent.

Alvir clothed him in one of his own night shirts and led him to the mattress tucked into the corner beside the fireplace. "You should rest." Alvir stifled a yawn. "As should I."

The boy took a few surprisingly steady steps and kneeled beside the mattress, then slumped forward and curled into a ball, his damp hair fanned out beneath him.

Alvir laid Jana's cloak over his frail body, and as he looked down upon the boy, his heart swelled unbearably with something both terrifying and wonderful.