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There were six pomegranate seeds in the palm of Aventurine’s hand. Six unassuming seeds, plump with juice, leaving red stains on his skin. Six seeds that could alter the course of his fate forever, if only he were to eat them.
Another’s hand took one of the seeds and pressed it delicately to Aventurine’s lips. He opened his mouth with a sigh, let the ripe fruit fall on his tongue, burst between his teeth.
It tasted sweet.
◇
The war of the gods ended with a whimper.
No sooner had the last Primordial One closed their eyes, having acknowledged a changing of the guard, the Stonehearts established their pantheon atop the corpses of their opponents. They had an empire to build, a world order to reestablish. Decades ago, when the war first started, Aventurine had brimmed with the desire to do so.
Now? He was so, so tired.
He was also bleeding out.
It wasn’t a fatal wound by any stretch of the imagination. There was some sort of irony, though, in him lying at the doorstep to the realm of the dead, oozing ichor from his abdomen. A final parting gift from his predecessor who had smiled when she gave it to him. “Something to remember me by,” she had said, as if he didn’t have reason enough to remember—to resent—her by.
He wondered if maybe he should reach his claws in and dig the wound a little deeper. Sink them into his golden flesh and tear out his insides. He could rest then. He wouldn’t be missed. The Stonehearts weren’t sentimental for each other by any stretch of the imagination.
There wasn’t time for him to ponder this course of action before, in a swirl of shadow and brimstone, a figure appeared before him.
Ratio.
The only god who hadn’t gotten involved with the war. The only god who could say he had both won and lost—the god of death and the world below. “I will not fight for any side,” was what he had said, when battle lines had been drawn. “But I will remind you all that even gods die. When you do, I will judge you as I judge every soul that passes through my land.”
Now, he said, “A heaven-dweller, staining my doorstep. How novel.”
“My apologies,” Aventurine replied.
Neither of them commented on the fact that he didn’t sound sorry at all.
“Have you come here in search of assistance, or is your presence mere happenstance?” Ratio asked.
“The latter,” said Aventurine. He smiled up at Ratio, radiating his usual level of charm. It felt hollow, now. “Although if you were to offer me a bed until I recover, I certainly wouldn’t say no.”
Ratio gave him an assessing look. He stared into Aventurine’s eyes long enough that Aventurine found himself wanting to squirm at the scrutiny. Something about Ratio’s unwavering, piercing gaze discomforted him, made him feel as though he could hide nothing because Ratio would find all.
“Only just won the war and already skirting your duties?” Ratio said, finally.
Aventurine winced.
If the notion bothered him, Ratio didn’t say. Rather, he said nothing at all, simply turned and walked back into the shadows from whence he came. He left behind a door, though—a portal to follow him by. It was as close to an invitation as Aventurine would ever get. Not one to look this gift horse in the mouth, Aventurine lurched to his feet with a groan and followed him into the dark.
◇
Ratio gave him a room to rest in, bandages for his wound, and a set of three rules to follow: never interfere with his work, never approach the border of Tartarus, and never eat the food of the Underworld.
“It is only meant for the dead,” said Ratio. “If the living eat it, they become bound here.”
“I suppose it’s a good thing that gods need only feed on ambrosia, every now and then,” Aventurine replied.
Ratio ignored him. “Arrangements can be made, if you wish to have food from the world above. Let one of the palace shades know in advance and they will accommodate you.”
The shades, echoes of the dead that staffed the palace, had no faces and no names. They followed a set schedule, Aventurine came to learn. The Underworld had no day or night, but when the shades wandered the palace halls, the world above was awake, and when they disappeared to rest, so too did the world above sleep.
The Underworld itself was different than Aventurine expected. It was dark, yes, but the pathways in the land outside the palace were all lit with dim lanterns, little stars in the inky pelt of night. The palace was carved from black stone, but there was a lightness to the place that made it feel—almost airy. Everywhere he went, the walls glittered with precious gems, each emitting their own glow to light the way. The palace floors, made of white marble, reflected their light.
Aventurine expressed his surprise to Ratio.
“Did you think we scurried around like rats in the dark?” Ratio replied.
“Something like that,” Aventurine said breezily.
Ratio let out a huff. Aventurine swore it sounded like a laugh.
◇
Aventurine’s wound looked worse than it felt.
It was ugly, four long scratches gouged into his skin, where his predecessor’s claws had raked across him with a final burst of ferocity. It still oozed ichor-blood, golden and syrupy, but the flow had slowed since his Underworld arrival. Aventurine hissed as he felt along the edges of it—even gods felt pain. A wound delivered by another divine being was bound to sting for a long time. At least it didn’t threaten his life.
He held up the edge of his tunic with his teeth. With careful, practiced motions, he cleaned the wound, washing away the ichor and the dirt. This wasn’t the first time he’d had to treat a wound of his—Aventurine was, after all, mortal once.
Before he was god of fortune, Aventurine was simply human. It was upon his death—a gamble gone wrong—that a Primordial One cast their gaze on him and ascended him to ethereal heights. A human, reborn divine, as most gods now were. The Stonehearts, at least, were made up entirely of once-human beings who now had power beyond their wildest imaginations.
Aventurine remembered, as a boy, how much he had wanted power. The power to stop the Katicans from massacring his people. The power to give his mother and his sister a better, richer life. The power to end all fighting, to bring forth bountiful harvests, to be free. Dreams of a boy whose world had been nothing but struggle and suffering, from birth to death.
He unwound the bandages Ratio had given him and wrapped his wound, securing the bandages tightly. The pressure was comforting. A sharp reminder that he was alive.
The boy may have died, but the man—the god—survived. More than that, he thrived. He had a throne now, all the power in the world and a heavenly domain to call his own.
So why did he feel such emptiness, such dread, at the thought of returning to it?
◇
Two gods thus fell into a quiet routine.
In the mornings, Aventurine would have tea, sometimes bread and honey from the above world, and about half the time, Ratio would join him. Then Ratio would disappear to attend to his duties—the god of death was always busy, Aventurine learned, for death itself never slept—and reappeared in the evenings to take tea with his guest. Most often, they would spend the last hours of the day in the gardens, lined with trees and flowers made of crystal, or in the library, the largest room in the palace, larger than even the throne room and the grand entrance.
“What do you do, when you disappear all day?” asked Aventurine once.
“I guide souls,” Ratio replied. “Their deeds in life determine their place in death—the virtuous to the Elysium Fields, the average to the Asphodel Plains, and the wicked to Tartarus.”
Aventurine asked to accompany him for a day. Ratio had replied, “Do as you like,” which Aventurine had come to learn was death-god speak for “yes.”
Watching Ratio work was fascinating. While Ratio had scales that determined where souls were sent in his absence, when he did choose to sit on his throne and cast judgment himself, he did so with surprising kindness. When a soul wanted to know why they were being sent to the Asphodel Plains, Ratio explained it to them, complete with a list of examples. If they wanted to know what lay beyond the Underworld, in the great after, Ratio offered them the best description he could of the unknown.
“I wondered if you would have disdain for humanity, having to judge them and seeing their flaws up close. So many other gods do,” Aventurine said, when the throne room was empty save for the two of them and some meandering shades. “But you don’t, do you? You… care.”
Ratio stood from his throne and went to inspect the large, golden scales of judgment. “You aren’t the first to say something of the sort.”
“Oh?”
“Mm,” Ratio swept his gaze over Aventurine briefly, then turned away again. “Perhaps I would have been a different, crueler god, if I did not care. This domain that I am lord of, I couldn’t rule it if I held hate for humankind. Not when every human soul ends up here, lost, looking to me for guidance—to the undying realms and beyond.”
“Does it not test your compassion, when you encounter souls destined for Tartarus?” asked Aventurine.
“No,” Ratio replied. “For every golden soul, there is a sullied one, and a dozen more who simply… are. Humans aren’t unlike gods in that way—they all have their own motives, make their own choices, and come to learn that for every choice there is a consequence.”
A pause, then Ratio scoffed. “I rather prefer humans to gods. At least humans frequently seek to better themselves—gods assume because of their divinity, they have no need to do so. I loathe complacency.”
“I’ll keep that in mind,” said Aventurine, quiet, contemplative.
“Do,” Ratio said, and led him out.
◇
Ratio never asked him about his wound. Likewise, Aventurine never told him that it had healed.
The wound was long gone, leaving behind only four silvery scars—if it took a god to kill another god, it was unsurprising that it took a god to scar one. Aventurine got the feeling that Ratio already knew, but if neither said anything, neither had to acknowledge that Aventurine should have long returned home by now.
Aventurine liked to think that Ratio had come to appreciate his company. At least a little. He certainly tolerated it—otherwise he would have thrown him out months ago. Instead, he continued to take tea with Aventurine, continued to share with him his favorite books from the library, and continued to listen to his idle chatter.
He wondered if Ratio was lonely, by himself in the Underworld.
Aventurine wondered if he was lonely, surrounded by Stonehearts.
“You have that look on your face again,” said Ratio.
“Hm? What look?” Aventurine asked.
“The contemplative one,” Ratio said. They were in the dead-king’s private gardens, with evergreen trees made of emerald and small maples, ruby red. “It’s unsettling on you.”
Aventurine laughed.
“Are you calling me airheaded, my lord?” he teased. “Should I be taking offense?”
“Take what you like,” replied Ratio. “I’m merely making an observation. When you’re with me, at least, you have a tendency to speak before you think.”
It struck Aventurine then: Ratio was teasing him. Breaking him out of his musings with a light-hearted poke. Aventurine hadn’t realized Ratio was capable. It delighted him.
“What can I say, Ratio? My tongue can’t help but loosen in the charming presence of the Lord of the Underworld,” said Aventurine.
Ratio heaved a sigh. Without heat, he said, “You vex me to no end.”
“You’re most welcome,” Aventurine replied brightly.
He tilted his head in Ratio’s direction, casting his gaze upon him. Ratio was still looking at the garden jewels, his hand tangling in emerald leaves and brushing them aside to reach the smoky quartz branches. There was the faintest outline of a smile ghosting his lips. The tight, hollow feeling in Aventurine’s chest, loosened.
What a lovely sight.
◇
“Here,” Ratio said, appearing before him one evening. He had in his hand a key.
“What’s this?” Aventurine asked, looking up from his book.
“The hallway of rooms near the library—it is an archive of the dead. The shades found the room dedicated to the Avgin people,” Ratio said.
Aventurine’s mouth was dry. He took the key with shaking hands. “You knew?”
“Your eyes,” Ratio said quietly. “I am likely the only person left alive who would recognize them. It… has been a long time since the last Avgin passed through my kingdom. All have moved on.”
Except for one, he didn’t say.
“So I truly am the last,” Aventurine muttered.
He’d known it to be true before—when he had ascended to godhood, when his mortal blood had been replaced with ichor and his skin had turned golden, he had used his newfound power to search for any remaining souls of his people and found none. Knowing that they had come here to be guided by Ratio through the dead-lands and beyond—when they were ready to fade into oblivion, as all spirits eventually did—was a strangely comforting thought.
“There may be no Avgins left for you to meet, but we collect more than souls here. We collect records, relics of every civilization that has existed, including yours. I thought—” Ratio glanced away. “The key opens every archive. Ask any shade in the library and they will show you where the Avgin room is.”
He turned to leave. Aventurine’s hand shot out and grabbed his arm. They both startled.
“Thank you,” Aventurine said quickly. “For this. For—all of it.”
Ratio inclined his head, acknowledging.
“Would—would you show me? The way,” Aventurine asked.
“If that’s what you’d prefer,” said Ratio.
And so Aventurine followed Ratio through the halls of the obsidian palace, past the kitchens and the living quarters and all the way to the library. Just a step beyond the grand doors was a seemingly endless hallway, as Ratio had said, lined with a countless number of doors. Each door was for people who had come before, and there were empty rooms for people who had yet to be.
Ratio walked him to a door marked with an achingly familiar language. Aventurine’s hand came up without thinking to touch the words. It had been so, so long since he had last seen the tongue of his people. He didn’t think anything of theirs still existed.
The key in his other hand trembled. Ratio took pity on him and waved his hand in front of the door; it swung open, forfeiting the need for the key at all. Gently, he nudged Aventurine inside.
It was beautiful. It felt like stepping back in time. Shelves lined with books in a forgotten tongue, with pottery and artwork and tools that Aventurine recognized were once used by craftsmen, tradesmen. The walls held paintings and tapestries, woven records of his peoples’ history.
Ratio was looking at him, when he finally turned around.
“My mother,” Aventurine started. Swallowed. He could hardly believe he was going to say this. “My mother named me Kakavasha. It means ‘of the dawn.’ She… always thought it would bring us luck. That I would bring us luck.”
“Was luck so sorely needed?” asked Ratio.
“I was born at the start of the hostility between the Katicans and the Avgins. We knew we were outnumbered, outmatched. My mother… She believed that I was a lucky child, that Gaiathra herself had blessed me and that I would lead us to salvation,” Aventurine said. He frowned. “My mother died protecting me and my sister, when the Katicans attacked for the first time. My sister held onto the same hope my mother did—and the Katicans killed her, too.”
“I’m sorry,” Ratio said.
Aventurine shrugged. “It’s old history. After they died, there were so few of us Avgins left—those who survived were all sold into slavery. I killed my master and, with the help of some other kind, brave souls, escaped.”
He stared at the ground for a moment.
“I looked for them after I ascended. The people who helped me. There were none left—all killed, just as my people were. I should have been named the god of misfortune, for all the luck I bring,” Aventurine laughed bitterly. “At least I could say I ascended too late. What could Gaiathra say, when she could have stopped what happened? Where was she, when her devout followers were dying?”
Ratio said nothing, watched him with unwavering eyes.
“I asked her, when I found her. She said everyone had a time, and the Avgin people’s time had come. I burned, Ratio. I was so angry. When Diamond offered me a seat on his new pantheon, I told him my only condition was that I wanted to be the one to kill my predecessor.”
“It was she who wounded you,” Ratio surmised. “When I found you at my doorstep. I felt the shift in power, when she passed. I should have made the connection, but she chose not to walk through my halls. She faded into oblivion directly, instead.”
“She barely fought back,” Aventurine said. “Got in one good blow and then—nothing. I killed her and all I felt afterward was empty.”
“I doubt she wanted to live,” Ratio said eventually. “I’ve seen it before. Gods, weary of their role, allowing themselves to fall and fade. You were a means to an end, for her.”
“She was the last of her pantheon,” Aventurine said. “It’s ironic, isn’t it? The last of her followers was the one to kill her. The last of one people ending another. The god of fortune replacing the goddess of luck.”
“Such is life, and death,” murmured Ratio.
Silence fell between them. Aventurine wasn’t sure whether he wanted to laugh or cry. He felt drained. He found the nearest seat and all but fell into it, slumping forward with a heavy sigh.
Being here, in the Underworld, had given him space to breathe. He’d felt actual peace here that he hadn’t felt in—ever. First with the Avgin massacre, then with his life as a slave, then his death and ascendence, and finally the war. Aventurine had been on the run for a long time and he was tired. The Underworld was, in its own way, healing. Only, Aventurine had forgotten that sometimes in the healing process, wounds got torn open again.
“My name is Veritas,” Ratio finally said. “You are the only one who knows it. All those who once did are now gone.”
It was the kindest gift anyone had ever given him. Aventurine felt the familiar heat of tears in the corners of his eyes. How strange, that the god of the dead would also be a god of such tenderness.
“Thank you, Veritas,” he whispered.
“Kakavasha,” Ratio returned, and left him to his thoughts.
◇
Aventurine knew that he would have to return to the heavens eventually. It was an ever-looming truth in the back of his mind: for as long as he was a Stoneheart, he would always have a duty to attend to.
Before, during the war, he couldn’t have imagined that he would have wanted to be anywhere but the heavens. Now, he wished he didn’t have to go back.
The solution came to him late one night, after all the palace shades had settled to rest and he and Ratio were the only ones still awake. Ratio had left him in the library and found him again in the garden, with its emerald trees and crystal flowers, holding in his hands a single pomegranate, split in half.
Aventurine asked, “Would you hate me, if I ate from it?”
Ratio watched him carefully. Where once his gaze felt perturbing, with how it sought to expose all of Aventurine’s secrets, it was now a comfort—to be known, to be seen.
“No,” Ratio said slowly. “But I do not wish you to be chained here. You are meant to be free, Aventurine.”
His name sounded like the loveliest song, coming from Ratio. He’d never liked it half as much before as he did now, in this moment.
“I’m already in chains, Ratio,” said Aventurine. His tone was gentle but Ratio frowned anyway. “For as long as I am a Stoneheart, I will always have duties I can’t escape. Not without forfeiting my divinity.”
Or my life, he didn’t say, but both he and Ratio both knew the truth without it having to be said.
“This,” Aventurine held up one half of the pomegranate. “Wouldn’t be another cage. Rather, keys to my freedom. I would have somewhere—someone—to always escape to.”
“And you wish that place to be here,” said Ratio, disbelieving but – Aventurine knew him better now, could hear the underlying longing in his words. They were, after all, the same. Both lonely, both wanting.
“I wish it to be you,” Aventurine said.
Ratio closed his eyes, steadying himself. He stepped close, took the pomegranate half from Aventurine’s hand and used his thumb to pry out a cluster of seeds. They leaked red juice over his nails, his skin. Aventurine wanted to sweep his tongue over the trail they left.
“Six seeds then,” Ratio murmured. “I will have you for half the year and the heavens may have you for the other half.”
“And we can revisit the number later?” Aventurine had to ask.
“When the time comes,” replied Ratio.
Every year, a choice. It was more than Aventurine could have ever asked for. He held out his palm obligingly for Ratio, who placed in the center of it six perfect seeds. Aventurine moved to swallow them all in one motion but stayed his hand when Ratio wrapped his around his wrist.
“Let me,” Ratio said lowly.
He took a seed and pressed it to Aventurine’s mouth. Aventurine parted his lips and sighed as the first seed slipped in, closed his eyes and relished the taste as he bit into it. Again, again, again, Ratio fed him until the last seed was gone, and all that was left was sticky red on his mouth, and that Ratio chased with his lips.
It was everything Aventurine didn’t know he was waiting for. The kiss felt like a goodbye. The kiss felt like coming home.
“In the morning, I will leave,” said Aventurine, when they parted. “But I’ll always come back to you.”
“Good,” Ratio replied, and drew him in for another kiss.
◇
It was strange, being in the world of the living again.
The last time he was here, he’d been bleeding out on the barren ground. Fed by his ichor-blood, the area had become lush with green and gold, the colors of life itself. It was beautiful, this world. Aventurine couldn’t quite say he missed it, but he could appreciate it more now.
It was, after all, easier to stand in the sun, knowing he had shade to return to.