1774 words (7 minute read)

XVII: telephone

Ogma and Marian have been waiting with Ned once Ogma wakes up to a call from Oscar.

An hour or two later, Ned is pacing in concern. He can smell the fear trailing in before Alima even opens the door. “Did the Hunter go after you again?” He lunges up and checks her, but there’s no smell of ice and bone wafting around her. “How far does that bastard travel?!”

“Hey--Bulan, off.” She pushes at his chest like she usually does, but her calmness is the tired kind that comes after a shock.

“Come on, dog. Sit.” Ogma shifts Ned off of Alima, and Ned goes next to the couch with a grumble of protest. “What’s with the police portal, Alima? Something happen with the Folk again?”

She moves to the couch and twitches her fingers to call Ned over. “No, Owen got beat up by some guys.”

“Must have found out he’s gay,” Marian sighs. “Do you want anything to drink, girly?”

“Nah.” She ruffles Ned’s ears, and he puts his chin on her knee. “At least nobody’s in the hospital this time.” She stands and pats her leg for Ned to heel, then rolls her neck. “Come on, boy.”

In Alima’s room, Ned scratches at his bed and settles down safely out of view while Alima changes into pajamas. Sharing a room with your daughter is awkward when she doesn’t know you’re a dog. (Or still alive.)

-----
At ten or so, Marian goes to check on the Miller’s Mount after Oscar calls. That leaves Ogma and Ned in the house until at least afternoon.

Ogma stretches. “If Owen’s gotten into something all the way in Galway, someone found out about those damn Knights of Aaron five years back.”

“Extremists?” Ned asks.

“Yes. They’re like the Westboro Baptist Church, but instead of slapping you with a lawsuit if you attack them, they... retaliate.

“Oh.” He turns a few circles and then lies down against the couch. “So what happened to Owen back then?”

“People called him a changeling, and they just went on trying to kill him without even a test.” Ogma sighs. “We don’t take the changeling claim lightly, but how could they get to twenty without one sign of being part Folk? Owen has a damn car.

“But the Hunter stole Mal’s car, didn’t he?” Ned wonders.

“Well, the Hunter is nearly a god. Plus he’s stronger at night.” He flips through the channels until a short young man appears in the room. Water pools around his bare feet.

“Ogma, quick, I need your help with--whaaaat.” He blinks at Ogma with river-blue eyes, and his accent is a strange guttural form of British. “God, Ogma, what now?! You even got someone else cursed!”

“Nothing happened, Maidin, I just got old,” Ogma tells him, then rolls his eyes. “Wait, you saw me last year!”

“But that was in the Otherworld!” Maidin squints. “You’ve stayed the same in the soul.”

“Maidin, soul. Different. From. Body.” Ogma grabs an apple and tosses it over to him. “So what do you need?”

“There was a guy in my river a while ago,” Maidin begins after a bite. “See, the God’s men were after him because they mixed him up with the Folk, so he made an awesome speech that he wasn’t going to die and then he jumped straight into the fucking deep end! I managed to fish him out and keep him from freezing, and then I gave him one of my rocks and I really really hope he didn’t throw it away or... lose it... Fuck, it sounded better in my head!”

Ogma’s laughing at him in the unrestrained way of an old friend, but he stops after a thought. “Wait, are you talking about Owen?”

“Your grandson? Pfft.” Maidin flounces onto the couch after another bite. “Owen’s, what, this big?” He taps his chest with the apple.

Ogma sinks his eyes into his palm with a groan of realization. “He was eight when you last saw him! He was twenty when you helped him out of the river, and he’s twenty-five now! Twenty years is a long time for humans!”

“...Er...” The smell of shock is like burned meat, and it fills the living room. Ned can’t figure out whether to laugh or not, so he settles for panting. Maidin still catches it: “Shut it, wolfie! But Owen’s such a sweet and dreary little thing! He’s always running off into the woods and crying about--”

Was! He was like that! Maidin, twenty years! Long time! For humans!” Ogma repeats. As the river-boy tries admirably to grasp this, Ogma sighs. “Do you need a day to get your head around it?”

“I--I got it, it’s just... wow. Thanks, mate.” Maidin leaves with a wave. Both kinds--he waves goodbye to Ogma, and a small billow of river-water sloshes out from him as he vanishes.

Ned moves to a dry spot of the rug and paws at it, even though he knows it’s the same as the first half--damn dog instincts. After a couple of circles, he lies back down. “Are the Folk all like that? At least, the non-serial-killer ones.”

“No--Maidin’s river meanders a lot. He’s a good boy, just has a few wires loose.” Ogma checks the fridge--there’s a sandwich and some leftover pie.

“Hmm.” Ned sniffs at the water experimentally--it looks normal, but there’s a hint of magic in it. He doesn’t drink it, and the water leaves without a trace after a minute. “Is he an actual river, or does he just live in it?”

“In Ireland that’s pretty much the same--” Ogma jolts. “Oh, that bint! He kept gabbing on about Owen and I forgot to ask him about you!

-----
The god of love appears in Owen’s room, somewhere in the deep before morning. The curtains are shut, but Owen can feel him next to the bed--warm and red, like a heartbeat. “Fuck off, Aengus.” He turns his scar into the pillow.

“No yelling. Progress.” Aengus Og runs his fingers through the good side of Owen’s hair.

He makes a point of not reacting. “Nobody comes in until I say so. You swore it.”

“Ach, ye pretty lad, Brighid swore that. I swore no such thing.” He exaggerates that strange near-Scottish accent of his, then goes back to normal. “I said ‘I’d keep an eye on you,’ to be exact.”

Another presence arrives, or maybe he becomes aware of it. Smaller and mortal, with the smell of hot metal and leather: Teis. “Um... He said it was an emergency.” Teis puts his bag on the chair.

“Aengus, you bitch!” Owen’s hand clamps to his scar when the lamp goes on by itself. “It’s not a damn emergency, I--” He shuts it back off, but a shadow moves closer and he knows Teis is fumbling around for it. “No, don’t--Teis! I--AM--FINE!” He lunges.

The lamp crashes down, and there’s a slam against the wall. “Oh god. Oh god.” Owen spills over to the window and grabs the curtains. “Matthaeus? Shit.” His hands are shaking, so he does a weird half-cross by his waist. “I’m sorry, Matthaeus, you okay?”

“It sounded worse,” he answers, and lets out a breath as Aengus puts a hand to his neck. “So Aengus showed up in my living room saying you had an emergency, and what am I supposed to do besides leave Mom a voicemail and go? What happened?”

“Gay bashing happened. What else?” Owen grips his wrists and sits down on the bed. “They found out about the Knights of Aaron.”

“Mm.” Teis pries Owen’s hands apart, and red welts sting along his arms.

“I’m sorry,” he repeats, dreary. “I don’t even know why...” He flounders and curls into the blanket.

“You called your god of love a bitch,” Teis says. “That’s not exactly calm and logical.” He leans against the bedframe and rubs at Owen’s scratches.

Owen groans and thunks into the blanket. (But he doesn’t really mind when Teis shifts him onto his lap.) “Fuck you, Aengus. Go away.”

“Aye, a proper sweet lad is he.” The god chuckles, then sobers. “You need to ask for help more.” And before he leaves, Aengus stoops and puts his mouth to the bend of the scar.

It shudders through Owen like wind. He’s cold and hot and hurting all at once, and he doesn’t realize he’s twisting up on himself until Teis talks.

“Shh. It’s okay.” Teis wipes Owen’s eyes off and pulls clawing hands away from his hair. “I’m here. It’s okay.” He holds him until he falls asleep, seven minutes later.

A woman appears, and her hair floats golden. She greets him with a wave, though Teis still sighs. “Sif, he doesn’t want anyone here.”

“I’m your god, not his.” She eyes Owen cautiously: His mind is still boiling, though his breathing’s settled.

“I’m okay,” Teis assures her. “He just--he was freaking out and yelling that he was fine. Which clearly isn’t the case, but... he wasn’t trying to push me.”

“Well, honey, that’s understandable, but it doesn’t make it better.” She sits at the edge of the bed without a sound or a touch. It still wakes him up. She laughs then, but tenderly. “I figured.”

“Please leave,” he tells her, voice too blank for true calm. “I am not in a good mood right now.”

“You know, I’m just glad you’re not cussing her out,” Teis admits. He runs his fingers through the black, and some lingering chopped bits come away. He shakes them off his hand, but Sif catches them as they float down.

She twists them into proper locks, inspects them with a sigh, and holds them out to Teis. “You’ll have to improvise, sweetie. Aengus really should have warned us before hauling you off to Ireland.”

“Well, it’s more workable than hematite,” Teis muses. He rolls it between his fingers, but can’t feel the strands--it always surprises him how fine Owen’s hair is.

“Your hair is so nice,” Sif mourns.

“You want the rest of it? Go ahead.” But it’s a fragile defiance, and he hides his face in Teis’ shirt.

“No, don’t say that.” She reaches out to him. He thinks she’ll do it, and he tenses--but she takes his cold hands and heals up his scratches.

Next Chapter: XVIII: skipping stones