Work Text:
It is not quite yet dawn, so his dark skin glows only faintly as he stands barefoot in the sand looking toward town, toward a thin house with two windows like eyes in its upper story. The blinds are closed, of course. They would be closed even at midday. He does not live there any longer, and no one else needs the light.
No. No one else needed the light. Someone will need it soon.
He is listening for shrieks, for cries, for the hint of a groan or whimper, all those messy sounds of life he once disdained for breaking the order of silence. In truth, he disdains them still. Perhaps it is just as well he can hear nothing but the ocean at his back. Its regular crash and hiss are soothing, and almost cover the rustle of cloth as another takes form beside him.
He does not do her the favor of turning his head. She does not expect him to.
"He comes now," she says, after the waves have risen and fallen more times than a mortal could count. More times than he could count, now. He misses the simple peace and clarity of numbers stretching on into infinity. "There. His first cry." He cannot hear it; one more thing they have taken from him.
Once, he would not have cared.
"Why are you here?" he asks, hating the way his tongue moves, wet and supple, in his mouth. He has seen little need for words since leaving Oree. But he knows she will not let him be until he speaks.
"I am the mistress of life," she reminds him.
"There is no life in there," he says. Only a demon, a forbidden thing. He wonders sometimes if he engendered it merely to have a threat in hand against them, against the siblings he once loved.
No. That is a lie, two lies, and he is Bright Itempas, for all that his glow has already risen and faded while they wait. He does not lie.
The woman who is not--will never be--Enefa shrugs. "I am the mistress of death as well."
"And you come to see me laid low," he says. "You come to see me sneak like a thief to the birth of my son. You come to tell me I do not deserve a family, having ripped my first apart." There is no bitterness to his tone. He is the lord of justice, and his judgment is final, without mercy.
He hears the sand stir beneath her feet as she shifts, turning to face him. He does not want to meet her gaze, but he will not be forced to turn away. His face is blank as he stares down at her. There is nothing to see in the mirrors of his eyes.
"No, Itempas," she says gently, and he hates that most of all. Justice does not flourish in the face of pity. "I come to be your family. To stand together, as families do, when a new member is born." She falls silent for a measured pause. His face still says nothing. "I will watch over him," she says at last. "I will see he comes to no harm."
While you are not here, she means. He knows a dismissal when he hears one. He has issued more than his share.
He does not bow. He walks past her, his footsteps heavy on the shifting sands, past this town that has been closed to him. The sunlight is warm on his back, but never warm enough.
Her smile is soft and a little sad as she watches him go.