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Chapter Text

Sunlight flickered over the shadows of the trees, thin scratches of gold growing longer as I summoned and condensed more of the wonderfully loose and gorgeous strings of matter that was Me into a passable, remarkably handsome human form (with all the joints in the correct places, of course). For you see, on the chalky-red rocks I now stood on, by some rising Norman town on the east coast of medieval Ireland, today was the day some ally King they liked was… doing something-or-other (returning, perhaps?), and I would be lying if I said I wasn’t curious as to how these particular – pardon my language – bastards partied.

Late to the festivities as I already anticipated myself to be, I brushed aside several low-hanging frilly-looking branches (look, this was an aspect of myself concerned with nobility and the politics of the eastern Roman Empire, and hence, whose interests laid in places other than foreign vegetation, Diana!) and power-walked through the town’s heavy defensive walls and towards thatched roofs, kicking a fairly large rock or two out of the way and hissing mournfully at the chalk now staining the tips of my shoes. 

I followed the general sounds of chatter and excited murmurings through the comparatively-cleaner paved paths, when I realised I was getting glances that were a little too long, and not in near-pious admiration. I scanned my general surroundings for any catastrophic events I was uncouthly ignoring, finding only scattered chalk, then checked my fashionable clothing for any distasteful stains, or perhaps yet another ‘kick me’ sign taped to my back – and found nothing. Then, it hit me – I had manifested in the clothing of Byzantine nobility, whilst attending a celebration of a King who was, to be frank, hardly appropriately welcomed by the Romans, and in similarly hardly-appropriate light attire for the coastal windy weather – like the fool I was! 

Sighing with utter misery in my mind, voice and also chlamys, I snapped my fingers in the most unenthusiastic manner I could gather, removing my gorgeous, richly-woven silks and assorted precious jewellery and instead replacing them with an acceptable dress I saw in an illuminated manuscript the other century or so. Something to get used to I suppose, aha! Darn Westernisation. 

Anyway, post-miserably-blending-into-the-(rich-part-of-the)-crowd, I passed a couple of shoddy signs and tunnels and finally came across a large building holding the meager beginnings of a crowd and laid-out tables – presumably for a market being prepared! 

Now, I must confess, I got rather carried away and forgot the ‘mild, patronising curiosity’ part of my excuse to come here. I was having a wonderful time holding long and meaningful conversations with the sellers at the stalls (yes, both ugly and beautiful alike – I told myself I had come here to meet new people, having little experience with the former) and wandering through the various steep, paved streets when I eventually, by following the smell of freshly-baked bread, somehow found my way to a muddy scuffle between some soldiers. 

Distaste slid down my throat and sloshed into my hypothetical esophagus like soggy bread slurry. In my experience, these – ahem – chauvinistic posturing contests, let’s say, were largely like Diana’s turn to wash the dishes: awful, filled with periodic clashes which rang through your meninges like several aged trees faced with Great Paul barrelling down a mountainside, and the harbinger of collateral damage. Nevertheless, I was in a particular mood – or rather, this particular aspect of me was a little nosy (or arrogant. I do tend to be quite arrogant, don’t I? Oh, look at me being self aware! The horror!) and I decided I wanted in on the drama. The hot goss, as the kids say. 

I totally nonchalantly sauntered closer to the edge of the – mind you, rather poorly carved fence, I must say I was not impressed by the quality of the woodwork in this place! Atrocious, quite frankly, I couldn’t even give it a patronising ‘ how quaint’ or even a condescending ‘it has a local charm to it’ – when I was pulled from my criticisms with a particularly dramatic clash of silver blades. 

I coolly struggled amongst the crowd that had started to gather so I could take a closer look and, with a cunning, well-aimed glance through the side of my eye, recognised the familiar red-and-white cross of – I shuddered – crusaders. The very bastards I had come here for. And no, Meg, them loudly boasting about their journey had nothing to do with my prior knowledge! Honestly, kids these days. 

Anyway, chastising the youth aside, I really hated those guys! Nasty things, really. All stealing the people I kind of, maybe, was supposed to have liked and randomly charging into places that weren’t theirs and whatnot. In my opinion, they had been getting a little over excited as of late, fringing on Roman territories on their excursions. Well, I couldn’t care much about the land politics and such of that time, but I must admit, the zealous passion of some towards their God teetered in ways I recognised in some particularly nasty nobility who, back in the day, conquered land ‘in my name’, ‘by my advising’ – when I most certainly did NOT do so!

Regardless of these distasteful fellows (I do keep going off topic, don’t I?), I was admittedly still rather excited to witness a part of the origins of what (in my wholly objective opinion, obviously) would truly become one of the finest sports in history! 

The horses looked magnificent in their caparisons, and in such splendid colours! Although, obviously, none held even a candle to the unmatched grandeur of Roman Imperial dyes. 

Hmm. Taking a closer look, one seemed an awfully odd horse for a joust. Rather like one of the horses I remember dear old Alexander rode faithfully (no, I am not referring to Hephaestion), coarse and healthy hair whipping through the familiar violet sky of the Athenian mountaintops (I am still referring to the horse)...

I wandered forwards, eyes squinting with focus as I tried to get a closer look, pointedly ignoring the lump forming in my throat and also the fence, apparently. 

Oh yes, the fence. That was now on the dirt. Hmm. Oh, like me! My face was covered in the stuff! Goodness, I really was terrible with attention toda– 

And this, dear reader and also Meg apparently, is where I found the most dashing, chivalrous, humble, charming man in all of the high-medieval pre-renaissance West, charging towards me on his strangely-reflective horse, red eyebrows handsomely furrowed with concern in a manner that would have been intense were it not for the worry and concern set deep in his wet blue eyes, which, I must say, created a rather tantalising combination of a man, his biceps tight beneath worn chainmail – Oh Meg, come now, I’m giving you the important information! He was a very handsome man! Besides, not that I mindyour company, but you shouldn’t even be here! 

Oh, alright then. Where was I? Ah, getting run over. 

I felt a faint drop of wet something on my cheek and I yelped like a manly dog. I stumbled to my feet, hearing a sloppy clip-clop of wet hooves approaching, and slipped in the dirt again. I laid there, hoping that that detestable bastard Gaea would finally claim me, when I felt a hesitant pressure on my waist and a gasp escape me as I found myself in the firm (hush!) arms of the knight himself. 

As I studied his strong, faintly-stubbled jawline and ignored the sound coming out of his mouth, I knew what I would be doing for the next few decades or so. I would find this kindly, strong man and woo him or at least fall into his arms once again (or perhaps become and remain an acquaintance, Meg, this is for you, I did have an understanding that not everyone was attracted to men and, therefore, me) and so began one of the longest courtships I have ever had the pleasure and horror of sustaining.

Chapter Text

In my many, many years as a beautiful, handsome, gorgeous, stunning et cetera. deity and supremely powerful immortal being, I have found myself as the patient of a medical professional less times than I have eyes. This number, of course, is oft tempestuous and mercurial, given that we are talking about a such superfluous and multi-faceted deity as myself – however, when I find my eyes trained on whichever poor soul happens to be carrying out a medieval PERRLA eye test on me, this is typically not a very difficult criteria to meet. Wha– Meg! Ow! (For the benefit of the reader: when I sent this document as an email to Sally Jackson for another set of eyes to check over and edit my rusty writer’s voice, Meg read this over her shoulder and made the journey up Olympus, to my palace, manoeuvred her way past security, discovered I was not there, tracked me down, punched my left pectoral and loudly demanded I ‘stop being goddy but, like, in a lame way’. As a tribute to her great efforts, I have included a brief few references to acknowledge this event.) 

I’ll summarise this in a concise way that your sleepy Meg brain – ironic considering the lack of homework I’m seeing be completed – will understand: I noticed that the very, very nice man who picked me up out of the way of several charging horses (a dubious estimate) seemed very unsettled when I woke up and stared at him a little too much and a little too long, possibly translating my desire to see him into his experienced reality, because I liked what I saw. Unfortunately, not everyone is built to handle hot abstract, conceptual, and-slash-or metaphysical men at first glance. (Pun intended, I am a somewhat-functioning father.) 

My view gradually phased into focus to see this kindly man flinch hard, bushy eyebrows furrowed, muscles tensing for a moment against the stone walls. I was wholly unprepared as his gravelly, molten voice hit me for the first time with a murmured “good Lord Christ above,” in some strange language I did not know as he gathered himself and checked my wrists, pointedly avoiding eye contact (which I thought quite rude considering my efforts), then neatly folding his calloused palms in his lap. 

We respectively lay and sat there, terribly silently, for what could have been longer than my once-attempted self porcupine-quill removal surgery that took place after I laid one too many landmines outside Artemis’ tent. The shenanigans we would get up to as young hunting gods! I would suggest that I could have counted each medullary ray of the support beams in this… hospital, I assumed, for the length of time neither of us said a word, were it not for the dense fog wrapped around my brain at that minute. In fact, I had attempted to count said rays several times, yet stopped in frustration once I realised that I was simply counting concentric ellipses as one line repeatedly! Truly, someone ought to make wood-ray-counting more accessible for the temporarily-concussed (or so I assumed, because if you were unable to infer as such, I hadn’t a clue of what the heck! ^TM was going on)! What a travesty. 

Now, dear reader, whilst you – in whatever modern times you may be reading this in – would be familiar with my current unrepentant active ignorance against feeling awkward or lacking in any social situation whatsoever, I must confess that in the context of my long, long lifetime, this attribute of mine was somewhat of a comparatively recent development. At this point in my life, I still felt I had the dignity of at least some vague form of respected administrator in the lands I was once worshipped in, and therefore, felt a responsibility for the cloudy, awkward atmosphere that was steadily sinking in as a distasteful backdrop to this bizarre situation. For the gods’ sakes, I still didn’t know where I was or what the name of the beautiful man checking my pulse (I assumed) even was! Tartarus below, I haven’t even mentioned the fact that I had somehow been knocked unconscious! Me! 

So. You must forgive me for what I said to him. And yes, this being the very first thing I said to him after he so politely saved me from a, frankly, embarrassing fate, does not help my case. Nevertheless, I have confessed much, much, much worse to the open public, so we (I) must charge onwards. 

“Those arms… they could… I wonder how many lands those arms have… gotten… what if they – could they get?” I rasped submissively. “Me?” 

He startled and started coughing erratically. I watched his pomum Adami (Adam’s apple, Meg) raise like a flag as he cleared his throat, eyes flicking to my right ear. 

“Conquer?” I whimpered hopefully. 

I watched as he clutched the ends of his seat, fingers curling beneath my current pathetic line of sight, and pushed himself up onto his feet (hey, that rhymes!). He stood at a very, very good height in my opinion, sunrays perched on the tops of his shoulders, preening his deltoidei (his deltoids, Meg). Rust light adorned the edges of his silhouette’s head. I found my eyes being drawn to a spot further beneath his right deltoideus, wrist unscrewing thick muscle, wide even without the padding he wore in that joust of sorts. He spoke hesitantly, yet firmly, clearly intimidated by my immeasurable greatness. 

“I… am currently not beholden to a land at this moment.” 

Oh, for the good of all the heavens, cry ‘pseudomantis!’, decry my false magic in oracy! Foolish, foolish god! Imagine, if you will, me whacking my head against the palm of my hand, with the exuberance Meg is displaying right now as she shoves the leftovers of my wonderful bacon-omelette extravaganza into both her mouth and my bastard ravens’. What a horrendous faux pas! I found myself musing about the various Abrahamic-themed horrors I could justify deserving (and finding nothing, of course), but before I could get onto ‘turning my estate and town upside down’, he cleared his throat once more. 

“I apologise for waking you, but I am glad to see you are well enough to stay awake. You… must have questions about what happened, no?” Gods above, I had forgotten that I was lying down in a mysterious bed, with a very beautiful complete stranger beside me (standing, unfortunately), in an unknown (to me) area! I shuffled around in the scant cloaks and sheets I laid on in an effort to sit up and scrambled to form an intelligible reply. 

“I… Hello! Greetings! Where… am I? How long was I out? What lands do you hail from? What moisturiser do you use? May I pet your horse?” (It must be noted that the last one was not a euphemism.) He let out a silent, endeared chuckle (of course he was endeared!) and I wondered what it would’ve felt like on my skin. 

“Well, we’re at the local hospital in Wexford town, not far from where you fainted;” I noticed him hesitate, “Ireland; tartar oil soaked in vinegar; and I…” his brows knitted together, “forgive me, I’ve stabled him a ways away from here, but if you like, we could make a detour when I escort you back to your retinue.” I was always up for a fun scenic route with horse scritching involved, and as such, nodded vigorously in response. I hadn’t a clue where Wexford was, to be honest, but it did sound like something I could have recalled from the many, many invaders of the western side of the Roman empire a little more back in the day. Something from North-Western Europe, perhaps. Which could mean, and I could not express this enough, anything! A mystery for a future, less-concussed me! I realised I was tuning out this beautiful man’s beautiful voice and mentally slapped myself. 

“...deepest apologies, I was unable to locate and inform your servants of your situation, I just could not seem to find any of your companions! Does this upset you? Are you alright? Do you need help?” Oh, I was digging myself into a hole with this. I knew I should have paid more attention in Hecate’s Mist 101 taster classes she gave at her secret-university promotions! I had to remember to sort out this whole bending-reality-without-breaking-it-whilst-hiding-my-divinity business with someone soon! Diana, perhaps? Hmm, she did seem to be dipping her toes back into her older, more ferine nature, slightly wilder than she was around late Rome before the Christianisation. Ooh, Artemis? It still felt like I hadn’t seen her in so long, gosh, I missed her! No, It wouldn’t be right to see her again just to ask something of her. I didn’t want to bother her while she was doing damage control. Maybe I could even ask Hecate herself! It had been a while since we last hung out… 

“My lady!” He placed a warm hand on my shoulder. “Please, are you alright?” 

Lady?  

Lady. I felt my train of thought skid to a halt and nearly fall off the proverbial tracks. That was odd. Meg, kindly stay your hand for now. Now, reader, you may be familiar with the notable aspect of mine which was the ideal of Citharodes, the performers who performed with the great Cithara in those religious festivals and rituals of mine back home. These then grew to be, of course, infamously flamboyant, dandy-ish, popular with the ladies and older men, and scandalously secular by the Romans’ ideals after they got their caligula all over it, but – well, in Greek tradition at least – I was still unmistakably the ideal of a young man, womanly fabrics or not! Mortals only dared to mention my slightly more ‘feminine’ physical attributes in context with actual Citharodes and men who only presented themselves as feminine, neither of which being women! Not once had my identity as a man ever been under question! Well, except for certain depictions of my divine body that had, ahem, very specific intentions, which some daring (or enchanted) poets described as androgynous at best (which they could only get away with because I was foreign! I shall not mention those who argued that some statues could be mistaken for women from afar. Certain parts of me are more insecure than others, am I right? Aha?) – but even so, I was still certainly never mistaken for a lady, and certainly not up close! Ugh, there was simply no way this could ever organically be the case! 

Unless… hmm… an explanation struck me! (don’t you dare , Meg– AUGH! ) Perhaps this kindly man, now observing me worriedly, could read me better than I thought he could… 

“ Lady, I see, how polite!” I startled him once again. 

“You see, my manner and lifestyle can often come across as distasteful or uncouth, especially for… someone like me.” We both nodded hastily and awkwardly at this. “Would you, perhaps, be polite enough to ensure me safe passage in an unfamiliar land? Amongst unfamiliar people?” I winked at him as cleanly and clearly as I could manage. He grimaced bashfully. 

“Of course!” he replied, not unshaken, “I take it upon my honour to protect those under my wing. I assure you, my folk tend to pass a blind eye over these things where it can’t hurt them, and I cannot speak for the Normans, but nonetheless, I shall keep your secrets close to my chest. We may be rude, but we mean well.” Aha! This was surely a clever ruse, played by our (my) handsome knight to simply refer to me as a woman to accommodate my courting him! Truly, even though my prospects seemed a smidgeon less effortless than usual, he was still protecting me – regardless of mutual interest – despite my blunderous advances, and the apparent risk of the town being turned upside-down. My eyes reacted normally to the dry Irish air. 

“What a kind man,” I warbled like a beautiful bird. “Thank you, truly. I do not know what I could give you that you surely wouldn’t already have.” This was, of course, a hilarious, laughable lie. He laughed in response and handed some of the brightly-coloured fabric I was still sitting on to me for my eyes. 

“Thank you, my lady. Truly, you give me kind words, but I have much to learn and am not,” he coughed, “particularly accomplished. As I mentioned earlier, my land…” he gestured outwards somewhat, and what he meant by this I could only hope to understand through coalescing my form back into the inky warmth of my divine and cosmological domain of knowledge. Nonetheless, I had a social duty to assure this man of his worth that I intended to fulfil. 

“Not to worry. With my experience, I can assure you that there is no shame in taking your time to achieve great things! Such is the way of life, no matter what your peers and superiors may say. Some are born singing and dancing from the womb, and some are destined to be great proph– priests and saints much later in their lives! You are merely within your knight-errant phase, my lord, and you may yet ferment into a beautiful cheese.” He met my eyes – finally! – and nodded, smile merely polite, but I could see the pondering in his gaze! Maybe I had finally made leeway on my ‘good impression’ thing and touched his soul! ’Nailed it!’, as the kids say! But then, unfortunately, he frowned, which made me frown. 

“A… knight-errant…?” Ah. Oh dear. One of my classic signature anachronisms. Just as I thought I had redeemed myself. Fumble after fumble after fumble. I saw the slight pinch between his eyebrows deepen in concern, the light lining his bust shearing horizontally as his head tilted to the side. I was considering giving him a gentle lobotomy, or perhaps a swift pommel-of-a-lance to the head, as some sort of last-ditch attempt to restore my honour when I was instead struck (Meg! NO– AUGH ) by a reordering of priorities and a good idea for a change of subject, which I was eager to apply. 

“Well then, enough about you! Goodness, not like that, I simply–” I tried to vaguely emphasise the cloth wrapped around my head with hasty and failed hand gestures for effect. Nevertheless, his eyes lit up in recognition. 

“Ah, your head! My sincere apologies. After I took you up off the ground, the other men stopped our tornement. Though it took some persuading, I will say.” He chortled, then grimaced. What a cutie! 

“Unfortunately, soon after, you fainted and fell once more, knocked your head on the pommel of my lance on the way down, and suffered a concussion. I brought you here, where you laid for three days.” 

“Oh,” I said gratefully, “thank you! Who are you?” 

Chapter Text

Kids and various youths, I speak honestly. Walks feel significantly different to how they used to be without your mortal GPSes, and your Satellite Navigation, and your reliable maps. Back in the good old days, we simply used to get lost on our own volition! How I missed the romantics of going on long walks through town with good company, perhaps relying solely on the wits of an attractive man to guide me, hushed encouragement fed to me from my peers and comrades telling me that I could totally score him! 

This journey arguably started off as an idyllic example of such a situation. I was being led by a very beautiful man through the bright veins of Wexford town – which I had learned was different to Wexford county, which nonetheless, still contained the town – confidently, and assuredly, and with such conviction, and one could certainly excuse me if I was a little scatter-brained. What with the concussion and all. 

I clutched my knight’s hand tightly (he ran hot!) and let myself be gently led onwards through the streets at a medieval business pace, which, notably, was not very fast. This gave me ample time to respectively observe another man. 

Wholly unrelated, but Meg, dear, do remind me to give you the talk on your thirteenth birthday – do not give me that look – about having a healthy emotional outlet for your crushes. 

Yes, Luguselwa told me about how she got called to the office because your last crush took a nap in a field fifty metres – sorry, in American, just over one hundred and sixty four feet – away from you and woke up with their limbs smothered and ensnared by honeysuckle vines to your very embarrassed face. Very good effort, and I would have appreciated it, but you could perhaps use a little more tact when wooing the common folk. 

I lightly surveyed my surroundings and coincidentally discovered I had a great angle of his flexed, outstretched arm from my position, but – oh, horror! – I felt rather shy and – ugh! – tried to bashfully avert my eyes! Clearly, the concussion had taken my self-awareness as well as my mind from me. I could only hope that whatever this nasty headache was, it would pass soon, and then I could have strong words with whatever form of divinity decided to interfere with me, the greatest and most terrible of rhetoric deities! 

Well, to be honest, I had hoped that this was the cause of my little hangover — else, I would have to consult the muses for any possible literary causes of my concussion. They loved to gloat about their theories surrounding godly speculative biology, for lack of a better word, and its relations with the cultural formation of myths, surrounding literature and political messaging, associated religious views, et cetera. A fascinating topic, mind you! I would have strong words with you if you disagreed – fear my great and terrible rhetoric, et cetera – but they were just so… mansplain-y about it! I knew about the makeup of my body, thank you very much! It’s mine! I made that! And no, Meg, stay your righteous fists, I had abstained from mansplaining to them since the great Larga in Musical Notation debate of 268BC. (The concept of a very long note is not a difficult one to grasp, I learned that day.) 

I ought to mention where we were. Oh, perhaps I should have brought this up earlier. How disorienting! We had left the churchyard boundary and had taken a direction into a different area to the one I had already explored on my way to the market hall. You might have expected this area to feel different, given the horrific poverty gap of the West in these centuries, but no. Even in the midst of a large, thriving town, the sense that we were hemmed into the skin of a fuzzy, lush cloak of hills across hills across hills loomed over us just past the stone walls and trickled through beneath the boundaries. 

I had also firmly concluded that the architects here loved their unshapen stone, which I found charming, much like Meg’s aim. Reader, she had taken to throwing the contents of my fridge at my poor birds and now the culmen of my sole remaining swan was coated in tzatziki. (I ought to clarify that the rest of the bevy weren’t dead or had left me or anything, they had simply left for the north to – for reasons concerning Olympian politics – no specific place whatsoever.)

I found myself shaken out of my thoughts and observations when we took a determined corner into a steep, untended side alley. Oh, goodness, walking into a side alley alone with my crush! (Oh dear. I frightened Meg with my giggling.) 

Ahem, well, the alley was slightly ‘dodgy’, so I took the excuse to clutch that rough hand of my knight a little tighter. He squeezed back – such a nice man! I couldn’t help but grow fonder by the second! – but I felt a wealth of confusion and concern in those finger compressions of his. Either he, too, was deeply concerned by The Alley, or was offering me comfort and reassurance that he knew his way down these ‘rustic’ paths. Or, maybe, out of confusion, because it was still an embarrassingly-beautiful blue sunny day outside. I suppose we shall never know. 

Likely another effect of that damned concussion, after a number of paces had been made I once again found myself feeling awkward in the silence, light shadow and possibly moss that had swallowed us both. I sought to jumpstart its gag reflex, hopefully with significantly more grace now that I had my wits about me. No, no, no, don’t give me that groan, it was much better this time! 

In my care-filled search, as we travelled through the damp stone pathway, for a good small-talk topic that wasn't based on accidental assumptions about the wealth of my respondent, I discovered that this was a much harder task than I thought it would be. What hobbies do you enjoy? This could force him to admit he didn’t have the free time, staff, nor wealth to indulge in pastimes, or even so, embarrass him if his were not ‘noble’ enough within his culture. How’s the family? A classic, largely reserved for familiar companions, because in these terrible Dark Ages, one could say, the answer could so easily travel southwards. (It is worth noting that this was not during what is usually referred to as the dark ages. Indeed, the dark ages were similarly not very dark at all! But I digress.) Come here often? This could be assuming in either direction whether or not his wealth was great enough to travel, either suggesting I was so wealthy I had assumed that he was similarly affluent and had come here for leisure, or that I was attempting to pry into possible business he had going on here, or even that I was implying he had to come here often to make money — but in a rather ungracious way. 

Gods above, every century I was reminded how difficult trying to talk under no pretenses of posturing nor political gain was! I was already unpacking more about what subtle ways of emphasising power I’d been taught just by being around this man! 

Back to the task at hand, I realised we were past the halfway mark of this shadowy shaft. (ahem. Meg.) We had been silent for far too long. I had to act quickly. 

Were there any shared experiences we could bond over? These would be difficult to determine considering we had only known each other for a scant few hours with generous phrasing, and in my experience, there were only so many ‘lucky guesses’ I could have about someone before they started to get rather agitated. Hmm… 

Aha! I could simply ask him about the hospital he took me to! I knew they were different in the west, and he clearly knew of at least one – considering he knew to bring me there – so this could form some basis of common ground! 

I opened my mouth to speak and the light of the heavens skirted past the edge of the building to my left and sniped my hand crafted pupils harder than, well, being shot at point blank, I suppose. The blinded wail that left my mouth could have broken the hearts of the furies. (One way or another — I am very attractive.) 

Presumably, we left the strange alley and had come out the other side. 

I tried to recover and mimicked a tater root’s understandings of what the appropriate posture of an Olympian could be. 

“The hospital you brought me to after saving me!” I cried, carting my body back and forth like a sprightly spring fawn, “What was it like, being there? How do they function? You see, I am only familiar with hospitals back in the Roman Empire.” I came to a stop at an angle over my feet, which surely must not have been the shoes I came here in (they were dreadful), with the help of a certain man’s padded forearm on my sternum. Warmth blossomed beneath my skin and spread through my internal vessels. 

He looked at me oddly. 

“Are you certain you are alright?“ Someday, I hoped, I would look at this man and be met with something other than furrowed brows. 

“Yes! Certain. I am certain. I,” I flailed around (internally, this time) in an attempt to regain the peace that had escaped us just a few moments ago. “We came out of a church, no? The, ah, head? Of the church? Is that customary, for hospitals? I mean– have you been to a hospital in a church before? Oh dear, you don’t have to tell me if that’s…” I petered out into a frazzled look at my accomplice’s nasion. 

“Okay,” he said. “Please excuse me if I tell you something you are already aware of.” 

He glanced around self-consciously, or perhaps making sure he didn’t run into any passers-by whilst distracted with entertaining my beautiful mind.

“Ah… hospitals here are usually run by priests, as a charity to the community but – primarily for the poor, and they… well, they provide hospitality, which means many things.” A pregnant pause. (Meg, I will not have this conversation with you. Of course I know what pregnancy is! For the– for the fiftieth time, you tried to kick me off Sutro tower after I told you about how I performed a Caesarean on Coronis, which, as I’m sure you could ascertain, involves knowing how pregnancy works, let alone knowing what a pregnant person looks like! Come now, please! A preposterous accusation! I demand justice for the temporarily-concussed!)

“When I found you, you weren’t bleeding, so I assumed you had a concussion. I reasoned that I could take you to a hospital that took in any infirm but wasn’t, um, highly specialised, but was instead closer.” I faintly recalled a ruinous metaphorical cavern from my centuries in Gaul where precious golden hours dripped between the slits of my phalanges like sand, from getting — once again, we find ourselves back on topic! How fate reroutes us so! — ahem, getting dreadfully lost! I tell you, I ask for directions to the nearest hospital to support one of my favoured barbers to prevent an eye infection in the midst of his surgeonry, I show up following my given guidance down to the minute implication, and I find myself at some milquetoast tavern with several balding and unattractive men (this is not a suggestion about balding men! They were simply all balding, which frightened me at the time!) spearing me with their own disdainful demeanours! How the people of the west back then knew which of their hospitals served which purposes, I couldn’t possibly tell you. How this man’s statement related to my initial question, I, too, couldn’t possibly tell you, but I was certainly never one to look a gift horse in the mouth. 

Well, I definitely was, but this is besides the point. 

He ducked beneath another painted sign which helpfully pointed us towards the market hall. “There are more hospitals I’ve seen around nowadays that tend to be run under, um, knights and English nobles, I think?” His voice grew more weary and his eyes peeled off to the side, as if the confirmation to his statement coincidentally laid on a sign hanging just to my right. I tried to follow the path of his vision and briefly stumbled over a rock, cursing, but skilfully covered it up with a jovial and lighthearted chuckle such that he didn’t notice. 

“Well, regardless, they are very loudly allied with England. I hoped to find a hospital that was as neutral as one could get, this close to a port. I am glad to know I was appropriately safe!” He offered me another endearing grimace of a smile. Such a thoughtful man! I wanted to swoon. (Meg keeps telling me to repeat myself after I mention swooning. I suspect this has something to do with the japeries of the current youth – could someone kindly enlighten me?) 

“I agree! How thoughtful!” I cooed. He chuckled, embarrassed. What a sweet man! Leto would definitely approve, if she quickly recovered from his presumable insistent lack of faith in our very existence. I wondered if he liked frogs. 

Oh, this would be a wonderful small talk topic we could breach someday! Were frogs native to Ireland? Did they have unique species? Perhaps he could take me to his homeland to see some one day, as we sat on a sun-tanned rock eating warm bread, maybe even… exchanging a kiss… 

No! I squeaked in horror at my own boldness, and only barely stumbled for a second time over a mystery object. I was saved this time by means of a firm fist clenched around my limp wrist. I supposed that my companion was accustomed to helping me up by now. 

“I apologise – these smaller roads can be uneven,” he told me with an apologetic look. (By the way, that look was totally not named after me! The loser who started that rumour was literally my ex, so there.) “We like our unshapen stone,” he added. 

Despite the sheer satisfaction of being correct, I couldn’t stop myself from grumbling like a four thousand year old man at the lack of community-focused development. (If you recall, I was not four thousand years old yet. How time flies!) “How would the injured and elderly get around with ease? Children, scampering around, even?” 

He grunted, and I failed horribly to stop myself from glowing a soft rose. “Most people take different roads to these. I think this one’s more of a consequence of the buildings being here, rather than being an actual travelled and worn path, which tend to be smoother, of course.” 

He answered a little too curtly. A man opinionated about roads! I simply had to keep him now! 

He continued on. 

“There exist legal requirements for certain roads being wide enough, but this one… I wouldn’t call this a road. The big ones are usually very cluttered, especially in big towns like these.” 

He seemed lost in the fibrin mesh in the walls of the nearby hall. It reminded me of myself when I think about urban spaces, and also when I stare at recovering wounds. 

Don’t tell Athena this, but I deeply missed the calm thrill and the riveting highs and lows of the town planning I commanded back when I was new-ish to Greece, where I directed my own devoted and awestruck peons to lay the foundations for new communities to mingle and trade and combine and create new cultures which would give me money and rich hecatombs of oxen. Roads are particularly fascinating! I first befriended Mercury himself at Rome’s Road fellowship, though he seemed squeamish at the frightening and grizzly details of my stories about roads. Still, I didn’t pay close attention to his own ramblings solely to fit in — the layouts of towns are much more connected to politics than the affluent would assume! Another curious focal point for my knight’s mysterious font of knowledge. How quickly he was endearing himself to all my domains! 

Speaking of, actually, I had realised there was also something curious in what this man said upon mentioning politically-neutral hospitals: ‘I am glad to know I was appropriately safe’. Now that I thought about it, I wasn’t sure whether the poor relations between the Roman Empire and England would have been common knowledge for an armoured, presumably somewhat wealthy man such as he. Should I have expected him to know this? Hmm. How mysterious. 

On one hand, Cyprus was hardly the climax of Dick the Lionheart’s little excursion, and my knowledge may very well have been outdated, but I didn’t remember the English Normans and the ‘Byzantine’ empire directly communicating very much on a political level. However, it had been a number of years since the end of the third crusade, in which we were a significant hindrance, and – as I have learned – little Richard only now returned from being kidnapped on the way back! Curious indeed. 

“Say, how would– how do you– “ hmm. 

“Are my nation’s political machinations common knowledge here? Or are you particularly worldly?” I tried to bat my eyelashes and butter him up with honey. (As opposed to nectar, which did tend to make mortals explode.) 

He paused and seemed to physically retreat inwards, slightly closing his bulbous shoulders towards each other.  “I know some folk in those circles. I’ve heard it be mentioned in a tavern or two.” 

How grippingly vague! The people he could know! The stories he could have seen! It was all very exciting for a deeply bored and confused Me. An estranged noble? A retired man-at-arms who had found work in trade? A black sheep in a liturgical family? Perhaps in his travels he had heard a great bardic tale, woven to recognise the English king’s achievements during the journey he didn’t return from for the sake of the King’s honour, spread and translated to language common here!  

Oh! He may also (likely) have been multilingual, to be speaking with me so! Such knowledge. I relayed as such, strategically, to poke him for more of his personal background. Ow– not in an intrusive manner! Meg– that’s prodding, not poking. You are worse than my singular swan, and yet you fail to hiss half as loud as him. See? You do it like this– HSSSSSSSSSSS. No, no, that’s more of a hisssssssss. It is easier to be louder when you try to raise your tongue to the roof of your mouth. HSSSSSSSSSSS. 

Ahem. I tactfully questioned this man about his backstory, but he only graced me with an “a little bit of all you said”, which – I suppose – was fair. 

Not! I could not believe that he did not trust me implicitly! I was so charming! So beautiful! All my years of experience! I hoped this disappointment wouldn’t be a running theme. (Spoilers, Meg, cover your ears: It was.) 

I halted my barrage of verbal tumbles and stumbles as the pair of us also halted upon a pair of barrels left by the mouth of a wide alley, just outside the range of leisurely traffic – the murmuring bustle of workers and people going about their day, the occasional rumble of a horse. My accomplice seemed to be absent-mindedly fixing his gaze into the sky. Did he not like such sounds? 

We spent a moment catching our breaths – you must remember that I was still recuperating from the sheer shock of having a concussion! Me! – before I thought to ask him where on Gaia’s wet earth we were, minus the implied apostasy. 

The corners of his mouth drooped. I knew, instantly, that I had made what would have been a devastating mistake, were I not me. 

“W-Well,” he eventually stammered out, angling his rapidly paling head, “I do not go here. I came through the port and was merely passing through, and as I couldn’t find anyone who accompanied you, I– I thought… I was…” 

The poor man looked broken, head hung low like an anvil on a rope.  

“I have overlooked my own responsibilities. My sincerest apologies, my– ”

I had to stop him! 

I hacked my metaphorical lungs out to stall for as much time as I could get to figure out what in Orion’s odorous belt I could do to save my poor knight from such unwarranted dishonour. What could I say? 

As a god, our fear responses are very curious. We inherited reaction to fear from humans, but we, of course, cannot die. Any injuries, or as in other pantheons, deaths that we suffer are meaningful, a reflection of the parts of a society we personify, and certainly not something to be avoided (fate and whatnot). Our fear serves no purpose, so we are not built to protect ourselves from death in a timely manner. What I was certainly good at, however, was running away from situations, and as such, a part of me panicked and did exactly that. 

I pried myself off the rest of my mortal vessel and appeared by the edge of an unsettled mountain I did not recognise with not a person in sight. I scampered up the endless green to calm myself down with some relaxing hiking, trying to appreciate the silver birch trees I was grasping to heave myself forwards, crumbly pupils following me through thin, crusted lentisels as I pushed deeper into the thin forest. The sound of the rough pebbles scattering followed my feet as I scrambled higher, my mind someplace else. 

Eventually, I found myself close enough to the peak such that my proverbial hackles lowered. I have always found safety on mountain peaks. 

Unfortunately, I was still very wound up. 

I grabbed a nearby cloud and screamed into it. I shan’t say how loud, but it was very impressive, rest assured. 

I stood there unmoving as the wind buffeted my wheat curls, gently bouncing on my shoulders like breadrolls on a frame drum. I thought about how I could fix… all this. (Picture me, if you will, gesturing down towards a thin yet blustery fog, broken up by thick splatters of the vast, lush landscapes of the lands beneath me. Goodness, I love how dramatic mountaintops can be, Olympian film critics be damned! Always claiming I feature them too much. I merely contribute to a genre! Yes, Meg, the genre of movies which take place on mountaintops. There is a very special mood created by a – well, Greek, at the very least – mountainous environment which, even throughout seasonal changes, maintains a detached sense of– ) 

I was smacked in the face even further by just how unfamiliar the lands beneath me were. I supposed my issue was not with my having made a fool of myself, nor my lack of tact, and not even the slight fracture of my mind I had apparently suffered. 

Rather, it was that I hadn’t the foggiest clue what I could say to fix this situation. I simply didn’t know anything about this place, nor its people, nor its customs, nor its landscape. I couldn’t fake a temporary home here when I couldn’t even make sense of what laid past the eaves of the church I mysteriously woke up in! It was very frightening, and a shock that I had grown unaccustomed to, with the horrific spread of the roman empire “beside” cultures I had never interacted with before yet still had a place in. At least — before the fall of ‘paganism’. But, being myself, I was well-adjusted to adapting to my location, and I was assured that this would certainly be no different.  

I knew I would inevitably pick myself up, brush the dust off of my bliaut, and be whatever the fates demanded of me, wherever I was – I just wanted to figure out an arrangement for this current pickle. 

I had, of course, my servants and employees who helped me maintain my numerous ostentatious palaces and performed all the dull jobs for me, and as I only hire artistes, this brief role as extras would be more than within their capabilities. Perhaps this could be a fun break to get them to quit complaining about ‘work hours’. (Meg, they have so many benefits! My palaces do have entire servants’ wings! I– maybe I overemphasised their complaints. Don’t call me out in public.) 

Point being, I wasn’t alone! I still had droves of dedicated and devoted worshippers at my beck and call to fulfil my every possible demand! 

Besides, my visible shutdown in front of this stressed man probably changed the topic from the search for my retinue! I ought to respond sooner rather than later. 

Upon switching focus, the first thing I saw was the dark, fear-stricken eyes of this poor, poor man, familiar to me as the look on a soon-to-be-murdered fellow’s face. This confused me, because this would imply fear for one’s own life as opposed to fear for mine own, which is what it should have been all of the time. 

The second thing I saw were his shapely lips, glazed tenderly with raspberry (I must ask him for his skincare routine after this), and it took me an embarrassingly long time to remember that what they were actually offering was the foul liquor taste of purposeless self-deprecation. 

I have only faith that you could tell, but there is nothing that tastes worse to me than purposeless self-deprecation from Me-ine figures, which this man was, because his masculinity and his masculine beauty was of a flank of my own. (Yes, Meg, I am being hyperbolic about the taste. Yes, Meg, human flesh tastes much worse.) I wrinkled my unblemished forehead in revulsion. 

“Allay your concern, kind one! I apologise for assuming you would know where you were going once you’d made it clear that you, too, were passing through here, especially after you asked me to direct you to my entourage!” Yes, I was spewing small talk to stop this man from dirtying his roseate lips further. 

He still seemed to be fretting harder than Me attempting to impress Grand Duchess Tatiana Nikolaevna Romanova with my Russian hardbass phase. Perhaps a sneaky change in topic ought to divert the river of his shame. 

“H–How had you grown to know this town so?” 

He perked up minutely, slightly like a sad dog but more like a saddened man. “I was more so referring to this nation, my lady, as…” he seemed slightly confused here, “this is where I grew as a young boy. Although I have visited this port a fair few times, I never went further than simply the port itself. This time, I ventured closer townwards for the market and hastilitudes.” 

This nation. Which was where he was from. That would have to be… 

I was acutely aware of the sky which draped over Other Me patterning with darker, wetter mists, sprays of dirty grey rolling into thick splodges much too dedicated to be normal. 

I studied the picturesque 360-degree view which wrapped around me for a sign of the weather shift’s motive. I pinpointed a moving wisp on the horizon. 

A whirlwind of needle felt and mold was scattering, falling, and reforming across the ridges of hill curving towards me. I had never seen any natural deities or phenomena manifest themselves in such a peculiar tumbling manner before, and, cursing my godly instincts once more, felt my being pulse with an old and familiar all-consuming, burning curiosity. 

No! I must focus! I was growing sick of the haze over my mind! 

“Yes! Yes. Where you grew up as a young boy… I– I do apologise. Could you, kindly, graciously, repeat yourself for me?” He seemed rapidly more and more uncomfortable, face pale like a satyr at their first bacchanalia. I felt terrible. Perhaps he didn’t like authority? Perhaps he didn’t feel comfortable divulging personal information without transparent intentions? 

“If… I just– simply– I may know of your home by a different name, being– Roman, and all.” I choked on the word Roman. Sol’s light scored my retinas. 

He – again! – frowned at me, lips parted slightly. 

The whirlwind swayed and tumbled with great dignity at a range where I could feel my own essence grow tempted to harden, spill, and tumble gracefully as well in mutual conversation, like a ferrofluid meeting a superconductor. Perhaps I had missed meeting new deities more than I thought I did. 

I didn’t want to seem too eager, though, (I enjoy playing hard to get) so I widened my stance and firmly stayed put. 

“I… I see,” he said, as if the words had released themselves from the bands of his trachea under his absentminded watch. “We should,” I couldn’t stop myself from watching as those cheekbones of his grew ruddy and handsome, “why don’t we lie back and have a good discussion?” 

The thought made me recoil. 

“No, I insist, I’m fine, this– this would make me feel better, kind one,” I persisted, even my renowned, infamous patience chipping a little. I shook it off. 

Was he feeling alright? Was I spreading any of my various plagues and diseases to him in any jittery rearrangement of my matter? I took a few paces back to maintain six feet between us, just in case. 

“Well,” he heaved, voice dry and cracked. 

“Welcome to Hibernae!” crowed a voice with exquisite projection. 

This startled me, but not so much as the sheer horror and the feeling of bees fizzing and bubbling in my throat at the sheer null space I faced upon even approaching an attempt to sift through my mind for anything that could identify this currently very relaxed being. Oh dear.