Son of the Archiereios

A drop of water fell from a leak in the roof and struck the table next to him, sending tiny droplets sprinkling against his face. He woke, shifting, blinking, stretching. It was still dark in the hut, but small slices of dark blue seen through cracks in the thin wooden wall told him that the sun would rise soon enough. He heard the whisper of soft rainfall all about him, drowning out all other sounds of the village, all other sounds of the nearby forests and mountains.

Quietly rolling up his warm blankets, he unpinned the woven flap from the doorposts and stepped out into the rain. He sloshed his way to where old Arktouros the fire keeper sat. A thin leather canopy stretched outwards from his hut, supported by two wooden posts a few feet out. It covered his hunched, weathered shoulders from the rain and more importantly, kept the fire of Enypnia alive.

"Good morning, Arxiphos," the old man said, his voice raw and high-pitched. "Or should I say Archiereios?"

Arxiphos smiled. "Not yet. My father's doing fine. I saw him breathe softly under his covers as I left home."

"But when the moment comes and he moves on to Styx, you'll be the Archiereios."

"If I accept," he said, "but we'd like to keep him alive as long as we can."

"Of course."

There was a slight pause. Thin streams of water poured off the sides of the leather covering, spitting cold mud at Arxiphos's ankles as they splattered to the ground. He watched waves of orange play across the embers at the base of the fire. He crouched slowly, pulling a thin candle from his cloak, and held its wick over the sacred flames. He pulled away his share of Enypnia's fire. This was one of three fires dedicated to the goddess. Always burning. Always present. Even in storms and floods.

"Thank you for your service, Arktouros. For your devotion," he said, holding the lit candle up before him. "The priest is going to need his treatments when he wakes. Could you do me the favor—"

"Glad to," the fire watcher said. "I'll have the water heated and ready. We'll keep him alive another eighty years. You'll never even get a shot at being priest. Perhaps you'll never have to be Archiereios."

Arxiphos laughed.

The night was almost over and the old man's shift was coming to an end. Arxiphos made his way back to his home, cupping his hand around the flame to protecting it from the wind and rain. As he turned the last corner on his route, he saw a slender form leaning beside the entrance of his hut. Alazoneia, the Hegemon's daughter.

"I knew you'd be up early," she said. She stepped toward him. Large drops fell from the golden waves and curls of hair that flowed about her. Luckily it was the warm season and the rain didn't freeze through as it did in the winter. "You spend all your time trying to keep him alive," she continued. "It's noble, even pious. But you know what you could have if you just let him slip away."

She leaned herself against him. Too close. Arxiphos was glad no one was watching. He took her by the shoulder and gently pulled her away from himself, trying his best to hold his candle out of the wind.

"We'll have to wait," he said. "We'll get to that when the time comes."

She frowned and turned away. He watched as she glided down the street to the other edge of the village. She disappeared into the palace, ringing out her cloak before passing inside. Graceful. Beautiful. But not for him. An aching sensation filled his chest as he turned away. Nervousness. Fear. Afraid to marry by position and not by love. But it was his duty. It was tradition. Fate. And besides, she adored him. But there were things about her, attitudes, quirks... things, and he had never loved her.

Passing inside, he lit a second thicker candle with the flame of the first and placed it before a miniature wooden statue of the goddess. He took a pinch of wood shavings from a small earthen bowl and mixed it with tiny chunks of herbs in his palm. A lazy wisp of aromatic smoke swayed past the carven image as he watched them burn in the candle flame. An offering. Incense. He had done this every day now for months as commanded by his father, the priest.

"O Goddess. You are beautiful. You are powerful. You are the guardian of our people. You are faithful and strong. Bless our work. Bless the hunt. Give us health. Give us long life. Stand by us in our need. We pray. We beg. We implore. O mighty and powerful Enypnia."

He repeated this prayer three times in a half-whisper, then left the idol to enjoy the fragrance alone. He moved to wake his father. The blankets were still and cold. The steady breathing had stopped. He tried to shake the old man's shoulder, but the priest had finally attained eternal slumber.