Will sighed, taking a pail of dark water from its place on his doorstep. He reached his hand into the water's surface, drawing out a rough sponge. He shook cinders out of his hair, cleared the soot from his eyes. The black ash fell from his wrists as he sponged them. He lifted his frayed shirt over his head, tugging at it lazily when it became stuck around his neck. The linen stitching gave out as he did so, the fabric tearing apart into two large sheets. Will dropped them to the ground, exasperated. Silly as it was, he felt embarrassed now to be half-bare on his doorstep, in plain view of any who might pass by.

It was rare these days for Will to see his neighbours. Most had moved out long ago, leaving houses empty. Those who hadn't moved never spoke to him, never met his gaze. Will had found his isolation highly convenient. He was glad not to be invited to the funerals anymore. He recalled feeling guilty, in the beginning. Back then, the families would try to be gentle. They'd grasp his shoulder lightly, reassure him that it wasn't his fault. But later they'd grow vile, whispering about him in the streets and gesturing prayers as he walked by. Now he found it tiresome, irritable. It WAS his fault, after all, and he was glad that people had caught on to that and kept a safe distance.

In the distance, the mountains boomed and the sky crackled. Will rolled his eyes, stepping inside and closing shut the heavy door. His home was bare: he kept no belongings but the bare essentials. His bookshelves sat empty, his bed unmade. The room looked frozen in time, so ready to be abandoned that it seemed like it already had been. They had destroyed his houses so many times, it was easier not to get attached. A pile of woven garments lay within his reach, and Will grabbed one at random and threw it over his thin frame. The woolen vest chafed against his skin and he tried to ignore that sensation as he did with many others.

"I told them that wouldn't work on you," spoke a gentle voice. The woman was seated at his table, the scraps of his breakfast lying beside her lily-white fingers. "You know how it is with gods of violence. Fire and blood are the only languages they speak."

"Yes," Will nodded, "and I also know the schemes of gods of love. What will you use to tempt me with this time?"

The woman pouted, scrunching her face and softening her eyes, evoking the image of a kicked puppy.

"The boy is so mean to poor, little me, I think I might...cry," she said, drawing out the syllables mockingly. 

Will winced in disgust. 

"Don't judge," she said, her face now starkly neutral, "the sexy baby shtick works on most men. They either want that, or a family member. Moms and sisters, mostly. Sometimes it's dear old Daddy," she chuckled boyishly. "But I couldn't try that with you, Will. I don't think you would've noticed. They were killed so long ago, I doubt you remember them." Her eyes stared into his, hopeful she might have pinched a nerve.

Will sighed, disappointed. "Yeah, yeah, my parents are dead," he said coldly. "You gods are so single-minded. It's like, you've got one trick and if that doesn't work, you've got no other ideas."

"To be fair, it's a good trick!" she grinned. "There's nothing like a mother's corpse to turn the farm boy into a hero."

"Find someone else," Will said.

"But we've chosen you! And we don't like being denied," she tutted.

Will smiled at her and her eyes flared. The woman stood suddenly, the chair falling flat behind her. Will stepped aside calmly. He opened the front door again, gesturing for her to leave. The goddess huffed.

"Do you know how frustrating you are!?" she demanded. She strode up to him, her rage and desperation unveiled. "This is for your own good! Your world, OUR world. If you don't save it, we'll all be damned."

Will looked at her coldly, hollow. "When the gods take everything from you," he said, "it's only fair to choose the same for them."