[Image Description: A yellow color block and black color block in a vertical row with text that reads “destroy the gender binary and support the bees / buy all your honey locally”]
Temples are built for gods. Knowing this a farmer builds a small temple to see what kind of god turns up.
Arepo built a temple in his field, a humble thing, some stones stacked up to make a cairn, and two days later a god moved in.
“Hope you’re a harvest god,” Arepo said, and set up an altar and burnt two stalks of wheat. “It’d be nice, you know.” He looked down at the ash smeared on the stone, the rocks all laid askew, and coughed and scratched his head. “I know it’s not much,” he said, his straw hat in his hands. “But – I’ll do what I can. It’d be nice to think there’s a god looking after me.”
The next day he left a pair of figs, the day after that he spent ten minutes of his morning seated by the temple in prayer. On the third day, the god spoke up.
“You should go to a temple in the city,” the god said. Its voice was like the rustling of the wheat, like the squeaks of fieldmice running through the grass. “A real temple. A good one. Get some real gods to bless you. I’m no one much myself, but I might be able to put in a good word?” It plucked a leaf from a tree and sighed. “I mean, not to be rude. I like this temple. It’s cozy enough. The worship’s been nice. But you can’t honestly believe that any of this is going to bring you anything.”
“This is more than I was expecting when I built it,” Arepo said, laying down his scythe and lowering himself to the ground. “Tell me, what sort of god are you anyway?”
“I’m of the fallen leaves,” it said. “The worms that churn beneath the earth. The boundary of forest and of field. The first hint of frost before the first snow falls. The skin of an apple as it yields beneath your teeth. I’m a god of a dozen different nothings, scraps that lead to rot, momentary glimpses. A change in the air, and then it’s gone.”
The god heaved another sigh. “There’s no point in worship in that, not like War, or the Harvest, or the Storm. Save your prayers for the things beyond your control, good farmer. You’re so tiny in the world. So vulnerable. Best to pray to a greater thing than me.”
Arepo plucked a stalk of wheat and flattened it between his teeth. “I like this sort of worship fine,” he said. “So if you don’t mind, I think I’ll continue.”
“Do what you will,” said the god, and withdrew deeper into the stones. “But don’t say I never warned you otherwise.”
Arepo would say a prayer before the morning’s work, and he and the god contemplated the trees in silence. Days passed like that, and weeks, and then the Storm rolled in, black and bold and blustering. It flooded Arepo’s fields, shook the tiles from his roof, smote his olive tree and set it to cinder. The next day, Arepo and his sons walked among the wheat, salvaging what they could. The little temple had been strewn across the field, and so when the work was done for the day, Arepo gathered the stones and pieced them back together.
“Useless work,” the god whispered, but came creeping back inside the temple regardless. “There wasn’t a thing I could do to spare you this.”
“We’ll be fine,” Arepo said. “The storm’s blown over. We’ll rebuild. Don’t have much of an offering for today,” he said, and laid down some ruined wheat, “but I think I’ll shore up this thing’s foundations tomorrow, how about that?”
The god rattled around in the temple and sighed.
A year passed, and then another. The temple had layered walls of stones, a roof of woven twigs. Arepo’s neighbors chuckled as they passed it. Some of their children left fruit and flowers. And then the Harvest failed, the gods withdrew their bounty. In Arepo’s field the wheat sprouted thin and brittle. People wailed and tore their robes, slaughtered lambs and spilled their blood, looked upon the ground with haunted eyes and went to bed hungry. Arepo came and sat by the temple, the flowers wilted now, the fruit shriveled nubs, Arepo’s ribs showing through his chest, his hands still shaking, and murmured out a prayer.
“There is nothing here for you,” said the god, hudding in the dark. “There is nothing I can do. There is nothing to be done.” It shivered, and spat out its words. “What is this temple but another burden to you?”
“We -” Arepo said, and his voice wavered. “So it’s a lean year,” he said. “We’ve gone through this before, we’ll get through this again. So we’re hungry,” he said. “We’ve still got each other, don’t we? And a lot of people prayed to other gods, but it didn’t protect them from this. No,” he said, and shook his head, and laid down some shriveled weeds on the altar. “No, I think I like our arrangement fine.”
“There will come worse,” said the god, from the hollows of the stone. “And there will be nothing I can do to save you.”
The years passed. Arepo rested a wrinkled hand upon the temple of stone and some days spent an hour there, lost in contemplation with the god.
And one fateful day, from across the wine-dark seas, came War.
Arepo came stumbling to his temple now, his hand pressed against his gut, anointing the holy site with his blood. Behind him, his wheat fields burned, and the bones burned black in them. He came crawling on his knees to a temple of hewed stone, and the god rushed out to meet him.
“I could not save them,” said the god, its voice a low wail. “I am sorry. I am sorry. I am so so sorry.” The leaves fell burning from the trees, a soft slow rain of ash. “I have done nothing! All these years, and I have done nothing for you!”
“Shush,” Arepo said, tasting his own blood, his vision blurring. He propped himself up against the temple, forehead pressed against the stone in prayer. “Tell me,” he mumbled. “Tell me again. What sort of god are you?”
“I -” said the god, and reached out, cradling Arepo’s head, and closed its eyes and spoke.
“I’m of the fallen leaves,” it said, and conjured up the image of them. “The worms that churn beneath the
earth. The boundary of forest and of field. The first hint of frost
before the first snow falls. The skin of an apple as it yields beneath
your teeth.” Arepo’s lips parted in a smile.
“I am the god of a dozen different nothings,” it said. “The petals in bloom that lead to
rot, the momentary glimpses. A change in the air -” Its voice broke, and it wept. “Before it’s gone.”
“Beautiful,” Arepo said, his blood staining the stones, seeping into the earth. “All of them. They were all so beautiful.”
And as the fields burned and the smoke blotted out the sun, as men were trodden in the press and bloody War raged on, as the heavens let loose their wrath upon the earth, Arepo the sower lay down in his humble temple, his head sheltered by the stones, and returned home to his god.
McGonagall: Remus I haven’t been your teacher for roughly 16 years, you can call me by my first name
Remus: I don’t think you understand how much I cannot do that
They had been looking forward to it for a while. Between tiring training sessions and meetings with sponsors, the little time they got to spend together enjoying each other’s company narrowed down to cuddling before sleep.
Of course, the first weeks after Yuuri had arrived in St. Petersburg were enjoyed to its fullest—sightseeing and dining out like The Guide For Couples Who Are Deeply In Love demanded. The weather, however, hadn’t been the nicest to enjoy the outdoor activities like they wanted to, with the cold winds more than once demanding them to stay at home watching movies.
It was a pleasure nonetheless, but Yuuri knew how excited Victor was to show him around, take him to the places he used to go to alone and look at them with fresh eyes, holding Yuuri’s hand and taking pictures to eternize those treasured moments.
Yuuri was excited as well. Spring was coming and with it the promise of pleasant days and a less packed agenda that would allow them to go on short trips and spend time together outdoors. The thought of walking through the woods, enjoying the fresh breeze and setting a picnic at the foot of a tall tree brought a smile to his face.
But when that day finally came, Yuuri didn’t have the energy to get out of bed. As attractive as the idea was, as excited as he was to see Victor smiling as they drove to the park, Yuuri couldn’t muster the strength to move a muscle.
“Morning, babe,” Victor chirped, drawing the blinds and letting the sunlight bathe the room. Yuuri flinched, hiding his face in the pillow. “Still sleepy?”
Still? Had Yuuri already asked for five minutes? Hadn’t he just woken up?
Not waiting for an answer, Victor bounced on the bed, wrapping Yuuri tightly in his arms.
“Breakfast is ready and waiting for you,” he continued, trailing a path of kisses up Yuuri’s spine. “I’ve taken Makkachin for a walk and now we’re just waiting for you. If you have anything else to add to our basket just let me know and I’ll put it in. I think I’ve added everything we need…”
“Five minutes,” Yuuri grunted, the shivers running through his body feeling almost painful.
Victor chuckled, pulling the duvet Yuuri tried to use to cover himself.
“I gave you twenty minutes already, love. We’re going to be late. I wonder if I should try a more direct approach?” He asked, cold hands skating down Yuuri’s sides making him shiver.
“No,” Yuuri rolled away from Victor’s hands, pulling the duvet up in an attempt to get warm again.
He felt Victor’s hand on his forehead, cold as if he’d been playing with snow while he waited for Yuuri to get up. A light in his brain lit up, but he was too tired to make sense of it.
“Yuuri…” There was a tinge of worry in the way Victor called his name.
“I just wanna sleep, Vitya.”
Yuuri’s tone had been grumpy, one that he immediately regretted using. Victor went silence, his fingers brushing Yuuri’s hair away from his forehead tenderly. Before he could apologize he realized how heavy his eyelids, and how Victor’s gentle touches were lulling him to sleep.
“Get some rest, babe,” he heard Victor mutter, followed by the soft press of lips on his temple and the mattress’s movement as Victor got up.
In the distance, Yuuri faintly registered the sound of cabinets being closed and Victor shuffling through drawers. He felt tired, incredibly so—his whole body felt like jelly, hurting as if he’d had intense training the day before. Five more minutes wouldn’t get them super late for the picnic, Yuuri reasoned, snuggling the duvet and letting his consciousness drift into sleep.
The grogginess only abandoned him as Yuuri heard the sound of the front door being shut. Almost immediately his thoughts jumped to “I’ve upset him. I was rude and now Victor is sad”, which he knew it was irrational, but guilt was stronger than logic.
Yuuri knew how excited Victor was for their first spring picnic in St. Petersburg—he has been planning it for weeks, counting days for their moment of freedom where they could enjoy sunlight together after months of hard work. Telling Victor he preferred to sleep instead of going out with him was incredibly insensitive.
He dragged his body out of bed to put on some warm clothes—his old sweatpants and Victor’s red sweater—and headed to the bathroom in search of his glasses. The app on his phone lied about the temperature—no way on Earth it was 20ºC. Yuuri’s fingers clutching at the duvet draped over his shoulders felt cold as icicles.
“Vitya?” He called, hoping that the sound of the door being shut had been just his imagination. Instead, his only answer was Makkachin bonding towards him with a wagging tail, asking for scratches.
On the top of the counter, right next to his glasses, Yuuri found their first-aid pouch—open and searched through, with the item Yuuri didn’t really know he was looking for peeking through. Grabbing the thermometer, he padded to the kitchen where their picnic basket sat with a lilac towel wrapped around it. The sight made Yuuri worry his lower lip.
“Where is papa?” Yuuri asked Makkachin, who in return licked his hand.
Yuuri served his breakfast as he tried to think of an apology. The way was gorgeous—the sun was shining, there was no wind and just a few clouds peppering the blue skies. It would be a real waste to spend their free day at home.
He sat on the couch, put the thermometer under his arm and ate his cereal, looking at his phone as he rehearsed what words to say. Victor hadn’t left too long ago, but the fact that he’d left without saying where he was going worried Yuuri a bit.
I’m sorry I yelled at you, Yuuri sent the message as he curled up on the sofa, patting the spot next to him as to call Makkachin for cuddling.
Not even a minute later Makkachin perked up, looking at the door and wagging his tail excitedly. Victor opened the door right after, with bags in his hands and a relieved expression as he saw Yuuri on the couch.
“Hi, love,” he smiled as Yuuri got up.
Without saying a word, Yuuri shortened the distance between them, wrapping Victor in his arms. His jacked felt cool under Yuuri’s chin, and he’d stayed like that all day if it wasn’t for the beeping under his arm.
“I think I’m brewing a cold,” Yuuri said as the beeping continued.
“Yeah, I thought so,” Victor kissed his forehead. “You were hot as if you had walked out of a sauna when I went to wake you up. We ran out of medicine so I went out to grab some.”
Gently, Victor guided him back to the sofa, removing the thermometer and checking Yuuri’s temperature. With his coach-like precision, Victor provided his medicine with some warm tea and wrapped him in a hug as they waited for it to take effect.
“I’m sorry,” Yuuri sighed, tucking his head under Victor’s chin. “I was rude to you. I blew our picnic plans.”
“Don’t be,” he felt Victor’s cheek move in a smile. “I love taking care of you.”
“It was supposed to be a fun day,” Yuuri protested.
“Who says it can’t be? Have you taken a look at what I brought you?”
“No?”
Victor’s lips brushed on his forehead for a minute before he settled on the perfect place for a kiss.
“I figured that since we can’t go out for our picnic we could make a pillow fortress and have it in the living room. And so I bought a few more blankets. And that video game you were looking forward playing with me.”
Yuuri sat up, a delighted smile curling the corners of his lips.
“Really?”
Victor nodded.
“Do you want to help me build our pillow fortress?”
