Work Text:
TWO WEEKS LATER
Avdol looks around as he tiptoes through the mahogany door. No matter how many times he visits Polnareff’s chamber, it always manages to look different. One day, it will be vast, with sweet air pouring in from a huge, glassless window, full of white marble and gilded trim. The next, it will be cramped and overflowing with books, charms and vibrant flowers. This evening, to Avdol, it’s both: sunset flickers over the opulent paintings and tapestries; huge grape vines tie themselves over the bed frame; lilac flowers sway gently in one corner of the room, held by large wicker baskets; there's a large cheetah pelt on the floor.
He sits down on a small chaise lounge in front of the bed, staring directly into the pelt’s taxidermied mouth.
By the gods, he left the head on.
Avdol knows he shouldn’t be in here when the God of Wine isn’t. But he just can’t help himself. Besides, he reasons, he’ll return soon, and then they can have more fun. It’s almost time for dinner, and Polnareff is sure to be hungry. His eyes continue their silent expedition, and come to rest on a small, glittering object, hidden amongst the lilacs. He raises an eyebrow, and as he approaches, he finds that the bushes obscure a small shrine. There is no indication for whom the shrine is for; however, in the center sits an ornate tiara, decorated with more plants and gold beads.
He’s never seen such a beautiful crown before. Does it belong to Polnareff? He’s never seen him wear it. Curious, he picks it up and turns it over. How delicate it is, how kind...the entire shrine, in fact, seems to have been made with a great amount of care.
As Avdol turns it again, he can see tiny branches holding it together. From them grow purple and white flowers. While creating a living tiara does not require particularly powerful magic, it can only be done by someone with significant knowledge of the subject. Does Polnareff possess this power? Avdol makes a mental note to ask-
“NOOO!” comes a scream from the doorway. Startled, Avdol spins around in time to find Polnareff storming towards him. He’s got fire in his eyes. They stare at each other, and the god’s hands tremble as he grabs the tiara out of Avdol’s hold and shakes it in his face. “Don’t ever, ever touch this!”
“My apologies, I’ve just never seen you wear it-”
“That’s because it doesn’t belong to me. If you touch it again, I will cut off your hand!”
“I’m truly sorry, Your Highness. I didn’t mean to invade your privacy,” he says with shame. Polnareff tenderly places the tiara back onto the altar, stares at it with an expression Avdol interprets as longing, and sighs.
“This is hers.” He pours himself a glass of wine and sits down on the bed. The sunlight is fading over the horizon, and with it goes his heart. Avdol can see the sadness in his eyes, can tell he wants to say more, so he asks, “Who was she?”
Polnareff’s voice is distant and somber. “Her name was Malena. I met her about a century ago, I’d say. And really, she was the only woman I’ve ever truly loved. She was the daughter of a prostitute, and she prayed to me for a life of pleasure. I made a deal with her, at first: she offered her body in return for a better life for her and her mother. I admired that, I think. But I just--I fell so hard for her. I couldn’t live comfortably knowing she was in my servitude. She was so smart, so full of life...she was sunshine.”
“Meaning,” he continues as he swallows a mouthful of wine, “she was nothing like the people I had come to know as my kin. But I didn’t care. I wanted her, I wanted eternity with her. And she wanted to garden with her mother.” He smiles. “Lilacs were her favorite. So I learned everything I could about them, about her, and I cultivated a wine that would keep her and her mother young and healthy. We started growing lilacs together and had our wedding as soon as they were in bloom.”
“But of course, my step-mother has to have her nose in everyone’s affairs. She was furious that I had married a mortal. To mitigate the whole thing, I asked my father to make Malena a demigoddess instead. Not just to protect her from Susie’s wrath, but so that we could be together forever. He told me that that would be breaking the rules. As if….As if love was some sort of crime.”
Avdol’s about to say something about that, but Polnareff doesn’t seem to notice. He’s staring out the window, his eyes glassy. “We were only married for three days-”
His voice cracks, and he turns back to face Avdol. “And I found her mother sobbing in the garden. My Malena was dead, struck by a sudden affliction to the heart. I tried to intervene, but the twins had already come for her."
“The twins?”
“Doppio and Trish. You might know Diavolo-”
“The Father of Death,” Avdol murmurs.
“Yes. They are the ones who take souls down to the Underworld. Usually it’s just one or the other, but Malena...they told me there were ‘special circumstances’ under which she’d died. I knew Susie had something to do with it, but I couldn’t prove it. I asked them, begged them, to spare her, and told them that she had died unjustly. But they could not be swayed. They had to do their jobs, too.”
“I confronted my step-mother. She said that she didn’t have a hand in Malena’s death; that she, like everyone else, couldn’t be blamed for following the rules and that I was getting too emotional. I guess I got tired of everyone insisting that order is more important than love. So I left. Climbed down and built this palace in her honor. Th-That tiara,” he whimpers, two tears dripping down either side of his face, “is all I have left of her. I grow lilacs for her every year, but I’m not a god, and for that I must suffer. I've learned how to hurt, and how to cry, and I must be punished!” He starts to cry, bowing his head, and Avdol can feel his heart burning. All this time, he’d had him wrong. He’d assumed him just an arrogant god obsessed with maintaining pleasure for pleasure’s sake. But it’s not pleasure.
It’s departure.
That explains what he had overheard Polnareff’s servants talking about earlier.
“I was told you were planning on...disengaging,” Avdol says.
“That’s an awfully nice way to put it,” the demigod replies, wiping his tears away. “What business is it of yours?”
“Well, I didn’t know what that meant, so I came in here to see if you were alright.”
“It means performing an extremely powerful spell that doesn’t really work.”
“What is it meant to do?”
“Destroy your memory.”
Avdol feels cold. “How do you perform it?”
“The same way I perform all of my spells: with wine. Alcohol acts as a natural memory inhibitor, but every century or so, there’s some sort of mutation that happens in the seeds of the grapes I grow. I am the only one who knows about it, and I am the only one able to cultivate it.”
He touches the vines that hang above his head. “I store most of it. But if one of my servants wishes to leave, I give it to them as a parting gift. They drink it, and lose all memory of me and my palace.”
While Avdol wrestles with the crushing emotional weight of such knowledge, he has to commend Polnareff on his strategy. It’s admirable for gods to desire anonymity, in his mind: they are the only ones who will never truly have it. Remaining lost is a skill not many people throughout the centuries have retained.
“But sometimes I drink it myself. Like I said, it doesn’t work as well on me as it does on mortals, but I do end up losing large chunks of time. Could be years.”
“Why do you do that?”
“So I can enjoy that time again.”
Avdol has no idea what to say. He moves a little closer, puts his hand on Polnareff’s thigh. He had never considered the horror of spending an eternity alone before. Thousands of years, thousands of layers of paint poured onto the same weary canvas. “I’m sorry,” he murmurs.
There’s silence, then, “Are you going to leave?”
“What?”
“Eventually, at some point, you want to leave, don’t you?”
“I suppose…” If he’s being honest, Avdol isn’t sure how to answer that question. He doesn’t necessarily want to stay , but now that he knows that making the decision means erasing his memory, he’s not sure he wants to decide so quickly. Not only that, but he’d never considered Polnareff’s motives before. He was a target. Simple as that.
But the longer he remains in the palace, the more time the Stockholm grapes haven to grow inside his ears. He can’t deny how often he’s gone to seek Polnareff out in the last few weeks. It feels like something is changing inside him. But for the God of Wine, change only comes if forced. He’s stuck with all time, circling his head like a hungry hawk that never tires.
Avdol suddenly finds himself grateful for mortality.
Slowly, softly, he sits down on the bed next to Polnareff, resting his head on his shoulder. “Well, if it’s company you want, to pass the time, I will provide this for you.”
“Really?” Polnareff sounds surprised, but returns the gesture.
“Yes. I know how it feels, to be alone. I don’t want that for you.”
“I--thank you. Thank you,” he whispers, “that is very kind.”
Avdol lays down beside the demigod, feels the cool night air on his face, and feels safer than he has in a while. He nestles in the arms of a being older than the rivers, and hears an eternal heart softly tick away. Outside, the cicadas buzz. He has so much to come to understand about this place, about Polnareff and the machinations of the gods. Not more than a week ago, he did not know that gods could love.
And not more than an hour ago, he did not wish so much to be known by one.
Perhaps, he wonders as sleep numbs his legs, they can come to understand one another. He thinks fleetingly of Malena, and a pang of sorrow reverberates in his chest: she died at the hands of one god for the love of another. What mortal can say that?
Tick. Tick.
The dream weavers have chosen his head as their spinning wheel once more, and he casts one last look upward. Maybe, even for just a while, they could understand each other. Know each other.
Love each other.
I’ll wander this Earth for a thousand years
Scourged by gods above
This battered heart will battle, dear
So I can know your love
I am the Phoenix Avdol
I am drunk on holy wine
And O, how far in flame I fall-
Polnareff, at last, you’re mine.