Gzera And The Warrior God

CHAPTER FOUR

The aroma of the feast was an intoxicating assault on his senses, a stark contrast to the bland existence he had endured for so long. The warrior god, whose name was Thorn, a name whispered with reverence and fear in hushed tones across this realm, reached out a large, calloused hand, his instincts overriding any sense of decorum. His fingers were mere inches from a roasted, herb-crusted piece of meat when a sudden, sharp jolt of energy coursed through his arm, making him snatch his hand back as if burned.

He stared at his tingling fingers, startled, then looked up, his storm-cloud eyes narrowed in confusion and a flicker of irritation. Gzera stood before him, her arms crossed, a small, triumphant smile playing on her lips.

“Ah-ah-ah,” she chided softly, though her voice held an undeniable firmness. “Not so fast, brute. We have rules here now. First, you will take a bath. A proper one, with soap and water, not just a quick rinse. Then, you will sit at the table like a gentleman and wait patiently for your meal.” Her emerald eyes sparkled with a challenge he hadn't anticipated.

Thorn stared at her, utterly dumbfounded. He, a warrior god, accustomed to commanding respect, to being feared, was being ordered about by a slip of a priestess who was wearing his tunic. The audacity! A low growl rumbled in his chest, a sound that usually sent lesser beings fleeing in terror. But Gzera merely met his gaze, her smile unwavering, a tiny, defiant tilt to her chin.

The moment stretched, a silent battle of wills. Thorn felt the familiar stirrings of his temper, the urge to simply grab the food and dismiss her impertinence. But then, the irresistible scent wafted towards him again, a siren song promising unimaginable delights. And beneath his frustration, a strange, almost amused curiosity flickered. He had lived in solitary stoicism for so long; this audacious young woman was a baffling, yet oddly captivating, disruption.

With a heavy sigh that conveyed the depths of his reluctant compliance, he relented. “Fine,” he grumbled, the word clipped and laced with annoyance. He turned and strode towards the back door, muttering curses under his breath about “bossy priestesses” and “unnecessary rituals.” As he pushed open the door, he distinctly heard Gzera’s soft, melodic giggle from within the cottage, a sound that only fueled his muttered curses.

He rushed through his bath, splashing cold water over himself with more vigor than necessary, scrubbing quickly, eager to return to that tantalizing feast. When he re-entered the cottage, drying his face with a rough cloth, Gzera was already seated at the small table, patiently waiting. The inviting aroma filled the room, making his stomach rumble fiercely.

He took his seat opposite her, his large frame making the stool seem even smaller. Gzera gestured to the food, a silent invitation. Thorn didn't need to be told twice. He reached for a piece of roasted meat, his movements surprisingly unrefined despite his divine nature. He tore into it, his eyes widening with each bite.

It was beyond anything he had ever tasted. The meat, succulent and perfectly cooked, melted in his mouth, bursting with flavors he couldn’t even name. The herbs, fresh and vibrant, danced on his tongue, a symphony of taste that awakened senses he hadn't realized were dulled. The vegetables, crisp and sweet, were a revelation. He wolfed down the meal, piece after piece, his usual controlled demeanor completely abandoned. He ate with the uninhibited hunger of a beast, every trace of his earlier annoyance forgotten in the sheer bliss of the food. He chased it down with long, satisfying gulps of the palm wine, its sweet, tangy taste a perfect counterpoint to the rich meal.

He devoured every last morsel, clearing the platters and bowls until nothing remained but a few stray crumbs. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, utterly satisfied, a deep, contented sigh escaping him. It had been an eternity since he had felt such simple, profound pleasure. Not even when he had once dined with the other gods, in the grand halls of Valhalla, before his world had shattered, had he experienced such exquisite flavors.

He finally lifted his head, his gaze falling upon Gzera. She was still smiling, her emerald eyes watching him with a mixture of amusement and warmth. There was no judgment in her gaze, only a gentle, knowing observation. Her face, framed by the moonlight-colored hair and the dark fabric of his tunic, seemed to glow in the flickering firelight. Her eyes were truly mesmerizing, drawing him in, making him forget his usual guardedness.

A rare flush crept up his neck. He, Thorn, the silent warrior, had just eaten like a starved wolf in front of a delicate priestess. “Forgive my… my behavior,” he mumbled, a rare apology escaping his lips. “I… I haven’t tasted anything like that in a very long time.”

Gzera laughed, a light, melodious sound that seemed to chase away the lingering shadows of his past. “Don’t worry about it,” she said easily. “I don’t mind. I’m glad you enjoyed it.” Her genuine acceptance, devoid of any pretense or expectation, was disarming.

Curiosity, a sensation he rarely indulged, stirred within him. “How did you…?” he began, gesturing vaguely at the now empty dishes. “Where did all this come from? The meat, the palm wine…?”

Gzera leaned forward, her eyes twinkling mischievously. “Well,” she began, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper, “after you left this morning, I decided your land needed a little… help. It seemed a dreadful waste for so much potential to go unfulfilled.”

She then told him everything. How she had used her creation magic to conjure the vibrant garden from the barren earth, coaxing vegetables and fruit trees into existence. She described the appearance of Caleb the hunter, drawn by the irresistible aroma of her cooking, and how she had bartered for the antelope meat. Then, she recounted the arrival of Kojo the palm wine tapper, and their exchange for the sweet, cloudy liquid. She spoke with an infectious enthusiasm, her hands moving expressively as she recounted her day’s adventures.

Thorn listened, his expression growing more incredulous with each passing detail. Creation magic? Bartering with locals? It sounded like something out of a child’s fable, not the reality of his grim, isolated existence. He didn’t believe her. Not entirely. His land was barren, had always been barren. It was a curse he had long accepted.

“Show me,” he rumbled, his voice low with skepticism.

Gzera simply smiled. “Of course.”

He followed her outside, the cool night air wrapping around them. Gzera led him to the back of the cottage, where only yesterday there had been nothing but dry, cracked earth. Now, bathed in the soft moonlight, was a lush, thriving garden. Rows of vibrant greens, plump, ripe fruits hanging heavy from newly formed branches, and the earthy, sweet scent of growing things filled the air. It was undeniable. A miracle, wrought by the hands of a young priestess.

Thorn stared, his usual stoic mask finally cracking. Shock rippled through him, swiftly followed by a wave of disbelief. This was impossible. This was… extraordinary. He reached out a hand, touching a broad green leaf, feeling its vibrant life, then a plump red tomato, still warm from the day’s sun. The reality of it slammed into him. She hadn't just made a meal; she had transformed his land.

He stood there for a long time, absorbing the impossible truth of the garden. Gzera patiently waited, observing his reaction. When he finally turned back to her, his eyes held a newfound respect, a glimmer of awe that replaced the earlier annoyance.

Later that night, as the dying embers in the hearth cast dancing shadows across the small cottage, and Gzera was preparing for bed, Thorn spoke. His voice was lower than usual, almost hesitant.

“The meal,” he began, glancing at the small, unmade bed, then at her. “Could you… could you make it again tomorrow?”

Gzera turned, her emerald eyes soft in the dim light. A gentle smile touched her lips. “I can,” she agreed readily. “But I have a condition.”

Thorn’s brow furrowed slightly. “Condition?”

“Yes,” she said, walking over to him, her voice dropping to a soft murmur. “This bed is far too small. If I’m to be stuck here, laying next to a snoring brute who takes up all the space,” she teased playfully, “then we need a bigger one. And a bigger bedroom, too. You’ll have to make them.”

Thorn looked at the small bed, then at her, his expression a mix of bewilderment and a flicker of something almost amused. It was utterly ridiculous. She hadn't even asked for her own bed, or a separate room. She was demanding his bed be made bigger.

“Why not your own bed?” he asked, a hint of curiosity in his tone. “Why mine?”

Gzera met his gaze, her smile softening, losing its playful edge and becoming something more vulnerable. “Because,” she said, her voice barely a whisper, “I prefer laying next to you. I feel… safer.”

The words hung in the air between them, an unexpected admission that resonated deep within Thorn. Safer. He, a god of battle and solitude, was a source of safety for this fragile priestess. A strange warmth, unfamiliar and unsettling, bloomed in his chest. His world had been shattered by the loss of his wife, leaving him broken and alone, devoid of such tender connections. Yet, here she was, seeking comfort and safety in his presence, in his home.

The idea of making a bigger bed, for her – for them – seemed absurd, utterly contrary to his solitary existence. But as he looked into her mesmerizing eyes, and recalled the undeniable taste of the feast she had conjured, and the bewildering, yet oddly pleasant, disruption she had brought to his life, he found himself nodding.

“Alright,” he said, his voice gruff, but with an underlying current of something akin to reluctant acceptance. “Tomorrow. A bigger bed.”

Gzera’s smile widened, a true, joyous smile that lit up her face. “Excellent,” she whispered, and then, before he could react, she leaned in and pressed a soft, fleeting kiss to his cheek. It was a feather-light touch, gone almost before he registered it, but it left a trail of warmth that lingered long after she had slipped onto the small bed.

Thorn stood there for a moment, stunned. He touched his cheek, the ghost of her touch a bewildering sensation. He cursed under his breath, but this time, there was no annoyance in it, only a profound, almost bewildered, bewilderment. His solitary world was undeniably shifting, and he, the stoic warrior god, was finding himself utterly, inexplicably, willing to let it happen.