Peter needn't have rushed to the spicery. Unmet by the fight he'd come to end, he uneasily stood in the open doorway, waylaid by familiar glances. His mother had Ethos on the edge of the table, a hand on his shoulder to keep him steady while she scrubbed the blood from his chin and his neck.
But Peter had to say something, so he asked, "What happened?"
"My fist, is what," Aria grumbled, working out a stubborn spot. "Idiot son."
"She has the same right cross as you," Ethos inserted. "I was so surprised I forgot to duck."
"Ballsch," she spat. "You're a hundred years young to butter my yarn."
His eyes rounded on her. "What does that mean?"
"It means don't get fresh or I'll bite off your thumbs." She flung the dampened cloth aside and took a few steps back to appraise him. "There," she said. "Good as new."
Ethos lightly touched his nose, checking his fingers for blood. "Thanks, I guess."
"Mom," Peter said, and he gave her a look when she turned to see him, imparting as much as he could with his eyes. "Step outside with me."
She peered at him sideways, arms folded. "Fine."
So Peter led her into the corridor. If it bothered Ethos, it didn't show; he was sniffing a damp spot on his shirt, seamlessly off in his own private world. But Peter didn't trust it, so he shut the door tightly and guided his mother a healthy distance away. He stopped her at the entrance to Battlefrost Hall, where their voices were veiled by the hum of late-night activity.
He stepped in close. "Are you completely insane?" he hissed. "You can't just lash out at him like that. He could have seriously hurt you."
She didn't snap back. She glanced instead to the light shining under the spicery door. "He's not at all like you described."
"Did you hear what I said?"
"Aye, sea slug. Loud and clear like." But it was a few seconds longer before she looked up at him, curious. "What is he?" she asked. "Godling?"
Peter rubbed at his face and then stopped, mouth hidden by his hand. "I thought so, too," he said, wishing it were so. "But these days it's hard to be certain."
"I'd like to be happy you've made a friend."
"Friends, enough. He's as much a friend as an enemy sometimes."
Aria was quiet for a time. "He seems to think he's not long for the world."
Peter rolled his eyes. "I wish he'd stop saying that."
"Maybe it's not so bad, considering."
"Considering what?"
His temper would put her off, he knew— and it did. She molded a mild glare. "Considering how concerned you were for my safety just now."
"You just need to know how to deal with him."
"His kind can't be dealt with, Peter. You've got to see him for what he is."
Peter couldn't stand the look in her eyes. He scowled at the floor, at his grubby boots. "I get what you're saying," he said. "But it's different with us. He won't hurt me."
"And what makes you so sure of that?"
"He just won't."
"That's no answer, sea slug."
Peter finally matched her glare. "It's under control."
Silence breathed between them at first, but Aria must have recognized it as a lost argument. With a heavy sigh, she opened the door to Battlefrost Hall and paused there with the firelight on her face. Just before entering, she said, "When the time comes, let him die."
And that was that. The light and noise of the Hall went with her, leaving him there to stew in the darkness where answers were few and questions were many. A strange sensation coursed through him, midway between excitement and dread, shaped by scraps of hateful things. He didn't want to take it all apart, to look at the pieces that formed the whole, but then, he didn't have to. The source was obvious, there at the core of his formless floundering.
Minutes had passed when he turned from the door. Slowed by his mother's blunt suggestion, his measured approach of the spicery was quickened by the sound of laughter.
He'd been too lost in his thoughts. The shapely spicer had returned at some point to replenish their ale; she was lured tableside, pretending to resist while Ethos whispered into her ear. His languid smile spread as he spoke, breath stirring her fine flaxen hair.
There was no surprise in his eyes when they finally noticed Peter. They just moved away as if he weren't there, hooded and low and slightly unfocused. Ethos felt for the pitcher of ale she'd brought, one hand low on the small of her back, feeding her irrepressible giggle.
But she hadn't heard Peter enter, and she let out a tiny squeak of alarm when he cleared his throat behind her. She spun around, red-faced, clutching her heart. "Thanks for checking in on us," he said, suggesting she go. "I think we have all we need."
She fled the room in a rush of horror. Ethos watched her disappear, legs dangling, and then took a hearty drink from the pitcher. He came up for air a long moment after, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. As an afterthought, he shrugged and said, "I wouldn't've hurt her."
Peter closed the door. "I'm sorry my mom punched you."
Ethos didn't answer at first, and he'd lain on the table when Peter glanced back, half-empty pitcher tucked under his arm. "She hates me," he moaned. "She thinks I'm a monster."
"She doesn't hate you. She just doesn't trust you."
"But I want her to like me."
"Why?"
"Because she's your mom. Obviously."
Peter approached the table, blandly scratching his jaw. "Don't take it to heart," he said. "You're an odd sort of duck and she's cautious by nature. There was bound to be a learning curve."
Ethos threw an arm over his eyes. He fell silent like that, chest steadily rising and falling. "It's not always easy to make smart choices," he mumbled. "You know?"
"I know." Peter sat at the table, near to where Ethos had rested his head. The shorter hair made it easier to see his ears. "We'll be alright."
"She's wrong about me. It's not like I've given up."
Peter studied the side of his face. "You were listening to us?"
"I can't help it," Ethos said. "You're all so loud."
"So you heard what I said about you."
"About us not being friends?"
Peter made a face. "You know what you do."
Ethos turned his head to impart a scowl. "Speak for yourself," he said. "I'd have a lot less to worry about if you'd quit trying to trip me up for the fun of it."
"Then dial it back, brother. You have no idea how humiliating it is to be bullied into a position of power by someone who's more qualified for it." Ethos didn't retort, so Peter bristled. "You're confusing the ballsch out of everyone," he said. "They all think you hang the moon."
Ethos sat up, but not all the way— marginally, to his elbows. He favored one side as he drank from the pitcher, an excuse, perhaps, to avoid replying. Peter had made him uncomfortable.
"If you want to trade, tell me now," Peter urged. "I won't be mad. But I'll be damned if I put up with this whole charade just to have you go son-of-Redbeard on me."
The pitcher returned to the table. Ethos sent him a glare. "Don't call me that."
"He excelled at what he did, Ethos. Make peace with that, if anything." Peter held his furious eyes, curiously unfazed. The distinctive air of authority was absent. "I'm not here for a fight, but I'll be happy to start one," he promised. "Keep glaring at me like that."
Those eyes widened in surprise— a rarity. Ethos sat up the rest of the way, dragging the pitcher with him. Back turned, he said, "Forget it."
"Can I ask you a question?"
"I guess."
"Have you actually seen yourself die?"
Ethos moved his shoulders a bit. A shrug. He probably didn't want to answer. "Eadric thought we could break prophecy," he said. "But we can't. Not really. Only Alma can."
"Alma can? How do you know?"
"Because she did."
"When?"
"When she killed Ethos."
"But you're alive again. She didn't break shit."
Ethos was quiet. He stared into the pitcher, spine visible through his shirt.
Peter leaned sideways, far as needed to see his face— just short of falling. Ethos hollowly glanced when he said, "You're hiding something from me again."
"You always think I'm hiding something."
"Aye, but this time you've bled dry Flint's finest ale."
Humorlessly, Ethos smirked. "I've had an unpleasant week, Peter."
Tired of leaning, Peter sighed and moved his chair to the end of the table. Once there, he assumed the low ground and stared up at Ethos, hoping he'd budge. He didn't. "The original can't be the only one who can kill her," Peter said. "I mean, that's why she made you, right?"
"Yeah." Something about that amused Ethos. His smile was a ghost of the one he'd made while seducing the unwitting serving girl. Languid. Slow. A little bit wicked. His eyes drifted. "She said I was stronger than him," he said. "Faster. Smarter. Free of restrictions."
Peter watched the strange smile fade. "Did you assimilate with Eadric?"
"You'd like that, I bet," Ethos said, without heart. "Make an enemy out of me. Have someone to take it all out on."
"I literally need to know."
Ethos eventually sighed, unenthused, and then looked at the mark encircling his wrist. He blinked as if he were seeing double. "It's a little hard to explain."
"Is it affecting your personality?"
"Not really, no."
"What did you do to him?"
"He was dying." Ethos touched his head, brow furrowed. "But he had Alyce," he said. "He thought he could use me to find a new body, to preserve his mind while he still had control over the situation. I tried to tell him that it was a bad idea— that there was a process— "
Peter stopped him short. "Are you saying he's in there with you right now?"
"Somewhere." Ethos drank a while more, gripping the table for balance. It took some time for him to finish. "Anyway, I can't kill him internally," he concluded. "We'll assimilate if I do. And I obviously can't let him walk around free again. So I guess we're cohabitating."
"That's not a solution."
"Then what would you do?"
"I don't know, but I sure as hell wouldn't share that kind of personal space with Eadric." But Ethos looked exhausted, so Peter didn't push it. "Can you hear him?"
Ethos shrugged again. "Occasionally," he said. "But he's not like Oubi. He's contained."
For now. And with Shima, presumably. Peter stood up and paced by the door, feeling restless. "So our only real option is to give him a new host."
"Peter…"
"But we can do it on our own terms, kill him as soon as the transfer's done."
"Peter, stop." Ethos had been staring at his lap. He raised his head just enough to see Peter. "I can't think about this right now," he said, evenly. "Let it go."
"We need to come up with a plan."
"I'm aware of that."
Peter held his eyes, reluctant to put it off. "Do you always have to assimilate with them?" he asked, searching for some kind of slip in his bearing. "It doesn't make any sense for there to be that kind of a constraint. There has to be a middle ground."
Ethos looked at the floor. "I'm supposed to understand them. It's by design."
"But you've never tried it any other way."
"There are rules."
"Is it the soul? Do you have to feed on it or something?"
Ethos glanced back up at him, a little offended. "What exactly do you think I am?"
Kacha's warning stirred somewhere in the back of Peter's mind. "They say gods are born from the wishes of men. That's where Alma came from, remember?"
"Hope. I remember."
"Well, I think you're whatever a god wishes for."
Ethos continued to stare outright, expression unchanged, like it hadn't registered. But then, after a lengthy moment of silence, he raised the pitcher to drink again.
Peter tore the damn thing out of his hands, flung it aside where it clattered and spilled. "Stop that," he snapped. "Just talk to me."
"What am I supposed to say?" Ethos demanded. "I don't know what Alma wants. She's crazy. She could want companionship as much as death."
"She brought you back to fulfill the prophecy. You just agreed with me."
Peter had caught him in a lie; a pretty bad one, from the look of it. He'd have brushed it off if it'd been harmless, but the eyes that normally shone and laughed were staring darkly, thinking, alive. It was hard to look intimidating while sitting on a table, but somehow, incredibly, he managed to do it.
"I've left Alyce alone as a mercy," Peter said. "Don't make me go to her."
"The tono will come if they sense I'm in danger."
"I'm not going to hurt you, Ethos."
Ethos seemed to relax, subtly. Was he relieved? "Just let it go," he repeated. "It's not your place to know every little thing about me. It's indecent."
Peter squeezed his shoulder; it tensed in his grip, as if repulsed, but Peter bent down regardless to put them at eye level. True to form, Ethos wouldn't look at him. "I'm done arguing in circles with you," Peter said. "Tell me what's changed."
Face turned, Ethos made a hard line of his mouth— a disguise of rebelliousness. But he wasn't in any position to fight, and it didn't take long for his eyes to slide low. "Alma didn't make another Ethos," he confessed. "She made another Eadric."
His answer didn't land right. It was Peter's turn to stare. "What?"
"Kacha misidentified me. Not her fault." Ethos tried to shrug out of Peter's grip, but stopped when it proved counterproductive. He made a small sound, just a sigh. "I wonder what she thought when she saw me," he said. "He wasn't much older than me when they met."
"It's normal for kids to resemble their parents."
"You didn't see him, Peter. It was more than a resemblance."
The truth of it was sinking in, ringing true like little else had. Peter took up his other shoulder, shook him once to keep him present. His vagrant eyes refocused and struggled to stay open. "You can't tell anyone else about this," Peter warned him. "Do you understand?"
But Ethos just chuckled, another disguise to hide the growing tremor in his voice. He was heavy in Peter's hands, like he'd sooner spill forward onto the floor than hold himself up unaided. "I'd kill me if I were in your shoes," he said, throat catching. "I really would."
Struck by a sudden, irrepressible impulse, Peter grabbed him and hugged him tight. "I'm not you," he muttered. "Be grateful."
Ethos seemed content to just sit there with his face buried in Peter's shoulder, not exactly returning the gesture, but not quite fighting it, either. Peter didn't even notice that he was crying— not for a while, at least. For Ethos had stifled all but the shiver, the mutineer of silent misery.
"Was Eadric the one who broke your fingers?"
Ethos didn't answer, and Peter shouldn't have expected him to, so it came as something of a mixed blessing to realize he'd fallen asleep like that in what must have been a matter of seconds. Back straight, carefully unmoving, Peter blindly felt around until he unearthed the crafty nebule. It buzzed in his grip with quiet energy, gleaming in the firelight.
Ethos didn't stir. He'd probably sleep for days if they let him. Peter patted his back with a sigh and cursed at himself for throwing the pitcher. "Good talk."