Narad dreamed of women. Beautiful women who turned away from him in revulsion, in disgust. They were crowding close on all sides, and each recoil jostled him. He struggled to hide his face, but it seemed as if his hands were not his own, and that they were helpless in their efforts to find what he sought to hide.

He had not been born with much. He could not recall once basking in the admiring regard of a woman. There was no point in counting all the whores, since they were paid to look pleased; besides, they never held his gaze for very long. Desire was a thing no eye could fake, and its absence was plain enough to unman the boldest man.

Blinking awake, he stared up through the motionless branches and leaves that seemed to fracture the night sky. He would never be desired – even the small hope he had cherished in the wasted years before the beating was now dead.

Not even the gods offered fairness, not without a bargain to be made first. There were tears in his eyes, blurring the scene overhead. Bargain? I have nothing to give up. If gods looked down on him now, their regard was flat, unfeeling. Even pity demanded a soul dropping to its knees, and he would not give that up for so poor a reward. I get pity enough here among the mortals.

The beautiful women look away, look past. Their eyes glide over and that has always been the way of it, long before my face was broken. All they want is a mirrored reflection, another perfect face to match the admiration that is the only wealth they understand.

Behind this broken face waits an honest man, a man capable of love. He wants only what so many others have. Something beautiful to hold on to.

I ask for it, but the gods do not answer. No light or warmth finds their flat eyes. They blink cold. They look away, find something else, something more interesting, more original.

There were no ugly gods. Their first expression of power was in the reshaping of their selves, into forms lovely to behold. Had he the power, he would do the same. He would take this clay in his own hands and mould it into perfection.

But no such gifts awaited him.

He heard low voices, and then a figure moved close to him, one hand reaching out to nudge him. ‘Up, Waft, it’s time. Cold breakfast and then weapons and armour on.’

It was the woman who had spoken so bitterly the night before. He turned his head, studied her dark form. Wishing she was both beautiful and blind, even her fingers senseless and dumb. Wishing he could lie to her and convince her and then slide into her and afterwards feel at peace.

‘You awake?’

‘Yes,’ he replied.