The Ivory Fig Ceremony - 1. Chapter 1

Matthew first noticed the stranger under the fig trees: a boy about his age, hair the soft gold of honey, eyes an odd purplish-brown that made Matthew wonder if he wore colored contacts for the festival.

When those eyes met his, Matthew's stomach fluttered. Outsiders flooded Figton every year for the Ivory Fig Ceremony, overtaking most of the main paths. Maybe the boy was just another visitor. Either way, Matthew blamed his quickened pulse on nerves about meeting someone new.

“Hi, I’m Matt,” he offered, giving a slight nod in greeting. “What’s your name?”

The blond blinked, glancing around as if searching for witnesses. He pointed at himself, brow arched in disbelief.

"Yes, you," Matt clarified, a nervous laugh catching in his throat. "Do you see anyone else here?"

The blond shook his head.

“Did you get separated from your family?” Matt asked, trying to sound casual, as if rescuing boys with fig-colored eyes was just another part of his day. The boy nodded, the movement shy but oddly decisive.

“I can help you find them,” Matt offered, gesturing vaguely toward a sunlit side path. “That way leads to the shopping center; pretty much where everyone ends up, sooner or later.”

The boy considered, tapping his chin like he was weighing options. For a split second, Matthew thought he glimpsed something odd, a faint shimmer in the air around the boy’s hair, as if the sunlight waned around him. But when Matthew glanced again, it was gone, leaving only the memory of that strange, purplish-brown in his eyes.

"I could walk with you, if you want," Matt added, trying not to appear desperate. His mother had died giving birth to him. His father had restarted his life elsewhere, leaving him with just his grandmother, so he craved connection.

But the blond shook his head. Matthew’s face dropped in disappointment; the rejection hit him harder than he’d anticipated. As he turned away, however, the boy’s hand took hold of his arm.

Then, to Matt’s utter shock, the blond stepped up and pressed a quick, featherlight kiss to his cheek. He smelled of figs and thyme. Before Matt could even stammer a response, the boy flashed a lopsided grin and darted off down the path, leaving Matt staring after him, a hand pressed to his cheek.

“Huh,” Matt muttered, still stunned. “Didn’t even get his name.”

The following year, when the festival returned to Figton, Matthew learned his name: Finn.

Finn scratched the letters in the dirt with a stick. Silent, a bit awkward, but it only made Matthew like him more. When Matthew guessed "Fern" instead of "Finn," Finn frowned, but smiled when he got it right. Matthew thought he saw a halo around Finn then. He really needed to stop daydreaming.

Every year at festival time, they crossed paths in Figton. One summer, they slid down makeshift water slides. Another, they hid from a storm under the stairs, hands clutched tight. Sometimes, Finn produced a fig from his pocket, impossibly ripe off-season. Matthew began suspecting Finn’s family had their own reasons for visiting, like buying farmland.

It became routine: Matthew stealing hours with the mysterious visitor, fitting Finn into his summers.

Years slipped by, each festival marking another summer shared with Finn. But then, when Matthew was sixteen, everything changed. His grandmother, his only family, died during the Ivory Fig Ceremony week. The loss left him raw; the festival he once loved now felt hollow and foreign. For the first time, Matthew wondered if he'd ever feel joy again.

Finn stayed through it all, wordless but steady. He left a basket of pastries at Matthew’s front door and kept him company. Sometimes Finn took Matthew’s hand or pressed a fig into his palm, and Matthew didn’t feel so alone.

After his grandmother's death, Matthew drifted through the following summers on autopilot, the festivities utterly dimmed in his eyes. Each festival, he met Finn, but their time together felt shadowed by grief. Only gradually did warmth return, stoked gently by Finn’s quiet presence. Finally, the summers blurred together until Matthew was old enough for the Ivory Fig Ceremony himself.

In Figton, turning twenty-five meant joining that year’s cohort to prepare the Offering for their deity. It was a rite that felt both ancient and weirdly personal. A legend said the original offerings were people: real, living sacrifices like the Amber Sage, a local myth who vanished after his altar night.

But as time passed and Figton grew, the town swapped blood for sweetness. Labor, figs, sugar, and the sticky business of making enough syrup to drown the whole town in fig paste replaced the old ways. Next came the dough: delicate, finicky, and prone to tearing if you weren’t careful, wrapped around dollops of that figgy gold.

They called the pastries “ivory figs,” and every young adult in town pitched in, enough so everyone brought home at least two. But only one young adult from the group would carry a bowl of the finished treats to the altar, representing them all.

Matthew, to his shock, was chosen as the representative that year. The news brought overwhelming pressure, hijacking his summer with tradition and responsibility. He felt torn between duty and the growing anxiety of neglecting Finn. Worried that Finn might feel abandoned, he scribbled a letter and left it at their usual spot, explaining his absence and hoping that Finn would understand.

"How do they even pick the offering person?" Matthew asked, elbow-deep in syrup, trying to ignore missing Finn.

“Priest dreams,” Catie replied, not looking up from her mixing. “Supposedly, one of them gets a vision the night before the festival. My aunt says her dreams are full of figs and golden light when something big’s about to happen. Doesn’t matter who carries the bowl, though, we all get the blessings if the deity’s happy.”

When they were teens, Matthew and his friends used to grill the young adults for gossip about the Blessings, strange dreams that supposedly came after a good offering. Sometimes you’d see your future spouse, sometimes your dream job. If you were one of the rarities, you might get a vision that meant you’d be tapped to become a priest.

The person who carried the bowl usually got more than one vision, sometimes too many. Most ended up as community leaders.

Matthew?

He prayed for something simple: just a small glimpse of Finn’s hometown, or time together beyond brief festival meetings. The familiar ache of wanting more rose as he hoped the Blessing would bring additional time with Finn and a chance to see him outside their usual summer boundaries.

The night before the Offering, Matthew dreamed in vivid hues and sensation, a dream so sharp it lingered after waking. He and Finn were kids again, but this time, Finn kissed him softly on the lips, a spark of warmth that felt too real to dismiss. Then Finn leaned close and whispered Matthew’s name, but the voice was deep, unmistakably grown. The sound curled through Matthew’s mind, setting every nerve alight.

“Matt.”

Matthew woke to tangled sheets and embarrassment burning hotter than the morning sun. For the first time, the intimacy of his dream with Finn left him both flustered and vulnerable. He kept replaying the moment: how Finn’s adult voice, just saying his name, could undo him and blur the line between dream and longing.

Some blessing, he thought, his face a bright red.

That embarrassment clung to him like humidity through all of Offering Day: the rituals, the crowds, the endless scent of figs. Later, as Matthew dressed for the ceremony, his clothes felt stiffer than usual: semi-formal, with a golden scarf embroidered with ivory figs at the corners. Catie grinned as she handed him the bowl of pastries. Everywhere he looked, his friends were practically buzzing with excitement.

“I dreamed of my future husband,” Catie blurted, all smiles. “From a town over. We had three kids. He even had a dimple like this.” She tapped her cheek for emphasis.

“I’m taking over my dad’s construction company,” said Jon, puffed up with pride. “Me, not my brothers!” Jon’s voice boomed so loud that even the priests outside probably heard it. Catie rolled her eyes, but everyone grinned.

The circle buzzed with more stories. Excitement rose. Then the music started, and all the chatter dissolved into anticipation. Matthew’s stomach trembled. Someone nudged him toward the temple path. The crowd’s voices shifted into a low chant of gratitude prayers as he walked.

He clutched the glass bowl, his palms sweating. Matt willed himself not to drop it. Every breath tasted of figs; sweet, heavy, almost dizzying. Two priests smiled at him. One squeezed his shoulder before they ushered him through the heavy temple doors.

“Recite the Meadow poem in your head,” the older priest whispered. “Try to keep calm, Matthew.” Then both priests left him alone in the hush as the doors closed behind him.

The silence felt heavy, thick, and sacred all at once. The altar waited on a platform draped in white silk. Figs were painted in that same strange purplish-brown at each corner. The color tugged at some deep memory, making him think of Finn’s eyes. Hadn’t they always shimmered with that hue?

Shaking his head, he took the last few steps up to the elevated platform of the altar and placed the bowl down in the center of the round table.

“The meadow wakes in a wash of gold,” he recited, nerves rattling his words. “Where wild oats bend, and the winds unfold. Tucked in the shade of the emerald leaf, the figs grow heavy, their season brief…”

A sudden wind, thick with the scent of figs and sugar, rose from the bowl and wrapped around Matthew’s ankles, swirling up his body. Before he could shout, it lifted him off his feet, higher and higher, until he squeezed his eyes shut, bracing for impact.

But he kept moving. He could still feel it, the rush of air, the dizzying lift.

Even after the vertigo faded, Matthew’s eyes stayed squeezed shut.

“Matt.”

Matthew’s whole body shook as he forced his eyes open, and nearly sagged in relief at the sight before him. Finn, grown and real, stood there, voice just as deep as in Matthew’s dream. They were in an open-air temple with arching columns and mist licking at their ankles. Behind Finn stood an ethereal woman with the same honey-gold hair and fig-brown eyes, and beside her, a man Matthew recognized at once.

“The Amber Sage!” Matthew blurted. “You’re real?”

“Real as you are,” the man said, smiling gently. “I’m Anthony, the Amber Sage. This is my wife, Figa, the first Fig deity. You’ve already met our son, Finn.”

“Your…son?” Matthew echoed, voice thin with disbelief.

Finn nodded, eyes earnest. “Matt, will you stay here with me?”

Matthew staggered back, stunned. After a decade of near-silence, Finn’s voice, saying those words, rattled him to his core.

“This… this isn’t still a dream, is it?” Matthew managed.

“It’s real,” Finn promised, taking Matthew’s hands in his. “You’ve always been so kind to me, Matt. I can’t imagine a better future for the next deity than to share half your heart.”

“Half?” Matthew croaked. “Like…slicing me in half?”

Finn laughed, a bright, ringing sound that made Matthew’s heart stutter.

“Half, as in our child. Yours and mine.”

“We’re both guys, Finn.”

Finn just grinned. “Matt, I’m a fig deity. We’re not bound to human limitations.”

“Oh.” Matthew blinked, processing. The silence lingered. He remembered all the years Finn had only smiled or written his words in the dirt. He thought of the longing silences and the questions he’d never dared to ask. “Why are you talking now? You never spoke before.”

“Remember what happened when I whispered your name in your dream?” Finn asked, eyes full of mischief.

Matthew’s blush returned in full force. “Yeah, I remember. But what’s changed now?”

“Here, you’re on equal footing and are no longer susceptible to powers of persuasion,” Anthony explained gently. “In a way, you’re a deity too, at least while you’re with us.”

“If you don’t want this, I can send you back,” Finn said quietly. “I’ll be ever so lonely without you. But I’ll do it.”

Matthew hesitated, memories of his grandmother and friends flickering through his mind. While he’d miss the life he had in town and the community he cared for, his attachment to Finn was much stronger. He then smiled, a little shaky but certain. “No, I want to stay. I want to be with you, Finn.”

Finn’s smile was so bright, Matthew thought he’d never seen anything so beautiful.

A pang of guilt flickered through Matthew. “So… is the whole town freaking out looking for me right now?” he asked, a little dazed.

“The priests know,” Finn said, reassuringly. “They’ll explain everything. Your friends will miss you, but they will have additional blessings.”

“And here I was worried I wouldn’t get to see you at all this week,” Matthew teased, a grin finally breaking through.

Finn’s answering smile said it all. “Now we have all the time in the world.”

Matthew reached for Finn’s hand. “I’d really, really like that.”

***

“That’s right,” Matthew whispered as his golden-haired little girl pointed to one of the stalls at the fifth Ivory Fig Ceremony since he’d become a partner deity to Finn. “Those are hand-made mint pastries in the shape of leaves.”

“You’ll be able to try one when you turn ten, Figura,” Finn added.

“But that’s five whole festivals away!” she huffed.

“When you’re ten, we’ll let you go to the festivals all by yourself,” Matt said. “And then you can choose your favorite human to befriend.”

“But you have to remember to never say a word aloud to them,” Finn insisted.

“Why not?”

Matthew blushed as he shared a knowing look with Finn.

“Because they are very fragile,” Matthew finally said. “You don’t want to hurt your new friend, right?”

Figura shook her head mulishly, and Matt let out a sigh of relief.

“Are there any humans that interest you, sweetheart?” Finn asked, and Matthew’s eyes went wide when she immediately pointed to Catie’s visiting daughter. “Until we can trust you to not speak out loud to her, we can watch over her together.”

Matthew let out a little groan, already dreading the day their Figura turned twenty-five, and Finn couldn’t help but laugh.

Glancing over at him, Matthew recalled the first time he saw him as a child and the instant connection they’d felt. As much as he loved their daughter, he didn’t want to deprive her of the same kind of connection.

“Guess we better make sure you can write out your name neatly,” Matt decided. “When I first saw your dad’s handwriting, it looked like he’d written down Fern instead of Finn.”