“I once thought the point of life was to seek happiness,” she went on. Her voice arrived quieter now, yet sharper for it. “But now I see it only intends to make us strong. And I should only like to be a happy, pithy thing.”
“You can be.”
“I cannot. They will not allow it. Even if I was not made what I was, you wait around every corner. You chase us up every stairway. If it is not sickness, it is murder. If it is not murder, it is war. Is there nowhere safe from you?” Her voice cracked. “Is there nowhere far enough away from the hurt of it all?”
“I think you are right,” he said after a moment, the admission pained. “But in this new state, I have seen the latter as well.”
She turned her head toward him, wary. “What do you mean?”
“Happiness.”
Her brow furrowed. “And where, pray tell, has Death found happiness?”
“I see it in you when you speak of Rowenna. I saw it in you when you were dancing. I see it in you when you press your face close to the wind, breathing it in. You soak up the world. If that is not happiness, then I am a stranger to it.”
His eyes were on her now, intent and unblinking.
Her skin prickled under his gaze. “Yes, a stranger then.” She tipped her chin up, refusing to let him have his point. “And may you remain one.”
Only the crackle of the fire and the drip of rain seeped through the roof. He stayed, kneeling before her, the heat of him close enough to feel. And then, without asking, he sat back against the altar beside her. When he opened his cloak, she stared at him, uncertain.
“Just rest,” he said quietly. “A moment.” She hesitated, but the fight, the wound, and his quiet steadiness pressed down on her until she leaned in, until her cheek found his chest.
He tensed, breath halting, but didn’t move away. Instead, after a long beat, his arm slid around her shoulders, anchoring her there. His heartbeat thundered under her ear. It startled her, how quick and strong and alive it sounded.
“You’re afraid,” she said at last, her voice soft and dry.
He didn’t answer.
Her chin tipped up just enough for her to see the edge of his jaw. “Why is your heart racing, Death? Is it the storm? The gash in my shoulder? The end you face?” Still nothing, only the subtle stiffening beneath her cheek.
Then, very softly, Ilys queried, “Or is it me?”
He let out a breath, nearly a laugh, though it sounded more like surrender. His hand smoothed over her arm as if to quiet her.
“You’re feeling things now,” she whispered, eyes falling shut. “Isn’t that strange?”
His heart only thudded faster. And still, he didn’t let go.
The morning crept in lazy and grey, pressing against the stones of the chapel. Rain tickled softly through the broken roof, pooling in the cracks of the floor. Smoke lingered faintly, more memory than warmth now.
Ilys stirred. Her body ached. The bruises had set deeper with sleep. The gash throbbed in a dull rhythm with her heartbeat. She blinked blearily at the rafters above, then turned her head. Death sat a few paces away, back against the altar, methodically slicing a bit of bread with his knife. His cloak sat folded beside him and his posture was precise, persistent.
She struggled to push up, biting back a hiss as her shoulder pulled.
“You should eat something,” he dictated.
She reached for the bread without thanks. Chewed, finding it dry and stale, catching in her throat. She swallowed anyway.
“I think the bruising is worse,” she said.
“You’ll need it cleaned once more,” he said. "I have water.”
“Are you offering or just narrating?”
His mouth twitched. “Both.”
He stood, crossing to the basin without hurry. He rinsed the cloth. She watched him, watched the set of his shoulders, the quiet focus of his hands. How envious she was of that cloth. Ofthat water. Anything that might be touched by those long, lanky hands that was not her skin.
