But to choose only one?
It struck her, suddenly and cruelly, that her four favorite people—Rowenna, Baron, Grim, and Hanna—had never shared a single moment all together. She mourned the absence of that impossible memory.
How strange, she thought, that our capacity for love and loss grows in equal measure.
While she loved her people, one memory circled and circled inside her head. The feeling of lightness. The sun on her face. Nature, its cast of creatures, and symphony of life.
“When I was a small girl,” she said softly, “I crafted myself wings and ran through the grasses behind the Sanctum. I felt so free. So full of possibilities. So utterly myself—unencumbered, unobserved. And I knew that when I finished playing, I could lumber over to Grim or Baron and be doused in love and safety. I had a sureness then,” she breathed, “of a beautiful life to come. I would bottle that up, drink it every day with every meal, and I would be a happy woman.”
He only reached for her hand, his fingers brushing over hers before closing gently around them. His thumb traced idle circles against her skin, the calloused pad rough to the touch. When he finally gave her hand a small squeeze, she looked down, startled by the tenderness of it.
“What?” she asked at last, trying for levity, her voice low. “No insult? You won’t make fun of me?”
“I know not how to elicit mockery out of such envy,” he said at last.
Ilys bristled uncomfortably in the face of such earnestness.“My second answer,” she said dryly, “would be a trulyfantasticbout of fucking.”
Death barked a laugh, startled and delighted. “Gods, Ilys. You cannot say such things.”
She arched a brow. “Is Death so unfamiliar with carnal pleasure?”
“Death is unfamiliar,” he replied, a wry pause. “His mortal form, however, is its most diligent student.”
Her eyes widened, and a wicked smile curved her lips. “Tsk, tsk,” she chided.
“Your religion,” he started. “They choose a name for you, yes?”
Ilys hummed her assent.
“What was your name before?”
She groaned softly. “I ask suchfunquestions, you arse. Must you always be so serious?”
“I should like to know,” he said simply.
She exhaled, exasperated. “As would I. If I ever had a name, it’s gone from me.”
His silence settled between the pair. She had come to admire it, to realize it was not detachment but a contemplative, staid sort of listening and thinking.
“Ilys is yours now,” he said after a moment. “In whole.”
“What do you mean?” she asked.
“They stole your name, but you birthed a great life entirely your own out of the remnants.”
She tried to glance back at him, but her wound pulled, and she hissed softly. “You speak so strangely.”
“You’ve made art from the poison.”
“Are you drunk?” she laughed.
“Not at all,” he said, and she could hear the faint smile in it.
She shook her head. “My turn, then. Do you have a name?”
“Cynan,” he confessed. “My mother named me for a great leader of our people.”
She mouthed the syllables, testing. “Cynan,” she repeated, then again, slower, like tasting it. “I think it suits you.”
