Ilys drew out a breath, caught somewhere between a smile and a frown. She lifted a hand, pressing a finger gently to his lips.
“I stuck a sword between a man’s ribs when I was twelve,” she whispered. “Ended the life of a man akin to a father. I do not dwell in fairytales, Death. I do not deal in nothings.”
He studied her, dark eyes unwavering. “Isay we dwell in fairytales,” he countered. “Let us play in nothings. I have seen too much, near a millennium.”
“Not in this form,” she corrected.
“Not in this form,” he agreed.
Her fingers trailed down his torso greedily. His skin was warm beneath her touch, so solid now, no longer shifting between existence and void.
“Not like this,” she whispered.
“Not like this,” he echoed, his thumb brushing over her lips, pensive, earnest.
“This is what we will do,” she declared, resolved and confident.
Death watched her, bemused, before mirroring her form, sitting upright. “And what is that?”
“Say these words,” she instructed.
She spoke the vows of Annon, ancient words meant to bind lives together before the Veil, before the Fates.
“Before the Veil, I name you.
Before the Fates, I claim you.
Through shadow and breath, I bind you.
Through death and beyond, I keep you.”
Line by line, he repeated them, his voice softer, lacking ritual but cradling devotion. When the last word left his lips, she nodded in approval.
“Now,” she said, plucking a piece of linen that had come loose from the sheets, “with this ring, you will be my husband.”
She reached for his hand, prepared to tie the fabric in place.
But his fingers twitched. His gaze shifted.
“Ilys,” he protested, uncertainty threading through his tone.
She ignored him, working to secure the linen around his wrist. He pulled his hand away, gently at first.
“No, Ilys,” he said, firmer now. “No.”
She stilled, watching him, wounded. He reached for her, his hands cradling her face, his touch careful. “We play, yes. But the truth is this, you have devoted a life to this. Forgone choice. Forgone happiness. I will die.”
Her lips parted, a protest forming, but he did not let her speak.
“I will die soon,” he continued, quiet but unwavering. He tilted his head, pressing the truth into her heart with his words. “And when I am gone, you should marry. Live. Find happiness.”
She shook her head, reaching for his hand again. “You will be my husband.”
“I will not, Ilys. I will die.”
She didn’t care. Tears pricked her eyes, but fierce resolve badgered her on. She wrestled him for his hands, determined, stubborn. The struggle tumbled into playfulness, light despite the words exchanged. She tried again and again to fit the makeshift band around his wrist, laughing as he fought her off, dodging, resisting. He caught her wrists, then lost his hold, their limbs tangling, their bodies pressing close in a struggle neither of them seemed eager to win or lose.
He stilled. His lips brushed against hers, soft, careful. His hands smoothed over the canvas of her back, drawing her closer.
