“And the second,” she noted while reaching for his face, fingers ghosting over the sharp line of his jaw, “dress me one last time.” she requested, picking the dress up from its place on the ground.
“Will you not share your plan first?” he queried. “Not even with an old friend?”
She smiled against his lips. “So you may stop me?” she hummed. “I think not.”
“Yes,” he agreed, “let me dress you.”
Ilys loosened the ties of the blue gown he had given her so many nights ago, letting it slip from her shoulders and puddle at her feet. She stood in just her chemise, pale and unguarded. He smiled at the shape of her body, like it was his loveliest, oldest acquaintance. Even now, she flushed under his gaze.
He rose to his feet, taking the new dress from her hands. His movements were leisured as if each gesture were part of a rite. He gathered her hair over one shoulder before sliding the fabric down her arms, careful not to let it drag against the ground.
“Arms,” he directed, and she obeyed, slipping them through the sleeves. He smoothed the bodice into place with long, careful hands, tugging the ties at her back until the garment hugged her frame. He touched her with precision, impersonal in intent, but his knuckles lingered, tracing her spine.
When the final ribbon was tied, he turned her toward him, his hands resting lightly on her shoulders. He simply looked at her, the quiet stretching between them like a thread pulled taut.
“It suits you,” he said at last, his voice low. Oh, the way he looked at her, such sorrow in his eyes. “Anwyl Veth.” He closed them, but still she could feel their quiet pleading.
“Out with it,” Ilys ordered. “Tell me what it means.” It was almost comforting, seeing him slip back into his odious, otherworldly ways, cloaked in secret words.
He laughed quietly at her sharpness, lowering his mouth to the fine blue veins at her wrist, grazing them with his teeth.
“It means—” he began, and she shivered at the brush of his tongue as he followed the curve of her hand.
“Beloved—”
Each syllable was punctuated.
“Do—”
A hedonistic touch.
“Not—”
Languid and cutting all at once.
“Go.”
“You’ve said that to me before,” she noted, wishing she could stay beneath his touch.
He hummed against her skin, a soft note of affirmation. “You’re always trying to go. Always trying to die.”
“I happen to like the man in charge of such things,” she countered.
“This is no joke, Ilys.” His hands came up to grasp her wrists, holding them in place, unwilling to let go just yet. “Youwilldie.”
“I am a Veilwalker.” Her voice did not waver, a smile ghosting across her lips. “I have loved Death well, and I do not fear him.”
She pressed a feather-light kiss to each of his eyelids. Then, to the curve of his cheekbones, to the edge of his earlobes, the fine knuckles of his hands, she traced the places she would not have the chance to again.
Finally, her lips found his gently, in a heartbreaking tenderness, a last precious memory. She drew away, breath shaking.
“Goodbye, husband,” she said softly, her voice full of quiet love and infinite sorrow.
Then she turned, moving swiftly away, leaving him standing helpless.
Only after she was gone, vanished into shadow, did he notice the thin band of linen carefully tied around his finger.
Through death and beyond, I keep you.
