"No?"
"No."
The word sat between them, heavier than it should have been.
"What do you miss most when you are dragged out here alongside me?" he queried thoughtfully.
She considered the question, the corners of her mouth twitching. "Mor,” she admitted. "I never sleep as well without him."
He furrowed his brows. "How long has Mor been your lover?"
A startled laugh tore from her lips before she could stop it, the sound sharp against the cold air. She should be angry that he asked after her love life. After all, she knew what Death had in store for those loved by Veilwalkers.
"Mor is Morrigan,” she corrected, shaking her head. "My hound."
He leaned back, stretching his neck until it cracked, a faint grin tugging at his mouth. "Ah." His gaze flickered toward her then. "Do you have a name for your steed as well?
She tilted her head, watching him. "Of course. She is Spire. Do you?"
"As a god, I… ” he vacillated.
"What?" she pressed.
He seemed to struggle for words, his expression darkening. "There are not many ways to describe it."
She frowned, waiting.
“I did not feel, as a god,” he said finally. “I knew duty. I knew purpose. But I did not feel emotions as you know them." He reached out absentmindedly, fingers brushing over the mare’s neck. "Now, as a mortal, I look at this creature and I think, by the Unbound, how long have you traveled with me? No other being has accompanied me longer, and I find myself grateful.” He continued, his voice quieter now, “As a god, I was not cognizant of such things. This horse is… otherworldly, in its own way. I do not know that it acknowledges anything beyond its duty.”
“It does.” Ilys assured him.
“How do you know?”
“Even otherworldly creatures are not safe from your arsehole-ness. She surely feels and knows more than duty.”
“Clever.” He nodded, a smile teasing his lips, but just as soon as the amusement arrived it ran. He held a hand up, stopping the pair.
"What?" she asked, her body already tensing. "What is wrong?"
His gaze locked on the rising smoke. “Souls calling for collection,” he said carefully. “They are calling from battle. It is a war field. Gopin rests on the border of Annon and Tyl,” he noted, eyes scanning the horizon. “Two nations at odds. Tyl does not hold the patience for Annon’s demands, and Annon has grown fat on their threats.”
Ilys followed his gaze, watching as the shape of Gopin took form. A river cut through the land just beyond it, the border itself marked by no true wall, just a quiet, ever-shifting line between one people and another.
"Do they actively fight?" she asked.
"There is not much life left,” he admitted.
She turned to look at him then, at the way his jaw set, the flicker of memory old and weary in his gaze.
"You still feel your purpose like this? Can you still collect?" she gestured to his mortal form, to the fragile flesh and bone he was now bound to.
"It is dimmer,” he explained gruffly, "but there."
She did not know if that comforted her or unsettled her more.
"You need not come if you do not wish to,” he offered. "I will find you a safe place nearby."
She let out a sharp breath. "You are mortal,” she snapped.
