Chapter 28 The Simplicity of Touch #2
“I was...” I began, then faltered. Who had I been? The illegitimate child of a king who publicly disliked how his blood ran in my veins. The inconvenient reminder of a royal indiscretion. A no one. “I was never what anyone wanted me to be.”
“That’s not an answer,” Death said, but without heat.
I traced a pattern in the dust on the floor beside my mat, considering how much to reveal.
“I was a shadow in my father’s house. Neither properly acknowledged nor completely cast out.
I had certain... liberties that came with my ambiguous status.
” I thought of the men I’d taken to my bed when loneliness became too heavy to bear, the fleeting moments of feeling wanted, even if only for my body. “And certain limitations.”
“Were you happy?” The simplicity of the question was almost cruel in its directness.
A bitter laugh escaped me. “Happy? No. But I was...” I searched for the right word.
“I was free, in a way. Free to move through the palace, to breathe air that didn’t taste of mold and blood.
Free to feel the sun on my face.” I closed my eyes, remembering the palace gardens where I’d spent so many hours, the one place I’d felt something close to peace.
“Life didn’t treat me well, but at least I wasn’t. ..”
“A prisoner,” Death finished for me.
“Yes.” The word felt inadequate to contain all I’d lost. My hand drifted to the bruise on my lips, the tender flesh still swollen from Valen’s cruel kiss. “Though sometimes I think I was always in a cage of sorts. Just a larger, prettier one.”
Silence stretched between us again, but it felt… different. Less strained. I found myself wondering about his life before this cell. Had he known freedom? Joy? Or had his existence always been defined by darkness and confinement?
“What are you?” The question slipped out, my voice barely above a whisper.
Death didn’t answer immediately. Chains shifted softly, as if he’d run a hand through his hair. When he finally spoke, his voice carried that same careful neutrality.
“What do you think I am?”
I shook my head slowly, though he couldn’t see. “I don’t know.”
“Come now, little fawn. You’ve called me your ‘harbinger,’ ‘Death,’ ‘prisoner,’ yet you haven’t truly asked until now.” That soft amusement returned, but shadowed with something older, deeper. “So I’m asking you, what do you think I am?”
I pressed my palm flat to the stone, fingertips splayed as thought I might feel the truth pulsing beneath it.
“You told me once you were nothing.”
He made a low sound. Contemplative. Waiting.
“Why can’t you tell me?” I asked, my voice sharper now, slicing through the quiet with my frustration. “If you are implying you are not a prisoner like me, then what?”
“You already know, Mireille,” he said, his voice soft, certain.
I shook my head. “I don’t.”
“You do,” he countered, steady as stone. “You’ve known for some time. Though have been trying to deny it.”
My mouth went dry, my heartbeat accelerating to a painful rhythm. “You’re… a sorcerer. A practitioner of forbidden magic.”
He let out a quiet laugh—empty, tired. “Try again.”
My throat tightened. “A demon,” I said, the word barely leaving me. “Something not of this world.”
“Closer,” he murmured. “But not quite.”
I closed my eyes, pressed my cheek to the wall, and let the truth I’d been burying claw its way free. The truth I had felt since hearing his voice through fever, blood, and madness.
“A god,” I whispered.
The silence that followed was confirmation enough.
I curled my fingers against the stone, nails dragging uselessly over its cold, unyielding surface.
I knew gods. Not one, but two. One who tortured me in the flesh. And the other—my harbinger—listened to me suffer. Who held a piece of my soul.
“No,” I whispered, denial breaking in my tone. “You can’t be. I don’t— I won’t believe it.”
“Belief doesn’t change truth,” he said simply. Almost sadly.
I drew my knees tighter to my chest, as if I could hold myself together by sheer will. Valen’s words returned to me—his casual mention of two remaining cells in the mortal realm designed to hold gods. One had been his. Now mine. And the other… the other was Death’s.
A god. I was imprisoned beside a god.
I pressed my head against my knees, as if the gesture might shield me from divine attention. If he truly was a god… which one? I searched my memory, but nearly all of my education had been shaped around the Twin Goddesses, the only faith my father had allowed.
Now I knew why.
He had captured two within his dungeons.
“How did my father imprison you?” I finally asked, my voice steadier than I felt.
A dark chuckle emanated from the neighboring cell.
“Fascinating,” he said, and I could almost picture his head tilting in consideration.
“Most mortals, upon learning they’re speaking with a god, first ask to be blessed.
Or saved. Or at the very least, they inquire about the afterlife awaiting them.
” The chains clinked as he shifted position.
“But not you. You ask how I was imprisoned.”
Frustration filled me at his blatant amusement with the situation.
I pushed myself upright, sarcasm spilling from my lips.
“I’m so sorry to disappoint,” I said. “Would you prefer I prostrate myself? Shall I kneel at the bars and beg for your divine mercy? I could weep and rend my garments if that would be more to your liking, though I’m afraid my resources are somewhat limited at the moment. ”
His laughter came again, deeper this time, with an edge that seemed to vibrate through the stone between us.
“It would be appreciated,” Death replied, my eyes rolling toward the ceiling at the undisguised humor in his voice.
“But unnecessary. I would not be able to grant you blessings even if you… rendered your garments and prostrated yourself before me.”
I leaned my head back against the cold stone, exhaustion and pain making my limbs heavy. “I’ve only met one other god,” I said after a moment. “And he carves patterns into my skin for his amusement. Forgive me if I’m not eager to seek blessings from the divine.”
“A reasonable stance,” Death replied, amusement still coloring his tone. “Divine blessings are rarely what mortals expect them to be.”
I felt my anger at his divinity ease. There was a flicker of understanding now, our shared suffering hanging heavy in the air. Here was Death—my harbinger, my anchor—conversing with me not as a god demanding reverence, but as a companion confined by chains.
“Tell me how you were captured,” I prodded, curiosity mingling with the bitterness still clinging to my heart. “If you are indeed a god, why are you chained beside me like any other prisoner?”
He let out a huff of laughter, a sound that reverberated in the dimly lit cell, rich and deep, yet it held a trace of sorrow. There was a fleeting moment when I thought I caught him murmuring the word “if,” as if the very notion of his divinity tethered to the chains that bound him was ridiculous.
“Come to the bars,” he said, his voice softening, an echo of his request from the night before. “And I will answer your question.”
I hesitated, my body protesting at the thought of moving again. The bruises Valen had left ached, but curiosity pulled me back toward the corner where I had clutched Death’s hand the night before.
When I reached the place where our cells met, I lowered myself carefully to the floor. Through the bars, I could see the shadowy outline of Death’s hand extending from his cell, palm up in invitation.
“Do you see my hand?” He asked quietly.
I nodded, before recalling he couldn’t see me. “Yes.”
“Flesh and blood,” Death said, flexing his fingers slightly.
“Like yours. This form—this body—is a vessel, also like yours. Before I was chained, I could move between this guise and something... less tangible.” He turned his hand slowly, examining it as if it were a curiosity rather than a part of himself.
“In this mortal form, we can… feel the way mortals do. Touch skin without fear of accidentally destroying those less substantial. But we are more vulnerable.”
I studied the ridges of his hand, the intricate patterns of scars that mapped a history written in blood. Silver lines ran across his palm, some thin as spider silk, others deeper, more pronounced. I wanted to know the story of each, of every blade that marked him.
“You still haven’t answered my question,” I said quietly.
He flexed his fingers, the silver scars catching what little light filtered into our cells. When he spoke, his voice carried a weight that seemed to press against the very air between us.
“I was... distracted. I had something to protect. Something precious beyond measure.” His voice softened on these words, and for a moment, I thought I detected a note of regret. “I needed this form—this physical vessel—to deliver it safely.”
“What were you protecting?” I asked, drawn in despite myself.
His hand stilled, and I felt the brush of his attention through the darkness. “Something irreplaceable. A light in this world of shadows.”
The vagueness of his answer frustrated me, but I sensed he would not elaborate. “And my father caught you while you were vulnerable.”
“Yes.” The word carried weight beyond its single syllable.
“Aeldrin was waiting. As if he knew precisely when and where I would emerge. As if someone had informed him of my purpose in this mortal realm.” Death’s fingers curled slightly, then relaxed again.
“Few things surprise me after eons of existence, little fawn. But that... that caught me unprepared.”
I leaned closer to the bars, trying to see more of him in the shadows beyond his extended arm. Was he saying he was betrayed? “My father was many things, but he was never impulsive. He must have planned your capture carefully.”