Chapter 18 #2
I hate you, she thought to herself. I hate your eyes upon me.
He cleared his throat, leading the way towards the inn after stowing the horses in the stable.
Inside, the inn purred, thick with the scent of roasting meat and wood.
The fire in the hearth burned low, barely tended, while the air sat stagnant with the quiet lull of a place accustomed to transience.
The innkeeper barely looked up as they approached, his attention fixed on the dented mug he looked to polish.
A broad man, thick-browed, he wore the expression of someone who had seen too many faces pass through to bother caring about any of them.
“What do you need?” he asked, voice flat, uninterested.
“Two rooms,” Death indicated, flashing two long fingers.
The innkeeper snorted, still not bothering to meet their eyes. “I have one.”
Death’s jaw ticked. “Then one.”
The man finally glanced up, taking them in with the same mild disinterest as he might a dull gray sky. “Are you planning to stay together?”
“With but one room, I suppose,” Death ground out.
The innkeeper nodded, but his eyes lingered a second too long. “Are you married?”
Death did not react, did not blink. “Will that change the availability of the room?”
The man studied them for a moment longer before shrugging. “I do not house whores.” Ilys felt the shift beside her before she heard it, Death’s sapped inhale, controlled, measured.
Clipped in the tone, Death took the hint and embellished, “We are married.”
The innkeeper gave an absent grunt, already moving to jot a note into the thick leather book on his counter. “Late supper is served here shortly. You don’t show, you don’t eat.” He nodded towards a stairwell. “First door on the left.”
Death did not reply, only turned sharply on his heel, moving toward the stairwell with rigid efficiency.
Ilys followed, smirking as they reached the steps. “That was painless.”
His gaze flicked toward her, still dark with the remnants of restraint. “Would you rather I had argued? Drawn out the time between you and a pillow?”
She shrugged, pushing the door open to their lodgings. The room unfolded into a plain scene, like most inns in towns like this, with sturdy wooden furniture, a single small window, and a washbasin tucked in the corner. A single bed sat against the far wall.
Ilys dropped her pack onto the floor and immediately sat at the edge of the bed, pulling off her boots.
Her feet ached from the long ride, and she rolled her ankles, sighing.
She walked to the basin, dipping the cloth provided in the balsam scented water, washing her face.
She stared into the mirror at her skin, wiping under eyes and down her throat.
Death stood in the doorway, stalling, before stepping inside, setting down his pack and removing his coat. She caught him watching her. She hadn’t meant the act to look sensual, but the water felt so good on her bare skin. So breathable. So free.
“We will leave at first light,” he said, coughing. At some point, footsteps sounded outside the door, voices carrying from below.
“Supper?” she asked awkwardly.
Death stood without a word, rolling his shoulders. Ilys followed, and together they descended the narrow stairs, the scent of roasting meat thick in the air.
The inn’s dining room materialized quietly, save for the soft strumming of a lyre in the corner, its delicate notes blending with the low murmur of voices from the few other patrons scattered throughout the room.
The fire in the hearth crackled occasionally, its warmth a welcome contrast to the chill outside.
Ilys leaned back, fingers tapping idly against the worn wood of the table. The day’s ride had been long, and though exhaustion hadn’t fully taken her yet, she could feel it dragging at the edges, waiting to settle in once she let her guard down.
The innkeeper arrived without ceremony, setting down two steaming plates of food along with two pints of ale, the liquid dark and thick, foam spilling over the edges. Death pushed his back.
“I’ll have water,” Death requested, his voice as even as ever.
The innkeeper barely spared him a glance. “You’ll drink the ale.” Then he walked off.
Ilys smirked, lifting her pint with one hand. She admired a man who denied Death. The smell hit her first: earthy, bitter, and strong. Strong was an understatement. She took a tentative sip, then let out a short breath, the taste commanding.
It was rank. Potent. Likely brewed in a barrel older than she was. And yet, it warmed her instantly, the almost immediate buzz settling in, a low hum in her veins. She welcomed it.
Death, on the other hand, looked disgusted.
She watched, fascinated, as he took the smallest sip, his expression tightening in clear displeasure. He set the pint down as though it had offended him personally.
“Have you never enjoyed a spirit?” Ilys asked, bemused.
Death’s gaze flickered toward her, unimpressed. “What need does Death have of spirits?”
She rolled her eyes and turned back to her plate.
The simple meal filled her, stew thick with root vegetables, a hunk of coarse bread, and a sliver of salted and cured meat. Across from her, Death moved with the same precision he always did, methodical even in a task as mundane as eating.
But she noticed things.
His hands, long-fingered and strong, moved more naturally now, absent of the eerie stillness they once held.
He gripped the spoon like any man would and tore his bread like someone accustomed to the humdrum hunger.
His brow, usually furrowed in thought or indifference, had smoothed as though he had unknowingly relaxed into his mortal form.
And then there were his eyes. Dark as ever, but they lacked the strange, depthless quality they once held. He looked at her rather than through her.
She found herself staring.
Then his gaze flicked up to hers. Her face burned with having been caught, stomach fluttering in embarrassment.
Ilys quickly focused on her drink, tipping back the last of the ale.
It remained terrible. She grimaced as the sharp bitterness clung to her tongue, but she felt the warmth crawl up her spine, settling into her limbs.
The edges of her thoughts softened, her movements looser, easier.
She blinked across the table, watching as Death finished his own pint, more out of necessity than enjoyment, it seemed.
He drained it with the expression of someone enduring rather than partaking, and its effects were immediately noticeable.
His shoulders, always tense with quiet restraint, had loosened.
His usual razor-sharp focus blurred at the edges. The drink had reached him, relaxed him.
Stop staring, Ilys admonished herself.
Instead her tongue, unbound from her usual caution, sought out a question that had been nagging. “What is it like?”
He arched his brow, tone dry. “What?”
“To be a god,” she mock-whispered, leaning in. “And then to be mortal.”
He stared at the ceiling, contemplating. “Wrong,” he said at last. “It feels wrong.”
“Why? In what way?” she queried further.
“I can feel my godhood tugging at me. And I can feel my vulnerability.”
Her pulse spiked. Baron’s face pressed into her memory, eyes everywhere in the room. Heat rose from the drink, filling her chest. “And are you?”
He turned his head toward her, exhaling. “Am I what?”
“Vulnerable?”
His gaze lingered, suspicion knitting into his features. He seemed to sense the eagerness in her, the sharp glint in her eyes.
“Why ask such a question?” His defenses stirred, the faintest edge in his voice.
Her breath caught, but she forced composure, smoothing it with a coy smile. “I am but your servant, Death. Would you have me ignorant of your weaknesses? What a poor protector I should be.”
He hummed low in his throat, still studying her, but finally relented, “It is the cost of mortality. In the flesh we feel pleasure, and pain, and we can be drunk.” He lifted his cup, swallowing to prove the point.
“But it is when we are at our most vulnerable. That weakness always drives us back to our godhood, as the Fates would have it.”
“You could fall, just like this?” she pressed, gesturing faintly, praying her eyes did not betray the murderous ache in her heart.
Baron. Baron. His name thundered through her blood.
Death’s expression softened, unexpectedly somber. He reached across, curling a strand of her hair around his finger. “I could, yes.”
A beat. Then he hummed, and threw his head back in sudden, tipsy, startling laughter.
Struck by the strangeness, she pressed him. “What?”
He smiled, almost fond. “I’ve just remembered where I know this inn from.”
Ilys narrowed her eyes, suspicion tugging at her. What game did he play now?
“Has Grim told you of our time in Hirth?”
She shook her head in response.
Death grinned, tilting his cup , watching the dregs swirl.
“We passed through here once, years ago. A miserable place. Always wet, always cold. I don’t think Grim spoke a single word for three days.
We were tracking an immortal. Someone careless, leaving signs of their work like breadcrumbs.
It should have been easy.” Death paused, amusement flickering in his gaze. “It was not easy.”
Ilys waited.
“We opted to blend in. Stopped at this inn.” He gestured vaguely to the room around them. “It was packed. A man singing, traders gambling, drunkards loud enough to wake the dead.” He let the words settle. “Grim endured.” The slight lilt at the end of his sentence told her he had enjoyed saying it.
“One of the men, drunk, bumped into Grim. Spilled ale down his sleeve. Started throwing a fit about Grim being in his way.”
Ilys raised a brow, fighting a smile.
“Grim listened,” Death continued. “Didn’t react. Took the insult, took the spit to the face. Wiped his sleeve off and let the man feel like he’d won.” Death tapped a finger against his cup.
Ilys tilted her head. “That’s Grim,” she noted wryly.
Death smirked.“That’s what I thought. But the next morning, the entire inn woke to the man screaming because a horse had shit in his bed.”
Ilys choked on her ale, a chuckle surprising both of them.
Death swirled the last of his drink before finishing it off. “The moment we stepped outside, Grim started laughing. Lost his mind.” He shook his head. “That was when I realized he had done it. He had put it there.”
Ilys pressed a hand over her mouth, stifling a laugh. “How?”
“I did not ask.” Death’s expression fattened into thoughtfulness as he watched her, his dark gaze flickering with earnest mirth.
Ilys traced the rim of her cup, absentmindedly.
“He spoke of you often,” Death noted, his dark eyes hazy at the edges, his usual precision dulled by the drink. “He was impressed. Proud.”
A flicker of a smile ghosted across her face, but the warmth of it collided with a juvenile ache.
The sentiment naturally juxtaposed through the medium of evil that spoke it.
That, and Grim’s absence nipped at her. She turned her cup between her fingers.
Death had plucked at a soft spot of hers. She willed her hatred to rise again.
Baron, she thought. He killed Baron.
Death leaned close to Ilys, his warm breath brushing her cheeks.
“I’ll tell you what,” he whispered. "It's probable this tastes just as that horse shit did.” He pushed the cup toward Ilys, knocking food off the table with the movement, a knife clattering to the ground.
The innkeeper gave them a wary glance from across the room.
“Hush,” Ilys reprimanded under her breath.
Death smirked, holding up a single finger to her lips. “Hush,” he mimicked, grinning as though he had won a great and grand prize.
Ilys swatted his hand away, but her brows furrowed as she watched him, her amusement fading into concern.
“You’re drunk,” she whispered, half in shock.
He waved a dismissive hand. “Mortals are weak.” He gestured vaguely at himself. “Including this one.”
She tilted her head, studying him. Was he slurring?
“By the unbound,” she muttered, unable to stop watching as he derailed in real time, his limbs loosening and lazing.
“I could fall asleep at this table,” he confessed.
Ilys sat up straighter. “You should go to bed,” she advised warily.
“Yes.”
He pushed himself to his feet, only to sway dangerously.
She barely caught him before he could crash back down.
She braced herself, wrapping an arm around his waist as she hauled him upright.
Together, they made their way up the narrow wooden staircase, his weight leaning more heavily into her with every step.
By the time they reached the room, he had given up on dignity entirely, letting her half drag him toward the bed.
She deposited him onto the mattress with a huff, brushing her hair out of her face. He flopped onto his back, exhaling deeply, like a man relieved to be at peace with his fate.
Ilys, meanwhile, grabbed her sleeping mat, rolling it out onto the floor.
Indoors is enough of a luxury, she reasoned.
“For a god, you should be embarrassed right now,” she quipped, adjusting the thin blanket she had pilfered from the extra linens.
Death hummed against the pillow. “I should be so many things,” he sleepily whispered.
She moved to leave him to whatever strange state of half-consciousness he had found himself in, but before she could fully turn away, his hand shot out, catching her wrist. With surprising strength, or perhaps just desperation, he pulled her down beside him, his arms securing around her like a snare.
“Ilys.” His breath blew warm against the hollow of her throat, his voice softer now, slurred but clear. “Please don’t kill me yet.”
She stilled. Her pulse thrummed against her ribs as she took in his slackness.
How convenient. Her blade sat mere inches away. Death lay indisposed.
She could slit his throat now. Drive the dagger between his ribs. End him while he dozed pliant and human.
She thought of it. Thought and thought, her fingers flexing, muscles taut, the will coiling through her like a strike held back. And still, she hesitated.
Baron’s face rose in her mind, his crumpled body, lifeless. Her breath caught, claustrophobia pressing the walls in tight. She would never see him again. She missed him. She could not have him. Grief, raw and gnawing, always there. And it was his fault.
This man.
This god.
His fault.
Tears burned at the corners of her eyes, bitter with hatred.
And then Grim. Grim with his secrets, the pieces of him she would never know. All of it locked inside the creature before her, the god who knew everything of Grim that she did not.
She stared at him long and hard. Tomorrow, she promised. Perhaps tomorrow.
But tonight… tonight her gaze lingered too long. Her body, heavy with grief and drink, betrayed her resolve. Sleep bled into the edges of her thoughts, until it pulled her under, stealing the decision from her hands entirely.