Chapter 32
At the horses, he swung her carefully into the saddle. The motion tore at her side and she hissed through her teeth, clamping a hand to the wound.
“Hold on,” he said shortly, mounting behind her.
His arm bracketed her ribs as he dug his heels into Spire’s flanks.
They rode hard out of town, past the lantern light and into the empty road, his mare following behind.
The fields on either side blurred in the dark.
Each hoofbeat sent another jolt through her body.
Each jolt felt like a white-hot blade twisting deeper.
“How far?” she asked finally, her voice tight, her breath coming sharp. He didn’t answer right away, only pressed her closer to him, keeping her upright.
Rain began to fall, a thin, cold drizzle that soon soaked through her dress and plastered her hair to her face.
At last, he swore under his breath. “We will not make it to the next town,” he bit out, reining Spire toward a side road. “I must tend to you now.”
She gritted her teeth. “We could have stopped there.”
“Yes,” he said darkly, “I’m sure they would love tending to the woman who just attempted to murder one of their own.”
She twisted her head toward him, fury sparking even through the pain. “How am I in the wrong?”
“You are not,” he said simply, voice grim. “But nonetheless, we must stop.”
He guided Spire off the road, into the shadow of an abandoned chapel half-hidden by trees.
They found the roof caved in, the bell long gone, the stone steps slick with moss.
He dismounted and lifted her down carefully, his cloak already soaked through.
Inside, the altar still stood, and just enough shelter existed to keep the fire he struck alive.
The flames crackled, casting jagged shadows up the chapel’s crumbling walls.
Rain slipped through the holes in the roof, pattering against the stone floor.
Ilys sat propped against the altar, one boot discarded, the other half-untied. Death sat across from her, his cloak open and streaked with mud, one knee drawn up, his hands dangling loose. He hadn’t stopped watching her since they’d arrived.
“You breathe like the pain’s setting in,” he said finally, voice quiet.
“It’s been in.” Her tone was flat.
He nodded once. “You should let me see it.”
“Why? So you can scold the wound?”
The corner of his mouth tugged. “No. I have salve and bandages.”
She glanced at him, the faintest turn of her head. “And hands that shake when you reach for your power. Tell me, do they steady when you dress wounds?”
He didn’t flinch. “You could find out.”
Her jaw flexed. Then, without a word, she peeled down her bodice and bared the wound.
Death rose and crossed to her, quiet as the wind through the ruined rafters. He knelt, dipped two fingers into the tin of salve, and worked it gently over the worst of the cut. His touch bore a careful reverence.
She hissed softly when it bit at the raw edges.
“I warned you,” he noted.
“You didn’t.”
“I meant to.”
He held his tongue while cleaning the rest of the blood from her side, rinsing the cloth in the rainwater basin. When he finished, he didn’t step back immediately. His shadow still stretched over her.
“What was the point of that?” he asked, referring to the violent encounter.
Ilys’s eyes flicked toward the fire. “I am tired of violence. Of cruelty. I wanted him to taste it just as potent.”
“Through more violence?” He queried, measured, but a hidden steel beneath it.
“Do you see some alternative?” Her head snapped toward him. “Was there a magic spell I forgot? A ritual in which everyone will drop their weapons and cease hurting one another?”
His jaw worked, but a response cheated him.
“I once thought the point of life was to seek happiness,” she went on. Her voice arrived quieter now, yet sharper for it. “But now I see it only intends to make us strong. And I should only like to be a happy, pithy thing.”
“You can be.”
“I cannot. They will not allow it. Even if I was not made what I was, you wait around every corner. You chase us up every stairway. If it is not sickness, it is murder. If it is not murder, it is war. Is there nowhere safe from you?” Her voice cracked.
“Is there nowhere far enough away from the hurt of it all?”
“I think you are right,” he said after a moment, the admission pained. “But in this new state, I have seen the latter as well.”
She turned her head toward him, wary. “What do you mean?”
“Happiness.”
Her brow furrowed. “And where, pray tell, has Death found happiness?”
“I see it in you when you speak of Rowenna. I saw it in you when you were dancing. I see it in you when you press your face close to the wind, breathing it in. You soak up the world. If that is not happiness, then I am a stranger to it.”
His eyes were on her now, intent and unblinking.
Her skin prickled under his gaze. “Yes, a stranger then.” She tipped her chin up, refusing to let him have his point. “And may you remain one.”
Only the crackle of the fire and the drip of rain seeped through the roof. He stayed, kneeling before her, the heat of him close enough to feel. And then, without asking, he sat back against the altar beside her. When he opened his cloak, she stared at him, uncertain.
“Just rest,” he said quietly. “A moment.” She hesitated, but the fight, the wound, and his quiet steadiness pressed down on her until she leaned in, until her cheek found his chest.
He tensed, breath halting, but didn’t move away. Instead, after a long beat, his arm slid around her shoulders, anchoring her there. His heartbeat thundered under her ear. It startled her, how quick and strong and alive it sounded.
“You’re afraid,” she said at last, her voice soft and dry.
He didn’t answer.
Her chin tipped up just enough for her to see the edge of his jaw. “Why is your heart racing, Death? Is it the storm? The gash in my shoulder? The end you face?” Still nothing, only the subtle stiffening beneath her cheek.
Then, very softly, Ilys queried, “Or is it me?”
He let out a breath, nearly a laugh, though it sounded more like surrender. His hand smoothed over her arm as if to quiet her.
“You’re feeling things now,” she whispered, eyes falling shut. “Isn’t that strange?”
His heart only thudded faster. And still, he didn’t let go.
The morning crept in lazy and grey, pressing against the stones of the chapel. Rain tickled softly through the broken roof, pooling in the cracks of the floor. Smoke lingered faintly, more memory than warmth now.
Ilys stirred. Her body ached. The bruises had set deeper with sleep.
The gash throbbed in a dull rhythm with her heartbeat.
She blinked blearily at the rafters above, then turned her head.
Death sat a few paces away, back against the altar, methodically slicing a bit of bread with his knife.
His cloak sat folded beside him and his posture was precise, persistent.
She struggled to push up, biting back a hiss as her shoulder pulled.
“You should eat something,” he dictated.
She reached for the bread without thanks. Chewed, finding it dry and stale, catching in her throat. She swallowed anyway.
“I think the bruising is worse,” she said.
“You’ll need it cleaned once more,” he said. "I have water.”
“Are you offering or just narrating?”
His mouth twitched. “Both.”
He stood, crossing to the basin without hurry. He rinsed the cloth. She watched him, watched the set of his shoulders, the quiet focus of his hands. How envious she was of that cloth. Of that water. Anything that might be touched by those long, lanky hands that was not her skin.
He knelt beside her and began undoing the bandage. His touch careful and reserved.
She tilted her head. “You’re quiet this morning.”
“So are you.” He returned, pressing the cool cloth to her shoulder with deft movements. He refused to linger or be indulgent.
“You’re… different,” she said finally.
“It’s morning,” he said simply. “Mornings are different.”
“Is that so?”
He finished the knot and stood. She watched him adjust the straps on his pack, standing carefully, testing her ribs.
“So. Rither Hollow,” she named their next destination.
He nodded. “If we leave within the hour, we’ll reach the edge before dark.”
“And if we don’t?”
“There’s a chance we’ll be sleeping in the open.”
She reached to the sky, stretching her pained muscles. “Sounds familiar.”
She caught him looking at her then, just a flicker, just a breath, but found it all the same. When he realized she’d noticed, he looked away. The sound of laces tightening, of water pouring into flasks, of boots scraping stone. All practical.
But as she slung her bag over her uninjured shoulder, she said, without looking at him, “You didn’t sleep much either?”
“No.”
“Because of the storm?”
He paused and adjusted his coat. “Something like that.”
She gave a short nod. Let it rest.
But as they stepped into the cold morning light, she walked just a little nearer to his side than she needed to. Not quite touching.
And he let her.
They rode from the chapel on a narrow and wet path, the soil soft beneath the horses’ hooves.
The rain had lessened to a fine drizzle, beading on their cloaks and soaking into the earth.
They didn’t speak for some time. Ilys watched the way Death rode, one hand loose on the reins, the other resting against the saddle horn.
He didn’t fidget. He never fidgeted. He moved with careful economy, as if the body he wore were on loan and might break beneath the wrong gesture.
The rain caught in his lashes. A dark curl teased his eyebrow. Unfair, she thought, shifting in the saddle. To look like that and not know it.
When they reached a bend in the trail that overlooked a low field scattered with bare trees, Death slowed his horse and looked over. “We’ll stop here for a rest.”