Chapter 33
The thought clung to her as they rode on, the night cool and sharp around them.
The road stretched dark and empty, lantern light from the last village long gone.
Each time Spire’s gait shifted beneath them, she felt the solid wall of Death’s chest at her back, his hand near the reins.
She found it maddening how much she noticed him now.
After a while she spoke, pulling at anything to distract herself. “Tell me, then,” she said, voice light, needling, “what it was really like, being a god?”
“I’ll tell you but in exchange you—”
“Surely you’re not proposing another bargain,” Ilys cut in with a scoff.
“No. Merely a conversational trade.”
“A trade is a bargain,” she argued.
“Fates, Ilys. Let me speak.” He chuckled, the sound low against her ear. She went still at the command, surprising herself with how quickly she obeyed, how easily her body fell into his rhythm without the usual bristle toward the god.
“A question for a question,” he said more softly. “You ask about godhood, and in return you’ll answer me about what it’s like to be mortal.”
She shifted to get comfortable and, in the process, wriggled back against his chest. Heat rose up her neck, blooming beneath her skin as she became acutely aware of the line of his body against hers.
“Deal,” she said quickly, almost a plea. Talk, she begged inwardly, so I don’t have to think about how close we are.
He cleared his throat, searching for language that would fit.
“Being a god,” he said, “is like standing beneath a frozen lake. I could see the world above me—light, color, movement—but I couldn’t break through to it.
Everything I touched was distant, dulled by the ice between us.
I heard the living in their joy and grief, the pulse of their small, beautiful lives, but never as more than echoes.
” He paused, his thumb absently brushing the reins.
“The threads passed through me. I could feel them hum—birth, death, all of it—but they never belonged to me. I was the still point in the pattern, not part of it.”
His breath came out bleary. “It was quiet. Too quiet. The kind that eats at you. And sometimes, from somewhere deep in that silence, something mortal would stir. A small voice, calling out from the dark beneath the water. It wanted warmth. It wanted to touch. It wanted to live.” He looked down at her then, his tone softening.
“And I ignored it for a very long time.”
Ilys shivered at the image but forced a more detached tone, hoping to steady herself. “Sounds… dreadful.”
His laughter traveled down her body. “Yes,” he agreed. “Yes, it was.”
He drew in a thoughtful breath, the sound humming against her spine. “Now then, my turn. What to ask, what to ask…” he murmured, teasing. “If you could bottle up any memory,” he decided, “what would it be?”
Ilys blinked, caught off guard. She sifted through the catalogue of her life and was surprised, almost embarrassed, by how many moments came to mind.
For all the blood and ruin, she had lived a lovely life.
Her childhood had been full of play and sunlight.
She’d been insulated by affection, surrounded by those who loved her.
She’d known warmth, laughter, even good sex and a soft bed at the end of it.
But to choose only one?
It struck her, suddenly and cruelly, that her four favorite people—Rowenna, Baron, Grim, and Hanna—had never shared a single moment all together. She mourned the absence of that impossible memory.
How strange, she thought, that our capacity for love and loss grows in equal measure.
While she loved her people, one memory circled and circled inside her head. The feeling of lightness. The sun on her face. Nature, its cast of creatures, and symphony of life.
“When I was a small girl,” she said softly, “I crafted myself wings and ran through the grasses behind the Sanctum. I felt so free. So full of possibilities. So utterly myself—unencumbered, unobserved. And I knew that when I finished playing, I could lumber over to Grim or Baron and be doused in love and safety. I had a sureness then,” she breathed, “of a beautiful life to come. I would bottle that up, drink it every day with every meal, and I would be a happy woman.”
He only reached for her hand, his fingers brushing over hers before closing gently around them. His thumb traced idle circles against her skin, the calloused pad rough to the touch. When he finally gave her hand a small squeeze, she looked down, startled by the tenderness of it.
“What?” she asked at last, trying for levity, her voice low. “No insult? You won’t make fun of me?”
“I know not how to elicit mockery out of such envy,” he said at last.
Ilys bristled uncomfortably in the face of such earnestness.“My second answer,” she said dryly, “would be a truly fantastic bout of fucking.”
Death barked a laugh, startled and delighted. “Gods, Ilys. You cannot say such things.”
She arched a brow. “Is Death so unfamiliar with carnal pleasure?”
“Death is unfamiliar,” he replied, a wry pause. “His mortal form, however, is its most diligent student.”
Her eyes widened, and a wicked smile curved her lips. “Tsk, tsk,” she chided.
“Your religion,” he started. “They choose a name for you, yes?”
Ilys hummed her assent.
“What was your name before?”
She groaned softly. “I ask such fun questions, you arse. Must you always be so serious?”
“I should like to know,” he said simply.
She exhaled, exasperated. “As would I. If I ever had a name, it’s gone from me.”
His silence settled between the pair. She had come to admire it, to realize it was not detachment but a contemplative, staid sort of listening and thinking.
“Ilys is yours now,” he said after a moment. “In whole.”
“What do you mean?” she asked.
“They stole your name, but you birthed a great life entirely your own out of the remnants.”
She tried to glance back at him, but her wound pulled, and she hissed softly. “You speak so strangely.”
“You’ve made art from the poison.”
“Are you drunk?” she laughed.
“Not at all,” he said, and she could hear the faint smile in it.
She shook her head. “My turn, then. Do you have a name?”
“Cynan,” he confessed. “My mother named me for a great leader of our people.”
She mouthed the syllables, testing. “Cynan,” she repeated, then again, slower, like tasting it. “I think it suits you.”
“More than Death.”
“Perhaps even more than Death. Tell me about your people,” she urged. He had a mortal name, most likely a storied mortal history. A million questions plucked at her tongue, but she chided her mind.
“It is my turn,” he argued.
“Do not be so uptight for once. Talk with me. Tell me of your people.”
“Now you, too, have chosen a depressing subject,” he poked.
“Teach me how to say something in your people’s tongue then. You’re always saying strange things under your breath.”
He hummed, considering. “Most of what I remember are curses.”
“Perfect,” she said brightly.
He laughed. “You would choose profanity as your first lesson.”
“I’m nothing if not practical.”
“Fine.” He leaned in slightly, his breath warm against her ear. “Cachu hwch.”
She frowned, trying to shape it. “Kah-hoo... hook?”
He snorted. “Not even close.”
“Well, what does it mean?”
“Pig’s mess. Or,” he added thoughtfully, “utter disaster. It applies to most of your decisions.”
Ilys barked out a laugh. “Pigs mess? That is hardly profanity.”
“It loses something in translation,” he claimed, chuckling, but soon after his tone grew serious. “Rither’s Hollow is just ahead.”
Ilys tilted her head slightly, catching the faint glimmer of lamplight in the distance. “And there we stop?”
“Yes.” His tone allowed no debate. “You need rest.”
The road widened into a narrow main street, flanked by shuttered shops and houses with thatched roofs.
Here and there, candles still burned behind windows, and a single inn sat squarely at the center, its sign swinging gently in the night breeze.
Death swung down from the saddle first, then offered her a hand.
Inside, the inn smelled of smoke and cider.
The few remaining patrons barely glanced up as Death approached the counter.
He peered back at Ilys, emotive and warm, before speaking, his hand flexing and his voice strained.
“We should like separate rooms, if you have them.”
The innkeeper gave him a long look, then snorted. “If I have them.” He took the offered coin and tucked it into his apron. “End of the hall.”
Death nodded once and turned, already moving toward the stairs.
Their rooms stood opposite each other, identical in their plainness.
Sturdy wooden furniture, a single narrow window, a basin tucked into the corner.
Death’s door stood jar when she stepped into her own space, dropping her pack onto the bed.
She sat, fingers tracing the edge of the mattress.
Dinner offered no surprises—stale bread, watered ale, the din of strangers pretending at comfort.
The same rough-hewn table, the same dimly lit room.
The same malty ale, dark as ink, set down with the same disinterest this time by the innkeeper's wife. What set this apart was their nearness now—the road behind them, the silences they’d learned to share, the words both chose to swallow.
Death took a provocative sip of his drink, setting the mug down with measured ease. Ilys watched him carefully, expecting the same grimace of disgust he had worn the last time she watched him drink, but it never came.
“You can hold your drink now,” she noted.
He glanced at her, unimpressed. “I am adjusting.”
She took a sip herself, immediately regretting it. “That’s unfortunate.”
He huffed a quiet laugh. “It is a skill like any other.”
She rolled the mug between her hands, studying him. “You teased that you were mortal once.”
“Yes,” he confirmed. “Once.”
She sat back, considering this. “And then you became what you are.”