Chapter 33 #2
He nodded. Gods, she found him infuriating. She urged him to elaborate without her cues. He must have known her curiosity coiled greedily on her tongue.
“How?”
Death’s gaze flickered toward the fire. “I was chosen.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“And yet, it is the only one I will give.”
She scowled. “That’s cruel.”
“You have called me worse.”
She scoffed but could not argue. He simply lifted his cup again, watching her with quiet amusement.
“You were mortal,” she repeated, almost to herself.
“I was.”
“And now you are dying.”
“I am.”
She stared down at the table, pressing her fingertips into the wood. “Then who will drag me to Veilmarch?”
His eyes darkened, shadows flickered in the firelight, catching in the deep creases of his gaze, making him look almost unfamiliar, almost someone else entirely.
“That, Veilwalker, remains to be seen.” He shook off whatever had settled in his expression, turning back to his drink, the liquor loosening his tongue.
“Tell me, then, what will keep you busy when you return to the Sanctum?”
Ilys turned the cup between her fingers, watching the amber liquid lap against the rim. “I will tame Mor further,” she noted.
His gaze urged her on, expectant. She sighed, thinking of what awaited her in the coming months.
“I will write Rowenna often.” His face opened, pleading for more. She tapped a nail against the wooden table, exhaling sharply.
“And I will draw,” she shrugged, “everything in sight.”
See, she thought. This is what a good conversationalist looks like.
His brows lifted , curiosity flickering in his expression. “You draw?”
She shot him a warning look. “Do not tease me.”
“I do not,” he defended, hands lifting in mock surrender. “I am curious. I have not seen you draw.”
“I do,” she vacillated. “Quite well.”
His lips curled faintly. “Really?”
She nodded, a blush creeping up her neck. She reached for her drink again, the warmth of the ale dulling the edge of her discomfort.
“Draw me,” he demanded suddenly.
She scoffed. “No.”
“Come on then,” he urged, shifting forward in his seat. “There will not be another time. Do it. Draw me. I should like my mortal form remembered somehow.” His smirk turned roguish. “I have seen your scripture. They draw me quite ominously. Someone should remember the good grace of this face.”
She laughed, a rare, genuine thing. “Get us another round of drinks, and perhaps Ilys two pints down will consider it.”
He shot to his feet before she’d finished, a rare spark of eagerness driving him as he crossed the room to the barkeep. She watched him, the way his mortal form moved, the way his shoulders bunched as he leaned over the counter, the effortless grace that remained despite the flesh and bone.
When he returned with their pints, she sighed, setting her cup down. “I did not expect such willingness.” Standing, casting one last glance around the room before nodding toward the stairs. “Come. Let’s take them to the room. I shan’t draw you with all the ruffians about.”
He grinned, smug and pleased, falling into step beside her as they made their way up the narrow staircase. The wooden steps creaked and the lanterns lining the hall burned low, casting long shadows along the walls.
He set the drinks down on the small table by the window and leaned against the frame, watching her as she rummaged through her pack, pulling free a small book and a stick of charcoal.
Ilys sat on the edge of the bed, thumbing through the pages until she found a clean one.
“Sit,” she commanded.
Death did as she asked, lowering himself into the chair across from her. He draped one arm lazily over the back, watching her with quiet amusement.
“Will I look handsome?” he roguishly queried.
“That remains to be seen,” she echoed dryly, pressing the charcoal to the page.
Her gaze drifted to him again and again, to the light tangled in his dark curls, to the warmth his mortal skin seemed to hold.
Even diminished, he unsettled her with how easily beauty clung to him.
Even more so, perhaps. Ilys sat cross-legged on the bed, her charcoal-stained fingers smudging faint streaks of black across her knee as she wiped them absentmindedly.
Death leaned closer, the edges of his form bathed in flickering gold of the fire, his mortal warmth a stark contrast to the cold nights they had spent in the open air.
She focused on the lines of his face, the sharp cut of his cheekbones, the tired weight beneath his eyes. A god wearing a man’s flesh. A man wearing a god’s past. He let her work, his gaze drifting out the window, fingers idly tapping against the table.
“The Veilmarch,” she started, watching as his attention sharpened. “Did you walk Baron?”
His brows knitted. “I do not–”
She held up her hand, shaking her head. “Sorry. You have not met him. You would not know.” Her voice softened as she turned back to her drawing.
Then she stopped, studying his face before speaking again. “He was a hulking man. Beard. He knew Grim well. Loved us both well.”
Death regarded her in silence, gaze turning contemplative. “I do not remember.” His voice slipped quiet with reluctance. “I am sorry, Ilys. I carry so much with me, even in this mortal form, but so many parts are blurred, unattached. I do not know.”
She nodded, exhaling softly, returning to the piece.
“What were you like as a mortal?” she asked after a pause, taking a break to drink her ale. “Before,” she added.
He pursed his lips and shook his head, refusing to answer.
She tilted her head, studying him as he watched the fire, avoiding her gaze.
With the final strokes, she turned the drawing toward him. “Do you like it?”
He took the parchment in his hands, his fingers brushing against the edge as though he might unravel from the charcoal itself.
“It is well done, " he complimented, his voice thoughtful. Then he looked at her, dark eyes softening. “Ilys,” he chided gently, “you have kept this a secret.”
She smirked, stretching her right arm behind her. “If the unknown parts of my being are secrets, then there are a million hidden truths between us.”
“I should like to know them all.” His voice dropped, soft and rough at once, and he leaned close, so close she caught the faint sting of ale on his breath, the heat of his skin bridging the space between them.
She moved to finish her drink, shaking off the feeling. “A game?” she offered.
He leaned back on his hands, eyes narrowing playfully. “I am not in the mood to lose.”
“Then don’t.” She shrugged, the barest hint of flirtation curling in her voice.
They set up Fox and Geese on the floor, their knees nearly brushing as they placed the pieces. The wood grain bit against her fingertips
“I will get us more ale before we begin," he announced, pushing himself up, a little less steady on his feet than before.
Ilys smirked, watching him disappear through the door.
He returned moments later, cups in hand, spilling a generous amount of ale as he maneuvered back into the room.
She burst into laughter, tipping her head back as he swore under his breath.
They laughed, leaning into the warmth of their shared drunkenness, the ease of familiarity pressing against them like a well-worn cloak.
They played, the pieces clicking against the board, each move measured yet playful. Ilys baited him into traps, and he fought against them, determined, furrowing his brows as he strategized.
“Correct me if I’m wrong but it looks like you are in quite a cachu hwch.” she said, mangling the words beyond recognition.
Death burst into laughter, accidentally knocking a piece from the board. “So horribly wrong,” he managed between laughs. “And you play dishonorably,” he accused, watching as she trapped his last escape with smug precision.
She smiled sweetly. “You knew that before we started.”
The fire burned low in the hearth and the inn had quieted, the murmurs of late-night drinkers thinning until only the occasional clatter of a dish or the muffled laughter of some unseen patron filled the space. Their cups sat nearly empty, the last traces of foamy ale clinging to the rims.
Death's gaze flickered over her, tarrying. Then, with a resigned sigh, he moved his last piece into her trap.
“You are a menace," he teased, setting his cup down.
She propped her elbow on a knee, resting her chin on her hand, the corners of her lips curving. “I have been told.”
Ilys traced absent circles against a knot in the wood board, eyes half-lidded as she sighed deeply.
Death’s brow furrowed and he asked a question as if it had been weighing on him for some time. “You speak of Baron, but rarely of Grim.”
His question struck the leaden force that had sat heavy on her chest for years. She swallowed, whistling a quiet breath through her teeth, trying to force the ache out with it. Tears pricked the edges of her vision, unbidden and unwelcome.
“You do not hear from him?” Death asked.
“He was tired,” she noted. “I could tell. I could see it.” She stared at the fire, watching the flames twist and writhe.
“The way he carried himself, the pause in his duties. He was done with the killing.” She ran a finger over the rim of her cup, voice barely above a whisper.
“And I imagine he could not forgive me after what I have done.”
Death’s gaze sharpened. “What have you done, Ilys? That he did not ask of you himself?”
She turned her eyes to him, wet and brimming with quiet devastation.
“I killed Baron.”
The words were spoken without hesitation, without embellishment, and yet they rang through the space between them like a knell. The fire cracked, a single ember flaring before turning to ash.
“It was my duty,” she continued, voice flat. “The Fates demanded it. And there are a million other explanations that justify it.” She banished a bitter breath. “But love does not care for details.” Her hands curled into fists, nails biting into the flesh of her palms.