Chapter 36
Morning light pooled through the frost-laced windows, casting the room in soft gold.
Dust floated lazily in the air, hanging on the stillness, the quiet warmth of waking.
Ilys rolled over, stretching like a cat, her limbs sliding over the sheets until she found him.
Her palm rested against his stomach, fingers brushing absently over the faint ridges of muscle there, her breath warm against his skin.
She pressed her face against his back, her eyelashes feathering against the sharp planes of his shoulder blades.
He stirred, breath hitching, as warmth creeped up his throat and across his cheeks.
She could feel the way he tensed, how awareness crept into his form before he settled into it, into her. She let her hand drift upward to skim the path between his ribs, following the line of his sternum. A reticent invitation.
He turned beneath her touch, without hesitation, without words, until they faced each other, the sheets shifting gently around them.
She leaned against him while he traced absent circles over her collarbones like he had nowhere else to be.
“We will live in a castle on the coast and have seven children, all named Morrigan,” he narrated. “Rowenna and her children will join us, and they will run away from the fat old sod.”
She huffed a quiet laugh against his skin. “I’ve heard he’s quite nice, actually.”
“Unfortunate,” he said, with mock disappointment. Then, more assuredly, “We will live long lives drinking awful mead and eating wonderful meals. You will draw, and I will…” he broke off.
“Find something to do?” she finished for him. She smiled at the game he’d cobbled.
“Yes,” he admitted. “I will find a pastime worthy of our life.”
“We will be happy and together,” Death continued, extending the dream, painting the future in broad invisible strokes.
Ilys drew out a breath, caught somewhere between a smile and a frown. She lifted a hand, pressing a finger gently to his lips.
“I stuck a sword between a man’s ribs when I was twelve,” she whispered. “Ended the life of a man akin to a father. I do not dwell in fairytales, Death. I do not deal in nothings.”
He studied her, dark eyes unwavering. “I say we dwell in fairytales,” he countered. “Let us play in nothings. I have seen too much, near a millennium.”
“Not in this form,” she corrected.
“Not in this form,” he agreed.
Her fingers trailed down his torso greedily. His skin was warm beneath her touch, so solid now, no longer shifting between existence and void.
“Not like this,” she whispered.
“Not like this,” he echoed, his thumb brushing over her lips, pensive, earnest.
“This is what we will do,” she declared, resolved and confident.
Death watched her, bemused, before mirroring her form, sitting upright. “And what is that?”
“Say these words,” she instructed.
She spoke the vows of Annon, ancient words meant to bind lives together before the Veil, before the Fates.
“Before the Veil, I name you.
Before the Fates, I claim you.
Through shadow and breath, I bind you.
Through death and beyond, I keep you.”
Line by line, he repeated them, his voice softer, lacking ritual but cradling devotion. When the last word left his lips, she nodded in approval.
“Now,” she said, plucking a piece of linen that had come loose from the sheets, “with this ring, you will be my husband.”
She reached for his hand, prepared to tie the fabric in place.
But his fingers twitched. His gaze shifted.
“Ilys,” he protested, uncertainty threading through his tone.
She ignored him, working to secure the linen around his wrist. He pulled his hand away, gently at first.
“No, Ilys,” he said, firmer now. “No.”
She stilled, watching him, wounded. He reached for her, his hands cradling her face, his touch careful. “We play, yes. But the truth is this, you have devoted a life to this. Forgone choice. Forgone happiness. I will die.”
Her lips parted, a protest forming, but he did not let her speak.
“I will die soon,” he continued, quiet but unwavering. He tilted his head, pressing the truth into her heart with his words. “And when I am gone, you should marry. Live. Find happiness.”
She shook her head, reaching for his hand again. “You will be my husband.”
“I will not, Ilys. I will die.”
She didn’t care. Tears pricked her eyes, but fierce resolve badgered her on.
She wrestled him for his hands, determined, stubborn.
The struggle tumbled into playfulness, light despite the words exchanged.
She tried again and again to fit the makeshift band around his wrist, laughing as he fought her off, dodging, resisting.
He caught her wrists, then lost his hold, their limbs tangling, their bodies pressing close in a struggle neither of them seemed eager to win or lose.
He stilled. His lips brushed against hers, soft, careful. His hands smoothed over the canvas of her back, drawing her closer.
The fight forgotten.
The vows left to the wind.
Death shifted beside her, rolling onto his elbow, his fingers brushing a loose strand of hair from her face.
The room was steeped in the cold blue light of late afternoon, the weak winter sun filtering through the frost-laced window.
The fire had burned low, embers barely pulsing beneath the ash, and the chill in the air curled around them, threading through the linen sheets.
"Ilys,” he breathed.
She groaned, curling closer, her body tucking instinctively into the warmth of his chest.
"Ilys,” he said again, softer this time, though the insistence remained.
She shifted, inhaling deeply, her breath warm against his throat. "No,” she protested, voice pummeled with sleep.
His lips ghosted against her temple, a sigh against her skin. "We have to go."
The words settled over her, heavy and unrelenting. She blinked herself awake, eyes finding his, still hazy with the remnants of sleep.
"Veilmarch,” he relayed, the syllables threading into the space between them, a quiet pulse in the air. "It pulls."
She studied him, the way his fingers flexed against her hip, his body already coiled with the tension of inevitability.
Her stomach curled at the thought, at the quiet way he endured his fading godhood, the way the burden pressed into his very being.
She nodded, bracing herself against the cold as she shifted upright, rubbing her hands over her face.
The blankets slipped from her shoulders, pooling at her waist before dipping lower, revealing the pale stretch of her thighs and the curve of her calves, bare against the crisp air.
Death, still lounging beside her, let his gaze wander over the exposed skin, his fingers following in its wake.
His palm slid over her knee, warmth cutting through the chill. The rough pad of his thumb traced circles higher along her thigh, a rhythm meant to cool them both.
A sudden brightness lit his tone, impatience edging the excitement.
"Then we return to this, yes?" His lips found the inside of her leg, plush and wanton.
She hummed, her fingers threading through the dark waves of his hair.
"I promise." He lingered, pressing another kiss against her skin, before abandoning the warmth of her leg, resigning himself to what waited beyond the door.
Winter howled outside, rattling the shutters, reminding them of the world that did not wait.