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He had never feared death.
Like a moth that could never resist the flame, death did not deter him. The scorching, all-consuming passion of this female would be worth it.
He lowered himself into the vat of hot water and hissed with pained-pleasure as it scalded his skin and stung his open wounds. Nothing fatal, of course. Just a few scratches and cuts here and there. A number of bruises too. This human body was eminently fragile and breakable despite its considerable strength.
Yet, in many ways, he reveled in being a man. For death was ever imminent. And every physical feeling, every emotion, was so much sharper, cut so much deeper.
Like now, when his heart pounded so much harder. His pulse racing faster with anticipation.
And a longing he’d never known.
The soreness of his battle-weary body was a welcome counterpoint to the throbbing ache in his loins. He grabbed a rough cloth from the side of the tub, wrapped a small soap in its folds, and began a thorough scrubbing.
He didn’t look at her as he worked, concentrated on his task. But he could feel her unwavering gaze upon his flesh like a physical touch.
Everywhere.
Even the places she couldn’t see beneath the rapidly clouding water.
She was sitting at the small table dining on the portions of food laid out for them. The room was silent but for the sounds of his ablutions. Outside, the wind might be howling; the snowflakes swirling. But he didn’t know it.
They seemed to exist in an impenetrable capsule. A moment in time preserved for eternity.
She said not a word as she watched him intently, as if he was a puzzle she couldn’t solve.
It went both ways. She intrigued him too. And while he polished himself up like a juicy red apple for her devouring, he decided to demand some answers of his own.
“What of you… Eir?” he murmured low, still not looking at her, mulling over the taste of her name on his tongue.
“Aye?” she prompted.
“What manner of woman are you?”
She was silent for a long while. He did not press her, focusing on scrubbing every nook and cranny, washing away the stain of death from the bog.
He suspected that she wasn’t asked this question often.
Or perhaps, at all.
“I like action,” she finally replied, speaking slowly, as if she were trying the words out, not entirely certain she wanted to commit to them.
“I like movement,” she added.
“In any direction?”
“No,” she drew the word out thoughtfully. “Only forward. I don’t look back.”
“No regrets?” he asked.
“Never,” she immediately answered this time.
“What is it like to choose the dead? To determine so many people’s fate?”
“I am not the one who decides,” she said. “I am merely the messenger.”
“And you are always happy to deliver the news?”
She was mulling this one over when he flicked her a glance, generous lower lip caught between her teeth.
