In Death We Love

Heart for Heart

Many would die in the following week. Battle was not poetic, and it was the farthest thing from gentle. Denali would have to deliver thirty-one souls to the world beneath and above, the exact number of warriors who watched Wilona dance seven nights ago. They had bathed in their own ignorance and drank up whatever hope was left.

Wilona was one of those souls.

The frost was melting off her toes as they sat in a patch of sunlight, watching the lake thaw and the men practice battle strategies once more before they were sent out to the field. She hummed with the cardinals that stretched their wings in the crispness of the day. Denali fiddled with something next to her. She had managed to worm her way into his heart. She considered him a fool for falling for her so quickly, but considered herself an even bigger one for falling just as fast. His confession was a worthy one, that he himself was Death, and he matched the description.

Her great grandmother claimed to have laid eyes on such a character, and Denali fit the image: An empty man with a heavy burden. Whether his feelings for her were a bad omen or as genuine as hers had been, she felt she was going to die. Not because of the shadow that followed Denali's every move, but because of the three red figures watching them from the top of a hill.

"Who are those peculiar men?" Wilonas voice wavered, touching Denali's arm.

He stayed silent, unaffected by her words, lost in the shine of a dagger that seemed to glow despite the hidden sunlight. Her troubles hid themselves, and she found herself wanting to resolve his own. "Darling?"

Denali twitched out of his trance, gazing at Wilona as if it was the first time he ever laid eyes on her. He wet his cracked lips, then planted a soft kiss on her cheek. "I'll be right back. I think...I think everything's going to be okay." He gave her a cool, charming smile and she saw his eyes glow with a contagious hope.

He twirled her braid around his wrist, and then left. Wilona smiled despite herself, and lay on her back, falling asleep to the sounds of clanking armor, as she had gotten used to.

×××

A wall of determination surrounded his heart, and he felt the steely ghost of himself, before he met Wilona, cloud his newfound sensitivity. He looked around the camp, watching the men and women's auras move around them with the mark of impending doom: a black shadow curling around their bodies. The entire field in front of the woods was an inky blot against yellow. He almost didn't find anyone left to spare.

Almost.

Asander was fourteen years of age, and had a precious face hidden behind long, black hair. Denali learned that he had a twin sister when she picked up the flute and played, their faces were remarkably similar. But while she had a fire in her eyes, and a grace that would make a swordsman blush, he had a playfulness to him, one that wouldn't let him grow up if the time ever came.

He made his way towards the boy, who sat on the grass, mending an arrow. The weapon looked foreign in his hands.

"Asander," he greeted, giving him a chilling smile full of intent. "Fine day isn't it?"

The boy looked up, startled, but relaxed as he remembered watching Wilona hold this man's hand. "Denali?" he smiled back. "I guess the day is fine."

Denali squint, looking around him. "What do you say we have a chat, away from all this noise. I think I have a plan to avoid this...petty bloodshed."

The boy stood up, brushing off his pants. "I'm not one for battle strategies, you've got the wrong twin I'm afraid," he chuckled. "However, avoiding things, yes that is my specialty." Denali responded with a shaky laugh, and put his arm around the boys' shoulders, ignoring the faint shadow that now gently caressed Asanders arms.