Archive of Our Own ^beta

Galatea is dying.

The crops do not prosper and the storms only worsen, as though a god has unleashed their wrath upon them. Nobody will accept a marriage proposal from the Galatea family; nobody wants a marriage proposal from a cursed land, a cursed family. The ways to save their family is dwindling.

So Ingrid journeys with her parents to the altar of the Goddess, stands in the back as she watches them kneel. O Holy One, O Mother of the Immaculate One, her parents pray, hands clasped together, letting their worries bleed in their words.  Help us bring salvation to our land. Help us ensure our people will not die.

And this is what the Goddess says:

Bring your daughter to the river that runs through your territory. Bring her with flowers and the simplest white dress you own, and send her deep into the waters. The lord of the dead needs another ruler by his side, and your daughter will suffice. Send her to the lord of the dead, and he will accept her hand in marriage. If your daughter lasts until spring, then fortune will fall upon your family once more.

Ingrid listens with a closed mouth and horrified eyes. She knows what this means—knows that she must die for her family’s sake. She’s ready to do it, of course. But her parents—they wouldn’t let her die—would they let her die—would they sacrifice their daughter—would they—

Her parents turn to her with sad eyes, and Ingrid knows then that she is to be drowned.

+

Her father creates a raft made of straw and wood, a raft made for sinking. Her brothers pick out the best flowers they can find in the frozen, barren fields. Her mother finds her old white dress and sews it, fixes it as best as she can.

Ingrid sits at home and does not cry. Does not shake. Does not feel anything. This is her duty; she will die for the sake of her family. She cannot allow herself to cry.

The walk to the river is quiet and mournful. Just her parents—they do not allow her brothers to see their brave, honorable sister die. Ingrid holds the flowers in one hand, holds her mother’s hand in the other. She sees her mother’s shoulders shudder like a mountain, sees the tears falling down her cheeks. Ingrid says nothing, but she squeezes her mother’s hand as an act of warmth.

When they reach the river, her mother presses a gentle hand against her cheek. “Do not forget you are my daughter,” she whispers, and Ingrid closes her eyes, absorbing the words. “You may be the lord of the dead’s wife, but you are my daughter, first and foremost. Do not forget it.”

I won’t, Ingrid wants to say. After all, how could she? She is dying for her family. She is the first of her family to go to the dead, and there is something cruel in that regard. It is not unheard of—Ingrid knows of young soldiers, boys and girls her age, who die well before their parents. But they never die like this. Ingrid would prefer that kind of death, almost. There is something honorable about it.

But this is honorable, her mind reminds her. This is for your family. Do not forget it.

Her father clasps a hand on her shoulder. “Come back for spring,” he whispers, and it’s hoarse, raw and broken. Ingrid nods, and he squeezes her shoulder tightly. No hug—he is stronger than that. He takes a deep breath, and Ingrid trains her gaze on the river.

It’s dark. Murky. The current is silent but fast, threatening to sweep away anyone who steps in it. She cannot see the bottom of it, and it terrifies her; where is she going? People always talk about the land of the dead, but nobody truly knows what it is like. It does not seem big enough to hold so many ghosts. Ingrid has heard ghost stories before, of lovers being haunted, of boys tormented by their past. The land of the dead is supposed to house them, yet some manage to escape. Could she escape, if she truly desired it? She banishes the thought from her mind; then her family would suffer more.

The raft is not strong enough to hold her; she can tell when she lays down on it. But it was a raft made for sinking, so she understands. She folds her arms neatly over her chest, clutches the flowers tightly. When the current sweeps her raft away, she shuts her eyes.

And she doesn’t open them. Not when the water tickles her hair softly, when the cold travels under her skin and makes her gasp. Not when the raft starts to sag, when the water soaks her skirt. Not when the water whispers against her face and pulls her closer. Not when her hair snags into the current and drags her deeper in the depths. Not when she sinks, when the coldness shrouds her like a veil. Not when water presses against her throat, when it pressures her to let go. Not when her body hits a surface, gentle and soft.

It is only when the air drains from her lungs does she open her eyes.

The river is gone. She’s lying on muddy ground, but she’s miraculously dry. The flowers in her hands, however, are withered, drained of life. And above her is a man on one knee, gazing at her with no warmth nor coldness in his eyes.

“Ah,” he says. “You must be my wife.”

+

They carry out a wedding, but it is not the same as it would’ve been on the surface. Here is the sip of wine from the same cup; here is the lighting of the candles, the brief prayers given. The lord of the dead does not need prayers, but Ingrid whispers one to her family; Let me live here until spring; let me fulfill what was asked of my family.

Ingrid does not look at her husband’s face the whole time. She studies his hands—pale as a morning star, his fingers long and idle. Yet somehow his hands seem rough and calloused, worn from guiding the dead for so long.

Here is the ring exchange, and the hands that reach for hers are gentle. She was right, his skin is cold, but Ingrid does not recoil. He slides a worn silver ring on her finger and she barely pushes the other one onto his. It fits well enough, of course. She won’t say it.

She keeps her gaze trained on that ring. It is cold against her skin, cold like the lord of the dead’s hands. But it does not weigh her down when she thought it would. The heaviest thing is her heart.

She watches her husband’s hand retract from hers, and then she feels the coldness on her chin. It is only a whisper of a touch, but she has to swallow down a gasp anyway. Gently, his fingers tilt her chin up towards him—and then Ingrid is gazing at her husband’s face.

He is handsome. She noticed that when she emerged from the river, but now she can take in the details of his face. His mouth is a flat line, but she can see worn laugh lines on his face, as though he is used to smiling. His gaze roams over her face, but there’s shadows in his dark eyes, a veil that hides his true emotions. His face is beautiful, but his expression is a mask—she knows, instinctively, that this is not him. The lord of the dead has hidden himself from her.

But then he leans in close, and Ingrid closes her eyes. She expects to feel his lips brush hers, but instead she feels something soft unravel on top of her head, tumble over her face. When she opens her eyes, her vision is slightly obscured by black.

Her husband’s face, she can still see clearly. But a layer of black seems to coat over him. Her fingers reach to probe the soft thing, and she realizes it’s a veil. Her heart twists.

“Ingrid.”

The lord of the dead has spoken, and it’s strange how familiar her name in his mouth sounds. Strange, when she has only thought of him as the lord of the dead, and never dared to utter his name out loud.

“Ingrid,” he repeats, and holds his hand out. “Let’s go.”

She drops her gaze to his hand; his fingers beckon gently, waiting for her to curl her hand in his. She doesn’t want to; she is afraid to feel the cold. But she knows she has to.

It is only when she takes his hand does she realize she never told him her name.

+

The lord of the dead leads her through the land of the dead. It is not a wasteland, as Ingrid had once thought. Instead, the fields are alive and green, plain and simple. It is greener than it was at home, and for one moment Ingrid thinks this is wrong. Something dead should not look so alive.

The lord of the dead takes her to an old, tall tree. The branches are bare, the wood withered and dry, and instead of leaves there are birds. Birds on every branch—crows and ravens and finches. But that’s not what catches Ingrid’s attention.

It’s the sound of a million heartbeats, loud and alive, pulsing across the land of the dead.

“The birds come here for winter,” the lord of the dead tells her. “When they leave, you will know it is time to go up.”

Ingrid keeps her eyes on the birds. They stare back at her, those eyes wide and unblinking. They remind her of herself.

“They can live here?” she asks, and something flickers in the lord of the dead’s eyes. He shrugs.

“They’ve been coming here since forever. None of them have ever died here.”

His voice is not cold. Nor is it kind. Just—impassive. Ingrid studies the birds, trying to avoid looking at her husband’s face.

“Where do they go after?”

The lord of the dead smiles, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “Back to the surface. Nothing living likes to stay here for very long.”

The way he says it makes Ingrid’s skin crawl. It doesn’t seem like he’s talking about the birds entirely, and when she looks at him, his gaze is trained on her. Like the rest of his body, there is no real emotion there. He’s hiding himself again, Ingrid realizes, and frustration flickers in her heart like a candle. She had never considered marriage much, but she knows she never wanted a husband who hides his true shades to her. Ingrid wants honesty. Then again, it would be foolish to expect it from the lord of the dead.

“I am here until spring,” she reminds him. He folds his arms.

“And then what?”

Ingrid isn’t stupid. She knows her marriage does not end the moment spring touches the earth; she will continue to be his wife, for as long as the seasons change. For a moment, she wonders if she will ever be allowed back on the surface again. If she sacrificed her life for her parents. The thought makes her shiver—she doesn’t want to spend eternity in these cold, green plains, no matter how alive they seem.

Perhaps the lord of the dead senses this, because he softens. “If you are my wife, you don’t need to address me as lord of the dead.”

Ingrid snorts.

“What have I to address you, lord of the dead?”

He frowns. It’s something honest. Ingrid clings to it.

“My name is Sylvain.”

On the tree, a raven caws. Ingrid casts a glance in its direction. Sylvain, she thinks, the name strange but unforbidden on her tongue.

When she turns to speak to him, he is already gone.

+

The land of the dead, Ingrid discovers, is separated by a river. It does not look like one, though; the rivers Ingrid know of are usually blue, sometimes brown when the mud tumbles in. During the winter, the river turns into a sheet of ice, tinged blue-gray from the sky.

That is not like the river of the dead.

This river is swollen and black, as dark as death itself. Ingrid cannot see the bottom, nor can she truly see the surface; it just looks like a gaping pit of darkness to her. Like something she could fall in, not drown in. She does not hear it whisper against the riverbanks, nor does she see waves crest up from the current. The only way she can see the water is because of a girl standing on it.

Not on the river, exactly, but on a raft. Her hair is long and white, tumbling down her shoulders; her eyes are covered by a black blindfold. She’s barefoot, skin caked in mud, and in her dirty hands she holds an oar, dipped in the water.

She’s far from the shore, but Ingrid can tell, even through that blindfold, that the little girl’s gaze is pinned on her—the living-yet-dead girl, the lord of the dead’s wife. She holds her breath, wondering if the girl will row closer to her. If she’ll come close, and see her. The idea frightens her.

But the girl does not. She shakes her head, and pushes the oar against the silent current. Her dress blends in with the water, Ingrid thinks; if the girl were to fall in, nobody would see her. She watches curiously, but the moment she blinks, the girl is gone, swallowed by the darkness.

“That’s Lysithea.”

Ingrid jumps, turns around. Sylvain is leaning against a dead oak tree, the branches gnarled and twisted. His expression is, as always, hard to read, but there’s a mirthless smile twisting at his lips. Ingrid frowns, and crosses her arms.

“Who?”

Sylvain juts his chin at the river. “Lysithea. The river girl. She guards it.”

Ingrid raises an eyebrow.

“What do you mean?”

Sylvain’s face does not change, although she catches a slight twitch under his eye, like she’s said something stupid. “This place is separated by a river—that river. Sometimes mortals have trouble accepting their death, so they’ll make a run for it. Or people try to come get their loved ones…you know the stories. Lysithea sends the living back, and keeps the dead from falling in the river. Otherwise, they’ll be lost forever.” He hesitates, scratches his head. “She died young, and the old guard left to be with a woman on the surface. I thought it was a position she might like.”

In all of the stories Ingrid has heard about death, she has never heard of a river guard. A river, yes, but that story has been tarnished, thrown out of her mind. The only thing she associates with rivers now is her own death, the gentle sinking into the water, the air slowly leaving her lungs. It had been lonely and empty—but that was how death was supposed to be, wasn’t it?

“What else does she do?” She finds herself asking. “Does she…take the dead to you?”

Sylvain shakes his head. “Nah, that’s me. When people are dying, I come to them. I take them down here.”

Ingrid frowns. That doesn’t line up. “Always?”

“Always.”

A sense of unease wraps around Ingrid’s heart. That’s not what happened with her—the air vanished from her lungs and nobody had come for her. Nobody caressed her face, took her hand, said to come with them. No, she’d died alone. Was Sylvain a liar, or was she a strange exception? Why would she be an exception?”

“You didn’t come for me.” It spills out before she can stop it.

Sylvain tilts his head to the side. “Hm?”

Ingrid sighs. Briefly, she wonders if he knew how she ended up in the land of the dead. She wonders if he even cares. “I drowned. Nobody came for me.”

“I know.”

She balks at that; she’d expected him to reject knowing, to feign surprise and aggravate her more. This piece of truth, handed over to her willingly, is surprising.

“And how come you didn’t come for me?”

Sylvain drops his gaze. Silence settles in quickly, as thick as the river beyond them. The only sound is the hum of a distant heartbeat, making the water quake with its rhythm.

“I knew you’d be here,” Sylvain answers quietly, and the soft infliction of his tone makes it clear he’s telling the truth. “And—I couldn’t come, anyway. You’re not dead.”

A frown settles on Ingrid’s face. That can’t be right—she’s here. She is walking among the dead; how is she not one of them? She tugs on her veil absentmindedly.

Sylvain studies her. He presses his lips tight together, and Ingrid thinks he wants to ask her something—like where she is from or who she truly is or why she even came down here. But all he does is shake his head, and hold his hand out to her.

In the darkness, his wedding ring gleams silver.

+

Ingrid does not know the land of the dead, but she is more familiar than she ever thought she would be. It is strange; as a child, she never would have expected this. Yet she still does not know what is to be expected of her, what she is supposed to do here. The lord of the dead needs a ruler by his side—but for what? Ingrid asks Sylvain this and his eyes widen, then narrow with thought.

“I don’t really do much,” he tells her. She’s inclined to believe it. “I take the dead. I guard them. Sometimes I judge them.”

Ingrid shifts on her feet. It is strange to talk about the dead, yet not see them. Then again, she supposes land of the dead is bigger than what she has walked. Even the parts that Sylvain has showed her—the fields, the trees, the edge of the river—is not the entirety of it. A big land, yet Sylvain seems to control it with ease. What use is she, other than to be a wife? It is the one job that Ingrid never wanted, yet here she is.

“I was told you needed another ruler by your side.” She resists wincing as the Goddess’ promise spills out of her mouth; she is not sure if Sylvain was informed, after all. But all he does is quirk an eyebrow.

“Yeah, well.”

He doesn’t say the Goddess is wrong. Or right, if Ingrid really wants to be pessimistic. She folds her arms, thinking longingly of home, of being away from all this. She has to last one winter, yet it is looking grimmer than ever. She is not sure how the birds stand it.

The birds—it strikes her. She lifts her head up.

“Do you take care of the birds?”

Sylvain blinks in surprise. “The birds?”

“Yes. The ones on that tree.”

He hesitates, squinting at her, before shaking his head. “They’re part of the living, so they’re not my duty.” He pauses, and then his mouth curves in a smile. It’s neither kind nor cruel—just like death itself. “But I suppose they could be yours, if you wanted it.”

Ingrid frowns. The way he says the words are kind, but she doesn’t know if she likes the meaning behind it. “My duty?”

Sylvain laughs. It’s soft, but Ingrid tenses anyway. It feels like he’s laughing at her. Like he’s laughing at her own expense.

“You’re not dead,” he says, that same phrase from the river. “Can you not hear your heartbeat?”

Ingrid balks. She hears it, woven within the silence—the steady pulse of something alive. She hadn’t thought it was her own, though.

“I thought…it was yours.”

A pause. Sylvain does not challenge this, but he lowers his gaze, as though the topic isn’t one he particularly enjoys. His silence is answer enough, and Ingrid knows she should leave it there. Yet another question falls from her lips, quiet and curious.

“Do you have a heartbeat?”

Sylvain’s gaze flashes, and he steps closer to her abruptly. For one moment, Ingrid fears that she has offended him, that he is going to snap at her—but then he reaches for her arm instead. His fingers lock around her wrist, and then he pulls her hand up to his chest, splaying her fingers where his heart rests.

And yet—there is no steady beat underneath Ingrid’s fingertips, no sign of a heartbeat, a pulse. His chest remains silent and empty, like a cave filled only with shadows. It’s a startling contrast between her own chest, and Ingrid is suddenly aware of how loud her heartbeat is. How deafening it is, compared to the empty cavern of Sylvain’s chest.

“Does that answer your question?” Sylvain asks teasingly. When she looks up at him, his mouth flickers in a wicked smile.

Ingrid takes a deep breath. It does make her uncomfortable, to be pressing her hand against Sylvain’s chest and not hearing anything. But she isn’t going to tell him that; that is what he wants, she figures. So she maintains a cool expression and nods.

“It does,” she says, very coolly. “Now—will you please let go of me?”

Sylvain’s smile broadens. Nevertheless, he lets go of her wrist, and she retracts her hand almost instantly.

“Anything for you, love,” Sylvain says. Sarcasm curls at the edge, but he turns away before she can say anything.

Ingrid watches him go, and tries to ignore the steady pounding of her own heart.

+

It is not hard to find the birds again. All Ingrid has to do is listen to the sound of a heartbeat, one that is not her own, and follow it.

The birds are on the tree when Ingrid arrives. They stare at her, beady eyes almost asking a question: and why are you here? And how do you belong here?

“Hi,” Ingrid says, dropping to her knees. “I’m Ingrid.”

The birds stare back, unflinching. Their eyes are cold, and Ingrid shivers.

“Sylvain said I could take care of you,” she adds. Again with the blank stare, but she pushes on. These are birds, after all. The land of the dead does not change the way they talk. “He gave me some seeds to feed you.”

She unfurls her hand, revealing a small handful of pomegranate seeds. Before she’d trekked to the tree, Sylvain had shown her a small cluster of wild fruits, teeming with apples and pomegranates and berries.

“The plants grow here?” she’d asked, a little doubtfully. Sylvain only shrugged.

“Not everything here is dead,” he answered.

Now, Ingrid holds out the seeds to the birds, thinking back on his words. Not everything here is dead, and that is true, is it not? The fruit growing here is not dead; it persists on growing in a world of death. The birds fly down in the winter and remain on the tree, their little heartbeats pounding loudly against death. She is here, too, but her scenario is different than the other two.

The birds peer curiously at her open hands, at the seeds nestled in her palm. One little bird jumps to the edge of one branch, leans close to her hands. Ingrid holds her palms up, encouraging the bird. It only hesitates a moment longer, before lunging forward and taking a seed from her hands. Then it darts away, the seed clasped between its beak.

A smile touches Ingrid’s lips, and she holds her hands out further. “I have more, if you’re hungry.”

Does death kill hunger? It suddenly occurs to her that she hasn’t been hungry ever since coming down. She knows what hunger feels like; it fills up all the empty places inside of her with a terrible ache. She hasn’t eaten anything down here, but that horrible ache is not with her. In a strange way, she misses it. Hunger reminded her she was alive, and now she feels nothing in the land of the dead.

But the birds take the seeds from her hands ravenously, leaving none left in her hands. When they land on her hands, Ingrid can feel the tremor of their little heartbeats, soft but alive. It sends hope into the place where hunger had resided. The birds are alive; she could be again too.

A twig snaps behind her.

Ingrid whirls around, heart quickening in her chest. She knows death could not hurt her now, but the rush of fear is just so—human. There’s nothing there, though. Not a ghost, not a lost soul, not the lord of the dead. She’s alone.

Ingrid shivers. She doesn’t want to be alone anymore, she realizes. The land of the dead is still mostly foreign to her, a topography yet to be memorized. So she hurries back to the river, the place she feels the most familiar with.

As she leaves, she steps over the broken twig Sylvain stepped on, the thing that made him flee. The stick snapped clean as a bone. She doesn’t notice.

+

It’s easy to fall into a routine after that.

Ingrid gathers seeds from the garden and presents them to the birds. Afterwards, she wanders around the land of the dead. If Sylvain is there, she walks alongside him silently, a pale shadow next to him. Often, though, he is at the surface world, collecting the ones caught between life and death. Sometimes he’s gone long and Ingrid gets worried, at least until he comes back. The set of his jaw and the deep lines around his face tell her he has been doing his job, nothing more.

Death is only a job to the lord of the dead. That does not make it any kinder.

While he is gone, Ingrid tends to the things that Sylvain has no experience with, the things that are alive—the birds, the garden. It’s strange, because the garden constantly changes with new fruits everyday: blackberries, figs, apples. But there is always at least one pomegranate, ripe and ready for picking. When she splits it open, the dark juice spills over her hands, followed by a number of seeds. This happens everyday. The pomegranates never disappear.

“Why a pomegranate?” Ingrid asks Sylvain once. They don’t talk very much, but he never ignores her. He’ll hold her hand, but never say a word. Maybe he thinks that is what is to be expected of him. Ingrid honestly isn’t sure.

Sylvain raises an eyebrow. His thumb runs unconsciously over the ridges of her knuckles, and Ingrid holds her breath. He doesn’t say anything. “What do you mean?”

“The garden always has a pomegranate,” Ingrid says. A frown flashes across Sylvain’s features.

“It’s not a garden.”

“Then why do all the plants grow close together?”

“Life attracts life.”

Ingrid swallows hard. Sylvain looks at her, but it’s impossible to discern what he’s thinking—does he realize what he’s said? Or does he think she doesn’t love him because he’s neither alive nor dead? It’s impossible to tell. Sylvain’s words travel in too many directions.

“Okay,” Ingrid says. She curls her fingers gently. “But why do the pomegranates grow?”

Sylvain frowns again, this time in concentration. Again his thumb strokes across her skin, soft and light. Ingrid thinks he’s not aware of it, but she is, and she hopes her heartbeat does not give her away.

“I don’t know,” Sylvain finally says. “I don’t really pay attention to plants. I think they represent death or something but I’m not really sure.”

In spite of herself, Ingrid’s lips quirk up in a humorless smile. She’s not sure if he sees it beyond her veil. “You don’t know what represents death?”

Sylvain sighs. “Look, at the end, what does it matter? Death comes for everything. It’s in everything. There’s nothing more to it.”

His words are a little sharp. Ingrid’s smile drops off her face, and she looks down. She feels Sylvain’s gaze press softly against the veil, the thing that separates them.

“If they represent death,” Sylvain finally says. “Then of course they thrive in it.”

A theory, Ingrid thinks, but does not dare to correct him. She wonders if this was always her fate, to come for death early. For her family’s sake. The story would be romantic in another context, but not like this. It ends in death, and no matter how the stories spin it, it’s not a happy ending.

Sylvain’s hand begins to slip from hers. She lets it go.

+

When Sylvain is gone, Ingrid’s only company—beyond the birds—is the dead. This is not terrible, of course, although they never talk to her and she never talks to them. Funny enough, she never actually sees them, but she can hear them, their voices echoing through cracks and drifting through the fields.

The dead like to talk, and what they say is not always kind. Ingrid tries not to listen, but it seeps through the walls around her heart anyway. It is always about her husband, and it is always laced with cruelty.

Death has made him cruel, the dead say. There is too much human inside of him, and that never mixes well with immortality.

Death has made him heartless, the dead say. He likes stringing along people’s hearts because he can, because it doesn’t hurt him.

Death has made him selfish, the dead say. He only cares for himself.

Death has made him cold, the dead say. He could never love anyone, even if he wanted to.

The words slip into the cracks of Ingrid’s heart. She knows, of course, that the dead could be bitter—they had to be taken away from life, from everyone they cared about, so it makes sense. She knows, too, that rumors are bound to be about her husband, the immortal. But she doesn’t like it, and she doesn’t know what’s true and what isn’t. Sylvain never gives her anything, not lies, not truth. It’s impossible to tell who is lying.

He’s not cheating on her. That much she knows; it’s evident in his weary gaze, his furled, tired hands. But whenever Sylvain looks at her, she hears the rumors in her head: cruel, heartless, selfish, cold. He could never love anyone, he only cares for himself.

“Ingrid,” Sylvain says. His voice is soft around her name, but she still has to fight the urge to recoil. “Is something wrong?”

Death has made him cold.

“No,” Ingrid lies. He only cares for himself.

Sylvain does not argue. His eye twitches, the only sign of his mask wavering. Ingrid almost wants him to break, to give her his truth and take hers as well. But all he does is press his mouth in a thin line and turn away. Ingrid closes her eyes.

He could never love anyone, the dead whisper in her head. He could never love you.

+

In truth, Sylvain does not seem to have friends in the land of the dead. When he’s home, he’s always by her side, never straying. Nobody calls to him, and he attends only to her. Sometimes Ingrid wonders if he had been lonely, but the question always dies on her lips. She cannot ask him that.

The dead call out to Sylvain, but besides Ingrid, he responds to one girl. Ingrid discovers this when she walks to the river and sees him standing at the riverbanks, talking to Lysithea.

The river girl is still standing on her raft, the oar still dipped in the water. Though she wears that blindfold, it’s easy to see that her gaze is trained on Sylvain. She’s shorter up close, but her body language is stiff. Across from her, Sylvain seems relaxed, almost casual. Neither one sees Ingrid, so she ducks behind a tree to listen.

“Lord of the dead,” Lysithea starts, and Ingrid startles; she hadn’t expected Lysithea to sound so—childlike. It’s both strange and saddening, to realize how young this girl had died. “I have heard rumors. I see that strange girl following you when you’re here. You seem to enjoy her presence.”

Sylvain’s face doesn’t change, but his voice carries a hint of a smile. “Don’t believe everything the dead say, Lysithea.”

The river girl scoffs. “I know that! But I know you, and I know how you are with women. That girl is alive. You know what my orders are.”

Sylvain is silent for a long time. Ingrid holds her breath, watching for a shift in expression, but he stands still like death. Her hands press against the tree’s trunk; splinters burst across her palms.

“She’s my wife,” Sylvain finally says. Honestly. Boldly, like a declaration. Lysithea tips her head to the side—and then she laughs.

“You’re quite a jokester, aren’t you, lord of the dead?”

“I’m not joking,” Sylvain insists, quite earnestly. “She really is my wife.” He crouches down to Lysithea’s height, smoothens her bangs back in a brotherly fashion. It’s oddly tender. Ingrid wasn’t expecting that.

“She’s my wife,” Sylvain repeats, and his voice is kinder than Ingrid has ever heard. “She’s come a long way to be here, and she’s not quite used to this place yet. She’s good to me, so I want you to be good to her. Okay?”

Lysithea scoffs, but a smile tugs at her mouth. “I’m always nice. It’s the dead you have to keep an eye on.” Then she pauses. “And this girl is your wife, truly?”

Sylvain doesn’t even blink. “Yes.”

Lysithea tilts her head to the side, and that smile vanishes from her face. “And do you love her?”

Sylvain looks down before responding. The silence is as thick as the river, buzzing with tension.

Ingrid leaves before she can hear him answer.

+

When Sylvain comes to her, Ingrid can’t help it: she blurts out, “Is it true?”

Sylvain pauses. “What?”

Ingrid swallows. She wishes she could snatch the words back, but they remain hovered in the air, heavy and weighted. “The rumors. Are they true?”

Sylvain raises an eyebrow. His face is still a perfectly constructed mask, carefully sealing his feelings off, and damn it can’t he actually show his true side? Ingrid is accusing him of so many things, yet all he can do is just look merely amused by it. Amused. “What rumors?”

Ingrid balls her hands into fists. She wishes for him to be cruel, to be kind. She wishes he would actually bare himself to her, whether it be ugly or kind. That might be asking too much, but she doesn’t care. She needs to see it.

“They say you’re…” Cruel. Heartless. Selfish. “They say you’re cold.”

 Sylvain laughs. The sound is grating, like gnarled tree branches scraping against a window. It is as bitter as autumn leaves. “Cold, am I?” Without warning, his hand reaches for Ingrid’s, fingers winding together. She freezes. “You’ve held my hand. You’ve touched me. Tell me, do you think I’m cold?”

Ingrid tears her hand from his grasp. Her body is hot; her hand is cool. Her mind is a whirlwind. “The dead say you could never love anyone. They say you take girls’ hearts and break them. Is this true?”

Sylvain blinks. His mask does not break, but Ingrid can almost see a crack run through it, revealing the boy underneath. He holds his hands up placidly.

“Don’t worry,” he says, and his voice is dry, almost sarcastic. “I haven’t done anything since you’ve came down here.”

Disgust twists around Ingrid’s heart. “You’re awful.”

“Awful?” Sylvain laughs again, that bitter sound. Somehow she knows it to be true, and she hates it. “I’m the lord of the dead. Nobody expects the lord of the dead to be kind.”

Ingrid clenches her hands. I do, she wants to shout, I’m your wife, I expect you to be good, but she doesn’t know how to say it properly. She has to last until winter; she has to think of her family.

So she swallows it down and asks instead, “Why?” It’s a trembling whisper. Sylvain raises an eyebrow.

“Why what?”

Ingrid levels her gaze with his. His eyes seem dead, almost boring into hers, but she can see a spark in his gaze, veiled thinly by his mask. He’s close to cracking, she can tell. So she pushes. “You didn’t love those girls. Why did you hurt them?”

Sylvain sneers. “You wouldn’t get it. Humans don’t understand.”

Ingrid does not like the way he says humans. She crosses her arms defensively. “What?”

A cruel smile is flickering on Sylvain’s mouth. It’s ugly on him, twisted bitter at the edges—yet this is him. The mask clatters to the ground, broken and useless. He doesn’t seem to notice.

“All those girls just wanted was immortality,” he explains, his voice a creak of death. “It’s simple. You marry the lord of the dead, you marry into immortality. Nobody gives a fuck about me. They all want power—not a husband. If they don’t care about me, why should I care about them? Why should I care if I hurt them?”

Ingrid studies her husband, the lord of the dead. Before, she has always thought him as distant as a god, someone with the weight of one. Now she only sees a boy—a whiny, selfish, pathetic boy. She doesn’t understand how those girls could ever even be dazzled by him. For the first time, she feels disgusted by the boy she married, the boy she must call her husband. Her wedding ring feels heavier.

“You’re awful,” she breathes. He scoffs, sizes her up.

“You don’t have a right to judge me.”

Fury rolls in Ingrid’s stomach like an ocean, threatening to drown her. She curls her hands into fists again.

“Actually, I do. Because I’m your wife,” she hisses, letting the word fly out venomously. “You’re my husband, I’m your wife, and that means we are both in this whether we like it or not. I know you don’t. I certainly do not, either. Had I a choice, I would never marry the likes of you—you’re disgusting. But I’m not here for myself, so don’t you dare tell me what I can and cannot do, Sylvain.”

She watches the truth sink into Sylvain’s face, wash the bitter smugness off his face. It’s satisfying, in a way. His eyes widen and his mouth goes slack, like this is his first time seeing her. Which is good, Ingrid thinks grimly. She took the lord of the dead off-guard; that is a rare achievement in itself.

“Hang on,” he splutters. “What do you mean—you didn’t—you didn’t choose to—”

Ingrid frowns. She had figured Sylvain knew—he seemed to have been expecting her, on that first day of winter. She figured the goddess would’ve let one of her children know, at the very least. But here he is, looking stunned, as though this is all new information.

But then again, he is a very good actor. Ingrid knows this well.

“I’m here for my family,” she snaps, and watches the truth sink into his lungs. “Really, Sylvain. Do you think everything is about you?”  

She spins on her heel and storms off, footsteps cracking across the dirt, fury heating her cheeks. He remains there, face as pale as a corpse’s.

Across the lands, the birds sing a mourning song.

+

It feels like forever before Sylvain comes to her again.

Ingrid is sitting under the bird tree, listening to their little heartbeats fill the silence. It reminds her of home; it reminds her of being alive. She closes her eyes and pretends she’s back home, listening to her brothers’ heartbeats, her father’s heartbeat, her mother’s heartbeat.

What had her mother said? You may be the lord of the dead’s wife, but you are my daughter, first and foremost. Meaning: Ingrid would do anything for her family. That she truly does not belong to Sylvain. Ingrid knows this to be true. That doesn’t make this any easier.

Footsteps crack across the earth. Ingrid opens her eyes.

Sylvain stands before her, his shadow long and lean. His hands are in his pockets, but his expression is surprisingly neutral. Ingrid scans his face for a hint of bitterness, maybe in his eyes, or in the twist of his mouth, but there is nothing. Only calmness.

“Hello,” he says. Ingrid screws her eyes shut.

“What do you want?”

She hears his footsteps shift on the dirt, and then something bumps against her shoulder. She opens her eyes, turns her head. Sylvain gazes back, a little smile gracing his lips. She turns away.

“Well,” Sylvain says. “I want to get to know my wife.”

Ingrid glances back at him to throw a glare. “No apology?”

“That too.”

Ingrid huffs. The birds are silent above them; even their heartbeats seemed to have ceased.

“Look,” Sylvain starts, and his voice is softer than it ever has been. Weighted with truth. Ingrid is too tired to notice. “I didn’t…know. I didn’t know it wasn’t your choice to come here. I was only told you were my future wife and the Goddess ordained it. It’s happened before. Girls get sent down here, seeking immortality…I’m used to it. It was unfair of me to think you were like them, and I should’ve seen you were so unhappy. I should’ve tried talking to you more, rather than assuming. So I’m sorry, Ingrid. I’m really sorry.”

Ingrid picks at a loose thread on her dress. Somehow her dress is still pure white, even after trekking through the dirt. “That doesn’t give you an excuse to treat other girls like that.”

Sylvain hesitates, wringing his hands together. He looks nervous, Ingrid realizes, and through her tired anger, she feels some kind of satisfaction; finally she’s unnerved him. “Yeah, I know.”

“Then change your behavior.”

“Will you forgive me if I do that?”

Ingrid looks at him, meets his gaze squarely. The veil is gone from his eyes, she notices; she can see the guilt in his eyes, the sorrow eating at him. Her anger does not ebb away, but it does cool, if only slightly.

“Promise me that.”

Sylvain smiles. It’s the smallest smile he’s given her, but also the most honest. He holds his pinky out to her. “I promise.”

Ingrid looks at his finger. Back at his face. Hopefulness burns clear in his gaze, a begging for forgiveness. Somehow she knows this to be true, so she reaches out and loops her pinky around his. It’s childish, but it makes her feel better, if only a little.

“Good. And I’m sorry, too,” she adds, remembering the sharpness of her words. It had been true, but cruel; maybe there could’ve been a nicer way to put it. But Sylvain only shakes his head.

“Nah, you’re fine. I was the one being an asshole, anyway. Besides, I am glad you said it—it made me realize I don’t really know you.” He lifts a shoulder up. “But I want to.”

Ingrid tucks her knees to her chest. The anger in her heart has cooled down considerably; she can hear the birds’ heartbeats again. Yet a tiny part of her—that stubborn, headstrong piece of her—doesn’t want to give in still. It’s childish, she knows. But she can’t help it.

“How much longer until spring?” she asks Sylvain instead.

His mouth quirks up in a smile, as though he can read her mind. “Long enough.”

Ingrid considers this. Not in her favor.

“Okay,” she says, and crosses her legs. “Listen closely.”

She tells him everything she can. It’s strange, to offer her soul to what is all but a stranger—he may be her husband, but he is not familiar to her. But he listens, and so she tells him.

She tells him that she is the oldest daughter of Count Galatea. Which means her family’s future rests upon her shoulders. Which means she would do anything for them. Which means she would give up her own future—and I have, she thinks wryly, but does not say. She tells him that their family land has been dying, and that is why she was sent down here. She does not tell him she did not want to come; he already knows that.

When she finishes, it feels as though another few hours have passed. The birds are all asleep, but Sylvain’s gaze is still bright, warm. The mask is not back, but she cannot discern the look in his eyes. It makes her realize that she doesn’t know her husband very well, either. She must fix that as well.

“It sounds like you really care about your family,” is all Sylvain says. Ingrid frowns, twisting her hands together.

“Yes. I do.” Do you not? She wants to ask, but refrains—from the way the dead speak, it sounds like Sylvain has no family. She is, technically, but she knows how he feels about her. He doesn’t care about her—yet. It seems like he wants to, now.

Sylvain smiles at her, soft and worn. Without warning, he reaches out and ruffles the top of her head. She squeaks in surprise; he laughs.

“You’re a good person, Ingrid,” he says, and stands up. For a moment, Ingrid wonders if he’s going to leave her behind—but he crouches down and holds his hand out.

She does not hesitate to take it. This, she tells herself, is trust. This is how she will learn to love.  

+

They are walking along the river when Sylvain asks her another question. “Did you give your dream to come down here?”

Ingrid frowns, cast him a glance. “What?”

Sylvain shrugs, runs his fingers through his hair. Red bangs slip over his eyes; it looks kind of cute, if Ingrid wants to admit it. Not that she will. “I know you didn’t want to be here. And you said you’d do anything for your family. So did you give up your future for this?”

Ingrid does not like this subject, and her shoulders tense involuntarily. But Sylvain doesn’t look like he meant it maliciously; his gaze is kind, pinned on her with curiosity and something else. Pity, Ingrid thinks. Which is strange—the lord of the dead pitying her.

“Yes,” she answers, voice short. It is only one truth, but it still sickens her, nearly leaves her gasping for breath like a drowning person. Sylvain studies her, and his mouth flattens in a thin line.

“I don’t think your family is very good to you,” he says suddenly, and Ingrid blinks, the words sinking under her skin. She rounds her shoulders, defensiveness prickling under her skin.

“They are kind! Anything I ever wanted, they would always give to me—even when times were hard. They care about me.”

Sylvain shakes his head. “Ingrid,” he says, and his voice is very soft. “Your family let you die for their sake. They might be kind to you, but I don’t think they’re good to you.”

Ingrid bristles. “You don’t know them,” she protests, and Sylvain hesitates. He nods, slowly.

“That’s true.” He pauses. “But I think it’s unfair they made you, their only daughter, give up her dreams for them.”

Ingrid doesn’t like this conversation. There is a truth to his words, not that she would dare admit it; she does love her father, her mother, and everything her family has done for her. But they have never seen her as a daughter, only as a chess-piece for her future.

“It would’ve happened anyway,” she says quietly. “I would’ve ended up in an arranged marriage either way.”

Sylvain pauses. He looks at her, but Ingrid does not want to read the emotion in his gaze. She averts her eyes away, and hears Sylvain sigh gently.

“What did you want to be, before you came down here?”

Ingrid looks up at him. His face is honest. He wants the truth, and Ingrid feels compelled to share it. It was never a secret, anyway.

“A knight,” she answers. Sylvain blinks, and then a smile spreads across his mouth.

“You could still be one,” he says idly. “When you go back up.”

Ingrid scoffs. “A knight missing for winter? That would not work.”

“Three of the four seasons,” Sylvain counters. “The king could last without you for one.”

Ingrid bites her lip, stares at him. She knows he’s trying to be nice, but it doesn’t make her feel any better. It almost makes her feel worse, to talk about the thing she could never reach. Sylvain must realize this, for he drops his gaze.

“For what it’s worth,” he says softly, “I know you would make for a great knight.”

Ingrid holds her breath. She hears the river flow behind them, going on its way.

“Thank you,” she says quietly, and turns away before she can see his smile.

+

Sylvain insists on accompanying her to the birds.

Ingrid casts him a strange look. “Don’t you have things to do?”

Sylvain shrugs, stashes his hands in his pockets. “Death can wait,” he says. “I’m sure people don’t want to come yet. And I still want to know you.”

This is odd, Ingrid thinks. But she does not say it; she only holds her hand out to him. He takes it, intertwining his fingers with hers. His hands are as cold as death, but she is used to it now. She doesn’t let go.

They stop by the garden first; as usual, one pomegranate blooms from the bush. Ingrid takes it, pries it open, and the seeds spill in her hands. The juice splatters on the ground like blood.

“Always a pomegranate,” she mutters, more to herself than her husband. Sylvain studies the juice on the ground.

“They’re fruits of the dead.”

“What?” Ingrid looks up. Sylvain stares back, eyes innocent.

“The pomegranates. When people die, they leave pomegranate seeds at altars. It’s why they grow down here.”

Ingrid studies the seeds in her hands, stained red from the juice. For some reason, the scenes makes her slightly nauseous now. “I thought you said you didn’t know why they grow here.”

Now Sylvain looks sheepish. He rubs the back of his neck awkwardly. “I…may have asked Lysithea, after you asked me.”

“Why?”

Sylvain’s face flushes even deeper red. “I don’t know.”

Ingrid thinks he does know. She also thinks he just doesn’t want to share. The thought amuses her, and she bites back a smile, cradling the seeds in her hands. She folds her fingers around them.

“Come on,” she says, stepping in front of him. “This way.”

When she comes, the birds are silent for once, staring at her with their dark eyes. Their gaze seems to stare at her hands—the one holding the seeds, the other holding Sylvain’s hand. Ingrid swallows, heart thumping loudly in her chest. It drowns out the birds’ heartbeats, small and soft.

“Do you want to feed them?” she asks, spinning to face Sylvain. His eyes widen.

“What?”

“Feed them,” Ingrid repeats. It sounds simple in her head, but Sylvain shrinks back. “What’s wrong?”

Sylvain’s cheeks flush red. It makes him alive, almost. Ingrid likes it. “I’m better with the dead than the living. The birds are alive.”

Ingrid tilts her head to the side. “But they’re here.”

“They’re still alive.”

“Sylvain,” Ingrid chides, pulling him closer to the tree. “They’re just birds. You’re not going to kill them by feeding them. They come here every winter. If they didn’t trust you, they wouldn’t come down to you. You should feed them.”

Sylvain stares her palm. Then at the birds. A heartbeat passes, long and heavy, before he lets out a sigh.

“Only a few.”

Ingrid brightens. She sprinkles a couple seeds in his hands, and his fingers close around them gently. Carefully, as though he’s afraid to drop them. Carefully, as though he’s afraid to hold them. When he steps forward, Ingrid sees his knuckles are white.

“Hey,” she chides, placing her hand lightly on his. “You don’t need to hold them so tight. They’re small, but they won’t fall out of your hands. Not if you just keep a gentle grip on them.”

Sylvain looks at her, then at the seeds. A trace of incredulity crosses his face, before he slowly unfurls his fingers. The seeds, balanced precariously in his palm, seem bloodstained against his skin. Like a wound unhealed. Maybe that’s why the birds don’t move at first. They only stare, staying as still as a corpse; not even a wing trembles, not even a heartbeat passes. Ingrid crosses her fingers behind her back. Sylvain does not look at her, but his shoulders tense like the ridge of a mountain.

One bird flutters onto a lower branch. It’s small, Ingrid notices; its feathers are tipped blue at the edges, its wingspan the length of her forefinger. A baby blue finch, inching towards the lord of the dead. It stares at the seeds curiously, and then launches itself forward—right into Sylvain’s palm. He jerks back, but the bird remains in his palm, impossibly tiny in his hand.

“Ingrid,” Sylvain hisses. His eyes are wide, body impossibly stiff. He’s scared, Ingrid realizes, and a giggle bubbles up her throat. The lord of the dead is afraid of a tiny bird.

“Just stay like that,” she cautions, and Sylvain narrows his eyes at her. He opens his mouth but the bird suddenly moves, inching up his palm. He falls silent.

The bird moves toward the seed slowly, as if it’s afraid the seed will fly away. When the seed does not move, the bird moves closer. Its talons prick against Sylvain’s skin like little branches. Ingrid holds her breath, her heart beating fiercely, like a pair of wings feathering her ribcage.

The bird taps the seed. It wobbles. The bird taps it. It wobbles. The bird taps it. It wobbles. Everything else is still.

Then the bird scoops it up and flies off.

Ingrid sighs, and she sees relief loosen the tension in Sylvain’s shoulders. He turns to face her, and she’s surprised to see the smile on his face—something soft and shy and genuine. Her heart flips.

“It has a loud heartbeat,” he remarks casually. Ingrid tilts her head to the side.

“What?”

Sylvain shrugs. “I felt its heartbeat,” he explains. “When it was in my hand. It’s—that’s a small bird, yeah? But it’s got a pretty loud heartbeat.”

Ingrid toys with the edge of her veil absentmindedly. The sound of her own heartbeat seems deafening to her, the only thing she is aware of. Sylvain doesn’t seem to hear it.

“I wouldn’t mind doing that again,” he tells her. Then—strangely enough—he beams at her, so bright that she has to drop her gaze.

The hum of her heartbeat is all she can hear. When Sylvain takes her hand again, it threatens to swallow them whole.

+

Sylvain goes back on the surface world and stays awhile. This isn’t out of the ordinary. But he stays longer than usual, and when he comes back his eyes are more serious. He looks at her in a new light, as though he’s never seen her before. He’s looked like this one other time, when they had their argument. Ingrid wonders what he could’ve seen.

“You look like you saw a ghost,” she says. Sylvain shakes his head.

“I saw your family.”

Ingrid’s heart stops. She looks at Sylvain, eyes wide, and even through the veil he must see the horror in her eyes.

“Relax, relax.” He holds his hands up. “Nobody died. I just—wanted to see a glimpse of them.”

If only slightly, Ingrid’s heartbeat slows down. “Why?”

Sylvain sighs. He runs his fingers through his hair, and it falls over his eyes. “I thought I should see my wife’s family. That’s how it’s done on the surface world, right? Family meets the husband. They can’t really meet me, but, well. It worked out.”

Ingrid remembers their conversation, the one about knighthood and family. They don’t seem very good to you, Sylvain had said. It’s impossible to tell if his opinion has changed.

“And what did you think?” she hedges out. Sylvain scuffs his foot on the ground.

“They seem…kind. And they miss you. Your mother was crying. She kept saying your name, and—it sounded like she was telling a story? To you. I think.”

Do not forget you are my daughter. Ingrid grits her teeth, trying to ignore the stab of pain that goes through her heart. Her mother had used to read all the knight tales to Ingrid, when she had begged for them as a child. At that point, her mother probably had them memorized. Ingrid wishes she could hear her mother speak it to her; the tales are as familiar as a memory.

“I think they love you,” Sylvain goes on. “It’s—hey, are you crying?”

“What?” Ingrid’s hands fly up to her face, but all she feels is the mesh of her veil. She blinks, and something wet feathers across her cheek. “No, no. No, I’m not.”

As the words hit the air she knows they sound like a lie, knows that Sylvain doesn’t believe it. He shakes his head and reaches his hands out, slowly, carefully. His hands hover in the air like birds, unsure where to go; then his hands slips under her veil and on her cheeks.

His hands have never roamed beyond her own, Ingrid realizes. She’s never actually felt his hand on her cheek, anyway. She knows how his palms feel against her own, but she hadn’t expected to feel that coldness against her face, something aching and familiar. Still, the moment his hand grazes her cheek, the sob gets lodged in her throat, unable to come out. His thumb reaches up and brushes her tears away, carefully.

“Hey,” Sylvain says, and his voice is quieter than she has heard. Quieter than death. “Do you miss your family? I don’t think I ever asked. I’m sorry.”

The sob hardens in Ingrid’s throat. She doesn’t know how to answer, when it feels like a stone lodged between her vocal chords. Do you miss your family—of course she does. Without question. She just never expected this question come up. Never expected him to care that deeply, to go seek out her family and consider her feelings.

“Yes,” she chokes out; the small word sounds strangled. Sylvain nods, and his thumb moves down, closer to the slant of her jaw.

“You haven’t cried once down here,” he says quietly. “I…you know it’s okay to grieve, yeah? You said…you weren’t down here by your own will. Hell, if it were me, I’d be wailing like a baby.”

It’s such a stupid thing to say, but it oddly comforts her heart. Ingrid blinks at him, and through her veil of tears she feels something warm in her chest. Something that could crack her heart open. She smiles at him, tentatively.

And then she bursts into tears.

Sylvain’s hands leave her face to wrap around her body. She buries her head into his shoulder, grief finally washing over her. For what, she’s not sure. Maybe she’s grieving because marriage equated death for her; maybe she’s grieving because she is her family’s daughter, and she is dead to them and they don’t know how much she misses them. Maybe she’s grieving because the moment she came down here, her life was gone. Maybe she’s grieving because had to marry a man who she didn’t love right away, not entirely.

But mostly, she’s grieving for the death of the girl in her heart. That, Ingrid thinks, is a good reason to cry.

+

Sylvain has to leave, of course. He has to go collect death like flowers. That’s his job; he could not neglect it for his wife, even if he wanted to. He doesn’t want to leave Ingrid alone, but she promises she’s fine, promises she will be okay. She is used to this, after all. It is nothing new to her.

But when she’s at the river edge, staring at the gentle current, the river girl comes to her.

Standing across from the girl, Ingrid doesn’t feel much taller than her—only a few inches, give or take. Her hair falls long and white over her shoulders, a startling contrast against her black dress. Her eyes are covered, but Ingrid can still feel her gaze, tracing over her skin almost judgmentally.

“You’re the living girl,” Lysithea says. It’s probably supposed to sound kind, but Ingrid bristles anyway. The inflection of it is somewhat accusatory, anyway.

“Yes.”

“Sylvain’s wife.”

That is not the title Ingrid would like. She crosses her arms defensively. “Yes.”

Lysithea tips her head to the side. It’s impossible to read her thoughts, Ingrid thinks—she too seems to be wearing a mask, underneath that blindfold. Does everyone in the land of the dead wear a mask? Are they afraid to show their true emotions?

“Do you know who I am?” Lysithea asks. Her voice is icy. Ingrid bites her lip.

“You’re Lysithea, aren’t you? The river girl.”

To Ingrid’s surprise, a smile breaks across Lysithea’s mouth, cutting through that mask of tone. She has a pretty smile, something youthful and kind. She sits down on her raft.

“That’s me. I guard the river.” Her voice has a note of pride to it. “Sylvain says I’m the best river guard. Of course, there’s only been two, I think, but I’m the better one.”

Ingrid suppresses a smile. Inevitably, something about this girl reminds her of her brothers—maybe it’s the way she carries herself, or the way she talks. Maybe it’s in her stance—proud at certain angles, young at others. Either way, Ingrid finds the ache of loneliness ebbing away, if only a little.

“I don’t doubt that,” she says politely. Lysithea studies her, and then flicks a piece of hair over her shoulder.

“Eh, whatever. You’re lucky you can even see me, anyway. Ever wonder why you can’t see any of the dead here? They don’t like to show themselves to the living. It’s personal.”

So that explains why Ingrid can only hear them, not see them. The land has seemed bearably lonely, with whispers welling out of cracks and trees, penetrating past her veil. She has never wondered where the voices comes from; it had not occurred to her they had been right next to her, all this time. Unseeing, but knowing. She shivers.

“Do you not want me to see you?”

Lysithea sniffs. “I don’t have a choice. I have to see the living anyway.” She pauses, and a devilish smirk rolls across her lips, something so young. Like a child who knows a secret she is not supposed to. “Besides, I’d like to see Sylvain’s wife with my own eyes. The girl he can’t shut up about.”

A blush blooms across Ingrid’s cheeks, and for once, she’s grateful for her veil—certainly it mutes the blush on her face. But something tells her it doesn’t make a difference; even with her veil, even with Lysithea’s blindfold, the river girl must know she’s blushing. Must, for that smirk only sharpens the way a smug child’s does.

“Sylvain talks about me?” Ingrid asks. It sounds lame out loud, like a gushing schoolgirl, but she can’t help it. Lysithea scoffs.

“Gods, you’re stupid. Doesn’t a girl know when her husband talks about her? Like, isn’t it instinctual? Or love?”

The sting of her insult doesn’t hurt as much as it should. Ingrid fiddles with the edge of her veil, looking away from Lysithea. She can still feel the ghost of her gaze, pinned firmly on her, going past her veil. She doesn’t like it.

“I just didn’t know he did it,” she settles on; a safe answer. Lysithea snorts.

“Then I don’t know if I should tell you,” she singsongs. “I mean, it’s not my business, is it?”

“I suppose not,” Ingrid says politely. She’s played this game with her brothers before; she knows she has to be careful, to get what she wants. Children are pretty easy to unravel, after all, but Lysithea seems wittier. “And I suppose I could just ask Sylvain myself, after all. I’m his wife, he’ll tell me anything.”

Instantly, Lysithea seems to deflate; her shoulders sag, her mouth droops down in a frown. Her head tips to the side, as if she’s considering her options. Then her mouth breaks out in a grin. “He’d really tell you that he was scared to love you?”

Ingrid blinks. “What?”

“Oh, yeah,” Lysithea says. Her voice has an empathetic twist to it, but satisfaction also sneaks its way in her tone. “He’s never been good at love, and he didn’t know what you were like. Like, if you really loved him or whatever. So he was scared to love you, ‘cause he wasn’t sure if he would be good at it. Or if you’d reciprocate at all.”

Ingrid’s head spins. She lowers her gaze, as if that will hide her emotions. Because—the lord of the dead? Afraid of her? The cold, cruel, heartless lord of the dead, afraid to love her, a mortal woman. The thought is strange in her head.

Lysithea peers at her. “Do you love him?”

Ingrid lifts her gaze up. “What?”

“Love him,” Lysithea says, like it’s the easiest thing in the world. “Do you love him or not?”

Or not would’ve been Ingrid’s answer, not long ago. But she hesitates on those words now, thinking about the way he tries to tend to the birds for her, the way he tries to be kinder to her, the way he tries. He’s trying now, and so is she. She doesn’t love him, that is true. But she’s not entirely opposed to the idea now.

“It’s none of your concern,” Ingrid says. Lysithea’s mouth twists bitterly, like she’s said the wrong thing.

“Elch. It’s yes or no.”

“It’s also none of your business.”

Lysithea’s jaw drops, and she’s about to retort when her body suddenly stiffens. Ingrid isn’t sure why, until she feels a hand brush against her shoulder, cold and light. Her heartbeat quickens.

“Lysithea,” Sylvain says, an amused twist to his tone, “what did I say about arguing with the living? Especially Ingrid?”

The river girl sniffs, tossing her head up high. “Please, blame your wife instead. She started it. The first woman you take as a bride and she starts an argument with me!”

“Impossible,” Sylvain says, and Ingrid is startled to see a small smile play on his lips. “See, she might argue with you—she is headstrong—but she won’t be the one to start it. And she will win it, so it’s not wise of you, Lysithea, to argue with her.”

Lysithea huffs, turns her head away. Ingrid glances at Sylvain, and he shrugs at her, smiling kindly. Almost joyfully. It is nice to look at, Ingrid admits, which is why she has trouble pulling her gaze away.

“Whatever,” Lysithea announces; the tone of her voice makes Ingrid certain that she is rolling her eyes. “I have a river to guard. Nice talking to you, Ingrid.”

With that, she dips her oar in the water and rows away. The darkness folds over her like a pair of arms, instantly vanishing her from view. Ingrid stares at the spot where she’d been, until Sylvain places another hand on her arm. His touch sends a chill through her bones, something both startling and welcoming.

“What’d you talk about?” he asks, his voice quiet. It doesn’t sound mean; he just seems curious. “With Lysithea, I mean.”

The question rolls around Ingrid’s head. Do you love him or not? The hesitation to say no sits in her stomach like a stone. It’s not a no, but it’s not a yes yet, either. Love doesn’t seem like something that can sit in between.

Her husband is still waiting for an answer. Ingrid swallows.

“Nothing important,” she settles on, and slips her hand in his.

+

Lysithea doesn’t seek out Ingrid again. That’s fine with her, although she knows the river girl must talk to Sylvain. But Sylvain never mentions the conversation Ingrid and Lysithea shared, so Ingrid assumes Lysithea never told him. She’s grateful for that—after all, it seems like Sylvain talks to Lysithea the most. It seems like they would share their secrets.

But again, it makes Ingrid wonder—how lonely must it be, for his only companion to be another dead girl? Before Ingrid came down, all Sylvain had was Lysithea. She has wondered if he was lonely before, and it still seems too discomforting to ask. But it haunts her, every time she looks at Sylvain. She wonders if he still feels alone, even with her here.

“You have that look on your face,” Sylvain says, startling her out of her thoughts. He nudges her shoulder. “The thinking one. What are you thinking about?”

Ingrid thinks about it. Are you lonely edges on her tongue, but she can’t bring herself to say it. Instead, she goes for a question that’s close enough. “Do you have a family?”

Sylvain lets out a laugh, something shocked and sharp and uncomfortable. “Not really.”

The answer isn’t a surprise to Ingrid. Still, it sends a pang of sympathy into her heart. Clearly, she must not be well at hiding her feelings, because Sylvain’s expression tightens.

“I wasn’t lonely,” he explains hastily. “I’ve never been lonely. Death isn’t really a lonely thing for me, you know? I’m always taking someone down here or talking to the dead. And once Lysithea came around, she was more like my family than anything.”

Ingrid thinks about that. The dead, who whisper through the cracks, and a river girl. It is not a very big family; it is not even a family, in the grand scheme of things. Who is it, that Sylvain could trust his burdens with? Lysithea is young and smart, but she won’t grow any older, won’t grow to understand certain troubles. It must have been lonely, to harbor such bitter truths and feelings in his chest. Like holding seeds that have no place to grow. It makes Ingrid’s heart knot.

“Am I your family now?” the question is silent, almost unbidden. Sylvain gives her a strange look.

“Er…you’re my wife.”

“Is that a yes or a no?”

Sylvain shrugs. He reaches for her hand, folds his fingers in hers. Ingrid has become accustomed to the chill now.

“If you want to be,” he tells her. “It’s up to you.”

Ingrid considers this. She thinks about Lysithea, sizing her up on the shore, like a little sister seeing if Ingrid is good enough for her brother. The thought makes her smile.

“I would rather you not keep how you feel inside,” she answers. “If something bothers you, tell me. I can bear it.”

It’s not quite love, but she thinks it’s something close to it. Sylvain must sense it, too, for his eyes brighten, almost in a boyish way. He nods.

“Fair enough,” he says, and then pauses. “But you do the same, okay? Don’t hide anything from me, please. I don’t want to hide anything from you.”

Ingrid sucks in a sharp breath. At the beginning, she would’ve said no; she would’ve hoarded it all in her heart. She had kept her grief close to her, after all, simply going through the motions. But he has seen her spill that grief now, seen it tumble out of her. There is nothing so major to hide anymore. He’s seen her heart.

 “It’s a promise, then,” she says, and squeezes his hand. The cold buzzes under her skin. She does not mind it.

+

One day Sylvain returns to her with something behind his back.

“What are you holding?” Ingrid asks. She folds her arms, smiling gently. “You’re not hiding something from me, are you?”

Sylvain looks at her. There’s something shy tugging at his mouth, as though he wants to say something. His hand is curled into a fist. “Nope. I’m gonna show you, but you have to be ready.”

Ingrid raises an eyebrow. Sylvain grins at her, something boyish. It stupidly makes her heart flip.

“This is yours,” Sylvain says, and he pulls a book out in the open.

Not just any book, exactly. Ingrid remembers this book very well: it’s the one her mother had read to her, when Ingrid was a child. The one with all her favorite fables. The one full of knights and kings and adventures. The one that she had memorized like the back of her hand. The one that her mother recited to her, so many times that it must be ingrained in her head. The one that ties her to her mother through stories.

And Sylvain had brought it back to her.

“How did you get this?” she asks, staring at the cover. Sylvain shrugs, and a shy smile curls at the corners of his mouth. Not shy—apprehensive. As though he’s done something wrong.

“You said you wanted to be a knight, right? I don’t know…your family has a little altar in the house. I know it’s for the gods, but I think it’s set up for you right now. ‘Cause you’re, uh, kind of dead to them. This book was there, so…I brought it down.”

A shrine for her. Ingrid’s head spins with that knowledge. Her family misses her—and Sylvain had gone down to see them.

“Why did you go to my family again?” she asks, looking into his eyes. She can see the nervousness, swirling in his gaze. “I’m not—mad. I just…want to know why.”

Sylvain shrugs. His knuckles are white, fingers gripping the book hard. “I just—I don’t know. I know what I said before, about your family, and…I don’t know. I wish you could’ve just done what you wanted, is all. And I know this place isn’t really—familiar to you? Which is unfair. You said you would’ve been married off either way, but—without any piece of familiarity? That would be bad. Really lonely. And I didn’t want this…to be like that. So I tried to bring something—close to you. Familiar. So you feel less…out-of-place.”

He’s nervous, Ingrid realizes. It’s obvious in the way he’s stumbling over himself. The fact she hasn’t accepted his gift, either, must be putting him on edge. She can see it, his confidence wilting like a flower.

So she steps forward. Takes the book from his hands. Looks up at him, and allows a real smile to cross her face, something kind and true. Through her veil, he sees it. She knows he does.

“Thank you,” she says. “I love it. I appreciate it. Thank you.”

She lets the truth bleed into her words. She knows he hears it, because his shoulders sag with relief. It is strange how open he is with her, now. She likes it.

“Anything for you,” he says, voice oddly quiet. “And—uh—I’ve never really heard these tales before. So if you want to describe any—that’s fine by me.”

Ingrid knows what he’s asking. A coy smile plays on her lips.

“My favorite is the story of Kyphon,” she says. “Listen closely.”

+

They go to visit the birds again. Sylvain insists he has nothing to do, but Ingrid suspects he just likes hearing her speak of her knight tales. It fills a conversation, to tell an entire fairytale. Sylvain is a good listener, too; he never says anything, but his eyes are wide and intent, so she knows he’s listening. Somehow, his hand always finds hers. She does not mind this.

“You know a lot of stories,” Sylvain comments idly, when they’re walking to the bird tree. Ingrid’s right hand is full of seeds; her left is in Sylvain’s. She smiles, and shrugs.

“My mother used to read them to me all the time. Same with my brothers. I was the only one who was really invested in them.”

The birds’ wings have already spread when Ingrid and Sylvain arrive. They look ready to take flight, but Ingrid doesn’t notice.

“You know what I noticed, though?” she tilts her head to the side. “Not many stories talk about death. They say it is a noble thing, but…that’s it.”

Sylvain laughs. It’s not cruel, but it’s not exactly kind, either. “Noble, huh?”

“It is a noble thing to die for your kingdom,” Ingrid says. Absent-mindedly, she opens her fist, and the birds flock to her. She doesn’t notice. “So that makes death less scary. According to the stories.”

Sylvain shrugs. “They’re just stories. People have a fascination with death.”

Ingrid bites her lip. The birds crowd on her palms, snatching up pomegranate seeds. She barely notices it, barely registers their heartbeats. Nowadays, she can hardly hear them.

“Do you think any of them were right?” she asks Sylvain. “From the ones I told you. Do you think any of the stories were right about death?”

Sylvain pauses. “Not really,” he answers. “But it doesn’t bother me. I think people just see death as a fairytale.”

Ingrid considers this. The birds peck at her hands impatiently.

“I used to think it was like the stories,” she says. Sylvain raises an eyebrow. “Or it would be noble to die that way. I don’t…I don’t think they got it right, either. But it makes for a good story.”

Sylvain holds his hands up. “I’m not denying it’s not a good story. I like it when you tell me them.” He pauses again, and a smile slips on his face. “What’s that story you like? Kyphon and his knife or whatever? I think that’s the one that’s the closest. I like that one.”

“It’s the Sword of Kyphon,” Ingrid says indignantly. Sylvain’s smile only widens, and he laughs softly.

“I like it.” He pauses, and his gaze strays to her hand. “You’re out of seeds, by the way.”

Ingrid looks down. The birds have left her hands, which surprises her; she hadn’t even felt them flutter away. Hadn’t felt their heartbeat leave her palms. She frowns, lost in thought.

Sylvain’s hand suddenly closes around hers, and she whirls around, surprised. His fingers lock with hers, and his eyes meet her gaze kindly.

“Didn’t you say Kyphon kissed the king’s hand?”

Ingrid frowns, trying to recall the story. Oddly enough, the familiar words disappear from the edges of her memory. “At the end.”

Sylvain smirks. Without warning, he lifts her hand up and presses his lips against the ridges of her knuckles. Ingrid’s heart stutters in her chest, and warmth spreads throughout her body, electrifying and taut. Beyond them, she feels the birds watching, beady eyes taking in the scene below.

“Like that?” Sylvain asks. He lowers her hand but does not let go. “I’ve been thinking about it all day. It was a good story.”

He squeezes her hand. Ingrid swallows. Her heart feels like a stone cracked open, a chasm in her chest. Something warm is gushing through her veins; she hasn’t felt warmth in a long time, not in the land of the dead.

“It’s my favorite too,” she says softly.

Beyond them, the sound of a million heartbeats goes silent.

+

Ingrid comes to the bird tree and they’re all gone.

They were there yesterday, watching her and Sylvain, and now they’ve disappeared like a ghost. In their place are white flowers, blooming at the tips of the branches. That is all to the story, no other explanation.

“It’s spring again.”

Ingrid jumps; she hadn’t heard Sylvain approach. He stands behind her, gaze flat, eyes roaming over the bare branches. A neutral mask is on his face, and for some reason she feels her heart sink. She hasn’t seen a mask in a long time.

“You know what’s funny?” Sylvain asks. He moves toward her, stands close enough that their shoulders brush. “The birds come and go every year. It’s how I know spring is over.”

“The flowers are a good sign, too,” Ingrid says dryly. To her surprise, Sylvain shakes his head.

“I’ve never seen the flowers.” He pauses, and a smile slips on his face. It breaks through that neutral mask. “They’re the same color as your dress.”

Ingrid glances at her dress, still pure white, still stitched together. It’s an old one, she thinks. But her mother had fixed it with care, sewn it for winter. It has only been a season, but it feels like ages ago, when the Goddess told her to last through the winter.

And Ingrid did it. She’d lasted the winter, held out until spring. This means fortune should fall upon her family, and a hum of satisfaction runs in her veins. At least she could do what was expected of her. At least she could fulfill her family’s duty.

“Is it time for me to go back?” she asks, looking up at Sylvain. She half-expects the mask to be on his face, but is more taken aback by the fact he smiles at her. Smiles, like he’s happy for her. Like she isn’t going to leave him.   

“Come with me,” he says softly, and holds out his hand.

+

There is no exact path to the land of the dead, no path that a living man could follow. But Sylvain walks along the edge of the river, and Ingrid follows him, keeping her hand tight in his. The dead whisper, but she can no longer decipher the language.

The river flows next to them silently, the water whispering quietly against the shore. When Ingrid looks out, she does not see a flash of white, a girl rowing against the dark waters. She’s a little disappointed, frankly. She wanted to say goodbye to Lysithea. She wanted to tell her that she had an answer to the question now, a definitive yes or no.

Sylvain keeps walking, side by side with her. He is silent, just as he was at the beginning of winter, but he holds no traces of sadness or cruelty. Rather, he just seems to be walking with a purpose. When Ingrid squeezes his hand, he does not hesitate to squeeze back. His eyes are focused on the road ahead, which is dark and unfamiliar until—

Light bursts into Ingrid’s vision. She has to squint against it.

They’re standing at the mouth of a cave. When Ingrid looks behind her, she only sees darkness, no way back to the land of the dead. In front of her lies a trail of sunlight, a path that will lead her home. The snow is melting slowly against the riverbanks; the river gushes noisily, the way it did not in the land of the dead. Everything around her seems alive again.

“Welcome back,” Sylvain says. His voice is soft, close to her ear. Ingrid closes her eyes. The sunlight fills her cold veins with warmth.

This is what Ingrid had wanted, a season ago. To be back on the surface. Back with her family. Back where she belongs. Yet she had never thought leaving the dead behind would be so hard. Never thought leaving the lord of the dead would be hard.

She spins around to face him. I’ll miss you intends to spill past her lips, but what comes out instead is, “Now what?”

Sylvain’s eyes widen. “What do you mean? You go back home. You see your family. You become a knight.”

Ingrid swallows. “Not with them,” she says, and her voice soft, like a hush of death. Like a language only Sylvain could understand. “With you.”

The river fills the silence with its own merry song, loud and timeless.

Sylvain sighs. “You fulfilled what the Goddess wanted, didn’t you?”

“Yes,” Ingrid says, and frustration flares in her heart. Does he really not get it? “But I’m your wife. Just because the seasons change doesn’t mean our marriage—stops.”

Sylvain studies her. He’s not hiding anything from her, but Ingrid cannot decipher his emotions. Her heart feels heavy in her chest, too large to be held within her body. She wants to give it to him, almost. She trusts him with it.

“Ingrid,” Sylvain says, voice quiet, “do you love me?”

Ingrid’s heart freezes in her chest. Stupid, she knows. After all, she’s known the answer for a bit now; it doesn’t come with hesitation.

“Yes.”

Sylvain’s smile is warmer than the sun. He steps closer to her, and his hands come up to the edge of her veil. Carefully, he pushes it back, exposing her face to him. One hand comes up under her chin, and tilts her face towards him.

“You wanted to be a knight,” he tells her. “Go be a knight. They can have you for three seasons. If you want to stay for the fourth, then do what your heart wants. The birds…might miss you, is all.”

“Would you miss me?” Ingrid blurts out, much to her own surprise. Sylvain blinks at her slowly, as though he’s caught off-guard.

“I love you. Is that the same thing?”

Close enough, Ingrid thinks, but does not say. She takes a deep breath, and then leans up and kisses him.

It’s not cold, like she had expected. His mouth is warm against hers, and his free arm wraps around her waist. It’s sweeter than she had expected, softer than anything. She winds her arms around his neck, pulling him closer. It isn’t the sunlight that makes her feel warm.

She breaks it first. She is the one leaving; it makes sense she has to end it. When she steps back, she sees that his hair is messier, a playful smile resting on his lips. Ingrid has never seen that smile before; it’s something sweet, from a boy in love. She likes it. It suits him.

“I’m coming back,” she tells him.

“I’ll lead you back down.”

The atmosphere still feels unfinished—like a story hasn’t been completed yet. Ingrid swallows, and she reaches up, gently sliding the veil off her head. It’s lighter than she expected, hardly any weight in her hands. She holds it out to him.

“Hold onto this for me,” she says, her voice strong, and Sylvain’s eyes lighten with understanding. He takes it gently, staring at the veil. At this sense of familiarity.

“I’ll keep it safe,” he says. His hand reaches out, almost unconsciously, towards hers. All he does, though, is brush his fingers against hers lightly. “Go. I’ll wait for you.”

Ingrid smiles at him, and spins on her heel. Without looking back, she runs down the sun-beaten path. The river’s sound follows her like a shadow.

At the end of the path, her family is waiting for her.