The flier's head shot up. He had heard it quite clearly, but the source of the noise eluded him. Once more, he winced as the sharp sound of metal meeting stone echoed through the air. And again. And again.

He surveyed the area, yet Kismet was nowhere to be found. Since the earthquake, she had insisted on conducting the patrol rounds herself, claiming that he was still injured, no matter how many times he assured her that he felt recovered. It had been a whole week; they had long cleared the cave of debris, and . . . His ears twitched. Whatever Henry was doing up there, Kismet was not here to check on him.

The flier hesitated, yet when he listened for a voice—any voice—to guide him, there was none. The girl . . . Arya, had not spoken to him in ages, and he had long since banned Tonguetwist from his mind. The boy, he thought dazedly. Why was his boy not speaking?

His ears twitched again as the sound repeated. Henry . . . His eyes found the tunnel leading up to the hot spring. His boy was not in his head; he was here.

Without conscious thought, he lifted off the ground and headed toward the tunnel. Yet, upon reaching the entrance, he froze in place. Henry may be here, but he would not speak to him. He had not spoken to him in . . . in . . . The awareness of time passing had become muddled in his mind. Not in . . . For you. All . . . for you.

He jumped when the sound pierced his ears with an even greater intensity. Without consciously deciding to do so, the flier suddenly found himself at the entrance of the cave, where the hot spring awaited. "What . . . are you doing?"

One last time, the flier's ears rang with the clang of metal meeting stone. Mys slipped from Henry's hand, following his last jab at a rock. His eye widened in disbelief, as if the flier's presence here had taken him by surprise. As if he did not want the flier to—

"You are . . . here?"

The flier nodded, yet dared not draw nearer. "I have been here all along," he said gingerly. "Do you not remember? That being said, if you would like me to leave, I am—"

"Why . . . are you still here?"

In an instant, he retreated one step. What was he doing here? What did he even think he was . . . "Forgive—"

"No!"

Abruptly, the flier halted, his attention fully captured by his boy clutching the bandage secured around his abdomen. "No!" urged Henry again. "I do not mean leave; I mean . . . you . . ." He breathed in, sinking back against the wall. "Why are you still here?"

"I am . . ." He found himself stumped for a moment. Had he ever found an answer to this question? "But you . . ." In the brightness of the spring, the flier could finally examine his boy closer, and the sight filled him with horror. "You look even more unwell than after your first month in exile. How . . . much weight have you lost?"

But Henry ignored him. "Please answer me," he begged instead.

"I am . . ." The flier could not hold the intense gaze from his darkened eye. "Where else would I be?" he said at last.

"Anywhere . . . except with the parasite."

The flier's head flew up.

"I was right, no?" asked Henry without looking at him. When he attempted to pull his legs to his chest, he winced in pain. "In the arena, you meant to . . . kill the parasite; this made sense. But I could not make sense of anything you did since. Why did you not kill me? Why did you carry me out? Why . . ." His fist met the stone wall. "Why are you still here?!"

"I am—"

"If you hate me, if you wish to be rid of me, why are you here?" he wailed. "You refused my hand, and you killed me. It is fine, you know?" For a moment, his wailing abated, and the flier could not hold his boy's heartbreaking gaze. "You may hate me. You may even kill me. I told you that you may kill me. That it is fine if it is you. But I . . ." He pulled one leg to the uninjured side of his abdomen. "What are you waiting for here?" he whispered. "Why are you—"

"I do not hate you."

Henry stilled.

"I already told you . . ." The flier forced himself to look him in the eye. "I suppose you do not remember the last time we spoke."

"I do, but how can it be that—"

"I do not hate you," the flier repeated adamantly. "I have never . . . hated you. If you cannot believe me, I won't blame you, but it is true regardless."

Inhaling deeply, he gathered the words he had assembled during the countless hours of solitude that had elapsed since their previous exchange. He had already promised himself that he would tell Henry . . . expose all of this weakness no matter how much it frightened him. And now was as good a time as any. "It is also true that, for a while, I could not stand your presence," said the flier. "You were not the only one who could not . . . handle the way things were on that island. Once, you were so . . . You were my light, but . . ."

"But then I was a parasite."

"No," the flier cut him off. "Contrary to my former claim, n-needing someone to give you light, give you hope, does not make you a parasite. And that is what you needed. You needed light . . . and I could not give it. I did not know how, and so the fact that your presence had begun to drain me was not your fault. I was overwhelmed, and you . . . needed someone to give back to you. I wish I could have." For the first time, the flier cut off his own torrent of words to breathe in. "I-I wish I could have been better," he whispered. "I wish I could be better at handling . . . at being comforting, being—"

"You didn't need to be better," said Henry, and the flier froze with his mouth agape. "You don't need to be better," repeated his boy. "You just need to be you."

"But I—" There was no arguing. Nothing he could say to counter or deny. "But if I had not been enough?"

"But you were."

As his gaze locked onto his boy, who looked at him with unparalleled sincerity, a surge of profound affection engulfed him.

"You were," said Henry next, averting his gaze. "But I was not. I heard what you said to Hamnet. What I did. I did not mean . . ." He was cut off by a coughing fit. "I was ungrateful and nasty," he pressed out between coughs.

"A little," admitted the flier, but he did not allow the warmth to vanish from his gaze. "Maybe more than a little. But that was no excuse for not trusting you. I should have trusted you. Wouldn't you have . . . ceased being nasty if I had said something?"

"I was waiting for you to speak to me!" Henry sobbed. "Why did you not speak to me? Maybe I should not have waited . . ."

"You must understand that I did not refuse to trust you because of something you did wrong," said the flier when Henry broke off. "It is not about you. It is about how I am not . . . not comfortable with trusting anyone. And then suddenly, we were bonds, and with that came the obligation to . . . unconditionally trust you. And that was utterly terrifying."

"I did not trust you either," mumbled Henry. "If I had, I would have spoken first. And yet I demanded you trust me without trusting you first."

"But so did I." Henry bit his lip and looked away. "Shit, being vulnerable is agonizing."

"I know," said the flier with a smile. "Let us keep doing it anyway."

"Yes." A moment of almost blissful silence passed. "And so, even if you cannot . . . forgive me, I wish to apologize." Henry wiped a handful of hair out of his face. "Even if . . . but . . ."

The flier had no words for the look he found on his boy's face. He had not looked this defeated, this young, since . . . ever. Not like this.

Only with the utmost self-control did he prevent himself from drawing nearer. His boy needed comfort, but . . . from the one who had nearly killed him? Who was the reason he had been hurting for weeks? "I believe the one who should . . . attempt to apologize is I," he said sourly.

"But me too!" The sheer resolve in Henry's voice made him jump. "Not meaning any harm does not excuse the way I behaved. I was ungrateful, selfish, and insensitive. I was a parasite." He held himself tightly. "Not only to you, either. To everyone. Is that not why they have all abandoned me? Why . . . no one except Kismet wants me anymore?"

"You—"

But his boy didn't let the flier speak. "You were right," he continued, "when you said in the Ice System that you had found out why Ares had let me fall. He let me fall, and you should have too. You should have killed me," whispered his boy. "So that I may never burden anyone anymore. So that I may never again be a . . . parasite."

"Henry . . ."

"I am not Henry!" his boy screamed. "And so you should leave. You should . . . If you wish not to kill me yourself, just pretend that you have and leave. The bond . . . the shackle does not have to persist," he whispered. "For, your bond was Henry. And Henry is—"

"Henry . . . is you."

His boy looked up at him incredulously.

"You are still Henry," insisted the flier. "Even if you currently don't feel like you are. You may never cease being Henry, not truly. And so, you will find him again. I would know."

"You?"

"I had not felt like myself for seven years before you found me."

His boy stared at him wide-eyed, and then and there, the flier made a decision. "I have not felt like myself since . . . the death of my former bond, due to my own fault."

Henry's mouth opened. "You do not have to—"

"I know," the flier cut him off. "But I would like to anyway." Henry said nothing anymore, and so the flier continued: "Long ago, she and I made a fatal mistake. It cost her life and my . . . everything else." He swallowed, fighting the shaking of his body as he flashed back to the pit . . . the trap . . . and the gnawer with the vicious grin. "Nearly . . . eight years ago, we passed up a chance to kill him . . . Longclaw. Being the fools that we were, we left him in a pit instead of finishing him off with our own hands. I have little clue as to how he survived, but . . . evidently, he has."

"Long . . . claw?"

"Yes, Longclaw. The very Longclaw who runs the arena you have battled in. He is the one whom I have to thank for the scar on my face . . . In return, I gifted him the one on his chest."

"Really?"

"Really," concurred the flier. "You know that he was once a general of Gorger's, yes?"

Henry shook his head. "I only knew Goldfang, Bonebreak, and Snare."

"Those three are well-known." The flier nodded. "But a long time ago, they were five. The two remaining ones were Whitespur—Ripred mentioned her as the one who led the defense of the Garden of the Hesperides—and Longclaw. Gorger's left and right hand. On the waterway, Mareth told me that, some five years ago, Longclaw had grown tired of waiting for Gorger's crown and orchestrated a coup. When his plot failed, Gorger cast him out . . . Although I doubt it fazed him much."

"And you battled him?"

"It was an insignificant dispute." The flier shuddered. "Yet in the heat of the battle, Arya and I killed Longclaw's son, oblivious to who he was."

"And Longclaw swore vengeance?"

"He did not only swear; he carried it out, too."

"He killed her, no?" Henry toyed with a pebble he had found on the floor. "Her, your first bond . . . Arya?"

The flier nodded. "We flew right into his trap. And so, Longclaw tore Arya from my back and dropped her over the edge of a cliff. Three gnawers had me in their grip, but I broke free, I—" He sucked in a strained breath. "I vaulted after her, but it was too late. And I failed to shut my eyes quickly enough. The sight of a body breaking apart at the foot of a cliff is the most horrifying thing I have ever witnessed."

The flier met Henry's unbelieving gaze, finding that it was all back now. Every ounce of agony, of despair that this memory evoked. But he forced himself to linger . . . to no longer run from it. He was done running away.

"Since that day, I have not returned to any inhabited part of the Underland," he said. "Since that day . . . I have not been . . . Thanatos."

"Until . . . you saved me."

"Until I saved you."

"Because you could not save her."

"What?"

Henry gripped the rock tighter. "Is that not why you saved me? A stranger you knew nothing about other than that he was falling to his death, for his bond had abandoned him?"

"You . . . fell." The flier forced himself to recall the cliff. "And there was I, and there was . . . someone I could save. A second chance."

"Forgive that it had to be me," whispered Henry. "Me, and not someone—"

"Stop!"

"But I—"

"No!" yelled the flier. "Before you and your unrelenting spirit, I had no life. Did you not tell me this? I had no life."

Henry actually mustered a smile.

"You were right," urged the flier. "I had nothing without you to drive me. I had barely the spirit to move, to keep myself alive, let alone . . . do anything. Because there was—"

"—no reason." Ignoring the flier's horrified look, Henry pressed on: "No reason for anything. Nothing to live for. No purpose. No aim. Not even peace. Only regret. Only pain. It eats you alive . . . until you stop feeling the pain. Then you exist. But you cannot die. For some reason . . ." He scraped the pebble against the floor. "The world will not let you die."

"You—"

"How did you stand this for seven years?" his boy suddenly sobbed, clutching a hand around the fabric of his bloodied shirt. "I cannot stand it any longer. I do not want to . . . I . . ."

"I do not know," mumbled the flier. "It all blurs together after a while. I barely remember more than a few days . . . a few hours . . . from that time. Sometimes I can hardly believe that seven years went by; most of the time I am convinced that it couldn't have been more than seven days. And sometimes I think it couldn't have been less than seven decades."

Henry said nothing; his fingers remained locked around the fabric of his shirt, atop his heart. "You do not have to stand it any longer," said the flier. "You led me back to the light after seven years. You have every capability to find your own light again."

"What do I try for?" asked Henry with a stale voice. "I will try no longer if I cannot change. That is what I vowed to myself: I will stay here, in Tartarus, in my very own cycle of torment, if that means that I will never burden or bother anyone ever again. That is why I wanted you to kill me," he whispered. "Because I can no longer stand this torment. But I cannot go back to being a burden either. I cannot go back," he wailed. "Please, I—"

"Henry, cut it out."

"I wish Henry were here."

"He is here," said the flier gravely. "And he . . . you are not burdening me."

"But you said—"

"That was then," the flier cut him off. "And that was . . . not solely on you either. My point is that now is not then. Now, you are not burdening me. And should you ever again behave in a way that does, I will tell you. How does that sound?"

His boy said nothing. He did not meet his gaze, and he remained silent for so long that the flier considered repeating the question.

"What was . . . she like?" asked Henry eventually. "Arya, I mean?"

The flier contemplated reminding him that he was changing the subject, then thought maybe answering that question was still too difficult for him. "Hot-headed and fearless," he replied instead. "That you have in common. But she had not your drive or ambition. In fact, she and Hamnet never ceased complaining about their parents' "needless expectations for greatness". She would have never joined the army if it weren't for her parents' wishes—she and Mareth. They were cousins. This is how the lot of us met."

"She had no ambitions?"

"Only one: To . . . proliferate happiness at the expense of sorrow wherever she could. Not the typical ambition of a soldier, I know." The flier almost laughed. "She spoke about quitting the army nearly every day. She stayed for Mareth and Hamnet in the end."

"She would have never been a burden on you."

"I said cut it out," the flier hissed. He pondered for a moment, then said with as much resolve as he could muster: "I will not claim that I do not miss her, but she is my past. I wouldn't replace you with anyone, not even her."

Henry jerked around; his mouth fell open, but no sound came out.

"I mean it," said the flier emphatically.

His boy said nothing for a while again. "So you left not because of the Garden of the Hesperides?" he asked eventually.

"Not in the way that Hamnet did," the flier said after a pause. "But, as soldiers, Arya and I were there. Mareth and Andromeda too. We were all ancient friends. My sisters and my mother died in the Garden, as did . . ." The flier hesitated, swallowing hard. Then he decided that if he was telling the story, he was telling it wholly and truthfully. "She was . . . Persephone. Hamnet's bond—his bond whom he could not save. We had . . . had . . ." He lowered his eyes to the floor. "There was a time I believed that I would spend the rest of my days by her side, raising a family of my own. But she . . . Why are you looking at me like that?"

Henry shut his agape-standing mouth, but the smile that dashed across his features did not escape the flier. "You really had a partner? You?"

"Hey, what is that supposed to mean?" He fought the impulse to move closer and playfully nudge his boy in the side. For . . . his boy was back. For a fleeting, far too brief moment, his Henry was back.

"Nothing." And then he was gone yet again. The flier despaired, watching his boy's face darken, becoming filled with sorrow and remorse.

"I could hardly believe it either," he said, trying his best to retain a light-hearted tone. "Even when we were together, I was always the butt of all jokes. The gloomy loner who had somehow gotten the golden girl. What times!"

"You deserved to be with her."

The flier mused at the fact that, now that Henry was being sincere and considerate, he missed his teasing. "I suppose I did," he said. "But . . . It was never the same after her death and Hamnet's disappearance. Arya and I spent the majority of our time in combat, neglecting our return to Regalia for weeks on end. The reprimand we faced seemed an insignificant enough price to pay at the time."

"She was . . . all you had left."

"And then she died."

The following silence was everything but serene. The flier thought it would suffocate him until the boy at last broke it: "You went into exile because there was nothing left in Regalia for you anymore. Or anywhere." He twisted his pebble between his fingers again. "And then . . . there was I and . . . When you told Hamnet that I was all you had, that is what you meant . . . no? Why you kept quiet, why you were so reluctant to risk—"

"Then you were all I had left."

"I understand now," said Henry. "I did not understand before, but . . . You always need something, someone, lest you are aim- and purposeless. And you . . . I think you were my reason too." He dragged the pebble across the floor. "I made you that promise . . . to be successful. I convinced myself that, if not to anyone else, I could matter to you. And while I was preoccupied with making myself matter to you, you began mattering to me." He sniffed. "It was only after I lost you that I stopped mattering."

"You never stopped—wait," the flier froze. "Did you just say—"

"That you matter to me? You do!" yelled his boy. "You always have! You fool!" He threw the pebble at the wall with such force that it cracked apart. "But you could not believe that! You did not even ask!" His voice broke, and he wrapped his arms around himself again, rocking back and forth.

"I am—"

"Forget it," hissed Henry. "It no longer makes a difference. It will always go like this: I will believe myself in the right, and then I am condemned to mess up and hurt every individual I care about. And . . . and whenever I feel the urge to place all the blame on Tonguetwist, I must remind myself that I cannot do so, as she did not force me. She—"

"Did you say . . . Tonguetwist?"

Henry looked up. "She was the one who . . . halt, why?"

Unease washed over the flier, forcing him to seek support against the wall. Longclaw and Tonguetwist . . . Tonguetwist and Longclaw . . . "I must tell you something," he said, and then he shared it all, recounting everything that had transpired since the waterfall. From the moment he had woken up to Tonguetwist's claim that she had rescued him, to his aimless meddling in the surrounding area. He spoke of her frequent visits, their conversations, his sorrow, and then his ever-mounting rage. He even shared how he had believed in her compassion and empathy, and how desperately he had craved understanding from someone.

Not once did Henry interrupt. After the flier's words ceased, he remained silent for another heartbeat. "She does not force you," he said at last.

"She only makes you want to do it," the flier concurred, shuddering. "Longclaw and Tonguetwist . . . What has brought those two together, even?"

"I cannot fathom," said Henry. "But I must tell you something too: It was Tonguetwist who persuaded me to conspire with Gorger."

The flier's head flew up in surprise . . . then he thought, perhaps, he should not be so surprised.

"She was . . ." Henry swallowed. And then a torrent of words poured from his mouth—a tale the flier had meant to ask about, yet never had. With each passing sentence, his boy sobbed, and the flier inched closer. Gradually, the tale of covert meetings, flattery, and pledges of freedom, glory, and peace, in exchange for allegiance to Gorger, followed by a final showdown at the cliff—it all materialized into a comprehensive image. An image of a boy who, among his dreams of fame and recognition, longed for belonging and acceptance just as desperately as the flier himself.

"It is as you said," Henry concluded. "She makes you . . . want to do things you do not actually want." His jaw clenched. "Why is she doing this? Why is she here now? Gorger is dead and . . ." He sobbed again. "Why can she not leave me in peace? Why is she haunting me?"

"I wish to ask Longclaw the same," mumbled the flier.

"It is as though the ghosts from our pasts are conspiring against us," said Henry somberly. "Did they know where we would be? That we would be together? Or was this nothing but a fortunate opportunity for them?"

"I have no answer, Henry," replied the flier. "I wish I did."

"Cease calling me that," hissed Henry. "Please. I wish not to be—" He swallowed. "Be reminded of what I lost," he whispered barely audibly.

"You have not lost Henry," soothed the flier. "You are still Henry. I will not cease calling you Henry until you call yourself by this name again."

"But Henry is . . ." His boy looked away. "Henry is fearless and strong, spirited and ambitious. Henry turns every setback into an opportunity. He can inspire and lead . . . and perhaps even negotiate. Henry is . . . Henry never meant to hurt anyone. And yet he always does."

The flier smiled somberly. "This is true. But I believe you have forgotten that Henry is also . . . my bond. I would say this point is rather significant."

Henry stared at him, mouth agape. "You would want one like Henry as your bond? After everything he . . . I . . ." He broke off, staring at the flier for a heartbeat that stretched into eternity. Then he voiced a weak laugh. "How did we manage to be such an excellent team yet so utterly horrible at this thing called—"

"—being bonds?"

"That," concurred Henry.

"Because we had too much fear," replied the flier. "Fear of trust."

"And of vulnerability."

"And while such things are not required between allies, they are between bonds. We bonded out of necessity before either of us was ready to enter into the kind of relationship that is shared between bonds."

"So it did . . . matter to you."

"Of course it mattered to me," hissed the flier. "I . . . did not mean to invalidate being bonds, although I see how I may have come across that way. It was just so . . . so . . . utterly terrifying. Back then, I just . . ."

"Death?"

The flier broke off and turned to face his boy, who stared back at him with sincerity. He keenly felt the apprehensive but overpowering rush of joy that this name brought with itself. "Yes?"

"I would like to be bonds."

An eternal moment of silence elapsed. "If . . . If that is what you want . . ."

"No!" yelled his boy, and the flier jumped. "No, do not say it like that. Not like that." He picked up another pebble, weakly tossing it in the flier's direction. "I despise that line. I do not want to command you. I—"

"I did not mean it as though you were commanding me," assured the flier. "What I meant was . . . If you do not mind. If you, after everything, still want me as your bond . . ."

"I do," said Henry without hesitation. He cast his eye down. "You broke me. And you killed me. And yet, I still love you. What I must know is whether you still . . . love me after—"

"I could never stop." The flier didn't even let him finish. "If these last months proved anything, then it has to be this."

For a ceaseless stretch of time, his boy held the flier's gaze wordlessly. Then he offered his hand to him. And after no more than a brief moment of uncertainty, Thanatos closed his claw around his hand.

"Oh, why do you weep?"

Henry did not answer. Instead, he dragged himself closer and locked his arms tightly around the flier's neck. His boy, he was . . . seventeen, Thanatos thought. But the boy who clung to him now was so gaunt and frail that he couldn't shake the impression of holding a child. A child . . . who had battled him in the arena. Defeated him. Spared him. He stared at a wiry arm covered in fresh scars.

"Please do not leave me," Henry spoke into his fur. "I cannot be selfish, I know, and . . . if this is selfish, forgive me," he sobbed. "But . . . but you must not leave me! Please do not leave me!"

"It is not selfish," said Thanatos soothingly. "It is the nature of bonds. If we are bonds, I will not leave. And neither must you." He cradled his boy, unable to suppress a pang of worry about how light and fragile he seemed.

"I would not dream of it." Henry dug his hands deeper into the flier's fur. "May we not go back to before?" he mumbled. "Before . . . everything became complicated. Forget all of this shit and go back to . . . to . . ."

Henry broke off, but Thanatos did not reply. He remained silent for so long that Henry loosened his grip and looked up at him. The flier's gaze instilled a twinge of panic.

"Henry, we must never go back to before." Henry's eye widened, but before he could speak, Thanatos continued: "Especially not to a time before we have been bonds."

"That is not what I—"

"I know, but I ask you to let me finish." Henry's open mouth shut, and Thanatos' gaze softened. "We may never go back to before," he said. "But that is not a bad thing. Because . . . while we should learn from the past, striving to go back is not a goal for one who is looking into the future. This is something you taught me." He smiled. "You, in the same breath in which you declared that you would face the demons of your past and draw strength from your greatest failure."

"We must strive for a future," mumbled Henry.

"And we shall," concurred Thanatos. "A future which we may decide for ourselves."

"For this future, I would above all like to decide that we are even."

"In what sense?"

"In that, we hurt one another," said Henry. "To nearly the point of breaking. This cannot be undone, but what we may do is start anew. As bonds, who . . . hurt one another no more."

Thanatos nodded. "You have not, by any chance, picked up one or the other grain of wisdom from Kismet as well, have you?"

"I have picked up from her so much." His boy smiled, and for one fleeting moment, all was well.

"So . . . what would you like to do with this fresh start, then?" asked Thanatos eventually.

Henry turned his face away, as if attempting to hide in the flier's fur. "I . . . I do not . . . I mean, I told you I wanted . . ." The trembling of his body increased, and his hold on the flier tightened. "I do not know," he mumbled over and over. "I mean, I know, but I do not, and—" he sobbed.

"Henry . . ."

"Do you really think I may ever be Henry again?" his boy cut him off. "That I may ever be . . . home? The only reason I wanted to go back to before is that before, I felt better. I was . . . whole."

"You will feel better." Thanatos tightened his embrace; the steady beat of his boy's heart close to his ear provided solace in a way he had never known. "Somehow, you will. Never mind what exactly we will do, but you will feel better again." Then and there, he vowed to himself that he would do whatever it may take to revive Henry's light—even have hope on his behalf.

"And what of you?"

Thanatos rose a little. "What do you mean?"

"Are you . . . feeling well?"

Warmth flooded the flier as he intook the question. "I am . . . now," he said with a smile.

"Did you not forget to add "it was about time for you to ask this"?"

Thanatos laughed. "Maybe. It is . . . good to hear that my well-being matters to you."

"Death!" cried Henry, tugging at his fur. "Do you still not believe me? I said that you matter to me. Please say you believe me."

"I—"

"We may do something on your behalf too," urged Henry. "What if we . . . track down Longclaw ourselves? He atrociously killed your bond, and if the grudge he bears against you is this potent, he will still be after us anyway. What if we do not wait? What if we go after him?"

Thanatos shook his head. "I . . . appreciate the offer, but there is still the matter of Arya and I killing his son. If he wishes to come after us, we shall confront him, but I feel no thirst for vengeance. Honestly, I wish to shed no more blood, regardless of whom it belongs to."

Henry said nothing, and Thanatos nudged him before settling down and shutting his eyes. "Let us not worry about the past," he said with a smile. Let us not worry about bloodshed or vengeance any longer. Let us . . . Henry," he nudged him again, "tomorrow, wouldn't you like to . . . fly?"

It was only then that Henry stirred and scooted closer. Although he could not see his face, Thanatos felt a strong conviction that he smiled. "Let us fly."