The gnawer and the flier . . . The sword nearly slipped from the boy's grasp. The gnawer and the flier . . . together . . . here, then gone, slipped over the edge.

An image of the icy, foaming waves below flickered in his mind, and he vaulted forward, nearly losing his footing on the slippery ice as he had to evade an oncoming strike. But the boy had no mind for the flock of raging gnawers behind or for the flood of more or less useful information provided by his echolocation. All he could see over and over were the gnawer and the flier—his flier—slipping over the edge.

Without a moment's hesitation, he weaved in between two assailants and picked up speed, then vaulted after them.

It wasn't until a few heartbeats into his fall that a wave of belated panic crashed into him. The boy whipped around and attempted to use his sword to grasp the icy wall. At first, the tip only scraped against it, but gradually, the worn blade delved deeper and deeper into the frozen surface until it was securely lodged in the peculiar cold material, leaving the boy desperately clinging to the hilt.

The jerky break of his fall sent a surge of intense pain through his abdomen, and he let out a violent scream. His stiff fingers weakened their hold on the sword, and his backpack clung to him like a weighty rock. Before he could release his grip, the sword began to give way. It started with a slight movement, but then progressively more, until the ice below fractured with a deafening crack, and the boy plunged into the freezing waves beneath.

He couldn't have fallen further than fifteen feet, yet when he was engulfed, the freezing water numbed his senses, causing him to nearly pass out on impact. The boy was an excellent swimmer, but he was barely conscious enough to not release his sword as the relentless waves dragged him along.

He had no awareness to scream when he collided with something. But his arms encircled the object—an ice floe no larger than two square feet—instinctively. The rumble behind him turned into an ear-splitting roar, and the boy barely clung to the floe, shutting his eye just in time before the tidal wave hit.

Water engulfed him, dragged him under, and he barely managed to drag himself on top of the little floe before it resurfaced. The boy lay, stomach down, clutching the rim as the masses of water propelled him through a tunnel that was, at first, of considerable size. Yet it grew narrower and narrower the further the flood carried him . . . Carried him, he thought dazedly. This was not unfamiliar. He was holding . . . But this time he was not holding . . .

The boy's eye flew open, and his head jerked up. He scraped together the last remains of his awareness in search of his flier. However, before he could even try to find his bearings, his floe was flung out of a narrow opening and, for one glorious second, soared through the air. Then it crashed into the previously peaceful water below.

For one moment, he stared out onto the open sea in confusion. Then it dawned on him that he knew this view. It was the waterway, thought the boy, attempting to rise on his floe.

He stared out onto the vast, glowing horizon, only to be disrupted by yet another rumble. His floe rocked as another wave crashed into it; at the back of his mind, the boy understood that the wall behind him had given way. But this meant the entire cave must have collapsed. The entire system of . . .

He whipped back to the horizon ahead, only to freeze in terror. Ice floated all around him, in large and small chunks. And to one piece in the far distance, far too small to carry them both, clung two individuals: a large gnawer with soaked brown fur and . . . "Death!"

Despite his voice faltering, the boy forced the name out of his throat. He cast his gaze around, hoping to discover a way to propel the wretched floe forward more swiftly, but to no avail.

"Death!"

His flier's ears twitched, and his head whipped around. In that moment, Longclaw flung his talons at his face. Thanatos screamed, digging into the ice with such force that it cracked apart.

Both flier and gnawer dropped into the icy waves, and the boy screamed again. His flier's name, over and over. He screamed for Death as though his life depended on it.

He could not tell how long it had taken for the current and Thanatos' weak attempts at swimming to bring them so close together that he could grasp his flier's claw with his hand. The floe swayed beneath their shared weight, but the boy locked his arm around Thanatos' neck tightly. He would not let go. Angry tears rose in his eye; he would never let go again.

Thanatos' lids fluttered but never opened. Had his talon not hooked into the ice of the boy's floe, he didn't know if he could have secured him.

Behind him, he detected the distinct sounds of Longclaw; they painted an image of the gnawer desperately holding onto a significantly smaller ice floe and yelling curses.

A surge of shame washed over the boy. He had meant to deal with him then and there. He had wanted to ensure no one would ever be hurt by him again. And now . . . His teeth clenched. Now he was still out there because . . . His eye fell shut, and his face pressed into drenched fur.

Because he had failed.

***

For how long they aimlessly floated over the waterway, the boy could not tell. He shut out every sound and image his echolocation attempted to transmit, wishing it would all disappear.

For how long the floe had lain there, washed ashore, the boy could not tell either. After some time, he realized that he was no longer moving and raised his head. They had drifted along a river-like channel, deeper into the mainland, and when the familiar blend of sounds and the vivid array of colors that encompassed them at last registered, the boy's heart sank.

Of all places, they had landed in the jungle.

Mesmerized by the disorienting tangle of glowing vines drawing intersecting patterns overhead, the boy thought that he should move. But his body would not obey him. He lay still as a stone against Thanatos; his body ached, and the stab in his abdomen throbbed. Cold from the floe's ice contrasted with the sickening heat of the jungle air. It would not take long until it would melt altogether, he thought, shutting his eye tighter. And then . . .

Had he not painstakingly drilled his brain to instinctively process and respond to the most subtle alterations in the soundscape, the boy might have died then and there. So, he barely managed to slide to the side and draw Mys to behead the arm-long twister that had descended upon him from above.

A heartbeat of nigh-unbroken silence followed . . . then the world around him erupted into a deafening, overwhelming hiss.

Five from behind, three from the left, and two from the right and front. Starting countdown, prompting action before the calculated collision in 4 . . . 3 . . . 2 . . .

The boy jerked up and somehow stabilized himself on his feet. He ripped the sword out of his sheath and swung one blade in each hand. He could barely think, so he surrendered himself to his echolocation, allowing his body to move in whichever way it commanded. And it commanded him to . . . An image flashed before his inner eye—of Ripred in battle. Of Ripred and himself, in the Vineyard of Eyes.

And so, fueled by nothing but sheer adrenaline and desperation, the boy raised his blades and began to spin.

He knew not for how long he had spun or how many twisters he had sliced in half by the end of it. All he knew was that his echolocation signaled that none were imminently attacking at one point. He barely prevented himself from releasing his blades as he ceased his spinning. His head throbbed, and his vision blurred. The boy meant to scream, but all that came out was a hoarse cough.

He nearly stumbled over Thanatos, who had not moved from where the now-melted ice floe had washed ashore; his chest sank and rose shallowly.

"Death . . ." The boy somehow managed to sheathe his sword and fell onto all fours in front of his bond. "We must leave," he mumbled. "Before they come back, we must . . ."

His flier said nothing. The boy wiped his hands, soiled with snake blood and dirt, on his ripped pants and fought back the swelling panic. He fought the tears that attempted to rise as well. He had no time for weakness.

"Death, come . . ." He dragged a sleeve across his sticky face, then cupped his throbbing abdomen. The bandage was soaked and crusted; he would have to change it soon or he would risk infection. Then again, was his own condition not utterly insignificant? "Let us leave. Let us find somewhere safe."

Was there something like "safe" in the jungle? The boy did not know. All he knew was that he had to act, lest his flier die. After everything, he would die. He could not die.

And so, without further ado, he pushed himself to his feet again and loaded his flier onto his back, tightly clutching his claws. The boy sensed that his wings bent awkwardly and his feet were dragging behind, but even though fliers were light, Thanatos was too large for him to carry more comfortably by himself.

For one moment, his head, which was draped over the boy's shoulder, twitched, and his lids fluttered. "Ease," mumbled the boy. "I have got you."

And so he banished the spinning in his head and his overwhelming fatigue. He ignored the sticky strands of hair that clung to his face and the loosening of his bandage with the pulsing wound beneath. He scraped together what little energy he had remaining and listened intently for dangers.

The previously irritating chirping of the jungle became his guiding sound as it illuminated his surroundings with astonishing clarity . . . And so, when he at last dragged Thanatos away from the beach and the fresh flock of twisters he sensed across the river, he became aware for the first time that they were utterly lost.

The boy tightened his grasp on his flier; he saw clearly, but he was lost. Where was he to head? There was no goal, no direction, not even anywhere to take shelter. There was only the treacherous jungle singing its neverending, deathly lullaby.

Am I frightened of my own death again? The boy asked himself as he headed through dense foliage at random. But he could not tell whether his fear was solely for his flier or for himself as well. Whyever could he be scared of his own death again?

Vines snapped shut in his face, and the ache in his abdomen increased with every step, but he allowed it not to deter him. His forehead quickly pearled with sweat, and his heavy boots crushed everything that grew in his way mercilessly, but at least nothing attacked him anymore.

His perception was peaked, attuned to seek shelter. When the boy finally made out the shape of a stone wall in the distance, it felt as though he had dragged himself and his flier through the jungle for days when it couldn't have been more than ten or so minutes. He directed his steps toward the wall at once; perhaps there would be a cave?

One more minute of trudging alongside the wall later, the boy finally made out a cave entrance and almost shed tears of joy. He squeezed past the curtain of vines at the entrance and staggered a few yards into the stone space, lit by a thin network of vines that meandered along the walls and ceiling.

Intaking the refreshingly cooler air and realizing that it was void of danger, he finally allowed Thanatos to slide off his back. Moments later, his legs gave way, and he collapsed beside his unmoving bond.

Resisting the urge to curl together and pass out then and there, the boy lost his backpack and his boots first. He shook sticky strands of hair out of his eye and panted heavily, then gagged, spitting out sweat.

To rest . . . His body craved it with an overwhelming intensity. But he could not rest. No matter whether the ground beneath him swayed or his stomach convulsed, pounding with pain. He could not rest. Not when . . . "Death?"

From where he summoned the strength to lift himself and scoot toward his flier was beyond him. His already low spirits sank further at the sight of his closed eyes and barely perceptible breathing.

"Death?" The boy shook him, and only when he did not react did a surge of proper panic spear his heart. He could not have made all this effort in vain. He could not have . . . He could not die. Neither of them could, thought the boy. Not until . . .

The boy froze, realizing that he did not actually know what his unfinished objective was. Why could he not die yet? He did not know. All he knew was that it was so and that he would strain himself to his very limits if that was what it would take.

"Death, you must speak to me," the boy urged. He forced himself to rise and look him over to assess his injuries. "You are safe," he said, not knowing whether it was true. "I have got you. Death, I have got you!"

Only when the boy leaned his cheek on Thanatos' side and shut his eye for a moment did his flier stir. A low rumble reverberated through his body and his eyes opened to narrow amber slits.

"Death!" cried the boy, overjoyed. He rose and fished for his backpack, taking out his waterproof container and scattering its contents on the ground until he got a hold of the medical kit. "Are you in pain? You may sleep if you want," he said. "I can give you painkiller so that you may sleep. But you must promise to wake up again—as I woke after losing my eye. Do you recall?"

"Of course I recall," mumbled Thanatos.

The boy sobbed. He dug his bloodied fingers into the fur of his bond and fought with all his might to keep himself upright. "Are you in much pain?" he repeated the question, brandishing the bottle with the painkiller. "You may rest easy; I shall watch over you. I shall . . . tend to your wounds and then watch over you," mumbled the boy, uncertain whether he could truly deliver on this promise. His strength was dwindling, and even if he managed to stitch the two of them up, he doubted he could stay conscious for much longer.

"I will be there when you wake," he mumbled. "I will be there. But you must wake." He waved the bottle in front of Thanatos' face, and after a brief pause, his flier allowed the boy to pour some of its contents into his mouth.

Moments later, he was out, and the boy wondered how severe his pain had to be for him to take the medicine with so little protest.

Did he believe in his care for him yet? The boy wondered as he took to assessing his flier's injuries. "Do you believe me yet?" he mumbled, even though Thanatos could not hear. "I will make you believe me," he said adamantly, realizing that proving this was what kept him going, kept him fearing his own death. "You cannot say that I care not for you. Not ever again. Before either of us dies, you must say that you believe me."

Scraping together the last remains of his once-infinite will, the boy cleaned and stitched his flier's injuries, then provisorily splinted the broken wing. He mused that he had become far too accustomed to wound treatment throughout his champion career, but at least his expertise enabled him to finish rather quickly.

Only when Thanatos was taken care of did he move on to himself. He stripped out of his drenched shirt and ripped away the crusted bandage around his stomach. At the sight of the enraged gash with its visible stitch marks, he gritted his teeth. It hadn't fully closed up yet, and the bath in freshwater had had no positive impact on its healing.

The boy leaned on a wall before emptying nearly an entire bottle of root bitters over a spare cloth. Then he bit down on a chunk of dried vine he found on the ground and pressed the soaked fabric to the injury. Blinding pain numbed his mind for a heartbeat; the boy panted, digging his teeth into the vine, and waited for it to subside.

When the agony finally ebbed and he could think again, he tightened a fresh bandage around the injury and shut his waterproof container. For a moment, he sat there, still panting. He wiped his tear-streaked face with his stained shirt. This was it, no? Everything . . . everything dire. Was it?

The boy had no energy to double-check. He dragged himself over to Thanatos and curled up against his side, his face pressed into blood-crusted fur. His last thought was that he had promised to stay awake. Then he drifted off into oblivion.

***

"Henry . . ."

The boy jerked up at once when the strained voice spoke next to his ear.

"I am here!" he nearly yelled. "I am awake!" Shame flooded him when he realized that he had not stayed up to watch over them as he had promised.

"You . . . you mustn't be ashamed," said Thanatos, as though he had guessed his fear. "Feel no shame for sleeping. Please. You could not have . . ."

"But I promised!" argued the boy, allowing his flier to rise and take their surroundings in for the first time.

"And I do not hold the breaking of this promise against you." Thanatos silenced him. "Not in your current state. But . . ." He looked around incredulously. "Where are we?"

"In the jungle," replied the boy, gritting his teeth against the ache in his sore body. "We were washed ashore here, but then a flock of twisters attacked and you could not move, so I carried you away from that beach. There is no water, and I used up nearly all of mine. But I could not find a better shelter in such a short time. I . . . I could not—" He broke off and sniffed, staring at the floor.

"You carried me?" exclaimed Thanatos. "You are barely in any shape to be on your feet yourself! You should not have—" Suddenly, he froze. "How did you even get here?" he asked instead. "Have I not pushed Longclaw off a cliff?"

"You have, and I leaped after you," said the boy, leaning on the only wall that was not overgrown with moss and vines.

"You—"

"Of course I did!" he wailed. "How could I not? It was my fault that we were in this mess to begin with. And you . . . you . . ." He pulled his leg to the uninjured side of his abdomen. "I could not kill him, and I could not fathom living if he killed you."

"Whoever instilled in you the idea that you should kill him in the first place?" hissed Thanatos. "I had told you that I want no more bloodshed."

"I know," mumbled the boy, staring at the floor. "But . . . there would have been more bloodshed regardless, no? He would not have ceased coming after you. He . . . they would have found us!" he screamed, and Thanatos winced. "If I do not kill them now, they may never stop. Never leave . . . you at peace. Especially now that he has Tonguetwist with him." Despite his attempt to embrace himself, the boy could not quell the intense trembling that consumed him. "They have to die if you should ever be free. And you must be. You must be free!"

"You nearly lost your life."

"So what!" His flier jumped from the agony in his voice. "Why should it matter if I die? I cannot—" He sobbed, clutching his arms tighter, suddenly certain beyond doubt why he could not die yet. "I cannot live if all I can still do is bring pain to those I love. And so I have decided to die for you."

The flier stilled. "But Henry, you—"

"I cannot live!" he cut him off. "Let me die on my own terms! On terms that allow my death to matter. Please!"

"I cannot do what you ask," said his flier after a silent eternity. "I have pledged to save you as I save my life, and so I cannot let you die."

"You cling to that vow," sobbed the boy. "And yet you do not believe in my care for you. I do not know what else I am to do to make you believe me. Have you any idea how much it hurt to hear you say that? That I have no care for you? Do you really still believe that? I . . . I know not what—" The boy cut himself off, shaking his head. "Never mind," he mumbled after a while, tugging at an old bandage around his wrist until it nearly came undone. "You do not have to believe me. It does not change the truth. I suppose I am truly useless at showing care. At . . . everything, now that I have no more light to give."

"Be still," hissed Thanatos. "You cannot honestly mean that . . . wait." He stared at the boy, wide-eyed. "You went after Longclaw in an attempt to prove your care for me?"

"I had to," replied the boy in a stale voice. "I cannot give you more light, so I had to find something else. Forgive me that I have no more light for you, but I do not. I have nothing for you anymore. Or for anyone. And so I must die, lest I once again become a parasite. At least you are a cause worth dying for."

A shiver slithered down the flier's spine when he took in his boy and the way he spoke. Everything within him revolted against the idea of him ever becoming like this. Like . . . himself. "You see not, do you?" he asked after a while. "That the way you act directly contradicts your claim to be a parasite."

"What?"

"No parasite would choose to . . . die for someone else's sake. Just to make it clear—I still do not condone you dying for my sake, but the fact that you have decided to do so is proof enough."

His boy stared at him with a furrowed brow before looking away. "Even if I am not a parasite now, I may become one in the future," he mumbled. "I told you that I have no more light to give you. And—"

"And I told you that I would not love you any less if that were the case."

"But last time—"

"Last time . . . there were many factors that played a part in why things went down the way they did," said the flier. "For one, I did not speak to you. I did not trust you."

"I did not trust you either," mumbled his boy. "I spoke of being bonds without trusting you as bonds should."

"And are we still like that?"

His boy shook his head.

"Did we not speak of a fresh start?"

"We did."

"And so I repeat," the flier urged. "You are not a parasite. And I will not love you any less, even if you have no more light to give me."

The boy's mouth opened, yet he had nothing to respond to the utterly disarming words of his flier. "I am terrified," he forced himself to whisper after a while, without meeting his flier's eyes. "That if I try once more, I will fall again. That I will hurt you and drag you down with me. What if I truly cannot change? What if, next time, it will be even worse? What if—"

"Henry," said the flier as soothingly as he could. "You have already changed so much. That you are speaking to me now is proof enough."

"But I—"

"You must not let yourself be ruled by fear," said the flier, attempting to rise and scoot closer. But his broken wing gave way, and he fell again, muttering a curse. His boy looked up, and in his face, there was his own discomfort with this new and frightening yet so all-powerful thing called vulnerability, but also so much affection that it sent a shiver down the flier's spine.

"Henry . . . never let himself be ruled by fear."

"Never," concurred the flier. "It might be frightening to take another chance, but you must remember that in your trustfall, you are not alone. I will be there to catch you every time."

And then the flier finally spotted a glimmer of hope in his boy's eye. "When you first told me to jump, promising to catch me, you waited until I nearly hit the ground," he said.

Despite his pain, the flier laughed. "And yet I still caught you," he replied. "Did I not catch you every time?"

The boy stared at his flier, his mouth slightly ajar. "I will not let you fall," he proclaimed with so much resolve that it almost terrified the boy. And for the first time, he understood that this vow transcended the mere physical act of catching. "But you must make a vow in return that you will never attempt to do anything that will put your life at risk so deliberately ever again," insisted his flier after a brief pause. "Not without me, at least."

The boy stared at him in silence. His head swarmed with thoughts, yet nothing came out of his mouth.

"Do you hear?" urged his flier. "Do you not understand? You say you cannot keep living without me, but neither can I without you. Without the only . . . family I still have left. And no matter what you say or claim, I will care for you until my last breath. I will . . . be the one to whom you will always matter."

The boy's eye widened. "You mean that?"

"I do." His flier smiled. "And should you ever behave like an asshole again, I shall not make it worse by keeping my mouth shut. I will not give up on you. Especially if you have given up on yourself. I shall have faith in you all the same. Even in your . . ." He swallowed, recalling the scribbles from his boy's log and forcing himself to allow the notion to settle in. "In your care for me. May you have faith in me too?"

The boy stared at him, mouth agape. "You believe me?" he cried joyously. "I always have faith in you!" he added shortly after. "I always do. I said that I would like to be bonds."

"And I would like to be bonds too. But that means that we cannot strive to die for each other's sake. We mustn't act like our lives are not of equal value."

"I may try . . . if you may."

"I will smack you if you slip back into it."

"And so will I." The boy paused. "We must not die for each other," he said pensively. "We must live."

"For each other?"

Instead of a reply, Henry pushed off the wall and scooted closer until he could curl up against Thanatos' side again, resting his head on the curve of his neck. "Is that what it means?" he mumbled into his flier's fur. "That our life and death are one." Without thinking, his hand sought out the flier's claw, and suddenly it was like everything became clear. "Are one . . . we two."

"No life of mine without a life of yours," mumbled Thanatos. "No . . . me without you, and no you without me. Not anymore."

"No me without . . ." His hold on his flier's claw grew stronger. "Because our life and death . . . Because we are one."

The words, despite how quietly he had spoken, rang piercingly loud.

"Because . . . we are one."

And they needn't say more.