Neither of them could discern how long they had spent nestled together, lost in the otherworldly sounds of the jungle and enthralled by the subtle play of shadows cast upon the walls by the hanging vines.

"Know you how long we have slept earlier?" Thanatos spoke first.

"No," replied Henry. "At least we were not devoured in our unwatched sleep."

"I want you to forgive yourself for that," his flier insisted. "Please forgive yourself for everything that no one else blames you for any more."

Henry said nothing. He knew he had other concerns at the moment, but he had never found forgiving himself for anything all that easy. "I must get up," he said instead, rising gingerly. "I must search for food and water; we mustn't run out of either."

"Henry, you are in no condition to—"

"One of us must." Henry cut him off. "And your condition is worse than mine."

"You must not hurt yourself for my sake any longer," mumbled his flier without looking at him. His concern was evident and unconcealed, and it sent a spear of a kind of emotion through Henry's heart that he couldn't immediately place.

"I shall not hurt myself." He dropped to his knees in front of Thanatos and rummaged through his backpack, producing his water bags. "We should empty these so that I may refill them."

They quenched their most dire thirst, then Henry rose again. "I promise you that I shall do my very best to not be hurt."

His bond opened his eyes to narrow slits, clouded with a mixture of pain and concern. "And I shall do my very best to have faith in you."

***

Despite his worry for Thanatos, Henry found himself absent for over an hour. He had nothing but his intuition to guide him on his search for sustenance and neglected to mark his path back.

When he finally burst through the curtain of vines at the entrance again, though, he did so with newfound enthusiasm. "Death!" he called, rushing toward his bond. "We must depart at once! I found—"

"Henry!" Thanatos cut him off; his head shot up, and his wings attempted to snap open. "Have you any clue for how long you have been gone? I assumed—"

"I am unharmed," assured Henry, although he felt the ache in his abdomen acutely now. "Forgive me for making you worry. But look what I found!" He dropped three large fish in front of Thanatos. "And not only food and water." He dropped two full water bags next to the fish. "Also the perfect temporary shelter. It lies half an hour from here, with ready access to water and a grove full of delicious golden fruit—the kind that Hamnet showed us during the quest—only a hundred feet or so further."

He settled against the wall and shook out of his backpack a load of fruits, eagerly picking one out and taking the first bite. When the sweet, delicious juice entered his mouth and dripped from his chin, Henry shut his eye and reveled in a fleeting instant of pure joy.

Only when he directed his gaze back at Thanatos did his bliss abate. His flier had not even touched the food. "Death?"

He did not respond, and Henry hastily stuffed the rest of the fruit into his mouth and poked his flier in the side. "Death, you must eat. You look like something has chewed you up and spit you out again," he teased, poking him again. "Come, you will feel better once you have eaten. And if you like, I always have more painkiller for you."

"I wish for my head to remain clear."

"Fine." Henry eyed him with growing concern. "But you must still eat. I thought we had established earlier that we would like to attempt living," he said quietly. "To live, you must eat."

Thanatos' eyes opened and fixed on him for the first time. "When you were gone for so long, part of me feared that you might never come back."

Henry pressed his lips together. The words stung, but he was grateful for them anyway. "I did not mean to cause you fear." He placed his hand behind Thanatos' ear, feeling him tremble ever so slightly. "But it is good that you told me."

"Because so, you could assure me that it was unjustified, leaving no room for unfounded assumptions to grow?"

"Look at us!" Henry laughed. "Learning."

"Look at you," replied Thanatos. "Very evidently capable of learning."

Henry stared at the floor. "Perhaps I am," he said slowly. "I suppose I have no choice but to try, now with you on my back."

"That is how it is," confirmed Thanatos, finally digging a claw into one of the fish before starting to eat.

They quenched their hunger and thirst in comfortable silence, but before long, Thanatos emitted such intense pain that Henry could almost feel it as if it were his own. "Are you certain about the painkiller?" he asked again, fetching the bottle. "I will not think any less of you for taking it," he added after a brief pause.

"I am certain."

"Why do you torment yourself so?" He unwillingly dropped the bottle back into his container.

"Because we must depart, no?" With visible effort, Thanatos lifted himself and shook his head. "Did you not say something about a new shelter?"

"I did, but you are not flying there."

His flier held himself up for a heartbeat, then he collapsed back onto the floor, panting. "I—" He attempted to catch his breath. "You are right; I cannot. I am—"

"Do not worry, I shall figure something out." Henry sprung to his feet.

"You are . . ."

Henry looked back at him when he felt Thanatos' stare on his back.

"You feel better, no?"

After only a brief uncertainty, Henry gave him a smile. "I do. For, I have something again . . . a goal. Something worth struggling for." He caught Thanatos returning his smile before he bowed to rummage in his backpack. "Let us devise a way to move you," he said in a deliberately upbeat tone, concealing the extent of his fear, which had not ceased growing since the moment he had departed, as best he could. "If worst comes to worst, I may have to carry—"

"Forgive me."

"What?" Henry whipped around to his flier, backpack in hand.

Thanatos stared at the floor. "I am . . . You have worked so hard since we became stranded, and all I have done is lie around uselessly. And now you must go out of your way to make up for my own lack—"

"Be still," called Henry, dropping his bag.

"Do not pretend like I am wrong," replied his flier.

"I did not," assured Henry. "But what I am saying is that I do not mind. I have been a useless weight on your back more times than I can count. It may be the other way around for once."

"But—"

"No buts," insisted Henry. "I do not think any less of you. You are not a burden. Did I not just tell you that you motivate me? I feel better," he exclaimed, realizing that it was true. "I feel like I . . . I . . . am accomplishing something useful again. Like I am putting effort into something that matters. And soon, you will feel better too. So be still, for both our sakes."

"Is that what you think?"

"It is," said Henry with iron conviction. "And I will figure something out for you; worry not. Just watch."

"I know I've said it earlier, but I would like to say it again: I am proud of you."

Henry froze mid-movement.

Thanatos hesitated. "Kismet showed me . . . a few logs that she claimed you intended to throw away. That was the first time I considered believing in your care for me. But I must, without any doubt, make you aware of how proud I am of you. I must. For . . . For . . ." He stared at Henry wordlessly, then shook his head. "Everything."

"The logs . . ." Henry twisted a piece of vine between his hands. "The ripped ones? The ones about the . . . threshold?"

"Those ones."

"I wanted so much to make you proud of me." He tossed the vine at his feet.

"You always have. I regret that I have not told you more in the past."

Henry threw him a bright, sincere smile. "I must show you what I am capable of now. You shall be left awestruck!"

"I shall," said Thanatos in a mellow voice.

"Kismet . . ." Henry's smile suddenly fell. "Think you she is well? That she knows we are well?" An image of the wise gnawer, whom he had developed such fondness for during the . . . almost eight months he had spent at her side, suddenly appeared before him. He hadn't even said a proper farewell.

"We may send her a message as soon as we can," said Thanatos. "She will trust that we are well. When we parted, she said that she could not have wished for a better student. That is what she wanted me to tell the "conceited brat". I shall go on a whim here and assume she meant you."

"Oh, I will miss her!" exclaimed Henry. "I already miss her."

"I too," concurred Thanatos.

"She . . . did so much for us with nothing in return."

"Perhaps we gave her something in return after all."

"Like what?"

Thanatos hesitated. "Hope," he said finally. "And something to . . . Someone worth trying for again. Have you not noticed her transformation since you first arrived?"

Henry nodded. He had thought a similar thing after his trial week, but . . . "Think you this transformation was due to . . . me?"

"Why else?" Thanatos shook his head. "You made yourself into something to drive her. She told me this herself—that you saved her just as you saved me."

Henry looked at him incredulously. "I am this inspiring?"

"You are the most inspiring individual I have ever encountered."

Henry stared down at his hands, pondering for the hundredth time whether he could ever inspire someone again. He had done it incidentally more than anything, but . . . A reason could be found in any goal worth pursuing. And so, suddenly, it didn't seem so unbelievable that teaching him had been such a goal for Kismet. "We must see her again someday," he said, smiling again.

"This is exactly why I promised her that we would come visit."

"We must!" exclaimed Henry. "We will. If only to tell her all of this in person. Think you, when we see her again, she will be proud of me too?"

"Henry, she is already proud of you," assured his flier. "Perhaps you may convince her to tell you when we see her again."

"You really think?" Images flashed before Henry of the way she had looked at him after he had crossed the threshold, and immense joy washed over him.

"Of course," said Thanatos. "She is, and I am too. For your rekindled spirit. You are . . . You . . . feel you like you have found Henry again yet?"

"I do," Henry said with unprecedented conviction. "Not the Henry of Old—he still lies in that orange lake, where he has died. But I needn't the Henry of Old. I need every strength and virtue of his and none of his shortcomings. None of his blindness or weakness." The corner of his mouth twitched up. "I am becoming quite proficient at the art of rising from the dead, it seems."

"So you are." Thanatos shot him a look that combined intrigue and fondness. "And so, what do you want the . . . Henry of New to be like?"

"I . . ." Henry pondered. "I would like him to be all those things you listed back in Kismet's cave," he said. "Fearless and strong, spirited and ambitious. But he must never be oblivious or drag others down. He . . . He . . ." Henry broke off, uncertain of what else to say. He still had very little semblance of what else he wanted to be other than that he wanted not to cause others pain in the way that he had done before.

"You may answer later," soothed Thanatos. "Think it over and give me a reply when you are ready. How is that?"

"I shall." Henry sat on his haunches and laid out all the bones he still had left. "And I believe I just now had an idea."

***

"And you are certain this will . . . hold?" Thanatos cast a doubtful gaze at the structure, resembling a sleigh, that Henry had assembled using bones and vines.

"We shan't know until we try." Henry stuffed his boots into his backpack, then shouldered it. "Hamnet survived the jungle barefoot," he said optimistically, surveying his feet that he had wrapped in bandages for protection. Then he took hold of the vine that may be used to pull the construction. "Let us depart."

When Thanatos still made no move, Henry kneeled in front of him again. "I know all of this is frightening and not particularly dignified, but we have no choice. I will vow to not tell a soul about any of this if you would like me to." He reached out and placed a hand behind his flier's ear, giving him his best attempt at an encouraging smile. "You shall fly again soon. We shall fly together, just like we meant to." With that promise, smiling became easier. "But right now, you must . . . trust me."

"I trust you."

"Then on you go," laughed Henry. "No one shall ever know. And other than that, what even is the worst that could happen?"

"Do not ever ask that," Thanatos pressed out between clenched teeth, but shortly thereafter climbed onto the construction. "I hope you won't make me feel regret over this."

The following hour Thanatos spent dearly regretting it, as the ride proved to be bumpy and uncomfortable. Henry's face lit up with joy upon finally reaching the grove with the fruit, as his construction had withstood the journey.

He quickly loaded his backpack with as many fruits as it could hold, and within five minutes, he pushed the homemade sleigh through an even denser tangle of vines, entering the refreshing coolness of another stone cave. Thanatos immediately almost tumbled off the construction, longing to lie down comfortably.

Henry cast him a sympathetic glance, then proceeded toward the gently flowing creek that meandered along the back of the cave, weaving through cracks in the walls. Surrounding the creek was a lush carpet of vibrant, luminous plants. For a brief moment, Henry regarded them with suspicion, but then reasoned that if the plants intended to harm them, they would have already made their move.

In just a few minutes, he let the backpack fall, emptied, and replenished his water bags, but as he got closer to Thanatos, a shiver of fear ran down his spine.

"Death, how fare you?" He sat beside his flier, surveying him with growing worry. Thanatos lay motionless with shut eyes, breathing heavily as though he had strained himself. Every bandage he wore was blood-soaked.

"Forgive that it took so long to get here," Henry mumbled, pulling his backpack closer and fetching the medical kit. "I should have been more careful. I will—"

"Do not . . . Be still."

"I should not be still?"

"Be still!"

Henry actually managed a laugh before he brandished the bottle with painkiller again. "You have no excuse to not take this anymore now."

"I cannot—"

"You must trust me!" yelled Henry. "I shall not pass out this time. Nothing will harm you as long as I am here. Do you trust me?"

His flier threw him a look that conveyed desperation and pain—so much pain that Henry's stomach tightened. But then it slowly shifted to gratefulness. "I trust you," he said weakly. And so he allowed Henry to first pour water into his mouth and then administer a dose of painkiller.

"I must go outside to cut more vines for your means of transportation and some other things," mumbled Henry, "and I must change all our bandages." He looked at his own—his injury throbbed uncomfortably from the lengthy physical exertion, but he bit it back. What else did they need now? He strained his mind, uncertain. It was all so uncertain.

He hadn't allowed himself to feel fear so far, but he knew that it would eventually catch up to him. If only he could distract himself for a while longer, maybe . . .

"Do not . . . go . . ."

A rush of fondness for his bond washed over Henry as he took in the strained words. He fell back onto his knees, embracing him tightly for a moment. "I will stay within earshot," he mumbled into his fur. "And within line of sight. And when you wake, I will be here."

He vowed to himself then and there that nothing in this wretched jungle, nor the entire Underland, would deter him.

***

To Henry, time appeared to stand still. He moved mechanically through his tasks, one item on his mental list after another—cutting fresh vines, re-dressing their wounds, quenching his thirst, and venturing out to gather more food.

By the end of what must have been a day, he could barely remain on his feet, gradually losing his ability to run from the overwhelming fear of the horrifying circumstances they had become trapped in.

He pulled out his notebook, but he could not think of anything to write down. No checklist, no idea, not even a map. They were . . . lost, who knew how far from any familiar territory. And Henry could suddenly barely keep the panic that this notion roused within him at bay.

He poured the contents of one water bag over his head, hoping to cool himself off, and then did the same with Thanatos. Although he had woken a while ago, his flier lay still, and Henry decided that he would not concern him with his fears. He was capable of handling this by himself . . . He had to be, lest they both died. And everything within him revolted at the thought. He could not let it be his own inability to come up with a solution that cost the life of his flier.

For a second, he envisioned himself back on the crawler island and recalled the panic attack he had nearly succumbed to. One banged at the back of his head now, but he could not let it overwhelm him. He could not . . . Henry leaned his head on the cool stone wall and breathed deeply, focusing on the frantic hammering of his heart.

There may not be a shore in sight this time, but . . . had he not survived worse? He searched for something—anything—within the churning depths of his mind yet drew a blank.

He needed . . . What needed he? A plan. His hand clenched around the notebook. Everything always became so much less daunting when he made a plan. But . . . he had no plan. He had not even an idea. He knew nothing of the jungle outside of the Vineyard and the nibbler colony's vicinity, and he knew not how to get back there. Thanatos could not fly, and they had no boat, so they could not attempt to make it back to the waterway and escape that way either.

No matter how little he wanted to face it, Henry was scared shitless.

They couldn't stay here indefinitely. The meager food supply wouldn't be enough to sustain them, and who knew what kind of dangers lurked hidden behind every vine and shadow? This place may as well be a death trap, waiting to catch them at their most vulnerable. And what if his own injury worsened? What if it was more than just ordinary pain? What if it turned out to be an infection that he, with his limited medical knowledge, couldn't effectively treat?

Henry barely registered that his breaths had become heaves. His chest tightened, and he slumped forward, burying his face in the crook of his arm. The notebook slipped from his trembling fingers, and the pencil rolled off, but he did not even look up. He fought with every ounce of spirit and will that he had against the torrential flood of panic.

"What is the matter?"

Henry pulled his knees to his chest, shaking his head without looking up. He meant to claim he was fine, but to his horror, out of his mouth came a sob.

"Henry, speak to me," Thanatos insisted. "Are you in pain? What happened?"

A wave of self-loathing added to the already-consuming deluge of fear. Here he was—he who, being less injured, ought to be strong and level-headed—succumbing to pointless fear. It was pointless, Henry told himself over and over, but it did not lessen the weight that he felt on his shoulders, which suddenly seemed too heavy to carry any longer.

"Excuse me," he pressed out of his throat at last. "It is nothing you must worry about. I merely . . . I . . ."

"Everything that worries you worries me too," replied Thanatos immediately. "Was that not what we said earlier? That we are—"

"I'm scared." Henry bit down on his tongue, but it was too late. "I swear that I will do what I must!" He sobbed. "I will not succumb. Please do not . . . not . . . I will not feel like this for long, I swear. I will get us out. I merely . . . I have to be good at this. I have to be strong. To be strong." He repeated it over and over. "I can be strong. Please believe me. Please—"

"Henry!"

"Forgive me." He buried his hands in his hair, pressing his face into his knees. "I should not have—"

"Henry, be still."

"But I—"

"Henry, I said be still." At the back of his consciousness, he sensed Thanatos dragging himself closer. "You are speaking as though your fear is unjustified. As though it is shameful to feel fear when we are in an . . . admittedly quite terrifying predicament."

"But you are injured!" screamed Henry. "And I should not bother you more. I must stop behaving like a child and come up with something that . . . that . . ." He jerked up, attempting to pull himself to his feet, but a sudden piercing pain in his abdomen made him falter. Henry sank against the wall and back to the floor, entirely against his will, sobbing.

"Henry . . ." Thanatos paused. "You must relinquish the belief that there is anything you must keep from me "for my own sake"," he said eventually. "Was that not what we said? Your fears are my fears. You do not have to do everything by yourself. You are not alone."

"I . . ." Henry clenched his hands together, desperately attempting to quell his tears. Technically, his flier was right. It was what he had said, but . . . "I have always been alone," he whispered. "In every challenge, in every trial, and every battle. I may have had aid in some of them, but in essence, I—"

"But you are no longer alone." Thanatos cut him off. "That is what I meant. Never will you be alone again. Never. Because your life and mine . . . are one. Tell me, are we not bonds? Are we not one?"

"I'm scared."

"Henry, do you trust me?" urged Thanatos. "Henry—"

"I do."

"Then look at me."

Henry shook his head vehemently. "I cannot. Not like this." Wave after wave of shame washed over him. "I am pathetic."

"That is not true," insisted Thanatos. "Never have I once witnessed you be pathetic. Not once. Come on, please look at me."

Henry shook his head again. He could not look up. Not—

"You are exceptionally strong. Have you forgotten how many times you have proven this? All the trials you have not only overcome but turned into opportunities? I have once concluded to myself that there may be nothing you cannot draw strength from." Thanatos paused. "Being scared does not make you weak, and neither does showing it. Has no one ever told you that?"

"Perhaps." Henry could still not face him. "Perhaps . . . I did not listen."

"Perhaps you ought to listen."

It was only then that Henry dared to raise his head a little. Strands of tangled hair obscured his tear-streaked face, and he futilely tried to wipe his hand across it, only smudging it further.

"Please, be not so hard on yourself," mumbled Thanatos by his side. "It is agonizing. This was what bothered me so, on the island—watching you perpetually engage in self-punishment and knowing that you would not let me close enough to alleviate your pain."

Henry took a deep breath and finally forced himself to glimpse at Thanatos. "That was it?"

"That was it. Please cease pushing me away. You must not feel so much shame for experiencing . . . normal emotions. Henry . . . Henry—"

At that moment, Henry ceased fighting. He threw himself into his flier's embrace and held back the tears no longer. His body was whacked with sobs as every ounce of pain, fatigue, and fear that he had shoved down for the sake of practicality streamed out of his eye.

"Please do not . . . not tell anyone . . ." he mumbled between sobs. The thought of anyone seeing him in this state, learning that he had ever let himself go like this, frightened him almost more than anything tangible.

"I would never."

Suddenly, Henry craved nothing more than to be a child—too young for anyone to judge or berate him when he cried or asked to be held. Too young for himself to hate. "I hate myself right now," it slipped out. "For being so . . . so . . ."

"I do not hate you," said Thanatos soothingly. "I do not love you a single ounce less."

"There is—" He cut himself off and pulled his knees to his chest, sliding closer until his flier's uninjured wing could wrap around him. "If you—"

Thanatos guessed what he meant and wrapped him tighter in his wing, encasing him in warmth and comfort. For a while, Henry continued to tremble, but his crying abated soon, as did the overwhelming panic. And even so, he did not move. "This is something that children do," he mumbled after a while. How many times had he observed Luxa and Aurora sleep in this position? Spend hours laying, relishing each other's comfort.

Then, Henry had thought he would rather drive his sword into his own chest than ask Ares—or any flier—to hold him in such a manner too. But . . .

"You are a child."

But . . . now there was one flier whom he could ask, thought Henry suddenly, who did not judge or belittle him. Who would not tell anyone. Whom he could . . . trust. Even with this. For some reason, the realization drove fresh tears into his eye.

"I am . . ." He broke off. Instead of insisting that he wasn't, he thought that maybe, tonight, he could be. He may revert into the adult he had to be for their both sakes in the morning. "Do not tell anyone," he repeated with his cheek pressed into his flier's fur.

"I will not."

"Never?"

"Never."

He gingerly raised a hand to wipe his face. "If it is a bother, I can—"

"It is not." Henry felt his embrace tighten. "We may stay like this for as long as you like."

So, they continued to lay together like this, and after some time, Henry felt all his lingering shame be consumed by an overwhelming sense of tranquility. He could not remember the last time he had felt so secure. "After we find our way out of here," he said after an indeterminable period of silence. "What will we do?"

"What do you mean?"

"I mean . . ." Henry stirred a little but dared not move. He had to relish this; who knew when he would have the courage to ask to be held in this manner again? "I mean that there is nowhere to go," he said. "We have a goal now—to find our way out of the jungle. But what then?"

"Oh?" Thanatos shifted ever so slightly. "Since when does anything but the immediate task at hand concern you? I thought you enjoyed experiencing life as it happened to you."

"I thought so too." Henry felt a tinge of panic resurface. "But . . . it cannot forever be like this. Aimless, I mean. What do I try for if I don't even know what it is I want to accomplish in the end? What am I still doing out here?" He curled into himself tighter.

"Did . . . you not regain your skill?" Thanatos offered. "I thought you meant to go back to . . . being outcasts the way we were before you lost your eye?"

"And what for?" asked Henry. "I know I said that, but . . . I feel not like chasing after a goal I have already accomplished. I have already earned success in the way that I wanted. And what now? Where do I even . . . go from here?"

Thanatos did not reply, and against his best efforts, fear overtook Henry again. But this fear was different. It was unlike any fear he had ever felt, and he immediately despised it. "Something is wrong with me," he whispered. "What am I even fearing? Why am I . . . Perhaps I am still broken."

"You are not broken," said Thanatos emphatically. "You are . . . lost. Adrift. And . . . while I know not what we will do next or where we might go from here, I still mean what I said: you will never be without someone to whom you will matter. Whatever it may be that you undertake or discover next, it will matter to me."

"You will matter to me too."

"And so we must not be afraid of the future," said Thanatos in a mellow voice. "Not for as long as we may be certain of this."

And indeed . . . He slowly unclenched his rigid fists. "We are one," whispered Henry, and suddenly thought that this notion—that he was no longer alone—might alleviate any fear imaginable.