He wrapped strong arms around her and pressed his lips against hers, and she lost herself in that embrace. For a sweet moment, as he held her, she felt safe and secure for possibly the first time in her life.
And for just one thrilling moment, she felt exactly where she was meant to be.
As though realizing what he was doing, he broke the kiss and scrambled away. She sat there for a breath, held in the lingering sensation of his lips, before her senses returned.
'What's the matter?' she asked.
'No,' said Walker. 'I cannot.'
Arya sat back, weighing him with her eyes. Walker made no move, except to look away into the darkening sky. His words had been simple, short, and seemingly empty, but expressed a pain that tore at her heart.
'Will you do something for me?'
'Perhaps,' replied Walker.
'Sing.'
The druid courier paused on her mare, furrowing her brow.
There was nothing unusual about the road, at least nothing she could see. The sun was shining and a stream trickled water down a side path. The wind was not overly cold today-it was, perhaps, the first warm spell Quaervarr had known in a long time.
'No worries, girl,' Peletara said to her mount in the druidic tongue. 'Just thought I heard something, that's all.'
The chestnut mare snorted.
A crossbow bolt flew out of the boughs of a tree farther up the road, driving into one of the horse's eyes. The mare, killed instantly, fell, trapping the startled druid beneath her. The huge weight fell on her leg, snapping it, and Peletara gasped in pain. She looked all around for her attacker, struggling to draw her sickle.
A black boot stepped on her hand.
She looked up, following the length of black breeches to a mottled green and gray cloak that had, until just then, blended in perfectly with the trees.
Peletara recognized him.
'Lord…' she said. 'Lord Meris?'
He smiled. Even as his sword scraped out of its scabbard, the attacker bent down and traced a finger down her cheek.
The touch of death.
Walker stiffened, as though something had gouged him. Arya reached out, but he shook his head.
With a troubled look, Walker turned to her.
'What?'
'Sing for me,' she repeated.
Walker hesitated. Then he shook his head. 'My song was ended,' he said. 'Fifteen years ago.'
When he was distracted, Arya kissed him. She pressed her lips against his cold mouth, kissing him gently at first, then in passion and hunger. She could feel the heat that lurked beneath his icy lips, felt it begging for release.
She pulled back, staring into his eyes, and placed her hand on his cheek. 'I want to hear the song they tried to end.'
Then she was away from him again. He had pushed her back. 'I cannot,' he said. His voice was sad. 'Not now. Not ever.'
'But Walker…' Arya said.
Then, as though helpless to reply, he began to sing. Voice broken, song discordant and ragged, still there flowed a certain beauty through its shape, in the rise and swell of his music. Arya heard, rather than saw, the man he might have been, a golden god who had once sung in these woods but now walked in darkness.
After a moment, she became aware there were words to his song, words that flowed and ebbed with a melodious disharmony that was inexplicably balanced. They were in Elvish, and she did not understand them on a conscious level; the words cut to her soul.
There was pain, hatred, and vengeance. Walker sang of his death, sending images into Arya's heart that sent chills through her body. Without realizing it, she reached out to take his hand, as though to comfort him.
He ripped his hand out of her grasp so quickly the silver ring came off in her hand, but he did not notice in the singing, and she did not notice in the listening.
She found herself wrapped in the melody of his voice. Torn and shattered, leaping between notes no bard would play together, and perfect. The haunting melody enfolded her like a cool, dark blanket, and she felt her senses floating free of her body.
Walker's voice trailed off, but Arya, lost in his art, hardly realized it. Her heart was throbbing and breaking all at once. It was simultaneously the most blissful romance she had ever heard and the saddest tragedy she could have imagined.
When she finally looked up, she perceived, through tear-blurred eyes, that he was staring at her.
'Is that not ugly?' he asked. He had misinterpreted her.
'Walker-' she started.
'I am lost to you, Arya,' Walker said, interrupting her. 'All that remains is my task, and when it is done…' He trailed off, and the silence was palpable.
Bitter emptiness welled within her. 'Walker,' she said. 'That's not your name, is it? What is it, your name, so that I can-'
With a frustrated growl, Walker slammed his fist into the ground, and though she could hear bones crack, he did not seem to care. Then he coughed so violently Arya wanted to cover her ears. Blood came up-the legacy of ancient wounds. Arya touched his hand in concern, closing her fingers around his. If Walker noticed, he made no sign.
When he spoke, his voice was calm but sad. 'I do not know,' he said. 'Where do these songs come from? I do not know. How do I remember them? I do not know. If I remembered my own name, would it still hold true? Would I still be… I…' The last words were quiet, helpless.
He seemed on the verge of opening to her, as though…
Then nothing. He fell silent again.
Arya felt frustration well within her, along with deep sympathy. How long had this tortured man existed in this state? He could not open himself, could not confront the demons of his past, the feelings of his present, or his fears of the future. Whenever he tried, whenever he came close, he would cough violently as though to tear himself in two. Sometime in his past, Walker had forgotten how to feel. He was a man without fear, hope, or love.
But no, that was not it.
Her heart denied that. It told her he couldn't open up, not because he had forgotten, but because he could not face what would come.
Trusting her feelings, Arya reached out and took his hand.
Walker pulled away.
'Walker,' Arya said. She leaned in again, but he pushed her back, gentle but firm. He pulled his gloved hand from her grasp.
'Do not do that again,' he rasped, menace-and pain-dripping from his broken voice.
Somewhere in the trees above them, a pair of phantom lips smiled.
'Yes,' said the feminine voice.
Having said that satisfied word, the face became that of thrush. The bird beat its wings once and was
