Ilya could recognize some places of the monastery as he walked through it. There was a carving in the walls that Ilya recalled running his fingers over them a lifetime ago.
He had taken a chunk of the wall home with him back then. He remembered the time Beatrice found it. He remembered the way she looked at him changed, her eyes had sharpened, the same way they did whenever she read a letter from Vaelia. Something had changed between them that day and Ilya never knew if it were for the better or worse.
Ilya found himself in front of the chapel. He remembered near the end, when things were more gentle between the two of them, Beatrice had described the chapel that used to exist in the monastery.
Her face was so different than any expression he had ever seen before when she explained the stained glass ceiling. Ilya couldn't help his curiosity. He stepped inside the chapel.
But there was already someone there.
A small figure, crouching in front of a statue.
Beatrice looked exactly like he remembered her, yet nothing like herself at all. Her red hair, that he always thought was the shade of blood, was a few shades lighter than he remembered, more closely resembling the flame of a candle. Her sharp features were rounded by youth. Her pale skin held a strange gray hue, making her look like she was made of moonlight rather than flesh and blood.
Looking at her was like a punch to the gut. The last time he saw her, she looked so broken. She looked at him with such disdain. She looked almost regal when she laid her head on the chopping block. Her last words damned the entire empire to hell.
Her head was displayed on the castle walls for two weeks. The memory of it still haunted Ilya.
But here she was, standing in front of him, her head still perfectly attached to her shoulders.
She was still turned away from him. Ilya couldn't help himself, he reached out and touched the back of Beatrice's slender neck gently.
***
Beatrice jumped at the sensation of skin against her own. She twirled, spotting a man who looked at her very strangely. Her hand immediately went to the knife at her thigh and the man, who seemed to recognize the gesture, looked crushed.
Beatrice gripped the handle of her knife tightly for a moment, before releasing it and tilting her face to the sky. The colors of the stained glass ceiling were muted in the dark, mirroring the silence that hung in the air around her.
She realized, too late, that her veil was not covering her face. She scrambled to put it back on but the man's hand stopped her, gripping her hand and twining his fingers with her own.
There was a snap of electricity. Beatrice flinched away from him and as soon as she pulled back, he dropped her hand, awkwardly flexing it at his side.
"Do you know me sir?" she asked, her voice thick.
He looked embarrassed. "No," his Vaelic was heavily accented. "Not yet."
Beatrice finally took a moment to properly look at him, surprised by his accent. A foreigner? It was rare to have a foreigner in Vaelia. The isles were so isolated from other countries that they didn't really engage in politics.
He looked like the harbinger of death. She had read many poems of the god of death's son, the god that guided you to death's warm embrace. It was said that a man dark in hair and eyes and more beautiful than angels would appear in the middle of the night. While death was cool and impartial, his son was more mischievous. He would seduce young women and would whisk them to death with a kiss. It was said that if someone could refuse the god's charms and not kiss him, he would disappear and they would live a long life.
Had he come for her? Had he come to give her the kiss of death?
Beatrice wondered what that kiss of death would feel like. Unconsciously, she stared at the demon's lips.
"Have you come for me?" she finally asked.
The demon's gaze clouded. He took a lock of her hair that had fallen from it's restraint, spinning it around his finger.
"Perhaps I have." He released her hair, his fingertips brushing the back of her hand. Her skin exploded. Somewhere deep in the monastery there was a crash of something breaking, followed by loud booming laughter. But she felt as if it was completely disconnected from her and her demon. "Would that upset you?"
She ignored her gods, screaming at her to be wary. She found herself taking a step closer to him. Beatrice realized in that moment she no longer feared death. She remembered once before when death stared her in the face. She remembered the fear that wracked her body. But she was a child then, not even a teenager. Now, she found no traces of that same fear within her. Rather, it seemed she would welcome death.
"I don't think it would," she answered honestly. "It seems I would accept death with open arms right now."
The demon's face fell. He stepped away from her. She could no longer feel the heat that had radiated off his skin and she found herself surprised that she instantly missed it. Had her new husband felt that warm when he stood beside her?
No. He had felt cold. Like when Beatrice would press her hand against a glass window when it snowed.
How could a demon be so warm, but a human so cold?
"Do you recognize me?" he asked.
Beatrice sighed, sitting down at a pew. Her demon watched her, clenching and flexing his hands over and over, like he was nervous. Demons weren't supposed to get nervous.
Beatrice felt silly. Silly for thinking her demon was real and silly for hoping that he was. She was so ready to embrace her death. Her eyes stung. Her throat closed.
"No. You reminded me of a poem I read."
Realization flashed over her demon's face. "Oh, the son of death?"
"You know it? It's hard to believe a foreigner is familiar with our religion."
"An old friend told me about it once. She said I resembled him."
Beatrice laughed. "They were right, you do."
"That doesn't make me feel good."
Beatrice turned to look at him. She patted the spot next to her, beckoning him to her side. He obeyed like a puppy and Beatrice resisted the urge to reach out and pat his head.
"It should," she said gently. "I think your friend just meant you were beautiful."
Her demon turned. Eye contact.