After the others returned and we all ate, I took Sam outside and brought my flute and a lantern. It wasn’t dark yet, but under the forest canopy, the animal paths were dim and difficult to see.
“The cold weather will just make you sharp.” He glanced at the woods. “And the sound may frighten lunch away from our snares.”
“Then let’s go this way.” I led him in the opposite direction he’d come from earlier. “I wanted to ask you something. About the sylph.”
We’d left them in the cave, too. Sam and I were alone. “Okay,” he said.
“I keep imagining I hear words, almost.” I glanced up at him, but he was just staring into the forest as we walked. “Last night, I was talking to Cris, and I could have sworn he said something back. Then he just vanished.”
Sam was quiet for a while, but as we descended a rocky slope, he said, “I thought I must have been imagining it. I knew I was hearing emotions while they sang, but every now and then I thought I heard words. Or—something like words. Something that made me think of words.”
“Exactly. That’s exactly what I heard.” I slipped my mittened hand into his glove, relieved. “Cris said they’re my army.”
“Your army.” His tone was all awe.
“I know. It seems crazy to me, too.”
A sort of reverence filled his words, low and hopeful. “Is it really that strange? The way they follow you, the way they protect you. They’ve been acting like your army since the first time we saw them at the lab. They were guarding you.”
“I want to know why.”
“Me too.” He scanned the bank of a shallow stream and guided me toward a rock, big enough for both of us to sit on. “There’s a lot we need to ask the sylph.”
That was for sure. And not at all a statement I ever thought I’d hear coming from anyone’s mouth. Just a few months ago, we’d been wondering why they kept following me, and whether they were going to burn us up in our sleep. And now Cris was one of them. Now we were relying on the sylph.
“Thank you.” I held my flute case against my chest and waited as Sam swept snow off the rock and sat. I perched next to him and placed my flute across my lap, keeping as close to him as I could without sitting on him.
“For what?” He wrapped his arm around me and set down the lantern, illuminating our boots, water bubbling over pebbles, and pine needles. His leg pressed against mine.
“For understanding about the sylph. And not thinking I was crazy with the centaurs. I know everyone must have some history with them, but these—”
Sam turned and rested his other hand on my knee. His fingers curled around, and I could feel the heat of him even through the layers of cloth between us. “I trust you. You see the world differently from the rest of us, and I want to learn to see the world that way, too. You challenge us, inspire us. You inspire me. We were wrong about sylph. Maybe we were wrong about centaurs.”
I ducked my head, hiding a blush. “Maybe you weren’t wrong about sylph at first. Like you said, they do seem to like me. And their liking me doesn’t change thousands of years of violence between you all.”
He gave a weary chuckle. “You have good instincts. You’re right to question things, even when you’ve heard all our stories. If you hadn’t questioned reincarnation, we’d still be in Heart with no idea why Deborl had taken over the city, or what we were being made to build.”
“We might be happier not knowing.” That sounded like we weren’t happy now. But were we? I was happy with him, but all this getting shot at, dodging explosions, hiding in caves—that certainly didn’t make me happy.
“We’d have problems no matter what, Ana.”
“Oh.” That sounded even worse than what I’d said, but he was probably right. I could cause trouble by just breathing.
“No life is perfect. There’s always something that hurts, but it’s important to appreciate the good things, too.” He kissed my cheek, breathing warmth over me. “If it wasn’t the end of the world, it’d be something else. Maybe not this big or terrible, but there are always events in life that can make you unhappy if you let them.”
“Thinking about the end of the world makes me unhappy. I don’t think that’s just because I’m letting it.”
He laughed. “It makes me unhappy, too. All I’m saying—”
“I get it.” I only sort of got it, but he didn’t need to keep trying. “You make me happy, though.” It seemed vitally important that he know. I tilted my face toward his, all warm shadows in the winter gloom. “No matter what else is going on, you make me happy. And I want to let you make me happy. I’m not always very good at it.” My breath felt heavier, misted the space between us.