Page 78 of Of Sword & Silver

“Why don’t you explain it to me, then?” I ask, and the question takes us both by surprise. “If I have no idea, then why don’t you help me understand? Because I want to. I want to understand.”

The pure anguish that furrows his brow takes my breath away. He hangs his head, then rakes a hand over his face.

I wait, anticipation building. It surprises me how much I want to understand him. How much I do care about him, despite him being a total fuckhead most of the time.

I’m one too, after all.

“We should get some sleep,” he says instead.

I let out a long exhalation, relief and disappointment warring within me. I want to understand him, but the idea of… setting aside our petty nonsense scares me a little.

I don’t know what we might have without it.

I don’t know how to be without it. I should tell him that. I should tell him the truth.

“I can’t sleep in that tent,” I say instead. “Lara sounds like she forgot how to breathe.”

“I did notice that.” He looks past me at the direcat, who really, truly, very much needs a name. “You could sleep out here, with the direcat.”

“What’s the Fae word for it?” I blurt.

“For what?” His brow furrows in confusion.

“For the direcat. What did you call them, when they went into battle with you?”

The Sword sighs heavily, then surprises me by approaching the massive feline, holding out his calloused hand.

The cat sniffs at it, whiskers twitching, before raising its head slightly. The dimple appears on the Sword’s face as he obediently scratches at the direcat’s fluffy brown and white jaw.

“Osgotvorn,” he says quietly, and the huge cat chuffs. I laugh at the sound, as well as the way the Sword startles at his response.

Our eyes meet and we share a smile for a moment.

“I’m not calling him that,” I finally say, breaking the spell.

“That’s probably for the best.” He nods solemnly. “It translates to organ-eater of my enemies. Hardly rolls off the tongue.”

I bite my cheeks. “Lovely.”

A night bird coos somewhere in the trees above, and a yawn cracks my jaw.

“Sleep.”

“I told you, there’s no way I could with Lara making all that noise?—”

“I meant here. With the organ-eater.” He doesn’t take his eyes from the cat, whose purring, I have to admit, is a much more soothing alternative to Lara’s snoring.

“We can’t call him that.”

The Sword sighs, then points to the sky above. “You see that star up there? The one at the tip of the bow constellation?”

I crane my neck until I spot it. “The bluish one?”

“The Fae called it Filarion, named after a prince of our people. He was said to have been so fierce in battle, the gods took him as one of their own, jealous of his abilities. The gods are nothing if not a jealous sort,” he muses. “We would send up prayers to our prince Filarion on the eve of battle, asking him to watch over us. Much like this creature keeps wanting to watch over you.”

“Filarion,” I repeat, running my hands through the cat’s fur. “As much as it pains me to say you’ve picked a good name, I like it. What do you think, Fil?” The cat butts me and I smile at him, indulging his request by scratching behind his ears. “Fil it is.”

The noise of something small scampering over the snow sets his tufted ears to twitching.

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