Such a pious turn in conversations unexpected, but no less pleasant. He listened intently as they strolled; had even slowed his pace. Perhaps afraid that if he moved too fast, he would miss a glimpse into her past that he felt inexplicably desperate to know.

She spoke fondly of gods and her grandma, had offered words of wisdom and kindness where Rhadamanthus hadn't thought possible. With a slow smile, he turned to meet her gaze once more. Aye, you are a smart woman, Eve. I believe you must be right...though I fear that often people forget their beliefs until they're faced with Death. He rivaled, if only calmly.

Her wisdom has him wondering, though, and perhaps wishing that he would've been more curious in his past life for gods and worship. That instead of storming countrysides and castles in his prime, maybe he should have sat in the pews and listened to the words of men forever wiser than himself.

And it's a funny thought that comes to him after; if he had been a more pious man, would he had known of her then? Of the plans crafted by whatever great force beyond for them to have met?

Could he have prayed for her all those years ago—for a woman that's meant to be at his side and feed him words of God?

A beat had passed since his last words, his expression having fell pensive. It's her soft words of "Gods cannot always answer, but I believe they always hear," that rouses him again.

Then I shall believe, too. And perhaps a thank you is in order for your arrival. He chuckled. It wasn't often he prayed for more than the well-wishes of his people.

Her laughter was a gentle thing, and it went as quick as it came. He found himself wishing to hear it again, and perhaps wistfully found himself thinking that if it was tangible and if he could cradle it within the palms of his battered hands, he'd cherish it like the gift it was.

That is what she is, he wondered. A gift he'd never asked for, but had received at the hands of a power greater than he could fathom. And then, he thought himself a fool. When had he felt this way for a woman, or for anyone? It must have been millennia ago, back when he walked on two legs instead of four and instead of carrying his diplomatic ways, he brandished a sword of mithril.

What an oddity this all was. A woman born from the snow that had a man as wise as he musing as a love-sick poet might.

He is drawn from the cavern of his addled mind when she spoke again. Ah, don't fret. I've lived a long life without the aid of God. Perhaps it's my time to accept his gift. He grinned.

And then, that sadness plagued her once more. A shroud over the light she wielded like a ribbon. Rhadamanthus found himself yearning to steal it from her. To shoulder the weight of it, as he'd done many times before for the ones he loves, so she may be unburdened and...happy.

Fulfilled.

With a crane of his neck and with gentle care, he nudged her plush shoulder, his eyes full of sympathy. Nonsense. What must have happened to you in your last life could not have been your fault. Of this he's sure, because how could a woman so pure have done anything to greet the beast that is death?

It is a great sorrow that you passed. But you're here now— with me he doesn't utter, And no harm will come of you again. Of this, I swear to you.