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 gone.

Arya turned away, and he could see her shoulders shaking, whether because of fear or relief he did not know. There. He had done it. Walker had just reinforced everything his training had taught him. Everything Gylther'yel had hammered into him about being alone, everything he had learned about the dangers of bringing others into his violent life, everything he had thought in these last fifteen years was coming true once again.

He would not, could not share his bleak, bloody, and short existence with anyone. No friends. No lovers. No family.

He was the spirit of vengeance, meant to walk alone.

He thought he caught a glimpse of Tarm Thardeyn out of the corner of his eye, but the spirit was not there when he looked. A wave of sadness came over Walker, but he let it pass through him, leaving him empty.

Now that he had done it, how did he feel?

He should have felt nothing. All his experience told him he should feel nothing but ice inside, project nothing but cold outside, and take comfort in his retreat from the world of the living. The dead understood and never judged. The spirits that surrounded Walker would never turn away in fear.

But that was not the way he felt. Instead, he felt… he…

He did not know, and that was what frustrated him.

"You should go," he said, as much to stop his thoughts as to break the silence. "I am…" Then nothing, not even the word he had meant to say, which was "sorry." He wanted to say more-about his fears, his quest, anything more-but the words would not come. He had forgotten how to speak them, he thought.

But all the while, he knew he had not.

Some tiny voice deep in his frozen heart, a voice he had kept hushed for so many years, was trying to tell him how. And he knew. He understood. He was just…

"Afraid," he breathed.

Arya had risen as though to leave, but she turned back. "What?" she asked, her voice a shade above a whisper.

Instantly, Walker was silent, but he had already said the word, and it had been enough.

Arya saw then, as through a tiny crack in his stone will. She saw Walker with his defenses down, terrified, empty, hollow…

And alone.

"It is nothing," he said.

Arya heard the pain in his voice-not so much in his words, for they were few, but in how he spoke them. He was struggling with himself. Walker had been forced to face death, the hellish cry of vengeance, and fear of himself, and he had done it all alone.

Arya made a decision then, a decision that would steer the course of her life until her last breath. She gathered the courage to look into his blue eyes. She suddenly became aware of a small object in her hand-a silver ring. His one-eyed wolf ring. Arya gently took his left hand and began drawing off his glove.

"What are you…?" asked Walker.

As she bared his flesh, though, his thoughts leaped to his abhorred power to sense spiritual resonance, insights that would steal images from her thoughts and cloud his vision. He did not want that emotional turmoil-he did not want to lose himself when Arya was there, her beautiful face before his.

But she was touching his skin, and there was nothing. No resonance, no visions, no knowledge-only the warmth of her skin.

She pulled the glove entirely off, and with it went Walker's last line of defense, the barrier between him and the sword. Like the walls he had built around his heart, his gloves hid him behind a layer of black. And now she had stripped that defense away. She laced her fingers through his. So soft, so warm…

"Arya-"

She held up his left hand-the wrong hand, but he hardly noticed-and slipped the ring on to his fourth finger. She reached delicate fingers up to brush his cheek.

"Your song," she said, "was beautiful."

Some part of Walker-the fearful part-wanted to argue, scream, or turn away, but he could not. He merely sat, dumbfounded, as she caressed his cheek, then leaned her head against his bare chest.

Then it occurred to him. Though he had touched Arya's hands, kissed her lips, and hugged his arms around her waist, he had not felt any psychic resonance from her. No visions. No feelings. He simply felt what she felt. This unknown sensation would have had him collapse into tears just as soon as he'd have clasped the woman in his arms. It might have frightened him, this lack of resonance, as he had not imagined it possible, but he understood intuitively what it meant.

And that frightened him even as it set his body tingling.

"You cannot," he said. "Arya… I… I live for vengeance. It is my unfinished task. When this is over, I will have nothing else. I will die-whether in battle or in silence. There is nothing for you here; only darkness and a grave."

Arya gazed into his eyes, and he could see tears sliding down her cheeks. "I do not care," she said without trembling.

Walker was overcome with a new wave of feeling, which frightened even as it excited him. At first, he thought he had never felt the sensation before, but then he discovered that it was there, buried deep, beneath the ice and shrouded in the mists of his heart. It was warmth in his chest, a feeling of loving and being loved.

His eyes slid closed-eyes that were bleary from the moisture gathering there.

This time, when she leaned in to kiss him, pressing him down, he did not stop her.